Thursday, July 21, 2011

Stone #71

The plum, dark purple skin, pearl yellow flesh, firm, a sharp juice, releases sweetness to the tongue, like swallowing the moon.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Stone #70

Wherever I am touched, light summer dress, underwear, couch, skin on skin behind knees, head under braided hair, I sweat.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Stone #69

The species will come to an end; perhaps she is the last radioactive woman

(today's frenzied drawing)

skinbones

(click for larger size)
skinbones, 2011, 20cm x 28.5cm, 8" x 11.25", India, acrylic and fountain pen inks, watercolour pencils, Moleskine Folio Sketchbook A4.

I'm thinking that this did not turn out at all, but I suppose I should let it sit for a bit. I was inspired by the show of plastinated bodies, which I did not see, but have poured over images of. This image broods, however. Maybe it is about illness, or the aging process. Or some kind of horror film. The background is a 'scribble' cursive, and I had hoped the white ink would have a 'graffiti' look, but I don't think anyone else would get this association. She had one arm raised but I covered it over. The species will come to an end; perhaps she is the last radioactive woman. A dark piece, whatever it is.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Stone #68

The sky has too many blue patches where the sun shines through for the promised thunderstorm to drench and cool. We wait, wilt.

Configure It


Sketch, 2011, 19cm x 25.5cm, 7.5" x 10", India and acrylic inks on Moleskine Folio Sketchbook A4.

Words: CONFIGURE IT

A little sketch I just did, sitting here, sweating in Toronto's heat wave...

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Stone #67

I stare at Inca stonework. We carve away at sections of ourselves, until we fit, until you couldn't drag a knife through us.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Stone #66

Like a nymphaea, a water lily, lazing on the thick surface of river water in this heat wave of fan wind blowing across my skin.

White Petal


direct link: White Petal

After recording a few ad-lib voiceovers, and being unable to leave this project alone, finally I wrote something along the lines that I'd hoped for. Which was a discussion of relationship, reminiscent of Annie in Woody Allen's 'Annie Hall (1977)' or Cristina in his 'Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008),' or like a Wong Kar Wai character who simply can't commit, simply can't, like York in 'Days of Being Wild (1990).' The character Birkin's description of relationship in D.H. Lawrence's 'Women in Love (1920)' before he marries, along with Lawrence's writings of the sexual electricity between people was an influence. There's a little Germaine Greer here too, I think ('Female Eunuch (1970).' And all those women who became nuns during the centuries so they could gain an education and could write, paint, compose outside of the confines of marriage and having 16 children. Some of us dance to our own music. (Said with the grin of a Cheshire Cat.)

Don't forget that 'Faded opulence. Over-the-edge-of. Yet floral abundance. The flowers are the stars—beauty, that edge of fading.'

See also Erica Jong's article, 'Is Sex Passé?'

People seem generally to prefer no poetry voiceover with one of my creative movement/yoga dance videos, so I have, instead, written something that is more of a narrative, that has enough of a story and a philosophy, but is I hope embodied in the movement of the woman who's on the edge of.

I wrote a story that I hope is captivating, whether you agree with the point of view or not. There is a push/pull here. The flowers are like a visual refrain, a chorus throughout the piece. The beauty of flowers, the garden, the hidden utopia of Eden within the garden, the garden of sensuality that draws us in and then becomes a way to control women, the way matrimony can be. The text written (after waiting weeks for it to emerge) to discuss something far more serious - women's creativity, and for my generation at least, it remains problematic. Eros, creativity, a life force, arising out of eros (the body, passion), I believe an artist needs this. A woman's muse is not entirely the same inspirational configuration as a man's, and surely each is again differently configured across generations, cultures, ethnicities, sexual preferences, life experience.

_
In the video footage, experimenting... always learning! Trying this and that with the clip. Having fun, and it shows in the humour of the piece.

There are sections to this video: doubles (video itself a type of mirror or reflection of the world), single, layering, shifts in colour and style as the yoga dance continues.

Who are we? Repetitions of ourselves. Our memories create us in our fragmentary identities. I fold into who I was or who I will become. Uncertainty is confusing. People flee from my uncertainty.

White Petal

Look into a dissolving mirror
bones, skin, neurons

the self-image.

This poem is not neat as intact
petal veins, mysterious as garden
fossils.

The poem writes,
rises from ruminations, dried
flowers on my spine
bursting seeds.

_
Danced, videoed, edited by Brenda Clews; background music by Gabrielle Roth and the Mirrors, from an old favourite, Initiation: gabrielleroth.com/

_
The words spoken in White Petal:


I live in the city in a small apartment - a doorway and shelves covered with fabric. I want to see myself dance before it is too late.

As I dance through the years I reflect on who I am. Every incarnation of love in my life remains with me and carries me to the next immersion, the next wave.

I don't seem to have lost any of the great loves of my life, yet I am a woman who prefers to remain alone. I am a recluse, a very private person, master of myself.

I've been married twice. The first time, a five year relationship in total; the second time, fifteen years, but we had children. Both times, that feeling, imprisoned, denied. Not them, but the nature of legal union. Owned. Like being throttled; my creative and intellectual freedom threatened. It was a struggle to stay and I kept ending things, unable to find my footing, my self in the annihilation of coupledom.

Was I there to be a foil to his light, to support him in his work and dreams? Did I feel this nurturing love reciprocated? Each time, I'm not sure why, I began to die, and I need to blossom.

Women blossom in their creativity.

Some of us find deep comfort in the continuity of nuptial relationships. Others find themselves choked out in the garden of marriage.

I am not a relationship type. I love, and love deeply, but go in fear of being caught, being hitched.

Every incarnation of love in my life remains with me, carries me to the next immersion.

I am sensual, but have spent vast stretches of my life alone.


When you touch the Tantric nerve, sweet pleasure moans. Do you remember?

It's like a saxophone and you wonder if everyone can hear it. The music, sinewy lightning.

Once the pleasure grabs you, the nerve pounds in your blossoming. Helpless, this vortex. Sink, this magnet's circuitry is on. The cells murmur.

Grind, lubricate. Thrust. Push yourself into infinity. Lose yourself in the moment; lose all moments.



I find it hard to dance with anyone else. My rhythms never quite fit, my movements an outer expression of an inner drama being realized through the dance. I dance for my muse.

My muse captivates me endlessly. My muse is demanding. My muse insists without respite until I do. My muse drags me into this dance and makes me write these words of my life. My muse keeps me half-hidden while revealing a vision in my art. I endlessly seek what moves inspiration into artistic form.

I seek the pulse, the core of mystery, the orgasm of the flower.


My life is a vision, of loneliness, love, dry deserts and blossoming oases. My drum is tribal and I dance shamanically with my gliding, writhing, undulating body of passion.

_




Each of those boxes is a video layer - 
to give you an idea of the complexity of the construction of the piece. 

Friday, July 15, 2011

Stone #65

On my walk tonight I saw men flying sideways through the air in overcoats and bowler hats, graphite pencils gnawing on their shin bones.

_

(I did! But they emerged from 'The Master and Margarita,' a Russian masterpiece by Bulgakov that I am listening to as an audiobook, an image in his book that became a sort of Magritte drawing-in-process in the sky, though a little more demented than Magritte ever was. :)

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Stone #64

Her foot in a cast, they take the streetcar. They don't reach the door in time for their stop. The crowded streetcar continues on.

Daphne Becoming-Tree


20.5cm x 20.5cm, 8" x 8", sepia ink, Moleskine Folio Sketchbook A4.

A whimsical drawing of Daphne becoming-tree drawn in the park in late spring.

(Click on image for a larger size.)


Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Stone #63

Today I lay under a tree laden with seeds, her arms of wood nurturing sun and rain, her roots, the earth. Her leaves shaking like hair in the breeze.

I lay under a mother tree.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Stone #62

Baking in a humid heat wave with a 425° oven in a small apartment is trashed; instead, we politely eat tea-dipped store-bought donuts.

Memories of Flowers

My spit of a backyard has no water, the main reason I haven't planted anything. It's like an extra room in the summer though!

Pierre-Marie's comment at Facebook about my patio, though flowerless still a city oasis, reminded him of his vast garden, set me off remembering my various abodes - a downtown house with a deck, and a cottage for 10 years... so I created a post of memories of flowers.

At my house at Queen and Spadina on our deck we hung many bags of Impatiens from the fence, planted two Cedar trees (that are quite huge now, I see them over the fence when I walk by), a small Weeping Pea Tree with yellow blossoms in the spring, indigo Iris', white Trilliums, pink Bleeding Hearts and Tuberous Begonias - oh wow, those colours, I still remember them - and two bushes of Weigelas, both bought together, yet one quite pink and the other more white with differing months of blossoming.

The cottage, on Georgina Island in Lake Simcoe, a Chippewa Reserve (we rented the land), which we had from 1989-1999 (sold after our marriage dissolved), was built on fill since it was a swamp (that dried out in the autumn). We had a forest of Silver Maples on one side, and the sun porch we glassed in and turned into an all-year dining area faced it. Simply beautiful, and private. My ex used to strew bags of wildflower seeds out back and so we had an array of flowers, but way too much 'sneeze weed' (Ragweed, Mugwort, probably Goldenrod and Queen Anne's Lace) for him and his family's allergies. I've included some photos from those years.

Now I have a wee spit of land out back, and for an apartment in the city, it's a gift. I haven't planted anything due to the lack of water, and it would not be a good idea to lug watering cans with my knees.

Today my mother and brother are coming for cake and tea, we'll sit on lawn chairs, enjoying the privacy outside. They both live in apartments with balconies. It's not the same. When I moved into my apartment in 2007, I was told the little yard would be mine when the upstairs neighbours moved (that apartment also has a balcony, mine doesn't). A year later they moved. It was such a surprising gift, and I had no idea a little patio was attached to my apartment when I signed the lease.

I'm thinking, if the hot dry weather keeps up, to make myself take paints and a small canvas out, and see if I can do something other than write and lounge about out there!

Monday, July 11, 2011

Stone #61 -a short video of my patio oasis in the city


direct link: Spit of a Backyard Spills Bliss

My meditation today was cleaning my little patio - raking, scraping caked leaves and dirt, sweeping and dragging the paper garden recycling bag that I had filled to the curb. In between I sat back and contemplated the green ash, enjoyed my dog, and, after finishing the clean-up, gazed at the canopy of leaves above me for uninterrupted hours.

_
A spit of a backyard spills bliss into hours, yes it does.

Especially during a heat wave - 32°C/90°F and a humidex of 38, which doesn't describe the vapour pressure and inferno of heat Toronto was today.

A little bit of earth, connected to my apartment by a short walk, can offer lovely rest and contentment on a hot summer's day. A nice place to serve tea and cake to family and friends. Or to write, and I did get some writing that's been hard to do done this afternoon! Last year I put a hammock up, but rarely used it, so this year it's the chaise longe for resting, contemplating. My oasis in the city, and we do all need our oases.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Stone #60

In my fluid relationships, every incarnation of love in my life remains with me and carries me to the next wave, the next immersion.

Saturday, July 09, 2011

Stone #59

The fishbowl pushes the air aside. Fish hide in plants that grow underwater. Dart. Slowly slide backwards to the edge of the glass, and watch with one blue eye.

Friday, July 08, 2011

Stone #58

A new country was birthed in the world today. / My day of mundane tasks / the jubilation of the peoples of South Sudan.

Thursday, July 07, 2011

Stone #57

In my bedroom curtain, that I was sewing, a small dead fly fell out. Deep teal sheen under wings of sheer grey symmetry, vacant gaze of compound eye.

Wednesday, July 06, 2011

Stone #56

Tonight I dug out of storage and heaved upstairs 30 years of private journals: these are my stones tonight.

Tuesday, July 05, 2011

Stone #55

The hum of fans all over my apartment busily spinning hot air. 

Monday, July 04, 2011

Stone #54

My green ash is hermaphroditic and functionally female, knobby brown flower clusters, bunches of seed pods, a Niun among maples and cedars.

White Petal


direct link: White Petal

Experimenting... always learning! Trying this and that with the footage. Having fun, and it shows in the humour of the piece.

I wanted to do a voiceover, a narration — thinking a Wong Kar Wai style. You will see there are sections to this visual poem. Doubles, single, shifts in colour and style as the yoga dance continues.

Here are a few scribbles, that perhaps will or won't work:

I live in a city in a small apartment. Fabric covers a doorway and shelves. I'd like to see myself dance before it is too late.

Faded opulence. Over-the-edge-of. Yet floral abundance. The flowers are the stars—beauty, that edge of fading.

Doubles. Who are we? Repetitions of ourselves. Our memories create us in our fragmentary identities. I fold into who I was or who I will become. Uncertainty is confusing. People flee from my uncertainty.

White Petal

Look into a dissolving mirror
bones, skin, neurons

the self-image.

This poem is not neat as intact
petal veins, mysterious as garden
fossils.

The poem writes,
rises from ruminations, dried
flowers on my spine
bursting seeds.


_
Danced, videoed, edited by Brenda Clews; background music by Gabrielle Roth and the Mirrors, from an old favourite, Initiation: ​http://gabrielleroth.com/​

More Stills from White Petal

More stills from White Petal, which I've continued working on. It was just a test dance session, but I like working with clips where there is no pressure to produce anything. Sometimes merit blossoms out of such unintentional projects. Playing, experimenting, learning... as usual, the stills are better than the flick.









Flowers are from video I took in my neighbourhood specifically for White Petal.

Sunday, July 03, 2011

Stone #53

A old frock, barefoot, every inch of warm summer air welcoming to the skin which sinks into it; in the warmth, I am innerly pliable.

SELF FIGHT by Eduardo Cuadrado


SELF FIGHT on Vimeo

Despite the struggle to remove it, the cutting and the blood, the mask does not come off. This leaves me with many thoughts about the ways we construct ourselves -the social constructionists would say we are entirely constructed through reiteration of performatives. Repeating our models. Perhaps the mask is who he pretended to be that became more who he was than his, ...his original configuration. Stunning short piece. A visual poem!

Saturday, July 02, 2011

Stone #52

Note on street over potted plant that is later gone-

free to a good home

a cedar where birdsong can one day take shelter

Friday, July 01, 2011

White Petal (clip 1:35min)


direct link: White Petal (it's unlisted, so won't show at my public YouTube site)

On mornings when my adult children aren't around, I have begun to try to dance. It's a small space; there are kilim carpets and furniture. I have a 24min tape which is short enough to convince me to go ahead, and which you can hear a little of here. I've videoed a few of these exercise sessions to see what sort of moves I make, never having seen myself dance before beginning to make video dance poems recently. I am trying to choreograph two long pieces for tracks composers and musicians have sent me to work with.

This cut was 'live,' as is, though I did layer it with filters. And then I went out late afternoon to video white flowers in the neighbourhood for it. I have layered a few of those beauties in - not sure if this works the way I have done it, or not. I added a touch of flicker to the white rose at the beginning and think maybe I should carry it through to the hibiscus-like one at the end. If I wanted to make a proper video out of this piece, I would need to re-do it I think - because with the flowers added, the table and chest in the corner are visually distracting. In my morning practice, I put on the music and begin moving (ok, not with the outfit, but that's to see if it works for a future video), and I do not, repeat, do not move furniture!

Danced, videoed, edited by Brenda Clews; background music by Gabrielle Roth and the Mirrors, from an old favourite, Initiation.

As usual, some stills (click for larger) (I always think my work looks better in stills from than in the video:) (posted these in a previous post too, impatient with waiting for the videos to upload:):

Each of those boxes is a video layer - 
to give you an idea of the construction of the piece. 

The footage of white flowers in the neighbourhood worked
quite well, I thought. Though perhaps it looks too 'pasted' in?
I did add a little flicker to one to make it less static. They are not 
stills but actual video - shot using a monopod on the sidewalk.




Stone #51: Canada Day

A crackling dark: sleek streamers of light, flashing strobe-lit exploding jellyfish, flying thunderbolts, fountains of neon flowers.

A Pulsing Imagination - Ray Clews' Paintings

A video of some of my late brother Ray's paintings and poems I wrote for them. Direct link: https://youtu.be/V8iZyORoU9E ___