I can't articulate my thoughts because there are too many in my head. About the role of the artist and the privilege that is still assumed to accrue to that role. Questioning that. I've tried just now to sketch out some questions about this but there's too much for now. I need to let it settle.
Some gold shoes.
The camera had trouble focussing on Georgia's shoes because they sparkled so much.
Been thinking a lot today about The Feminine, with a capital T and a capital F. About Ingeborg Bachmann. About using textiles. About domesticity. About wearing the trousers. About evading the role of the perpetrator in favour of occupying the territory of the victim. About Hirschhorn He and Diab She. About polarities and ambiguities. About the idea of keeping to an 'eye-line' – Whose eye? Whose line of vision? About aiming and firing. About shooting and framing.
Wondering how to get past and over it all.
Thinking about how little I know.
Disappearing. Like she did.
Between Ivan and Malina*
Into a crack.
But, how that is history.
We've progressed beyond that.
We learn, we move on.
You think?
*The two male protagonists in Bachmann's novel 'Malina'.
