Thursday, March 23, 2006
Random Images From The Vault
Coda: Beethoven’s Joy
The future of performance is this: jubilee. Take millions of stars and feed them to a crowd of forty for dinner. Parade women down the spine of the city. Move out of Austria. Go where you like in the aria that speaks for the parade out of the country. Be the bullhorn for the transmutation of the gendered heart of the cosmos.
There never was a father-figure who beat you. Or a set of stone steps leading down into the garden. But one of them should exist, and you have to decide when and how. Take the bridge between necessity and outcome, between father and garden; make sure to record your fear of the water, which you don’t look down at but see in a dream.
Eventually you will have to face the inevitable existence of tables. You encounter them in just about every room you go into, and they’re almost always accompanied by chairs. There’s a plot afoot—to make you sit. To make you productive.
Chairs keep finding their way down to the river, swirling down into its depths, flying off in the ether of the seamstress’s voice. Nature gives birth to convention, and you know the best place to sit. You know how many yards of fabric are required to make her a dress. And this because you cannot stop measuring the almost-real length and width of her body. She is covered in so much of what seems like skin.
Today, you invented a new language for the transmutation of the gendered heart of the cosmos. Soon you will turn into a violin. Soon is not soon enough. There is so much to reinvent in the backwards gaze you turn from the chair to the garden.
Dawn Tefft
Reprinted with permission by the author
Cited from Mudlark Poster No. 47 (2003)
The future of performance is this: jubilee. Take millions of stars and feed them to a crowd of forty for dinner. Parade women down the spine of the city. Move out of Austria. Go where you like in the aria that speaks for the parade out of the country. Be the bullhorn for the transmutation of the gendered heart of the cosmos.
There never was a father-figure who beat you. Or a set of stone steps leading down into the garden. But one of them should exist, and you have to decide when and how. Take the bridge between necessity and outcome, between father and garden; make sure to record your fear of the water, which you don’t look down at but see in a dream.
Eventually you will have to face the inevitable existence of tables. You encounter them in just about every room you go into, and they’re almost always accompanied by chairs. There’s a plot afoot—to make you sit. To make you productive.
Chairs keep finding their way down to the river, swirling down into its depths, flying off in the ether of the seamstress’s voice. Nature gives birth to convention, and you know the best place to sit. You know how many yards of fabric are required to make her a dress. And this because you cannot stop measuring the almost-real length and width of her body. She is covered in so much of what seems like skin.
Today, you invented a new language for the transmutation of the gendered heart of the cosmos. Soon you will turn into a violin. Soon is not soon enough. There is so much to reinvent in the backwards gaze you turn from the chair to the garden.
Dawn Tefft
Reprinted with permission by the author
Cited from Mudlark Poster No. 47 (2003)
