A Korean woman flags me down. As she approaches she says:
Mama, [something in Korean] apartment open. [Something in Korean] 2,000.
I politely declined and thought: I like her gusto! And the fact that she called me "mama."
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Friday, March 15, 2013
Monday, May 14, 2012
Being invisible in the pitch-black
In the small mud-floored kitchen, around the kitchen fire bordered by 3 large stones (to put the pots on), the middle son is home with his 8 year-old for a visit. The three adults discuss life, the city, work - or lack-thereof. The 2 grandsons that live on the homestead are seated there as well, with their cousin, quietly listening to the adult conversation. One of the boys sings, but it is barely heard; the others dig their feet into the ground and fidget. But I can only imagine this based on the conversation in a language that I don't understand that comes billowing out of the barely open door and the small square window. The conversation is accompanied by the suffocating smoke from the kitchen fire, fighting for a place to escape from the confines of the small space.
I steal understandings of bits of words and, of course, proper names like the capital city where the son now lives, with his wife and son in the second largest urban slum on the continent, barely making ends-meet. I stand just a few meters from the wood building, looking up through the rainclouds of the Long Rains season through the pitch-black to a few constellations, barely visible. I look back at the square-shaped room with an orange burning light shining through not only the cracked door and window, but also the open slats that let the rain in this morning while we watched the water heating for our baths.
The conversation is familiar, one that I have had with my own parents in their kitchen during one of my countless visits home. There is a relay back and forth of question-answer, then intermittently the son explains further or the mother continues on a monologue asking and comparing, hoping to glean a bit more about her son's life that is not so unfamiliar to her, she is from a city near by, not the capital, but she is no stranger to the hustle and bustle, but perhaps she has forgotten all of that. Perhaps the forty-some years that she has spent in the high rolling hills tending to their farm and dairy cows, perhaps this less-busy life has allowed her to forget the hand-to-mouth that she, presumably, once lived.
The oldest of the grandsons pops out and I quickly change my gaze back to the sky again, attempting to make myself invisible. Though the night is so dark with no moonlight and no artificial light for miles, at least to the closest town, being invisible isn't so difficult. Then I remember the conversation I had with the shopkeeper today when we made the hike to town for supplies that cannot be reaped from their land, power had been out in the town for the last 2 days - no mobile charging, no television, only the police station, with their noisy generator, could be seen with their lights on at night. The grandson dumps some water and with a clang grabs something from under the chicken coop and glides back into the warm kitchen shutting the door just a few centimeters more behind him.
I steal understandings of bits of words and, of course, proper names like the capital city where the son now lives, with his wife and son in the second largest urban slum on the continent, barely making ends-meet. I stand just a few meters from the wood building, looking up through the rainclouds of the Long Rains season through the pitch-black to a few constellations, barely visible. I look back at the square-shaped room with an orange burning light shining through not only the cracked door and window, but also the open slats that let the rain in this morning while we watched the water heating for our baths.
The conversation is familiar, one that I have had with my own parents in their kitchen during one of my countless visits home. There is a relay back and forth of question-answer, then intermittently the son explains further or the mother continues on a monologue asking and comparing, hoping to glean a bit more about her son's life that is not so unfamiliar to her, she is from a city near by, not the capital, but she is no stranger to the hustle and bustle, but perhaps she has forgotten all of that. Perhaps the forty-some years that she has spent in the high rolling hills tending to their farm and dairy cows, perhaps this less-busy life has allowed her to forget the hand-to-mouth that she, presumably, once lived.
The oldest of the grandsons pops out and I quickly change my gaze back to the sky again, attempting to make myself invisible. Though the night is so dark with no moonlight and no artificial light for miles, at least to the closest town, being invisible isn't so difficult. Then I remember the conversation I had with the shopkeeper today when we made the hike to town for supplies that cannot be reaped from their land, power had been out in the town for the last 2 days - no mobile charging, no television, only the police station, with their noisy generator, could be seen with their lights on at night. The grandson dumps some water and with a clang grabs something from under the chicken coop and glides back into the warm kitchen shutting the door just a few centimeters more behind him.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
A third note from Kenya
In Nairobi, you can make time stand still. I'm contemplating the stationary second hand on the watch of the woman next to me. She quietly stares at the people who are not frozen; the men with wide gaits moving swiftly, and the women passing us less hurriedly in pairs or groups of three unassumingly chatting in their dress suits and heels. They will all most certainly get to their homes before we do, but our existence has been suspended on the #40 Citi Hoppa bus to Ngumo.
I am surprised that I don't hear Hot 105 pumping through the speakers promoting "1 second can win you 1,000 bob" (Kenyan slang for Kenyan schilling). Instead my attention is shaken from the motionless second hand by the jangle of coins in the conductor's hand. I look up and he tells me, "40 bob" in little more than a whisper. Despite the cosmopolitan hustle and bustle, the capital city can be quite taciturn using gesture to communicate. He collects our fares and passes me 2 tickets separated by a perforation.
As I hand her her ticket, I steal a glance at my neighbor's watch, but the second hand is stubborn; the bus driver turns off the engine and activates the parking break. The woman across the aisle sighs as she turns the page in her book about the habits of being efficient. The man in front of her relaxes further into his seat as a breeze cuts through the bus bringing with it the exhaust from the other cars and buses in the parking lot that is sometimes Valley Road.
I close my eyes so as to attune my ears to the murmur of a conversation behind me, hoping to glean a detail or two about their lives.
I am surprised that I don't hear Hot 105 pumping through the speakers promoting "1 second can win you 1,000 bob" (Kenyan slang for Kenyan schilling). Instead my attention is shaken from the motionless second hand by the jangle of coins in the conductor's hand. I look up and he tells me, "40 bob" in little more than a whisper. Despite the cosmopolitan hustle and bustle, the capital city can be quite taciturn using gesture to communicate. He collects our fares and passes me 2 tickets separated by a perforation.
As I hand her her ticket, I steal a glance at my neighbor's watch, but the second hand is stubborn; the bus driver turns off the engine and activates the parking break. The woman across the aisle sighs as she turns the page in her book about the habits of being efficient. The man in front of her relaxes further into his seat as a breeze cuts through the bus bringing with it the exhaust from the other cars and buses in the parking lot that is sometimes Valley Road.
I close my eyes so as to attune my ears to the murmur of a conversation behind me, hoping to glean a detail or two about their lives.
Nicole Rademacher is a currently in Nairobi, Kenya until the beginning of May doing research and documentation for her current project investigating domestic ritual (made possible by the North Carolina Arts Council, USA and many private donars/patrons).
Thursday, August 6, 2009
in fact, I know.
I realize that my last few posts have not only been few and far between, but also much more like news announcements (actually, they have been just that) rather than blog posts. I don't like it either.
Life is funny though. Even when you are seemingly not busy, these things that you enjoy so much, seem as though you can't do them. Perhaps your brain won't relax enough for it to happen, or perhaps you just feel that you want to give it your all and you just simply don't have the time for it. But all the while, you truly aren't that busy ...
The winter here in Santiago is rough. It isn't really that cold, especially considering the time I spent in Chicago and Alfred, but it is bone cold inside the buildings. Energy gets sucked from you. I find myself overcome with exhaustion in the middle of the day. I even make "I'm cold" sounds, when it isn't that cold - just habit, by now, I guess.
The pollution will wipe one out as well. I come home and am amazed at how dirty my clothes have become after just one wear. Every time I wash my hands, I almost cringe at the dark, black, and gray running water from them. I try to keep my nails as short as possible otherwise the dirt and grime gets stuck, almost immediately upon leaving the house.
You would think that after the loooooooong and hard winters I have endured in other places (mentioned above), the mild weather conditions would be welcome. And yes, they are! I enjoy the fact that I don't need a winter coat, my fall jacket and a scarf work just fine. But with the experiences mentioned earlier, I am all too eager for spring to show its face. Do they have Groundhog's Day here?
I have said before that Santiago is a city of contradictions. Its winter is more proof of my very premature theory.
Life is funny though. Even when you are seemingly not busy, these things that you enjoy so much, seem as though you can't do them. Perhaps your brain won't relax enough for it to happen, or perhaps you just feel that you want to give it your all and you just simply don't have the time for it. But all the while, you truly aren't that busy ...
The winter here in Santiago is rough. It isn't really that cold, especially considering the time I spent in Chicago and Alfred, but it is bone cold inside the buildings. Energy gets sucked from you. I find myself overcome with exhaustion in the middle of the day. I even make "I'm cold" sounds, when it isn't that cold - just habit, by now, I guess.
The pollution will wipe one out as well. I come home and am amazed at how dirty my clothes have become after just one wear. Every time I wash my hands, I almost cringe at the dark, black, and gray running water from them. I try to keep my nails as short as possible otherwise the dirt and grime gets stuck, almost immediately upon leaving the house.
You would think that after the loooooooong and hard winters I have endured in other places (mentioned above), the mild weather conditions would be welcome. And yes, they are! I enjoy the fact that I don't need a winter coat, my fall jacket and a scarf work just fine. But with the experiences mentioned earlier, I am all too eager for spring to show its face. Do they have Groundhog's Day here?
I have said before that Santiago is a city of contradictions. Its winter is more proof of my very premature theory.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sleep
I've been sleeping a lot lately.
I used to always remember my dreams, at least right after I woke up. Now I find that I don't. All that seems to remain is a sensation of the last feeling that I had.
I used to always remember my dreams, at least right after I woke up. Now I find that I don't. All that seems to remain is a sensation of the last feeling that I had.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Au revoir
I had to say good-bye to piece of metal that had resided in my mouth since December 31st 2004.It took him three sessions to kill all the nerve, to scrape it all out. By the end of it the right side of my face was tender, sore, and not happy. The last session took place on New Year's Eve. I went to a réveillon that night, being that I was in France, and could only give half of my usual kisses, as my right side was too tender to share the New Year's love with the traditional 4 kisses allotted in Nantes.
Eventually it healed. But I always had this metallic taste in my mouth.
About a year later I went to the dentist again (this time in Spain) because, as I learned, I was grinding my teeth during my sleep. She took some x-rays. Her, not so positive, comment about the work of this particular root canal was, "no está mal" (it's not bad). The stress was placed on "mal" as if to say that it was close to "bad" but not quite there, perhaps if I [I'm talking as if I am my dentist] inspected it more I could use the word "bad" but, for the moment, I will stay with the thought that it is not "mal", but perhaps could be - how 'bout I just don't look at it any more then we don't have to find out if it is "mal" or not?? Yeah, let's do that!
Later I returned to the States. Dental care wasn't included in my student health plan, but my mother found a dental "plan" for me. So, I paid some hundred and fifty dollars or so - just in case. A sunny yet bitterly cold Friday in February of 2007, I went to the Foundations class I was TA for even though I hadn't gotten much sleep because I was awoken at 2am, or so, with a horrible toothache and couldn't get back to sleep. By noon I had taken more than the recommended amount of Ibuprofen that an adult should take in a 24-hour period. I went to health services and they gave me a list of dentists in the area - none of whom would accept my dental "plan". I found one 35 minutes away (by car) that could see me in a few hours.
After some prodding and an x-ray I was told that I would need a root-canal (for the tooth next to my expensive metallic French accessory - that was the trouble-causer this time). I have to admit, it was emotional: I had instant memories of the three excruciating sessions I had endured at the end of 2004 with its neighbor. Using some muscle relaxation techniques, I finally calmed down and called my mother to lend me the thousand dollars to pay for the procedure.
It was simple and not even really painful, uncomfortable, but not painful. They used a dental damn and hence I slobbered all over myself. Needless to say, crying and slobbering in front of complete strangers is a humbling experience.
But, the dentist mentioned the French neighbor. He couldn't be certain, but there seemed to be either a shadow or an infection on the French gum line. There seemed to be missing bone. Missing bone? But he wasn't sure if it was an infection or a shadow?? That sounded fishy. He said the only way to find out would be to cut off the crown and have a look. Hmmmm. Another thousand dollars (or more) to see if there was something wrong was not in my budget. Funny enough in January of 2008 the crown popped off while in Chile (on vacation). I inspected it - no infection that I could see!! I went to a "drive-thru dentist" and got the crown re-cemented on.
Full-time jobs come with benefits, and sometimes those benefits include dental coverage. In November of 2008 I went to get my teeth cleaned (that was the only thing on my agenda for that visit). While spending a long time chipping away at plaque, the dental hygienist thought there might be something funny with that number trente; so, an x-ray was taken. A similar fickle diagnosis was given. This dentist wanted to monitor it. Unfortunately I had to tell him that I was moving out of the country in two months. I got a copy of the x-ray and went abroad.
Mid-March, while eating a chocolate breakfast bar (not for breakfast), I felt something small and hard in my mouth. It was conspicuous because these particular breakfast bars didn't have hard and crunchies. I skillfully sifted through the food with my tongue and fished out the culprit: a small piece of tooth colored porcelain. I looked in the mirror and I could see that part of my "half porcelain/half metal" French accessory was missing some porcelain. Curious as it was, I wasn't too concerned. I decided that this would have to wait until my new dental benefits kicked in (May). I just brushed, flossed, and swished with Listerine more often.
But after a few weeks I just couldn't knock that newly strong metallic taste in my mouth. I got concerned. I decided to go to a dentist. Of course I forgot to bring the copies I had made of my x-rays, so new ones were taken. "Está tan claro como agua" (It is crystal clear), my new Chilean dentist said (yes, this is the fourth country that has dealt with this tooth or its neighbor, who I think only had a problem because of the shotty job that was done with Trente): the post that was put in penetrated the tooth into the gum and has been eating away at the bone. He saw that directly from the x-ray. I have had 3 x-rays of that thing since the horrific and terrifying experience of late 2004.
That's besides the point. So, we talk about my options: cut off the French accessory, clean out the problem, replace the post, mend the hole, get a new ALL PORCELAIN crown - yeah, there was only one option: do it. Luckily he is a friend of a friend so I only paid about half of what it would really cost, but nonetheless it is still an enormous amount to pay at one go. I paid it. At least this time I didn't have to do any muscle relaxation techniques or call my mother.
The procedure is taking longer than I expected. He gets out a small blow torch. He seems to be rushing a bit. I felt pain. He gave me another shot of Novocaine directly into the tooth bed. Turns out the implicated post that penetrated into my gum was made of Mercury. So, there was more blood than expected and a nerve had been pinched, which is what caused my pain. All in all, the French job was more botched than expected.
Since the repairs have been made, I have had a temporary crown that, of course, split in two the second day. Don't worry, I got that replaced. Now I am waiting for my perfect, purty porcelain crown to arrive.
No more metal for me.
.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Connections
There are two worlds (well, really there are many, but it is easier to focus on two at a time). They are supposed to be the opposite of one another, to create the friction. They are supposed to contradict one another, to build the plot. And they do. They always do. But it seems to me that it may be more interesting if you looked at the intersections, at their similarities.
I can't quite work out how they fit together, but I know that they do; I can feel it, like when you can feel mucus drip down your nose when you are in the middle of an important meeting. What do you do? Stop talking and search for a tissue? Sniff? Keep going? Either way you know it is there. nagging. always nagging.
Usually I just start digging through my purse while I am talking. Nose drip is too important to ignore.
.
I can't quite work out how they fit together, but I know that they do; I can feel it, like when you can feel mucus drip down your nose when you are in the middle of an important meeting. What do you do? Stop talking and search for a tissue? Sniff? Keep going? Either way you know it is there. nagging. always nagging.
Usually I just start digging through my purse while I am talking. Nose drip is too important to ignore.
.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Washington Wasn't Only a President
I arrived at the station and the turquoise charter bus was running. The driver, and the man that always rides with him, were outside waiting. There were impatient looks on their faces. Did they know I was coming? How could they be waiting for me?
"Montevideo?" they asked.
I confirmed, ready to hand over my luggage.
"Primero coche?"
Hmmm. Primero coche? I hadn't checked. I was too concerned with waking myself up at 4am and waiting for Washington (the Brazilian taxi driver) a little impatiently, than to check my ticket for all the specifics of my voyage. I searched through my purse for my ticket, and there it was "Segundo Coche."
"No," I said, "Segundo."
So, I waited. It was already 5 minutes after the time of departure. There seemed to be a bit of confusion amongst the two men outside and the man behind the counter inside.
The station (if you want to call it that) was pretty bare. Besides the poster of the schedule, printed in large lettering with uniquely 80s graphic design on the right wall as you walk in, there was nothing. About 30 feet from the entrance were the counters. I guess all that space was originally intended for long lines, but at 5am on the last Saturday of the high season in a rather sleepy border town, there were no lines. There were only three men trying to figure out if they had another man's cell phone number.
As I waited outside, I zoned out for a while reading the posters, on the windows, telling of festivals and some group that has been around for twelve years that will be performing the following Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. When I came to, the two men were hopping in the bus.
The short stout one yelled to me, [say the following phrase as if they were English words) "Dga vee-en-ay!" (¡Ya viene! - Spanish translation) [It's on its way! - English translation]
Yet, five minutes after the Primer Coche had left, the Segundo had still not arrived. I started to get a little worried that I hadn't understood, or rather, that I had misunderstood. Then it occurred to me that they had taken advantage of the "gringa": now, I would have to buy another ticket to Montevideo. But these people aren't mean-spirited, I thought to myself. And what would they have gained from this trap?
Just then a Radio Taxi arrived out of nowhere and out popped Washington, as if to confirm the thought I had just had. I told him about the two Coches for the 5am bus. He looked concerned, but didn't have time to say anything. My eyes had wandered behind him to the turquoise charter bus rounding the small street corner.
I thanked him again as he got in his taxi. I can only assume that he went back home to get some more sleep.
"Montevideo?" they asked.
I confirmed, ready to hand over my luggage.
"Primero coche?"
Hmmm. Primero coche? I hadn't checked. I was too concerned with waking myself up at 4am and waiting for Washington (the Brazilian taxi driver) a little impatiently, than to check my ticket for all the specifics of my voyage. I searched through my purse for my ticket, and there it was "Segundo Coche."
"No," I said, "Segundo."
So, I waited. It was already 5 minutes after the time of departure. There seemed to be a bit of confusion amongst the two men outside and the man behind the counter inside.
The station (if you want to call it that) was pretty bare. Besides the poster of the schedule, printed in large lettering with uniquely 80s graphic design on the right wall as you walk in, there was nothing. About 30 feet from the entrance were the counters. I guess all that space was originally intended for long lines, but at 5am on the last Saturday of the high season in a rather sleepy border town, there were no lines. There were only three men trying to figure out if they had another man's cell phone number.
As I waited outside, I zoned out for a while reading the posters, on the windows, telling of festivals and some group that has been around for twelve years that will be performing the following Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. When I came to, the two men were hopping in the bus.
The short stout one yelled to me, [say the following phrase as if they were English words) "Dga vee-en-ay!" (¡Ya viene! - Spanish translation) [It's on its way! - English translation]
Yet, five minutes after the Primer Coche had left, the Segundo had still not arrived. I started to get a little worried that I hadn't understood, or rather, that I had misunderstood. Then it occurred to me that they had taken advantage of the "gringa": now, I would have to buy another ticket to Montevideo. But these people aren't mean-spirited, I thought to myself. And what would they have gained from this trap?
Just then a Radio Taxi arrived out of nowhere and out popped Washington, as if to confirm the thought I had just had. I told him about the two Coches for the 5am bus. He looked concerned, but didn't have time to say anything. My eyes had wandered behind him to the turquoise charter bus rounding the small street corner.
I thanked him again as he got in his taxi. I can only assume that he went back home to get some more sleep.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Two Weeks In ...
Once again I have found myself in the cultural cross-roads. It seems that I freely choose to be in this predicament. It seems that perhaps I enjoy the difficulty. Almost two weeks and barely an English conversation. The same frustrations that I have experienced in the past have resurfaced. Yet, there is a new relationship with them. Maybe it is because I have been through similar situations, but this time I can look at it in an objective manner, or rather, from a more educated position.
Somehow I identify as a fake Spaniard, as a fake Catalan. I don't want to give up what I know, what is familiar to me. When I walk into a store my instinct is to greet everyone with "Bon día" and when I leave "Adeu". Every once in a while a word wants to come out in Catalan. I don't want to say " Buenos días." I don't want to have to re-think what comes natural to me in a Spanish speaking country. I don't want to use the choclo for corn. I don't like it. I like maíz. I like how it rolls of the tongue. "Choclo" is to choppy. Maaaaaeeeeeeeeeeez. The dipthong phonetic connection feels nice in the mouth. Not only do I not want to use the word, but I want everyone to know that I don't want to use the word, that I know and prefer a different word - as if I needed something else to help solidify my foreignness.
As if I needed something besides the slight Castillian accent and frequent errors. As if I needed something other than the slightly different gait, or preference to cross at a crosswalk, yet not wait for the light. As if I needed something other than my inability to tell the difference between a 500 peso coin and a 100 peso coin. As if I needed something other than everything that I am.
I don't want to lose my foreignness. It is part of my identity, in every culture. Sometimes it was a bit irritating when people in my home town would ask me where I was from, thinking I was even from a foreign country, but I would have probably been more offended if they thought that I was from there.
From there. From where? That is one thing that I find quite striking about Santiago. In Barcelona there were many Catalans, yet many had traveled quite a bit (if only in Europe, or the surrounding countries). Most people are from Santiago and have barely traveled. They don't find it too strange that a foreigner wants to make a home for themselves in their city, yet most (at least from what I can tell as of yet) do not feel that they would not be able to answer that question: where are you from?
For many people I know, that question is perplexing. Not only Americans, but others alike. Yet, I think that even Americans in America, well many, have trouble answering. Where do you identify your home as? With what people do you identify? While you may have been raised in one place, there are other places that are a part of your adult life. These places, at least from where you are standing now, have moulded you into who you see as yourself now much more than a place where you learned to ride your bike, yet have no visible identifying marks.
Next, I ask, why do you fight it so much? There was a point when the experience was about the experience. Now, what is the experience about?
Somehow I identify as a fake Spaniard, as a fake Catalan. I don't want to give up what I know, what is familiar to me. When I walk into a store my instinct is to greet everyone with "Bon día" and when I leave "Adeu". Every once in a while a word wants to come out in Catalan. I don't want to say " Buenos días." I don't want to have to re-think what comes natural to me in a Spanish speaking country. I don't want to use the choclo for corn. I don't like it. I like maíz. I like how it rolls of the tongue. "Choclo" is to choppy. Maaaaaeeeeeeeeeeez. The dipthong phonetic connection feels nice in the mouth. Not only do I not want to use the word, but I want everyone to know that I don't want to use the word, that I know and prefer a different word - as if I needed something else to help solidify my foreignness.
As if I needed something besides the slight Castillian accent and frequent errors. As if I needed something other than the slightly different gait, or preference to cross at a crosswalk, yet not wait for the light. As if I needed something other than my inability to tell the difference between a 500 peso coin and a 100 peso coin. As if I needed something other than everything that I am.
I don't want to lose my foreignness. It is part of my identity, in every culture. Sometimes it was a bit irritating when people in my home town would ask me where I was from, thinking I was even from a foreign country, but I would have probably been more offended if they thought that I was from there.
From there. From where? That is one thing that I find quite striking about Santiago. In Barcelona there were many Catalans, yet many had traveled quite a bit (if only in Europe, or the surrounding countries). Most people are from Santiago and have barely traveled. They don't find it too strange that a foreigner wants to make a home for themselves in their city, yet most (at least from what I can tell as of yet) do not feel that they would not be able to answer that question: where are you from?
For many people I know, that question is perplexing. Not only Americans, but others alike. Yet, I think that even Americans in America, well many, have trouble answering. Where do you identify your home as? With what people do you identify? While you may have been raised in one place, there are other places that are a part of your adult life. These places, at least from where you are standing now, have moulded you into who you see as yourself now much more than a place where you learned to ride your bike, yet have no visible identifying marks.
Next, I ask, why do you fight it so much? There was a point when the experience was about the experience. Now, what is the experience about?
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Choices
toss; trash; throw away; dispose of; abandon; cast; cast off; chase; clear; discard; dismiss; dispense with; ditch; drop; dump; eject; eliminate; evict; extrude; free oneself of; get rid of; jettison; junk; lose; refuse; reject; rid oneself of; scrap; shake off; shed; shuck; slip; throw off; throw out; turn down; unburden; get rid of; abandon; relinquish; shed; do away with; dump
I think this is the opposite of collecting. Hmmmm first, you have to collect what you want to dump.
What is the residue of abandonment?
.
I think this is the opposite of collecting. Hmmmm first, you have to collect what you want to dump.
What is the residue of abandonment?
.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Messes of Life Mixed Up with Systems of Messes
One mess of things to take and another of things to leave behind. Packing up a life into a couple of suitcases just isn't possible. I guess that is why we have family members - to store what doesn't fit.
Why am I keeping all of that crap? Why am I still collecting crap?
This leads me to think about something I heard recently that collecting and individuality aren't as interesting as system and principle. So collecting is synonymous with individuality? Is that true? I had always thought of collecting as about groups, but each component of a collection is individual. Usually people say that the individual components make up a whole. Can the individual components stand on their own?
You ask that question often as an artist, especially if you work with dipyichs/triptychs, or anything that may be a series. Can those pieces stand on their own? And do they need to? If they stand on their own, does it make the whole piece redundant?
But back to this whole more interesting thing. System and principle are more interesting than collection and individual. The principle for your system of collection; you collect individual things.
...
I tried to write a story about this. I do mean "tried". The concept of deconstructing collection and system seemed so abstract as to not lend itself to narrative. Now this seems odd. Narrative exists in everything, even non-narrative (I can touch on that in a later post).
Here is an except: I didn't think that any of them were particularly interesting. The seemed pretty boring; a few were gray-ish, some were brown-ish; some were large-ish, some were small-ish. From what I could tell he may as well have collected them moments before our encounter.
I plan to finish that story one day. A narrative must exist somewhere. Even if it is only a non-narrative.
...
This begs the question: what is my system of collection? is it still valid? WHAT NEEDS TO BE THROWN OUT?
Why am I keeping all of that crap? Why am I still collecting crap?
This leads me to think about something I heard recently that collecting and individuality aren't as interesting as system and principle. So collecting is synonymous with individuality? Is that true? I had always thought of collecting as about groups, but each component of a collection is individual. Usually people say that the individual components make up a whole. Can the individual components stand on their own?
You ask that question often as an artist, especially if you work with dipyichs/triptychs, or anything that may be a series. Can those pieces stand on their own? And do they need to? If they stand on their own, does it make the whole piece redundant?
But back to this whole more interesting thing. System and principle are more interesting than collection and individual. The principle for your system of collection; you collect individual things.
...
I tried to write a story about this. I do mean "tried". The concept of deconstructing collection and system seemed so abstract as to not lend itself to narrative. Now this seems odd. Narrative exists in everything, even non-narrative (I can touch on that in a later post).
Here is an except: I didn't think that any of them were particularly interesting. The seemed pretty boring; a few were gray-ish, some were brown-ish; some were large-ish, some were small-ish. From what I could tell he may as well have collected them moments before our encounter.
I plan to finish that story one day. A narrative must exist somewhere. Even if it is only a non-narrative.
...
This begs the question: what is my system of collection? is it still valid? WHAT NEEDS TO BE THROWN OUT?
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
A lil less thoughtful ...
The excitement
literally
As the days get shorter my anticipation g r o w s
yes, again literally - for both you and me
Soon the climate will change
Life will seem back on track, but when was my life knot
Tied up
In knots
Bundled
Tight
Bound
errrrrrrrrrrrrrr
Goals may be clear
Or perhaps just as hay zee butt bottom derière quite contraire
Clear that each end begins a new knew what I was missing miss
ing Eye In Geezzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
It's time.
Tie me.
Untie me.
Un Knot.
literally
As the days get shorter my anticipation g r o w s
yes, again literally - for both you and me
Soon the climate will change
Life will seem back on track, but when was my life knot
Tied up
In knots
Bundled
Tight
Bound
errrrrrrrrrrrrrr
Goals may be clear
Or perhaps just as hay zee butt bottom derière quite contraire
Clear that each end begins a new knew what I was missing miss
ing Eye In Geezzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
It's time.
Tie me.
Untie me.
Un Knot.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Writing
Written language is an artifice.
I have recently been listening to a class. There are 36 lectures in the whole thing (I downloaded it as an audiobook); I started this past Saturday, and I am already on Lecture 19. I told a friend that it is a class I have always wanted to take, but I was too busy being an "artiste" when I was in school (both/all times). Needless to say, I am a bit obsessed.
It is titled The Story of Human Language and it is taught by John McWhorter. He is one of my new heroes. It is probably much healthier to have him as a hero than some of my other current heroes because (a) he is alive, (b) I don't agree with everything that he says, and (c) he has demystified some things - which in turn has taken some ignorant theories of mine and shown that they have already been disproved. I downloaded the lecture series from The Teaching Company. I am in love with them too.
Back to the class. At the end of lecture eighteen he says that "written language is an artifice." Immediately I remembered it as "written language is a fallacy." In fact, I did not realize that he said "artifice" until I started writing this post. Artifice, fallacy. Fallacy, artifice. Contrived, deceptive. Skillful, false. Subtle deception, a false notion. The more I think about the words, the more I find them to be similar, which, of course, agrees with the fact that I perceived him to say one and not the other. Yet, when I initially thought about those two words I found them to be quite distinct in meaning. Not that they have become the same word, but their meanings seem to be growing closer (and closer).
Through this class ideas/theories I had about language, dialects, time, culture, immigration ... have been debunked. All of these theories were fallacies. I now realize just how stunted my education is. Here I am with an MFA, yet what do I truly know and what can I do with that? No, I am not feeling sorry for myself - quite the opposite, actually. I am trying to rationally and objectively look at my education (both formal and informal) and analyze the gaps. As Dr. McWhorter talks about high languages and low languages, dialects and standards, I have begun to simply look at my language learning experiences (and language teaching experiences). All three languages that I speak I learned in three very different manners and use them and very different ways. My "highness" and "lowness" (and my comfort with speaking/writing/reading in the way that I do) of these languages oscillates greatly. Is that good or bad is neither here nor there. The difference is what is significantly important. Yet, I am not sure why (but that doesn't matter). To look at it is important. To think about how you communicate and how you perceive your communication is important. To understand the means of your communication is important.
Written language is a fallacy. It is an artifice. It is completely contrived. Everything that you write is contrived and self-conscious. Most of my "artistic" life I have been urged, by my professors and therefore by myself, to not be self-conscious, yet I don't recall ever wondering (a) why am I self-conscious or (b) why is being self-conscious bad -i.e what is taking away from or how is it corrupting?
Why am I self-conscious? Well, obviously, we are self-conscious whenever we put something on the page because that is not an instinctual or intuitive act [this being one of the reasons why I think that working intuitively is ever so important, but of course you must step back after the fact to look objectively]. You actually think before you form the words with a pen or type them on a keyboard. Blogging and email make writing a bit more intuitive because we, as a society, are much more forgiving (and lazy) with spelling and grammatical errors that we read (write) in emails, im chats, and blogs. But, all in all, the word is not your thought. As an aside, I know that there are many arguments about how we think. One theory states that we think in what is called "mentalese", therefore any (recognizable) language that we use is secondary and requires yet another layer. Thus, writing is even another layer farther removed from the actual, pure thought. So, too is making: sculpting, drawing, painting, constructing ... This said - how could one NOT be self-conscious? Is it possible to truly work intuitively? Can you actually work un-self-consciously? Is working self-consciously an artifice? Who or what is it tricking? Is the trickery OK? Sometimes trickery is OK, right?
I have recently been listening to a class. There are 36 lectures in the whole thing (I downloaded it as an audiobook); I started this past Saturday, and I am already on Lecture 19. I told a friend that it is a class I have always wanted to take, but I was too busy being an "artiste" when I was in school (both/all times). Needless to say, I am a bit obsessed.
It is titled The Story of Human Language and it is taught by John McWhorter. He is one of my new heroes. It is probably much healthier to have him as a hero than some of my other current heroes because (a) he is alive, (b) I don't agree with everything that he says, and (c) he has demystified some things - which in turn has taken some ignorant theories of mine and shown that they have already been disproved. I downloaded the lecture series from The Teaching Company. I am in love with them too.
Back to the class. At the end of lecture eighteen he says that "written language is an artifice." Immediately I remembered it as "written language is a fallacy." In fact, I did not realize that he said "artifice" until I started writing this post. Artifice, fallacy. Fallacy, artifice. Contrived, deceptive. Skillful, false. Subtle deception, a false notion. The more I think about the words, the more I find them to be similar, which, of course, agrees with the fact that I perceived him to say one and not the other. Yet, when I initially thought about those two words I found them to be quite distinct in meaning. Not that they have become the same word, but their meanings seem to be growing closer (and closer).
Through this class ideas/theories I had about language, dialects, time, culture, immigration ... have been debunked. All of these theories were fallacies. I now realize just how stunted my education is. Here I am with an MFA, yet what do I truly know and what can I do with that? No, I am not feeling sorry for myself - quite the opposite, actually. I am trying to rationally and objectively look at my education (both formal and informal) and analyze the gaps. As Dr. McWhorter talks about high languages and low languages, dialects and standards, I have begun to simply look at my language learning experiences (and language teaching experiences). All three languages that I speak I learned in three very different manners and use them and very different ways. My "highness" and "lowness" (and my comfort with speaking/writing/reading in the way that I do) of these languages oscillates greatly. Is that good or bad is neither here nor there. The difference is what is significantly important. Yet, I am not sure why (but that doesn't matter). To look at it is important. To think about how you communicate and how you perceive your communication is important. To understand the means of your communication is important.
Written language is a fallacy. It is an artifice. It is completely contrived. Everything that you write is contrived and self-conscious. Most of my "artistic" life I have been urged, by my professors and therefore by myself, to not be self-conscious, yet I don't recall ever wondering (a) why am I self-conscious or (b) why is being self-conscious bad -i.e what is taking away from or how is it corrupting?
Why am I self-conscious? Well, obviously, we are self-conscious whenever we put something on the page because that is not an instinctual or intuitive act [this being one of the reasons why I think that working intuitively is ever so important, but of course you must step back after the fact to look objectively]. You actually think before you form the words with a pen or type them on a keyboard. Blogging and email make writing a bit more intuitive because we, as a society, are much more forgiving (and lazy) with spelling and grammatical errors that we read (write) in emails, im chats, and blogs. But, all in all, the word is not your thought. As an aside, I know that there are many arguments about how we think. One theory states that we think in what is called "mentalese", therefore any (recognizable) language that we use is secondary and requires yet another layer. Thus, writing is even another layer farther removed from the actual, pure thought. So, too is making: sculpting, drawing, painting, constructing ... This said - how could one NOT be self-conscious? Is it possible to truly work intuitively? Can you actually work un-self-consciously? Is working self-consciously an artifice? Who or what is it tricking? Is the trickery OK? Sometimes trickery is OK, right?
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Experimental Documentary? What is that?
(p.s. I like the little-ness of the video)
So while working on my thesis I was reading the book Experimental Ethnography (see prior post). Through reading this and thinking about the series of videos I was working on and my research, I decided that these videos are 'experimental documentaries.' What the hell does that mean?
I am fascinated by people watching (and who isn't, really?). Just sitting on a street corner, holding the camera steady, you can find so many stories in one. The one above just appeared. If you pay attention there are a few others, you have to piece them together though, because they aren't the focus of the video. The narrative unfolded itself in front of me, in front of the camera. Take a second and sit on a city bus bench. Just sit there. For five minutes and you might glimpse someone else's life. For thirty and you may see a scenario. Longer and you could be privy to whole events developing in front of you. Maybe they won't seem significant your characters at that moment in their lives, but you as the outsider can sense the event's significance. Wait and be patient. Let the story unfold on its own. Those fleeting gestures that we so nonchalantly express become characters in the narrative as well.
Above is a busy street corner in Buenos Aires. The subjects are seemingly unaware of the story that we, the viewers are following. They are consumed with their lives, consumed with the waiting for someone to arrive. As the awaited person nears the subjects, the little girl (she must be four) exits the frame - just as bouncy as she entered it. The woman meets with the father and the little one follows her into the frame only to leave just as quickly. Almost as soon as the woman enters the frame, the father extends his hand to hold the child's. He holds it in the air, suspended. It freezes in the same distance away from his hip, even as he moves and changes his position. The hand keeps its distance, awaiting the girl's hand. Yet, the child has exited the frame. The adults are ready to cross the street, but still, the little girl has not yet returned to the frame. Finally, as we hear a car revving up to gear, after stopping for the red light, she girl enters our view, but as the father's hand extends to meet the child's, she walks away, towards the moving traffic. His hand struggles and fights with her arm to link with her hand. He finally succeeds and they successfully cross the street.
Who knew that all of that would unfold in front of me while I waited for my friend to take money out of the ATM? How did I get so lucky as to see that beautiful episode? To see the struggle the girl is having with trying to declare her independence, with wanting to do something on her own. Something as simple as crossing the street. She is completely unaware of the danger she could be in because she is completely unaware of what is going on around her. Funny, how we choose to be aware of certain things. How we choose to perceive certain things. Sometimes we don't consciously choose, but we still choose - what is important to us and our current situation.
So, sit on a bus bench. Don't sit in the park - too many trees. You can sit in the park after you have sat on a few bus benches. You have to acclimate to the type of seeing that you are going to do. To the type of seeing you are going to experience. Watch what goes on around you. I like to watch the untold stories of the gestures, like the hand struggling to take the other or the cough that is never covered by the small hand of the little girl.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Experimental Ethnography: Surrealist Ethnography Part One
same book. new chapter. more thoughts.
Surrealism dealt with the familiar and the strange, the exotic and the banal. check and check. these videos could be surrealist....
'objets trouvés' were appropriated and recontextualized. Yes these are 'found' people, not found footage. They, the subjects, are 'objets trouvés'.
Bataille's journal Documents dealt with the cultural and the collision. What is my collision? Anthropology uses 'arbitrary categorization'. How could it not be arbitrary? Is that possible?
My use of the familiar - imitating the family (vacation) home movie
Las Hurdes (1932) Buñuel
Russell writes 'Ethnographic surrealism was a short-lived moment, out of which ethnography, art, and surrealism "emerged as fully distinct positions." (Clifford) And yet their blurring constitutes a crucial historical conjunction. Its disruptive potential is both a reorientation of the avant-garde toward everyday life and a reorientation of ethnography toward cultural pluralism and hybridity.'
Rademacher translates: Ethnographic surrealism destinctly separated art from ethnography and surrealism within art. Yet before this occured was crucial because it allowed for the avant-garde to re-examine everyday life and invited ethnography to allow for cultural merging, to be hybrid/plural.
The videos tension/ambivalence between formal beauty and experiential/temporal unease.
The juxtaposition of the synthetic and contrived qualities of video and the 'home movies', aka real documented reality.
contrapuntal : sound-image; speed-sound : incongruous
What discursive levels am I building with?
Play with the '(un)reliability of visible evidence, the discourse of power and subjugation through gaze, the role of the observer.
Are the viewers invited to participate intellectually? My commentary (through video manipulation) of the 'visual evidence'.
Russell writes '... a common strategy of ethnographic film by which the individual social actor becomes and illustration of an ethnographic principle.'
Rademacher translates: ... often a subject (person in the film/video) becomes an example of a principle or a stereotype by which to judge.
Surrealism dealt with the familiar and the strange, the exotic and the banal. check and check. these videos could be surrealist....
'objets trouvés' were appropriated and recontextualized. Yes these are 'found' people, not found footage. They, the subjects, are 'objets trouvés'.
Bataille's journal Documents dealt with the cultural and the collision. What is my collision? Anthropology uses 'arbitrary categorization'. How could it not be arbitrary? Is that possible?
My use of the familiar - imitating the family (vacation) home movie
Las Hurdes (1932) Buñuel
Russell writes 'Ethnographic surrealism was a short-lived moment, out of which ethnography, art, and surrealism "emerged as fully distinct positions." (Clifford) And yet their blurring constitutes a crucial historical conjunction. Its disruptive potential is both a reorientation of the avant-garde toward everyday life and a reorientation of ethnography toward cultural pluralism and hybridity.'
Rademacher translates: Ethnographic surrealism destinctly separated art from ethnography and surrealism within art. Yet before this occured was crucial because it allowed for the avant-garde to re-examine everyday life and invited ethnography to allow for cultural merging, to be hybrid/plural.
The videos tension/ambivalence between formal beauty and experiential/temporal unease.
The juxtaposition of the synthetic and contrived qualities of video and the 'home movies', aka real documented reality.
contrapuntal : sound-image; speed-sound : incongruous
What discursive levels am I building with?
- duration
- color
- sound
- speed
Play with the '(un)reliability of visible evidence, the discourse of power and subjugation through gaze, the role of the observer.
Are the viewers invited to participate intellectually? My commentary (through video manipulation) of the 'visual evidence'.
Russell writes '... a common strategy of ethnographic film by which the individual social actor becomes and illustration of an ethnographic principle.'
Rademacher translates: ... often a subject (person in the film/video) becomes an example of a principle or a stereotype by which to judge.
Framing People: Structural Film Revisited
Just some thoughts while I've been reading:Structuralist films; techniques of observation; fixed frame; detail
Chantal Akerman - abstracting the act of perception from the act of seeing. '...at people who are suddenly rendered marginal to one's own narrative. This is the space occupied by Akerman's authorial signature, the space of observing, looking out at others from an interiority that is just outside, at the margins of the visual field.
--How similar is that to what I am doing? What contradicts/plays with this idea of observing is the length of the videos. is that it? The space of observing the temporal space/duration is minimal requiring immediate attention.
How does my 'interiority' factor in? Longing ¿? The shortness of the videos also creates distance.
- fleeting and unconnected
- passive vs active seeing
- observation and inquisition
- visible and/or invisible camera
'threatened by the presence of the camera' Are my found people threatened by the presence of the camera? Is it shocking that people 'didn't care' about the camera?
What type of gaze am I employing?
Are the camera positions familiar? casual? formal?
Am I imposing a view? If so what? and How?
Allegorizing the gaze . . . what does that mean?
'Uncanny hyperrealism' how does that inform these videos?
What is my principle device? duration? short duration?
I AM documenting. What am I documenting? While editing I search out gesture and create gesture, but what am I documenting?? rituals? casual rituals?
What is my stage?
How are these videos bordering on fiction? the edges between.
how are they evoking longing? are they evoking it or illustrating it?
What is the distance described by longing between me and these relationships.
(Ethnology) the minutiae of everyday life.
the short duration inscribes memory - a sense of ethnographic/mythic time - bordering on fiction.
I am transposing reality into the image - no I am transposing the reality IN the image.
what does transpose mean?
1 : to change in form or nature : transform 2 : to render into another language, style, or manner of expression : translate 3 : to transfer from one place or period to another : shift 4 : to change the relative place or normal order of : alter the sequence of <transpose letters to change the spelling> 5 : to write or perform (a musical composition) in a different key 6 : to bring (a term) from one side of an algebraic equation to the other with change of sign.
indexical and abstract. What? The gestures? Are they indexical? mmmm they do refer to one person, but to many... The gestures are/were fleeting. Does that make them abstract? I don't think they are abstract at all. They are specific: a hand or face gesture. The meanings can be a little abstract. Ah the meanings are indexical! Referring to particular meanings, BUT the reference could be less than opaque and more than transparent.
SPECIFIC GESTURE --------------- MEANING OF GESTURE
that is supposed to be a dotted/dashed line (neither opaque nor transparent).
literal and symbolic. yes. both.
playful tension between A and B. What are A and B?
Through color/time shifts and other manipulation, the documentary and fiction are merged in the same frame, the same video.
ethnographic film uses the body as signifier. My gaze is feminine. Is that evident? How does that inform the work?
The videos dissolve representation into experience.
that is supposed to be a dotted/dashed line (neither opaque nor transparent).
literal and symbolic. yes. both.
playful tension between A and B. What are A and B?
- unease and intimate gaze
- ambiguous action/image and sound
- ...........
Through color/time shifts and other manipulation, the documentary and fiction are merged in the same frame, the same video.
ethnographic film uses the body as signifier. My gaze is feminine. Is that evident? How does that inform the work?
The videos dissolve representation into experience.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
the poetics of living. the poetics of family relations.
Through body gesture and video gesture I will illustrate the relationship between longing and distance and the roles protection/security, dis•connect, companionship, letting go, intimacy, and nurturing have in human familial relations.
These themes are subject to change, but reflect my current thoughts on these videos. Each video has at least one theme associated with it. The video either explicitly illustrates its corresponding theme(s) or responds to the sentiment of that theme(s). I have chosen these themes because I have found them to be truths through the analysis of my field research.
My field research consists of guerrilla-touristic video shooting. One can be a tourist within one's own culture as well as when traveling abroad. I have implemented these techniques in various settings. Using my curiosity and interest in physical interactions between loved ones as my point of departure. I have video-ed, guerrilla/clandestine or otherwise, families, children, and couples. Shooting has taken place anywhere from beaches to busy street intersections to remote mountain trails. In each segment of footage chosen for the videos I have, intuitively or consciously, noticed either a gesture or series of gestures that illustrate/encompass one of the chosen themes.
Once a segment of video has been chosen, I then experiment with revealing these gestures to you, the viewer. Through color and speed shifts, repetition and reversal, even stillness, I expand and compress these gestures. By means of these manipulations, I create short and extremely short videos, video gestures, which you the viewer can then interpret for yourself.
The length of the videos can be seen as a bit of game - Did you catch it? Did you get it? Nevertheless, its length is also imperative to the idea of gesture. Gestures are fleeting and temporal, expressing only a sentiment; therefore, these videos emulate that. Each individual video may not necessarily stand on its own, but once grouped with other videos presenting the same, or different, themes, the viewer will walk away with a sense with what I have been exploring and experimenting.
The composition of the multiple videos on one screen solidifies the themes, hence qualifying my claims. Each video bearing its own length is then combined with others of similar concepts therefore creating a montage effect and an immersive situation with the themes presented. While the projection may display one or many videos at any given moment, the small LCD screen is dedicated to individual videos, thus endorsing each one distinctively.
I see this installation and the research it has encompassed as experimental anthropology/ethnology video. I have manipulated video documentation of physical communication between family members; I am highlighting what I see as important in our interactions as a global society.
Longing and distance are what is consistently felt through these videos. They are a subconscious garnish. It is my sentimental longing for intimate relations with family members, not necessarily because I lack it, but because I feel that our society (Anglo-American) in particular lacks it as a whole. We lack the common and consistent physical manifestation of these gestures.
These themes are subject to change, but reflect my current thoughts on these videos. Each video has at least one theme associated with it. The video either explicitly illustrates its corresponding theme(s) or responds to the sentiment of that theme(s). I have chosen these themes because I have found them to be truths through the analysis of my field research.
My field research consists of guerrilla-touristic video shooting. One can be a tourist within one's own culture as well as when traveling abroad. I have implemented these techniques in various settings. Using my curiosity and interest in physical interactions between loved ones as my point of departure. I have video-ed, guerrilla/clandestine or otherwise, families, children, and couples. Shooting has taken place anywhere from beaches to busy street intersections to remote mountain trails. In each segment of footage chosen for the videos I have, intuitively or consciously, noticed either a gesture or series of gestures that illustrate/encompass one of the chosen themes.
Once a segment of video has been chosen, I then experiment with revealing these gestures to you, the viewer. Through color and speed shifts, repetition and reversal, even stillness, I expand and compress these gestures. By means of these manipulations, I create short and extremely short videos, video gestures, which you the viewer can then interpret for yourself.
The length of the videos can be seen as a bit of game - Did you catch it? Did you get it? Nevertheless, its length is also imperative to the idea of gesture. Gestures are fleeting and temporal, expressing only a sentiment; therefore, these videos emulate that. Each individual video may not necessarily stand on its own, but once grouped with other videos presenting the same, or different, themes, the viewer will walk away with a sense with what I have been exploring and experimenting.
The composition of the multiple videos on one screen solidifies the themes, hence qualifying my claims. Each video bearing its own length is then combined with others of similar concepts therefore creating a montage effect and an immersive situation with the themes presented. While the projection may display one or many videos at any given moment, the small LCD screen is dedicated to individual videos, thus endorsing each one distinctively.
I see this installation and the research it has encompassed as experimental anthropology/ethnology video. I have manipulated video documentation of physical communication between family members; I am highlighting what I see as important in our interactions as a global society.
Longing and distance are what is consistently felt through these videos. They are a subconscious garnish. It is my sentimental longing for intimate relations with family members, not necessarily because I lack it, but because I feel that our society (Anglo-American) in particular lacks it as a whole. We lack the common and consistent physical manifestation of these gestures.
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