Stone #56

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

Stone #55

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

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.

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!