Longing for one’s home. Not feeling at home anywhere. Not understanding. Not belonging. Operating as a stranger, as an outsider. Not knowing the rules. Missing Transylvanian hills and fresh mangoes. Not making sense. Trying to find meaning in a reality one apparently does not understand. Persistently questioning if reality might be something else than any combination of sensorial perceptions and academic theories might reveal. What happens when one gives up? When one stops asking, interpreting, deciding, thinking, watching, listening, talking, writing, hoping? When one surrenders to a seemingly self-inflicted alienation? Or could the act of writing/speaking itself as a practice, offer shelter?
The above are fragments of intuitive exploration of language – written, sang, spoken, typed – as locus and means of enquiry, during a one year artistic research on the Relation between Reality and the I at APASS in Belgium. What are the different textualities of a text when it emerges from handwriting, singing, typing on a laptop or speaking on a stage? How does the performativity of voice changes in these various approaches? How does the context and technology in which a text is produced influences its reception? Of how many layers is a text made – letters, words, sentences, sound, the body that utters it, the stage or home setting, the light, the scenography? How do rhythm and tonality change when one switches between different languages? If gazing is a means of seeing the world, could we say voicing is a means of speaking it?
1. It is Monday morning and I wanted to write something. I wanted to write something that... I wanted to write, I wanted, I want to, I am trying. Words. I am trying to write. Right... Morning... morning thoughts are... Writing... words... in the pen or the finger, or my fingers, that paper. Can I? Now... Trying. I want to write. I try. Writing. Words. Letters. Lines. Shapes... Writing. I try... Writing I want to... something... I want... Writing is... no, noise. No, no is not, no. I. Words. I want, I try, I... I... These lines, no... no. Lines, words, language... As vrea, dar nu pot acum... Cuvintele care... Mais non. Dat is het ook niet. Ah... je veux écrire mais... Oui... Les pensées... c'est... La trace, c'etait... Dans le rêve c'est... c'était, il y avait... mais... Ah... écrire... Mda…
2. Și’așa-mi vine câte-un gând mai dorule, și-așa- mi vine câte-un gând, să plec pe păduri cântând, să plec pe păduri cântând, mai dorule... Dear Anil, I am writing to you again from Antwerp, in Belgium. I spent one year in this city. It has been a long, cold, boring winter. I don’t know what kept me here….
3. … and I thought... well, I thought different things, you know, I thought… maybe this, maybe that... I was kind of remembering the states of mind I went through and I liked a lot, so... And then… but then, suddenly I realized: actually what I would like to create is no state of mind. Just no state of mind, at all. And I would like not to create that, I would like if it… just happens, without me doing anything, without saying anything, without moving, without dressing up like this, or like that, or being naked, or being bold… or telling things or... just somehow… But then I guess, I should be doing something else. I was actually wondering: why do we, what is it, what is that we look for in art, why do we come, take a seat and watch someone doing things on stage, what are the expectations that we have, ‘cause… It’s very personal, I guess; someone would like to hear something really intelligent, someone else would like to see something maybe very sharp, someone… or maybe, you know… you might have no expectations at all, and I am just making up this whole thing. Ah! Hospitality…
CREDITS AND LINKS
1. Iuliana Varodi, Writing (one shot performance / raw video, 2010).
2. and 3. Rehearsals for the performance ‘Idiosyncratically here, The stranger as a Lens’, Antwerp, 2010. Camera by Elise Passavant.
LINK TO MORE