Returning to the gallery after setting up yesterday, was strange, it was already very familiar. Having my belongings around helped. I decided to give myself the task of creating an Artist in residence sign with an arrow pointing at the desk and spent the first hour cutting out the letters and attaching them to the wall. Again this is something I had planned previously, and is drawn in the sketch below. The labeling of the very notion of artist in residence, making it consciously there or not there and the sign itself also become a piece of work. A bit like, here I am, I'm here, an artist in residence in here as the work, making the work, being the work. At lunch time I opened up as advertised and had 4 visitors, 3 children and two mums, they were intrigued in the work and I talked to them a little bit about the idea of the studio being the work, the very act of being an artist, being the work. Spontaneously I asked the kids what they thought was the artwork in the room, they identified a drawing, some post it notes stuck to the wall and a dried flower that had gone to seed (this was not mine but stood in a vase by the visitors book!). It was an interesting exercise. They left and I preceded to experiment with some materials I had brought in, mainly a pink balloon and a nail. For the last 2 months I have had this idea knocking around of a pink balloon floating in the space and a nail fixed somewhere in the space, if they happen to meet then obviously the balloon will pop. Its a fairly visual idea, based on my love of aesthetic I think and sculpture, but I did it anyhow. I knew these first few days would involve me experimenting with all the ideas that have been existing as images in my head, not necessarily any good though when become a reality. I did love the balloon, and played with it for the afternoon, trying to write about what I liked about it and sculptural manipulating it. I blew it up and let it down in my face. I stuck the nail to its outside, but with its sharp end facing away from the balloon. It echoes my own fear I think, the insecurity I have with my work and outside forces. Its also very bodily, hence the pink balloon and pretty sexual, often the way my thoughts travel if I'm being lazy. But its a natural taste I have of all things pink, bodily, fleshy, shiny, hard, soft. Those are my preference in material.
I pulled it back and began to write about my desire to create a performance and the elements I have to date, here it is:
1. desk as art
2. Studio as art
3. materials
4. Colour/texture
5. Aesthetic
6. performance
7. action
8. site
9. authenticity
10. Doubt
11. Get out there
12. back to basics
13. Large scale project
14. Am I enjoying myself?
15. get physical
16. Make a video
17. Go to the shops
18. Sit it out
19. Radio on
20. radio off
This writing was starting to move somewhere and got me thinking about the very act of doing something and if it is necessary. I thought about focusing just on the performance, I mean where was I going with the balloon any way? I thought about how I needed an audience and how maybe I should invite people. But that would be more admin. I decided I had done too much admin, marketing, evaluating and that's was not what I wanted to do now I had started the residency, but maybe that is my work or the work? maybe the actual event, performance, work doesn't actually need to happen? Could it all be about the planning and intention and then the documentation and evaluation. I thought of the work of Hayley Newman who works with this idea. Not so much the admin, but the reality of the performance actually happening.
This thought was interrupted by an out of hour visitor...someone angry about something it seemed and who preceding it saying...well threes not an exhibition in here is there. Your right there is not an exhibition...but for some strange reason I felt offended.
I took a walk and took some photographs of the locations I had originally wanted to work with and possible create a performance around. a tour of these places. They included the spot on the platform at Hertford East train station that smells of Urine, my flat and the traffic lights at St Andrews street where I vividly recall sitting at, in the back of my parents car every Sunday on my way to visit my nan and Grandad. They always did take ages to change.
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