Milky Ways of Ephemeral Embodiements - Caress Me Into Clay
Daily series of texts and works made during Joya Art Residency - May 2017
Day 2 - Geting Clayin the Baranco
One after the other they would turn into little dust bins.
A dust bin? A bag of cosmic dust, blowing up blowing up blowing up.
- So, Here we are, turning twisting hearts and wrists into other forms of breathing.
It all trans-forms, that, we know. Nothing ends or begins, it be-comes. Death and Life as fixed states are unreal and morbid, para-lyzing and dry. We shall add the -ing to all that we are be-ing. As a pre-sent action continuing for ever, trans-forming into another, on and on, again and again. Eros-ion, in spanish, is a cosmic « Meteor-izacion ». Mr Oxford Dictionary of English, could we have your light on this word?
- Yes indeed. Eros-ion is the gradual de-struction or diminution of some-thing.
the eros-ion of the cliffs | the eros-ion of democratic freedoms: wearing away, abrasion, scraping away, grinding down, crumbling, wear and tear, weathering, dissolving, dissolution; eating away, gnawing away, chipping away, corrosion, corroding, attrition; wasting away, rotting, decay; undermining, weakening, sapping, deterioration, disintegration, destruction, spoiling; rare : detrition.
- Thank you indeed Mr Oxford. Well, I have just found the right back leg of a beetle. The rest of the beast was lost when I encountered boars. You know, I was interested in this Greek Goddess of the dead… Persephone… She circles be-tween and through all of life and death at the same time. Same - Time. Yes, for there are different times. A time for death, a time for life, a time for what is in be-tween. A time to ex-hale, a time to in-hale, a time to be a flesh bag of bones and a time to be a strange bird singing to the lady birds genitals. Even a time to be a foreign metal confusingly finding its way through empty space, captured by its own lack of orbit, looking at Jupiter for in-spiration. Persephone, she is captured by time. It is time that stretches her states of being, time that structures her identity, her becomings. Her existence is her passages, transgressing, trans-forming, traversing, trans-cending. Her agency and her voice are caught in a beautifully spinning wheel. Waxing and Waning have become the foundations of her lungs’ architecture. She erodes, undergoes abra-sion, grinds down, crumbles. It all slides down, limestone and clay, slide down when Demeter cries her daughter’s void, down the mountain into the sea. And up again from the chest of the Earth, from Hades’ bed, rising hills into cliffs and peaks, limbs of flowing fire reaching for the mothering clouds again. Another time, a time that sees us pass faster than a ridge’s blink. When Humans tell her story, Persephone speaks through flowers, fruits and fait. She feeds the life and death of women’s wombs and men’s desire. For the sierras, her seasons string along with eros-ion, the dissolution of rocks, boulders’ decay. Her wider season en-compass billions of years of fossilized onyx stone, turning them into fire or gas, into clouds again.- what is the opposite of erosion ?
- I don’t know… Well, maybe soar, growth, expansion, mount up. Fountaining up!
- Fountain! From her cave, from the center, she pulls out and pulls in. She is magnetic, she is the poles, she opposes and unites. I am here, in my time. I’m attempting a temporary fixation. I make milky ways of ephemeral embodiments. It is all I can do, really. Clay is sensitive to tears and tears. It erodes easily. Its sea-sons are faster than embodied carbon’s break down. For clay dissolves. Water opens transformation, transmogrification. This last word is of unknown origin, ironically it means « transform in a surprising or magical manner ». When it magically becomes, the origin gets lost in the surprise. Magic is only about forgetting how transformation has occurred. Persephone is not a magician. She works slowly and adapts to all of life’s sea-sons. She moves in different times at the same time, she is the erosion and the rising. She didn’t magically disappear when she was a little girl, she was taken by death who had fallen in love with her. Death had fallen in love with the beautiful daughter of life. Death knows it needs life, de-sperately needs life. Death needs life, and with death, life can start its course around the sun, dawn and dusk. Life is no longer fixed, time stretches into motion and the movement mutates, eats the mutes and sings itself into being, morning choir. Persephone tells the origin and the becoming, she generously offers a present. Hade’s hands or Demeter’s lament, they might not be love, but rather a pull of the tantalized heart, suffering from an excruciating lack. And in the motion set by the desire for the absent object, trans-formation births, opposes morbid paralysis. Even in sterile drought, Demeter walks. Persephone is the desired object, the invisible force between two magnetic poles, the unknown, silent yet central dark matter enfolding and sustaining space. It is never about having her, but rather the tides her absence and presence create, the libidinal force of desire itself, orbiting poles into solar systems, milky ways of ephemeral embodiments. Seasons wider than our imagination.
Day 3 - Eros-ions 1, 2, and 3- Wood covered in clay by hand, Beetle
We live the seasons of plants, but the geological seasons of the Earth are wider. It seems that trees, holding the rocks into ground and the light into matter, the trees are the bridge between the time of chlorophyll beings and the rhythm of fossil’s dance. Wood grows from a plant’s seed and petrifies into gems stones. Wood held by golden sap, feeding like a plant whilst remembering all the secrets of the rocks. Wood speaking the language of the heavens and the whispers of the underworld. Wood pulling up and pulling down, wood, the bridge mirroring the poles of bright air and solid darkness. Wood, Persephone’s arms pushing to the center, carrying mountains above the seas whilst feeding from solar clouds.
Forests of bridges between undergrounds currents of memories and futures spelt out by the stars.
Forests turning light into matter and matter into light again, living wider seasons through seasons, living several times at the same time.
Day 4 - Fire Gap
Rot as a multiplication of life.
Maybe every death is about transforming towards a vaster transformation.
We are born from the transformation of a body into something vaster than itself. Two bodies merging and unfolding into a new one. Two bodies dying to each other, killing the separation, dis-solving, eroding, merging into a small death for a moment. Opening, coming as a release, letting go, detaching from themselves, dying to one another, and trans-formation can occur. Whilst the new born’s body separates naturally, cutting the cord, letting go of the mother’s milk, leaving home… It is then a whole life of letting the heart know that it must separate peacefully to unite in transcendence trans-cen-Dance. If separation is a narration, then union is too. The move-ment from one to the other is only a narrative if we already are living as one crea-ture. However we only experience ourselves in this life. We dance, trans-cen-Dance from separated to united. And when this body dies, it trans-forms into soil, worms, rocks, some-thing even vaster. Rot as a multiplication of life. Eros-ion is a multiplying di-vision. Di-vision is crea-tion of new forms, all together as one. Maybe each birth is an en-trance in transe into a vaster cycle, each death is a merging, and a mourning of that union as we di-vide into some-thing vaster. The big bang is the ultimate death into an infinitely ex-panding cosmos. Maybe our last death will be an ex-ploding sun. Each death a new division, divine vision, multiplication of our possibilities of being, of our ex-periential states. From a mitosis mourning its original solitude to a galaxy spreading out of one star.
Merge and unfold, like the lungs, in and out, orbital pulls, magnetic poles. Death as a pulsation into a vaster di-vision, a vaster connectedness, a larger sense of life. Death as a pulp bursting into a swarm of life.
Day 5 - Time Caresses me into Clay - Dead tree covered with clay by hand
From moonless lakes’ slumber
WATER BOILS UP
Bellow Bellowing Barks
To the sun
FIRE BURNS DOWN
Enfolding piles of dirt
Oily and thick into the ground
Held into weeping GEMS
Mining currents of memories into sleep
From moonless lakes’ slumber
WATER BOILS UP
Day 6 - Hello / Goodbye
solve your heart angle
Day 7 - Circling Boars
Encounters and Separations
At the autumn of the day
I walk through mountains towards the sunset, on boars territory, sniffing their air, smelling their hair, their wild skin. I look out for them, but somehow I’m looking for them too. I want to see and not be seen. I keep my eyes and ears out. Boars reign over the several peaks of the mountains surrounding our valley. On the top, where you can watch the early sunrise and embrace with your pupils what feels like thousands of kilometers, cliffs rise in a perfect vertical spring of rocks, surrounded by a wall of strong boar scent, a fortress of solid and invisible ramparts. Ancient human made circles of stones silently lay by the side of their castle, a hunter’s hiding. The territory is not mine.
I smell the sweat around my face, from my hair, a sweet smell of childhood. I remember being five and holding my baby brother drenched from the warm summer evening. A sweet and thick scent, flowers fermenting into ambrosial sirup, seeking to be held.
Sometimes I can smell it coming from me. I like to think it’s in our blood, a fraternal scent.
When I walk the mountains fearing a second encounter with the regal creatures, I wonder if they can smell me, my fear, or my joy.
I imagined being covered in dirt, waiting in the stone circle for a herd to come back home, I am trying to see them, feel and smell their presence.
There is no middle ground or taming. They sound like visitors from the underworld. I’ve heard them for a second time today as I was walking across the eroding cliffs of clay. I was holding a piece of wood I had found and taken with me for a sculpture. It is shaped like two long antlers. It reminds me of union and separation, encounters and heartbreaks, attachment and defensiveness, holding and keeping at large. I fell in love with it the second I laid my eyes on it. It was like recognizing a friend, met in a dream, who knows my heart, a close ally that will never fail. The piece is quite large and odd to carry around. When I ran from the boars, I felt like a vulnerable flailing creature, a small fleshy new born to the wild, a naked forest baby that has grown horns before knowing how to use them. So I ran and slipped on my left hip for the third time today. I could smell the sweet fraternal scent around my face, and see the boars footsteps on the wet ground of clay. My father used to take my brother and I track animals in the woods. Today I was playing the hunted hunter, holding a new friend and old memories, smelling like sweet home in an un-familiar family of crumbling ravins, eroding mountains and cackling pines. The heart doesn’t break here, it only slows, accelerates or stops.
0 X 0 = 00
Day 8 - Eroded into Abstraction - Eroded iPhone Photographs
Simon Beckman : « This is not the wild - this is an empty space »
Water is here, but the underground current are out of reach now. The abandoned system has become an obstacle. The plants and folk tales continuously tell the dual nature of « magic »: The best allies become enemies when they are not used properly. What can heal can kill,
An outcome determined by the intentions behind the actions. Disregard Responsibility or Nurture -
Human occupation is a commitment of constant nurturing
- "the process of removing something, especially water from a river or other source" -
Drought embracing mountains
Eroded into Abstraction
Day 9 - Return of the Hunter : A Wild Ghost’s Antler - Wood covered in Clay by hand
« This is not the wild - this is an empty space »
Hunting Abstract Emojis
even language erodes
use it use it use it into a signal, signify the signal only. I exist and I am attempting communication, or rather signaling a connection. Eroding connection. Erode the words into electric impulses, emo-ji eroded emotions. Even my hands erode, my heart in unison. my heart silenced by erosion can’t speak its love. I sing I love you. words eroded in the Cloud
I caress branches into clay for a lack of birds
I caress branches into clay for a lack of skin
I caress branches into clay for a unifying layer
My hands eroding into caresses of clay
Clay turning water into early dew and insignificant clouds
Where do my hands and branches evaporate
Emptied words for a new dictionary
I’m hungry for your words
Eroded into early dew and departed dreams
Tracking Absent Abstracted Pouring Evaporations
Hades Had my Hands Hades no Longer Has
Day 10 - Field trip : The Clayed Pine Antlers and Almeria’s Almonds - Clayed Pine and Almeria’s Almonds
A new specimen has been found
An eroding yet stubborn form of resilient and wandering life has erected from the ground of clay.
Sometimes it believes to be a tree, sometimes it is game. Its confusion is a wonderful gift, for it doesn't know which trail to identify with.
It is free to wander through fields or woods, speak different langagues and love many homes.
Day 11 - We woke up before dawn and walked up a mountain. We turned into goats and I remembered vertigo. Awakening skies awakening friendship and the fragile state of the strongest awe.
Day 12 -
I Used to Mistake a Certain Sense of Release for Freedom
Day 14 - I've learnt to need the sunrise
A Love Letter that does not Matter, No-mad-is-me
A love letter that does no matter
I will breeze
Departure makes the heart tenderly grateful. Leaving and letting go defines and re-in-forces the contours of what I've lived and loved.
Departures and transitional spaces of crossing through, tra-versing what lies in be-tween two states of being places of seeing. Departure draws the lines between what surrounds and what inhabits . Ending closing concluding, making space and seeing the spaces through which we've become.
A moment of contemplation.
My movement is voluntary in an age where others experience violent displacements. I should explore departure. De-part-ure de-construct the parts of time and space into transitional locations, points and lines. Shapes to hold us in. Willingly departing gives the strength of enthusiasm for new forms whilst filling the blood with a tender ache. What are we, outside of space and time, as transitional object traversing states of being, States filled with beings, static - Eternal guest Hosting my own embodiment
Contemplating for a moment the human form, taking place taking space in time. Matter "is" but none of it matters.
Pur-pose is not about making matter matter. It's about purring and posing. Pouring and pausing.
I purr and pause for a pur-pose-ful moment pouring movement motion e-motion e-moji electric motive. Motivation moves me emotions motivate me. Nothing matters and this is a joyful statement. I have the luxury of being a voluntary nomad no-mad for a healthier mind. Sedentary se-dent-ary dents itslef dented shape, biting matter to make it matter, and goes awry.
When in movement, I am a breeze, I do not matter, I will breeze.
In between, be-twin of your self, you are at your departure and arrival point at the same time, you swiftly exist in between. You do not matter. You will breeze. No-Madism has made me loose my mind. What is tangible dissolves into defined moments and movements, framed by a tender heart constantly detaching and re-attaching. No-madism is more structured than a home, it is more separated than a series of walled rooms. Discontinuity within flow, fractured time into floors, fragmented spaces into rooms inhabited by the heart, fragmented heart inhabited by new rooms, furniture moved again and again, windows closing and opening. No-madism creates tangible walls, a tangible home built with space and time, encounters and separations. A new door with each conversation, a new bed with each dream. Tangible space of space itself, tangible time of time itself, of life passing through amongst other times, other spaces and lives. And I do not matter anymore. I willinglybreeze.
But for a moment we come together. Within the walls of time, in the room space opens, we are in the presence of each other, and because my movements sing to the rhythm of departures and arrival, I can tangibly touch your presence as a temporary jewel. We are here fully because tomorrow I am leaving, because in a minute the room will evaporate again. I do not matter, I breeze and my life becomes a tangible succession of temporary homes and families, temporary yet leaving more than ever what feels like an eternal imprint, a tangible branch of veins bringing new blood to my heart and lungs. I feel more clearly and focus more deeply, for each moment is breezing yet tangibly defined in space and time. I do not matter, I breeze. Tangibly exist within nothing, free from streaming forces. I breeze.
Movement I pray for you, I honour and thank you for allowing me to embody a finite form infinitely transforming. I honour you for allowing me to incarnate opposites my mind cannot resolve. Movement I admire your immortality, your generosity, your creative power, you rich spectrum of temperatures colours and sounds. I am alive through you and through me you breath, movement we come together in a breeze and nothing matters. We are life together, I celebrate and dance you from my chanting jaw to my tingling belly, my jumping feet, you tickle my fingers and together we live, we can touch it. Tangible movement, you make life more tangible than ever. I love you with all that I am and more, for together we encompass existence, moving through birth and death, for ever appearing and disappearing. A peer-ing, a pea ring peering through life, forever laughing. You are my love now. And it does not matter.