|
chapter one I STEP INTO THE GALLERY
a quick survey. i'm in the reception
area. it's dark. in the background a warm pool of light
spills onto a lone narrow shelf. two books on the shelf
catch the light. they stand upright. they're static but
windblown, the bottoms of the pages pulling up, weathered.
the hinged plywood covers of the book reminiscent of doors,
a coffin, a cupboard, the proportions of a human body. i
hinge open the doors of the book to the vellum paged rooms
inside. the images are sensuous, soft photographic studies;
tree bark, mattress, a faintly blurred image of a girl
running in the grass... a personal archive, a photographic
diary. images to trigger some memory, something that words
can't quite remember, like the smell of your grandmother's
house year after year always taking you back to your
childhood. as with most books there is a dedication: for
jake
flashpoint, the bookwork.
in the foyer of the gallery, in the
foreground there is an intimate seating area, a love seat
beckons me. sanctuary. i sit down, take it all in. the point
of view from where i sit is through the open doorway to the
gallery proper. it's dark in there, i can hear the soft
sound of waves or maybe it's wind.
chapter two MY EYES ADJUST TO THE LIGHT
in the centre of the space, on looking
into it from a distance, there is what appears to be a small
building, radiant, undulating in the darkness of the
gallery. it could be an alien vessel that has passed through
a wormhole between the universes resting here in this
gallery chamber. i move in closer.
chapter three INVENTORY
i take inventory of the physical
elements of the installation, which on closer examination i
discover is not a small building at all, but a solid mass.
its form is made from a stack of doors piled up one on top
of the other, hingeless & knobless, the stack about six
and a half feet high. the stack of doors has an outer layer,
a skin of sorts made up of six more doors that lean upright
against the door-stack. i can see now that the radiance, the
undulant quality of the form is reflected light, a video
projection on either side projected on to the vertical
leaning doors.
on one side the projection is of waves
rolling on themselves, a continuum, mesmerizing. on the
other side the projection is of a fabric, maybe plastic,
waving, blowing in the wind. the footage alternates between
the soft lull of slo-motion where the waving is soothing and
the frenetic real time, wind yanking at the fabric. there is
a gash in the fabric that reveals a darkness behind. i scan
the darkness, a mystery, a black hole. beyond my imagination
the doors onto which the projection falls are always
apparent. my mind wanders in and out of the projections on
the surface and the doors underneath.
chapter four APPENDAGES
i'm breathing the whole thing in when
the dreamy trance-like state induced by the sound of wind
and waves lapping is interrupted by another sound somewhere
off in the distance, the faint tinkling from a child's
piano. immediately i'm cognizant of being in a heightened
state of awareness, i'm pulled into the present and am
experiencing nostalgia. that sound of the child's
piano.
now re-awakened to my environment i
realize that off to one side, pooled in a dim warm light is
a pile of door-knobs and hinges on the floor. they are the
appendages from the doors stacked in front of me. the doors
it would seem, have been rendered un-openable.
chapter five TOURIST
in the process of trying to find a
place of entrance, exit, somewhere to pass through to access
other places, keep out intruders, welcome visitors, barrier
the cold or the heat, i'm reminded by the knobs and hinges
on the floor that the doors themselves offer no obvious
entrance, they are doors with no "ways". they are at rest,
time worn doors. each door a layer, a story with a beginning
and an ending. each door completion. time worn life...
when i recognize the doorways as
transition, flashpointi ceases
to be impenetrable, i pass through the radiant skin of wind,
water and wave and am inside.
the map i need to navigate my way
through flashpoint is
lined only with my experiences.
i get a feel for the geography, the
doors as layers of time opening into rooms that exist only
in my memory as senses. it is not present time that allows
me access to the rooms that are hidden behind these doors,
access is through the process of remembering.
i start to peel back layers. the
memorable events that i'm seeking are not archived like
images in a family album. a smiling family, happy, posed.
friends, celebration, events eagerly shared over time. in
these darkened rooms are the images that are kept behind.
personal places. the undocumented emotions. struggle,
sadness. loneliness. the work. day to day. growing. aging.
in sickness and in health.
flashpoint
becomes a meditation on memory.
the elements of the installation provide me with an entry to
a subconscious space. water and wind (windy mind my thoughts
blowing through) with senses lapping up against themselves.
looking into the archive, the museum of emotion, this is the
wordless expression of experiencing the world. it's
endurance it's survival it's renewal. "it's about life cycles, it's
all part of what forms us" "life wash",
relationships. (helene)
flashpoint
goes beyond what we can express with our
limited verbal vocabulary.
it's that point when
the dam breaks an intimate gift.
water rushes through
irreparably altering the landscape
it is an expression of familiarity.
the point at which a
realization, a recognition, an insight becomes so clear that
we never go back to the same pattern of thinking an interaction, sensual, sexual, all
encompassing.
the point at which we
see deeper and are changed, becoming more ourselves than we
had ever been before two standing
doors sharing the same light projection, two that become one
experience over time.
chapter six CRYING
this dark room pulls me under, there
is a melancholia that i hit in here that reminds me of
places i have already been, visited, lived. i try to
remember which direction to go. i recall certain turnoffs,
landmarks but the landmarks are always changing (as am i).
there was a storm and the flood waters
swelled and then when the storm had passed i kept it alive
somehow, it became a story, me retelling it trying to
remember the details. every time the story changed a little,
the details changed a little. the story became an exercise
in memory, became words. right after a storm passes there is
a release that occurs, after the work of survival is done at
the point when you realize what just happened. at the point
of memory.
the door that stands upright at both
ends of the stack of doors has a little dusty window in it.
the light from the video projections spills out over the
edges through these windows catching little flecks of dust
in the air. it's reminiscent of an old movie theatre
projection booth, something from my childhood i think or
maybe just an image from an old film. in any event, it's
nostalgia. the darkness that the light doesn't reach lures
me in, it is seductive and mysterious and preverbal, memory,
birth, death. it is the expression of my fear and my
curiosity.
i trust this place that is without the
pretense of language and words. where that line between
happiness, sadness and release is blurred. here on the shore
of this piece where all my tears are absorbed by the waves i
look deep into the darkness to see what is on the other side
and what i find again and again is the surface onto which
the darkness falls.
chapter seven LOVE POEM
flashpoint, O.E.D. definition: temperature at which
vapour from oil etc. will ignite.
flashpoint, the
artist's definition: two things interacting that cause
change, however infinitesimal.
flashpoint, my
experience on entering the installation is that the world
therein constructed is a living love poem.
not the kind of poem that is written
by young lovers in spring, the fresh innocence of
infatuation, but a love poem that comes from years of
living, loving, struggling together, the love that comes
from witnessing, salving, counseling, emotional efforts,
being defeated by the actions of, forgiving and being
forgiven by, the challenges of children together, fighting
floods together.
now all the
fingers of this tree(darling)have
hands, and all the hands
have people; and
more each particular person
is (my love)
alive than every world can
understand
and now you are and I am
now and we're
a mystery which will never
happen again,
a miracle which has never
happened before-
and shining this our now
must come to then
our then shall be some
darkness during which
fingers are without hands;
and I have no
you: and all trees are (any
more than each
leafless) its silent in
forevering snow
-but never fear (my own, my
beautiful
my blossoming) for also
then's until
e.e. cummings
Erika MacPherson
is an media artist living and working in
Winnipeg. Her independent collaborative video works
have been screened internationally. She is currently
producing a new video work entitled Disobediance.
|
