better than the Delphic oracle

Last night, a group of us did a performance art piece at the International Center of Photography in New York city, for artist and fellow Wonderlander Alexandra Breznay:

We acted out a string of vignettes that corresponded to a series of photographs, mapping out an arch of running time, in terms of partnership and loneliness.

the team:

dyed brooklyn souls

bellhouse and the new pornographers.

I liked the rusting chandeliers hanging from the wooden beams.

dan deacon in red hook. a skeleton is singing.

gravity almost lost tonight. everything was flying upward.

beachballs and legs and hands stretching higher and higher.

dust in our lungs, but how pretty it looks when it

catches the light.

castles in the sky

Weather Prediction: Without warning, the spectator will enter into an arena of reality versus representation, where the question of temporality reigns as the battle for the resistance of entrapment begins. Today will deftly become a study in tension – a continuous questioning of the delicate balance that is struck between thoughts of whom, from enemy sides, holds the power of the gaze. This tension will regulate the transition that occurs between control to permanence, a corresponding relationship that discusses the potential of transcendence or invasion. We have two parties - those depicted (participating) in the piece and the spectators drawn in, willingness or readiness aside. The world of appearances (of representation - the participants) has politely and pointedly been put in its place. It is perhaps this precise preparedness that will render spectators incapable of shielding themselves. Theirs will be the gift of relation, their placement of themselves amongst the characters, connections logically made in reality, creating an intimacy that results in the palpable vision that the characters are breathing the same air. Each spectator will make an individual connection, while the connections among the characters have already been begotten on a single, other-worldly plane. On the outside, onlookers, essentially strangers, will hardly attempt to compete with such a united front. Ultimately, a spectator will not be beckoned. He will be lured.

bathing in roses/dancing in rain

FIGMENT
an afternoon on governor's island (transformed)

night wanderings

dissection and the anatomy of june

One day, it rained. It poured on panes and the footpath and all the spaces composed from the accumulation of cracks could not handle the volume from the accumulation of water and any creature hiding underneath emerged and bathed rather than be drowned. Some soft things would squirm their way back into the fertile-fragranced dirt, and others still would be salted, for that was what science was this year. She had snuck the shaker from the table. She watched it snow in another boy's hand, wondering if she could be held morally accountable for the dabs of shiny puddle, patterning something abstract. She was without decision and she continued the walk to the fountain, for a sip, under the covering that kept her from today's leaking sky. She had her turn and walked back the exact way she came, for she was too bored for even the walk all the way around. A group had stopped several meters ahead gathered around water runoff. Flow through the gutters was interrupted by a crack, still unattended since there had been no rain since a spell in September. Each hand stretched forward. And her hand wanted to stretch itself forward. And her hand wanted to touch. And her hand was the hand caught. Everyone's hands that were not her hand shot to their sides and dried uniformly on uniformed pants and tights. Her hand, once seized, was turned around quickly, guilty with droplets still wet. Marched back to the room, she was salted.

in our bedroom after the war