What more could I ask for then a hook already placed on a rope in a tree. The prop captured the two edges- The beginning and the end. The tree’s extension set the stage to watch the in between.
And this, that is inanimate, allowed for my continued voyeurism.
The photograph’s composition considered the bound body. The fabric drew lines for me to consider. Seducing me within an open field, clear light, changing elevation, and a punctuated shadow. From knots, like bound hands, the fabric extended, twisted and breathed, swirled and lifted, stagnated and pulsed. Hope and resistance came and went, opening the door for the other.
What is this thing that I’m doing?
Each day brings a different vision. Wrapping my dearest, so that they can only reflect me. Pushing the disintegrating surface of old fabric against the mercurial reflection of new fabric- the age old battle of the wills. Using surfaces of all kinds to rest upon, assimilate or insult. Pulling me forward, in full sail, my grip pokes holes and stretch marks ripple across as scars from battle. I am turned on again.
And yet.
The process, side notes, love notes, visual vernacular of where I’m going. The in between forever acts as a vehicle to sustain the work. But today. The bounds hands, the noosed figure in the tree, the ends and the beginnings. It is these that have caught me, and hold me. Until.
