02_NC
Last night I saw the largest mirror ball in the world and it took my breath away.
I walked with words in my head:
Young hearts run free.
Where did you come from? Where did you go?
Take me home, to the place where I belong.
I’ve got the key, I’ve got the secret.
I could never live without you by my side.
I love you baby.
Don’t stop me now because I’m having a good time.
At 4am I find myself on the prom prom prom. I was not having such a good time, in fact I was killing time until the sun rose. I was listening to a dog who knew a thing or two about Blackpool, he’d been around the block, he had some stories to tell:
He said that Blackpool is a mirror ball in need of disco. He told me that Blackpool offers a very particular kind of pleasure, that so many people are wrapped up in the business of giving pleasure and making everything seem ‘alright’ that it is killing them.
It feels like a city that is trying to stop itself from growing old – that is what he said. It offers promise everywhere, it promises so much and yet it takes more than it gives.
He told me that small people with no responsibility, nothing to lose love the places because it’s all about winning points and a big cuddly toy.
But now he thinks he’s outgrown this town, or this town has outgrown him, he wants to move on, but he doesn’t know where to go. He is lost. He is looking for his own disco.
Monday, 7 April 2008
Friday, 4 April 2008
shit it
I have spent the last week mainly crying, staring out of the window in my digs at a tree and some boys playing rugby, and wondering what the fuck I'm doing here. I feel old and void of enthusiasm and am absolutely convinced that someone young and happy should be here instead of me.
I realised yesterday that it was crunch time. Stay or go. Either 1) Attempt to work here in Lancaster, wander round the oppressive and godforsaken campus, eat gregs pasties and pray for a freak accident or 2) bugger off somewhere no one expects anything of me ('cept the dog).
Because I am basically an evil person masquerading as a good person and therefore need to be repeatedly punished, I have opted to stay.
I should like to think that my continued presence may be of use to someone and that i can squeeze a bit of art out. I don't suppose this content is quite what they were hoping for when they invited us to blog. I'm sure it'll all be abolutely super in the end up...
Denise Van Outen says that the best way over a fella is under another. What would we do without her?
Levantes 1st blog
Week 1 - Friday 4th April 2008So this is the first time we've written a Levantes blog...where to begin?
Yesterday we saw each other for the first time in a while, so we had lots to catch
up on. Since we couldn't be together at the start of the project, we've decided to
keep some things a secret from each other, and test how this affects the work.
Eleni has prepared a workshop for Bethanie this morning, which she's about to do
and has no idea what to expect, oooh how exciting!
We're hoping that starting the project separately, with different un discussed ideas
will be something new for us. We're very used to sharing everything in process from the
out set, so we're sure we'll expose many differences which we often bypass in a
collaborative process.
We'll say goodbye for now.
Bethanie and Eleni x
Levantes Dance Theatre
Thursday, 3 April 2008
02_sb: The Sea and Unknowing:
I went to Morecambe this morning to research the workshop I will be running next week (Tuesday the 8th). I took 4 photos that are up on my Flickr.
The Rules (see Matt Fenton's first post) are giving me an unquiet mind. And I've been thinking about those three questions, the ones that Carl Sandburg made a life (or at least a living) out of (who am I? where am I going? where have I been?).
The other week someone said to me that we carry others around in us and that we carry landscapes and places around in us too (Of course; but at the moment of saying it felt revelatory). So there are lots of you already here, names that recur, voices. But this week I keep thinking about Carl Sandburg, no longer a who but a what, a set of ideas (or ideals), whose name was been given to a National Heritage site, two schools and a college. Carl Sandburg is unknown to me and I have little interest in meeting him any time soon.
I was looking old Carl Sandburg up and I found a poem, The Sea Hold, which I have re-edited:
Janine Antoni, an American artist sometimes makes her art as a “wilful misunderstanding of how to know something” (FN1) Searching for a dead man who was never there seems like a reasonable attempt at productive misunderstanding of Blackpool. I'm questioning whether to even go to Blackpool. At the moment I would rather go to Flat Rock, or Fleetwood, of just stay in.
FN1: Antoni, conversation with Martha Buskirk, December 7, 2001 cited Buskirk: The Contingent Object of Contemporary Art, MIT Press, 2005, p252.
The Rules (see Matt Fenton's first post) are giving me an unquiet mind. And I've been thinking about those three questions, the ones that Carl Sandburg made a life (or at least a living) out of (who am I? where am I going? where have I been?).
The other week someone said to me that we carry others around in us and that we carry landscapes and places around in us too (Of course; but at the moment of saying it felt revelatory). So there are lots of you already here, names that recur, voices. But this week I keep thinking about Carl Sandburg, no longer a who but a what, a set of ideas (or ideals), whose name was been given to a National Heritage site, two schools and a college. Carl Sandburg is unknown to me and I have little interest in meeting him any time soon.
I was looking old Carl Sandburg up and I found a poem, The Sea Hold, which I have re-edited:
The sea holds / an early sunset and a last morning star / five white dice / And to-day I lost nothing / except / my sea songs, sea cries, I forget so many sea songs and sea cries /the sea hugs and will not let go / knowing more about us than we know of ourselves (full text at www.bartleby.com/134/67.html)I found out that Carl Sandburg was born in landlocked Galesburg, Illinois and lived his last years and died on an estate named "Connemara," a 245-acre farm in Flat Rock, Henderson County North Carolina, (which is, I guess, about 400 miles inland, but I note that the etymology of the name Connemara refers to descendants of Con Mhac, of the sea.) I can't find any evidence of Carl Sandburg ever leaving America and I think his seas went uncrossed OR his seas, like mine, were imagined. A the moment I am thinking of waiting until week three, fairly late, until I go to Blackpool, on three consecutive days, on the 15th, 15th and 16th of April, eight hours a day. Nothing outlandish, or crazy. Just a routine. I am going to spend 24 (nonconsecutive) hours (or three working days) asking exactly the same questions as Carl Sandburg, to to quiet him. Shh / Carl Sandburg / Shh / There / There /
Janine Antoni, an American artist sometimes makes her art as a “wilful misunderstanding of how to know something” (FN1) Searching for a dead man who was never there seems like a reasonable attempt at productive misunderstanding of Blackpool. I'm questioning whether to even go to Blackpool. At the moment I would rather go to Flat Rock, or Fleetwood, of just stay in.
FN1: Antoni, conversation with Martha Buskirk, December 7, 2001 cited Buskirk: The Contingent Object of Contemporary Art, MIT Press, 2005, p252.
Wednesday, 2 April 2008
02 Simone
After a day of wondering and searching , I spend another day , this time in a room full of maps and geological surveys. I want to find the boundary line of Blackpool. Sometimes the simplest of tasks reveal themselves more complex over time.
Yesterday i thought about being bound, but not by ropes or illusionary tricks in straight jackets but, by the invisible line that constitutes a cities boundary. Beating the Bounds may be an appropriate way to contain myself and the space im in. Im wondering how long it will take me to find and walk the edges of Blackpool.
Then theres the donkey, the one that treads up and down the beach, an endless summer of back braking work. The illuminations depot used to be a donkey stables. Derek Acora has even been to talk to the spirits: the donkey whisperer.
Yesterday i thought about being bound, but not by ropes or illusionary tricks in straight jackets but, by the invisible line that constitutes a cities boundary. Beating the Bounds may be an appropriate way to contain myself and the space im in. Im wondering how long it will take me to find and walk the edges of Blackpool.
Then theres the donkey, the one that treads up and down the beach, an endless summer of back braking work. The illuminations depot used to be a donkey stables. Derek Acora has even been to talk to the spirits: the donkey whisperer.
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
01_nc
A city, the sea, time. Bound* by four rules.
Kiss me quick between a stick and rock. Bingo, go-go, merry go round and around. Big Dippers, Fish Chippers. Scream if you want to go faster. SCREAM IF YOU WANT TO GO FASTER.
Stumble gentle into that good night.
Find a container just high enough, wide enough and deep enough. Somewhere to hide-away, stow-away, shy-away. Somewhere to go away from it all, from the bright lights and dark nights, there you will find a structure. Be open to it and it will present itself.
Tomorrow I am bound* for Blackpool.
*B O U N D
Bound1 v 1. Past Participle of bind, past tense of bind.
Bound2 adj. 1.Certain to happen or do something because custom, experience, or common sense dictates it 2. obliged to do something or behave in a certain way, for example, for legal or moral reasons 3. firmly resolved.
Bound3 vi. To move quickly and energetically, with large jumps n an energetic long or high jump.
Bound4 adj 1. travelling toward a particular place (often used in combination) 2. certain to reach or achieve something
Bound5 vt 1. to form the boundary to an area or site 2. to impose limits on something n a number that represents the upper or lower end of a range of possible values
Kiss me quick between a stick and rock. Bingo, go-go, merry go round and around. Big Dippers, Fish Chippers. Scream if you want to go faster. SCREAM IF YOU WANT TO GO FASTER.
Stumble gentle into that good night.
Find a container just high enough, wide enough and deep enough. Somewhere to hide-away, stow-away, shy-away. Somewhere to go away from it all, from the bright lights and dark nights, there you will find a structure. Be open to it and it will present itself.
Tomorrow I am bound* for Blackpool.
*B O U N D
Bound1 v 1. Past Participle of bind, past tense of bind.
Bound2 adj. 1.Certain to happen or do something because custom, experience, or common sense dictates it 2. obliged to do something or behave in a certain way, for example, for legal or moral reasons 3. firmly resolved.
Bound3 vi. To move quickly and energetically, with large jumps n an energetic long or high jump.
Bound4 adj 1. travelling toward a particular place (often used in combination) 2. certain to reach or achieve something
Bound5 vt 1. to form the boundary to an area or site 2. to impose limits on something n a number that represents the upper or lower end of a range of possible values
01_sb
1.
On Tuesday 1st, I wrote my first thoughts in response to the rules, and I am going to spend some time this week gradually editing them down. The first thoughts weren't all that good, so this will be a pleasure. By the end of the week there will be very little left, just a few fragments. Not much, just enough.
Body to Body.
Bring to mind / an unfinished / or unfinishing /
By the Seaside... early. In the picture he is about eighteen, looking smart and handsome, walking down the promenade with his father, who looks off from the camera, with some kind of annoyance, discomfort, or sadness / that was Bridlington, though / Brid / And that was my father, not me.
Of the sea I read,
1: "It's being near Her that they want. That alone satisfies something in us" (FN1), and
2: "Carl Sandburg says that 'the sea hugs and will not let go'" (FN2)
Who is Carl Sandburg?
Carl Sandburg: January 6, 1878 – July 22, 1967, an American poet, historian, novelist, balladeer, and folklorist (FN3) Carl Sandburg spent a lifetime exploring...the eternal questions, "Who am I, where am I going and where have been?" (FN4).
FN1&2: The Sea Within: Waves and the Meaning of All Things: 2006, St. Augustine's Press. FN3: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Sandburg). FN4: (www.nps.gov/carl/)
t-h-r-o-w-i-n-g.blogspot.com / www.virb.com/simonbowes
On Tuesday 1st, I wrote my first thoughts in response to the rules, and I am going to spend some time this week gradually editing them down. The first thoughts weren't all that good, so this will be a pleasure. By the end of the week there will be very little left, just a few fragments. Not much, just enough.
Body to Body.
Bring to mind / an unfinished / or unfinishing /
By the Seaside... early. In the picture he is about eighteen, looking smart and handsome, walking down the promenade with his father, who looks off from the camera, with some kind of annoyance, discomfort, or sadness / that was Bridlington, though / Brid / And that was my father, not me.
Of the sea I read,
1: "It's being near Her that they want. That alone satisfies something in us" (FN1), and
2: "Carl Sandburg says that 'the sea hugs and will not let go'" (FN2)
Who is Carl Sandburg?
Carl Sandburg: January 6, 1878 – July 22, 1967, an American poet, historian, novelist, balladeer, and folklorist (FN3) Carl Sandburg spent a lifetime exploring...the eternal questions, "Who am I, where am I going and where have been?" (FN4).
FN1&2: The Sea Within: Waves and the Meaning of All Things: 2006, St. Augustine's Press. FN3: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Sandburg). FN4: (www.nps.gov/carl/)
t-h-r-o-w-i-n-g.blogspot.com / www.virb.com/simonbowes
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