Lucinda Childs Dance Company at The Barbican

It was movement
And light
And the sheer fucking energy
I went of in to a dream
And time disappeared
This was my body being washed by their bodies.
Sunlight
and Wind
and bloody earth
but flaoting
THIS WAS PERFECT



It was art and it was me. IT WAS ME.
If you missed this you missed everything

A vision of how we would all move in dance paradise.’ The New York Times

Tiredness

I am so tired. Everything is just seeping out of me and I don't know where it  is going. The word draining is an understatement. It is like everything is beign sucked from your body and the shell hardly knows how to move any more. I don't know why I feel so tired. I think it is the grey weather. I always feel like this. Like I have to force myself to move. And I do. I am feeding an insaciable furnace. I just can't get enough oxygen. Some parasite is eating my flesh and my voice and my life from me. I can't keep up. I do. But I can't.
Everything seems ot come out and nothing stays in. I sleep I am tired. I eat and I eat and I eaty and nothing happens. I thin k my body i splaying a sick joke but it hurts. I am doing everything in my power to stay a float and I AM. Because I will never ever ever give up. Rest isn't something that helps. It is just that feeling of rotting and sufficating and everything is buzzing in my head. I don't feel like I am doing anything and I just keep on and on and on. Pne day I will have to catch up.
 I need to live in a country with constant sunlight. I think I feed of the warmth. It is just so damn cold and I don't like being in a dark hole. the wierd thing is I am happy. Just without energy. It makes happiness harder.
I want to be able to be fully there and fully with it for everyone.

Gabriel OROZCO at the TATE MODERN

Black Kites 1997

"For me what is important is not what people see in the show.  It is what you see after... how your perception is changed." Gabriel Orozco


I am going to write about the piece above. Just because I can. It is a human skull marked with graphite pencil. The once living, now dead becomes "decorated" by the living. Something natural. Something real.
Orozco sees the skull as an emblem of death. I have been interested in skulls for a long time. I am not sure if I see them as death anymore. Maybe time. Nature. Existence. It is all part of a cycle of the living. Maybe the soul lives on?
I think this is beautiful. I don't know whether it is wrong. What would the person think about having his/her skull drawn on.
It makes me think about the action of living. The life of the being. The life of the artist. What exactly are we trying to achieve?

Star dust

'And it came to me then. That we were wonderful traveling companions but in the end no more than lonely lumps of metal in their own separate orbits. From far off they looked like beautiful shooting stars, but in reality they're nothing more than prisons, where each of us is locked up alone, going nowhere. When the orbits of these two satellites of ours happened to cross paths, we could be together. Maybe even open our hearts to each other. But that was only for the briefest moment. In the next instant we'd be in absolute solitude. Until we burned up and became nothing.'
from sputnicks sweeheart


we really are no more than dust and energy a life built out of nothing has to be something and even for the briefest moment we have to make it something