Tag Archives: art

short days (solstice)

A plateau high up on the south face of a mountain, looking to Spain across a flat valley, smoke from the towns and villages, make a disc of yellowish haze. The silence is strong, wood against wood in the trees and beak against wood from the birds. Occasional and sporadic gusts of wind rattle the dry leaves left on the branches, the snow removes all other sound, and my presence is neglible as is my sense of any self.

I drove across the mountains from a grey, damp and cold, through the tunnel into bright sunlight and warmer temperatures. The journey is only short but puts a distance to the struggle and darkness that sometimes descends.

My father is ill, and no matter how much light fills the landscape, the darkness can only ever fade.

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project

I looked in the woods and I found a very promising unclimbed boulder. I came back with brushes and a ladder and cleaned the moss and dirt from the boulder. Revealed beneath was a prow of granite, hidden in the trees, a thing of interest a thing of desire. On my second visit I began to piece the moves together, complex yes, but everything seemed to be in the right place, every move was powerful and interesting. I’d found a beauty.

It’s now a project, it’s harder than I thought. Thirteen moves long, none easy a mid way crux and a difficult finish.

Ohh but the joy….

burnt toast

I went for a long drive to go bouldering; in the end I didn’t climb much at all. After crossing the Pyrenees I drove across vast tracts of empty arid Spanish landscapes, boggling in its scale and occasionally marvelling at its detail. I had plenty of time to think on this long journey. Bouldering has for a few weeks lost some magic, relentless failure and snow has left me jaded, the pursuit of projects had numbed my desire. The trip was cut short, just too much snow, I was back home and today drove out to look at some recent discoveries and to try an old project. Exploration and newness left me refreshed and invigorated, this is what bouldering for me has always been about, the creative, unknown, the possibilities.

One night whilst away I drank a bottle of wine in a white plastic hotel room and watched on rolling news the unfolding spectacle that is Trump. I’ve been completely out of touch from mainstream news media, only getting the endless second hand horror from Facebook. Are we moving into an un-theorised phenomenological era? There has never been TRUTH, any event or happening or experience is always represented and mediated, always serves a specific discourse, there is always a transition and an impossibility to represent the act itself. A ‘post truth’ world, of ‘alternate facts’ and ‘falsehoods’. The FB’s, the tweeters, the instagrammers, are a generation of experience seekers, their lives documented and sprayed for all to see, nowadays a life or experience without mediation means nothing…Beuys and Warhol in different ways prescient…and in principle the contestation of truth is a good thing. This directly leads us to a world where politicians are celebs, the message is a massage, the desire for popularity, success and winning comes at a price. That price is mass idiocy. An opinion, is an opinion is an opinion and we get Trump and Brexit.

Let’s build a bridge across the Atlantic, a wall to divide America from Mexico, let China suffocate, all the animals are dead, the world is too hot, burnt toast is bad for you…

patient

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It’s difficult to describe the last few months, dislocation from previous life, removal of old context go some way to explaining my current state of mind and life. A sense of content adriftness, an alienation that is both sweet and consuming. The projects of house renovation, something I never took to seriously, stutter on, bit by bit and love has entered my life, the house is now a home.

I think about art and creativity, but find little time or inclination. I meditated on this subject as I sharpened an axe. Squat on the floor, semi dark, an incantation of sound and material, I thought of performance, I thought of ritual and I thought of all the contrived actions of that world. Today my performance is real, as the action and ritual slowly possess me. My boredom threshold is extending, as I sharpened the axe, I found myself enjoying the rhythm of steel on stone,  I wasn’t impatient, I kept at it…durational.

John Berger died this week. I think of him as I walk in our wood. I look at the woodpiles I have made, the collections of twigs, the lean-to of larger branches, the cut grass, and the embers of a fire.

I stand and stare, absently, often, then I begin work again.