Three flags completed and installed in the room on the fifth floor. The room is not how I had expected it to be … it is far better! Sorcha is also presenting her process(?) … outcome(?) … material(?) – I shall have to ask her how she describes what she does. She begun placing things in the room while I made the flags which I then took upstairs. We chatted as we worked in the room. I leaned one flag against a wall and was struggling with placing the second … it would need fixing to the wall and/or floor if it was going to be adjacent to the first. I was reluctant to make such a permanent placement while the room as a whole was still evolving. Sorcha mentioned that she prefers to utilise the architecture and features of the room rather than additional fittings in order to position pieces – being guided by the room itself. She left the room temporarily … and then it occurred to me – ask Sorcha to include my pieces in her installation/curation. She was obviously a little taken aback by the suggestion that I immediately and perhaps too enthusiastically presented on her return. Concerned that I might not like what she might do I assured her that I was interested in handing over control and was very interested to see what she would do. In talking with her about the idea I realised that an opportunity to try something like this is exactly what the residency offers – to be honest I probably would not ask such a thing if it was a gallery show, but here it feels right to take risks and to play. The more we spoke the more convinced I became that it was important for me to do this. Sorcha quietly warmed to the idea and subtly moved to where an unattractive bundle of cables hung against the wall dangling form half removed conduit circumferencing the ceiling. We had not reach any conclusion as to what to do with the cables in out earlier conversation – we agreed they were ugly and distracting. She put an arm through the bundle, bent her knees and I think I saw her bounce a little. She was testing the weight she explained … she thought that I could use the cables to hold one of the flagpoles. It is not something that would have occurred to me … and the it works brilliantly.
The third flag, which I had ’assumed’ would lean against the same wall, in now on the opposite of the room resting on a radiator. It was my placement but completely inspired by Sorcha’s approach. I was pleased to see that later on she was re-arranging the way in which the fabric laid on the floor.
Yesterday I washed four loads of found fabrics: promotional fleece blankets, a shawl, a double bedsheet, a piece of net curtain, and three quilted mattress protectors. I was excited to make flags from all of these … first I thought of single colour flags – red, black, and white, then I favoured cutting the fabrics and assembling stripes and/or triangles. This morning I thought it wise to check existing red, black, and white flags. There was nothing particularly alarming but paying attention to my own need to know if I could be reproducing a national symbol made me realise that other people would probably also read the flags as referring to somewhere or something – which is not my intention. I took a step back and returned to the idea of single colour flags – that was until Andreas (Andreas Ribbung – the third visiting artist) said without hesitation red for socialism, black for anarchy, and white for peace. It was not difficult at all to decide that the red and black fabric could be excluded.
I would not, could not, say that these two episodes can be called collaborative – well perhaps the first was a little collaborative but they are interesting in testing out inviting other artists in to my process(es).
I got distracted this morning and now write this after my run rather than before. While running – up and down the five flights of stairs and lengths of the basement – I found myself wondering if porridge could be an artistic material: raw oats from the bag, or the gelatinous (?) cooked oats?
Porridge has been my regular breakfast since arriving here. I was offered it almost immediately I first set foot in the communal kitchen. Seeing the price of thick yogurt, nuts, and seeds here made me realise that I could not afford my usual breakfast here. So I reverted to porridge which had been my staple from the time I moved to Sweden to about three years ago. Thinking about lessening the distinctions that I make between the art and non-art aspects of my life no doubt led to this thought momentarily crossing my mind. It might well be a step too far … but has sparked a few more questions about how we (I!) have learnt, been taught, to follow patterns and conventions: these stuffs are for making art, these stuffs are for making food. Children don’t naturally make those distinctions … we are taught … and are rewarded with praise when we don’t play with food. Food is of course a precious commodity, and it is an increasingly political issue with the rise of living costs.
I do not think that I am about to start making porridge sculptures … though on the other hand why not see what is possible with the material … I do think however that my time here is leading me to (re)consider habitual patterns and ways of being. Yesterday I felt very at ease with things – myself, others, being here, collecting, making, testing, questioning, playing, wondering, chatting, laughing. It was quite simply a good day. It felt natural and easy to ask Kaspars about getting some basic tools even a sewing machine – which he has very kindly borrowed from his mother. I enjoyed starting to sort things out in one of the larger rooms on the fifth floor – some of the things that I had thought about didn’t work out, other things came to mind as I laid things out.
Later in the day there was a question in the group chat: was it one of us who had left stuff in the room – photo attached. It was interesting for me to notice that I answered that yes it was me without feeling either guilty or stupid – two of my usual reactions to having been ’caught’ doing something that I should not have being, even if I did not know that I should not have been doing it! The room had been shown to us as a potential presentation space the week before so it I didn’t think that I need to ask about it again – I had enquired as to whether anyone else in our group was interested in using it. Turns out that the organisation who control the whole building didn’t know that we had been shown the room – mis- or lack of communication but not on my side. It felt good not to take on issues that while involving me do not belong to me. I simply apologised and it took only a few minutes for me to move the things down to my room. After dinner the subject came up as a few of us sat around the table in the kitchen. Again I felt that I was part of a general discussion about the sometimes tense situation between the residency and the building managers. It feels as though I am in a good place and am able to distinguish between things that belong to me and things that do not – I see this as I good sign, I sign that I am comfortable and confident with who I am here. Perhaps this is what happens after two weeks in a Black Hole
I had not counted on it snowing during the residency – an oversight as I did not bring either studs for my running shoes nor sufficient warm layers of running wear. Compounded by increasingly late sunrises I realise that I have probably run my last run here. The forecast for the coming week shows nothing above zero … perhaps a sunny -1 will be enough to melt the snow and provide the opportunity for run on the last weekend – that would be nice. In the meantime I shall shift my morning routine and do some much needed stretching. I cannot imagine my life without regular physical exercise … how do my fellow artists here feel in their bodies?
My days here are quite different from those of the other artists … I am at the other end of many different spectra – the earliest to rise, the earliest to go to bed, the ones who drinks the least, the one who does (the most/some) physical exercise. The other artist who is in his fifties is a heavy smoker and drinker … though often the second to rise. The other artist who drinks in moderation and is the youngest, she is also a non-smoker. This situation is not so unusual, I am used to being on the edge … at a distance from the majority of artists’ lives … in my own orbit.
Yesterday I spent a surprisingly (to myself) long time at the Riga fashion museum – Modes Muzejs. Despite having a modest collection of perhaps no more than 40 garments on display it kept me engaged and intrigued for nearly three hours. I have now seen a dress from the house of Charles Worth – the creator of what is now haute couture (it was Worth who first sewed labels bearing his name into garments, he was the first to show his collections on models, the street where he established his ateljé became the centre of Parisian … read ’global’ … fashion). I have learned about Watteau pleats, seen exquisite embroidery and beadwork form the eighteenth hundreds, as well as pieces by Chanel, Schiaparelli, Balenciaga, Halston, Ralph Lauren, Jean Paul Gaultier, Thierry Mugler, and Alexander McQueen as well as designers who were new to me such as Gustav Bear, Paul Poiret, and Rudi Gernreich. Often I was the only person in one of the three rooms – sometimes in the whole museum. Although I am fascinated by tailoring it was the draperi and embellishment that I found most inspiring … thinking not so much about how the garments might work when worn but rather how the pleats, folds, drapes, and forms worked now … static … as I encountered them … what could I learn for my own work, for the flags?
The museum shop was full of substantial monographs, surveys, and thematic publications … if I had unlimited resources and unrestricted baggage allowance I would have spent a fortune. As it was I went back to the very glamorous and helpful staff at the entrance and asked for their tips on local fabric shops. They recommended two (one each) on the same street a short distance from the city centre. I am going to use the remainder of the ’culture award’ that I got to buy fabric, and possibly some braids, ribbons, and fringes to take home with me.
Modes Muzejs
Writing and working with text … presenting text … presenting words has caught my imagination. It is something that we have done at various times over the past two weeks. And it is something that I have reflected back upon during my time here. Text, words, or language are not the usual material that I work with – at least not in my practice, they belong in other distinct (that word again) areas: proofreading, application writing, … blogging.
John 2, workshop 2.2:a
- write a text reflecting on yesterday’s walk – handwritten, approximately one side A4 paper, double-line spacing
- underline (single line) all the nouns, underline (double line) all the verbs
- sequentially trade/swap nouns and then verbs with others in the group
- read the text to the group
John 2, workshop 2.2:b
- read the text yourself
- select two sentences or phrases
- collate the sentences/phrases (we rolled a die/dice to determine the order)
- read the collaborative text
John 2, workshop 2.2:c
- write/create a score to perform/record the text
- perform/record the text
I really appreciated the processes through which my text left my possession and became a part of our collaborative text. The processes were playful, sometimes chaotic, requiring attention to detail, accepting chance and change. Our collaborative text was abstract and non-sensical, and at the same time it belonged to us – it embraced our individual experiences of having done things together while being a manifestation … exposition(?) … of our having done them as a group.
Note to self: find other artists to collaborate with
Sorcha, Aina, Kristjan, Mattias and I ended up at an intimate concert in an apartment on Thursday evening. An intense man played guitar and sang in Latvian to a crowd of twenty or so students(?) who were sitting on the floor of the bare living room. Aina knew someone who had previously lived in the apartment – now the tenants (artists?) were having to leave and this was the last event. It reminded me of my life thirty or more years ago – life at Dartington, and early years in Edinburgh.
The city that night was especially full of flags. I have noticed the abundance of flags since arriving here: on public buildings, private homes, shops and businesses, on the lampposts along the roads in and out of the centre. There are billboards showing the Latvian flag and poster seeming to advertise a programme of concerts and events connected to the flag. All of this appears to be in preparation for Friday’s Liberation Day celebrations. The Latvian flag is quite beautiful, described to me as red and white it is actually a very particular shade of red – burgundy? It is a sophisticated colour that suggests a long history, it has an earthy quality … bodily … the rich dark red of blood. On my first day here, in old town with Fenu and Sorcha, Fenu told us the origin story of the flag: in ancient times the mighty warrior king was seriously wounded, possibly even killed, on the battlefield. An improvised stretcher was made of white cloth, the king’s powerful and weighty body was carried to safety and lifted from the blood-soaked cloth – a broad white stripe marking where the pressure of his imposing frame had stopped the blood from staining the fabric.
Friday was a national holiday, it was quieter on the roads when I went for my run, however I saw more other runners than I have done before – five. We did not have a holiday, we had the first day of our second workshop with another John – also from the states, and also now living in Estonia. John 1 and John 2 know each other and have previously collaborated in running an arts space. John 2 works with sound and is a professor in the new media department at Estonia’s art school. After chatting over tea and coffee in the kitchen he suggested that we go out to an area of the coast not far from the city. It is a place that he has visited before and which interests him.
We put on warm clothes – we had been watching the light snow fall from out of the kitchen window. We did not know that were were embarking on a four … five? … hour walk on a windy frozen beach and back through a seemingly endless forrest as the daylight diminished. At our point of destination where a winding river meets the Baltic Sea the forrest meets the beach. There are no dunes here – the sand and the pines meet directly. Many of the front-line trees had fallen … some bare and weathered trunks revealed a considerable period since falling, others still bore needles, bark, and intricate delicate root systems that told of more recent collapse. The angles of the fallen trees leaning against those still standing caught my attention. They made me think of the previous day’s white flag – falling and coming to rest.
Later back at the residency John invited us to listen to two of his pieces – sound works accessed through QR codes and played in mobile phones. The sound from our eight phones filled the dark project room – an amazing and inspiring experience. I have been wondering about how I might include … present … one or two text works in our show here – could QR codes be a possibility?
