I'm all shook up....

My brain feels like the inside of a snow-globe with thoughts swirling around. I wait patiently for one to settle on my sleeve for closer examination. Here is one:

. . . . Considerations about the GROUP PROJECT . . . .

• The project must be "manageable", physically as well as time-wise
• Consider referencing Andy Goldsworthy 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pOkO0uf3N_U&feature=related

• Consider using relevant "materials" that reference "our collective" commonality
• Possibly books instead of rocks: source Salvation Army?
• Possibly #2 yellow pencils instead of sticks?
• Location of "work" is crucial . . . Who IS our audience 
• Do we want them to: 

1. "know"  something, 
   
2. "feel" something, 
   
3. "think" something,
   
4.  "do" something
   

• Example: A series of cairns made out of books with projections of images, sounds, or both, coming from the inside out????

    Another thought: If books... maybe each cairn has a colour of book..or are they painted? or covered in a specific colour of paper/fabric...?

     There is much to be known about the way colour affects. Maybe the sounds/images coming out would clarify this concept...Maybe they would all be white...and have white noise and white light....maybe not. WHAT CAN THIS MEAN?

The Evening Begins

The evening begins with us writing. 

I like to write. 

I found that I felt

unconnected to the words

when the computer 

was invited

to create a poem 

from my words. 

Here is an example.

My Poem about my week:

Driveways 

Like to keep

You Home

Water 

Likes 

To 

Freeze

Houses 

Like To Feel

The Heat

By Burning Up 

The Trees.

This is what the computer came up with:

Endure calmly like a misty cloud.

Why does the whale die?

Why does the wave grow?

Waves rise like clear whales.

Death, Faith, and Faith.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here is the poem I made from words from "page 397":

Themom

You certainly wouldn't 

Fire Mom

Would you?

He thought no man

could know himself

until he knew how important 

women were. 

They were more

 important 

than writing.

Now one about what it means to be human in a digital society:

Outside

I breathe in the cold fresh air

Inside

The computer slumbers

like the earth 

as it waits 

for spring.

Without me 

it would wait

 forever.

Diversity

Considerations about the conceptualizing of our [GROUP ] project:

• We are diverse group. It would be prudent to consider what each of us believes we could bring to the piece. Off the top of my head I am not sure that I know what my strong contribution might be...but I do know that I see potential where others see none....so that might be something I bring. I can confidently say that I can't remember being bored.

• I will suggest that each of us represents a new, unknown, "material"..... and that our challenge lies not so much in coming up with a concept, but in recognizing, and bringing into play, the potential in each of us, so that we are able to communicate a concept by utilizing what we know about ourselves, that actually translates to what we know about humanity.

Yippee Skippee! I think this might be the "Save The World" part!

Break on Through to The Other Side....

The long drive to school has found me pondering the oft posed question of what is Art and what isn't Art. Although I do acknowledge that there is a perceived difference in forms of artistic expression, I have strong intuitive feelings about putting limitations on creative expression that deny their value as Art.
I was delighted as I watched last weeks videos that showed me other ways to use my body and imagination to communicate ideas. Their daring efforts to convey and engage an unknown [internet] audience is an art form unto itself.
I don't feel that there is a "pat answer" to the "Art" question, but rather that the concept of "Art" is relative to the experiences and perceptions the Artist and viewer bring to a piece.
And so might I suggest that putting limitations on:

• what is Art
  
• what isn't Art

has the potential to stifle the creative process for each of us. It limits our perceptions of materials, medium, as well as our imagination. Instead why not encourage exploration and break on through to the other side by living life as Art.

Taking the Brain by Storm....

    Tonight we are discussing our group project. Wondering how to influence the nature of our audience's response and the cause and affect dynamic. Addressing aspects of environmentalism and the participants place in the interaction with Art as a facilitating medium creates BIG questions and a multitude of possibilities.

    I fantasize about the concept of engaging the audience in the "Life-Jacket" way.... where the components don't seem to be much until you actually assemble them and feel the whole weight of the piece, and actually see it for what it is.... whatever that may be for each viewer. The experience and process itself, the comradarie or the standing back and realizing the completion of something unimagined.  

    Defining the perimeters of  this project will be a challenge and delight, for the class is filled with Artists who are engaged in many different aspects of the creative process here at UAS.  

Every day I must try to be the best I can be...but above all I must dare to fail, for when I dare to fail...I dare to succeed.

This evening I will attempt to insert the following link

 http://juneauempire.com/jazz/randall.shtml 

Last Night Great heaps Of Snow Fell From The Sky

• Years ago when my mother was a younger woman, and all of my children were small, she would come to visit me twice a year. My father would come too. For him it didn't mater what time of year it was, because his self appointed tasks were to chop firewood and do dishes. Afterwards he would sit in the living room, in the brown chair listening to the fire snap while he read his book. And every afternoon he would take a nap. In the summer my mother would busy herself with yard work. 
• In Alaska, in the summer, things grow all the time, even at night. My mother harvested the beach-grass we used for a front lawn, like she was a basket-maker, (she was not). After she got done with that she set about to tidy up the forest. She cleared away the sticks and branches that the winter-winds had carelessly tossed to the ground with a vigor and determination that commonly lay dormant until company came for a visit. She would stand back and admire her labor and will it to stay tidy, (it did not)
• Winter visits brought a different kind of energy. We stoked the wood-stove continuously day and night. Below the ice the creek still ran. Hauling water involved chopping a hole in the ice at the deep part of the creek. At the beginning of winter we tied a length of clothes line onto a galvanized bucket, and lowered it through the hole. Inevitably water slopped over the edge because the bucket always seemed to catch on the edge of the hole as it re-emerged. As the winter progressed the hole got smaller as the ice got thicker, and water was acquired by kneeling on the thick ice and reaching down through the hole to scoop the water, one "camp-cup" at a time, into the waiting bucket. 
• Late at night after everyone in the house was asleep, my mother and I would venture out into the night to shovel snow. We scooped great heaps of snow. Whispering, luminous snow that waited in the still, quiet darkness of the night.   It felt like the whole world was asleep and unaware, save for us. Three-hundred and fifty feet of the earth provided us the opportunity of shoveling snow. We took special care to shovel and scrape down as close to the earth as possible. The more snow we could remove the less ice would develop when the rains came again. When the surface met with our satisfaction, we went back and  tidied-up the edges along driveway and the trail that led to the house. Then invigorated, but weary we gloated with pride as we stood back and admired our artful accomplishment like it would stay that way forever, (it did not). 
• Last night great heaps of snow fell from the sky. My mother is 89 years old now. In the winter when I talk to her on the telephone I remind her of  the times when we would shovel in the still, quiet  night.  I can hear her smile, and feel our togetherness, as she sings out: "Oh yes... we did do that. I used to shovel snow."