Until I arrived at University of Michigan I had never had my own studio space. As an undergraduate, I shared a studio with three other BFA printmakers, which we all used primarily as storage for supplies. After that I joined the Art Hospital and had a table in a room that, again, I used mostly for storage. Eventually, I gave up this space when I moved into a bigger house with an extra room. This room became my new storage space.
Although I have used my studio here in Ann Arbor more than I used all three of my previous spaces combined, I still haven't quite figured out the best way for me to use it. I am not intent on making images or objects, so a space for mess-making doesn't seem necessary, but a physical space for developing ideas is not something that should be wasted.
Recently, I've been thinking that I should start calling my studio "The Command Center," "Think Tank," or anything else to take away the associated meanings that come with "studio" that seem to stop me in my tracks.
I will post my list of potential names up here in the next week or so. Any suggestions are welcome!
Friday, January 23, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
To Be and to See
As my work has become more dematerialized and performative over the years a question has been growing in my mind and it remains unanswered: "Can one both experience something fully and observe that which is happening?"
The flâneur seems to skate the line between these two states, but he does not fully exist in either. He is never fully present, nor is he strictly a removed observer. His ambivalence is what defines him. Personally, when experiencing this shifting role I feel uneasy and transparent, like a ghost resting between two planes of existence. This feeling is strongest while looking through the lens of a camera. Although I enjoy taking pictures, it is not something I have done with great consistency because of the discomfort the camera brings to me. I am more content to set up the camera and step in front of it, than to learn to accept the uneasiness or discomfort that comes with looking through the lens.
As an artist in academia, there is an expectation that students should document our work for the sake of accountability, but creating this documentation is not always easy. When performing or creating an interactive piece, my thoughts have always been more focused on the work at hand and the documentation becomes more of an afterthought; a required last minute addition to the work. Because of this, some of my most successful pieces have been recorded most accurately in my memory or the memory of the participants.
I have been seeking a way to document public or social projects without the altering presence of the camera. The fleeting quality of time is something that I find poetic and beautiful, so rather than attempt to preserve an artistic event, I am often more content to let the moment slip away recorded only in our minds. But how can one remain accountable for such moments?
The flâneur seems to skate the line between these two states, but he does not fully exist in either. He is never fully present, nor is he strictly a removed observer. His ambivalence is what defines him. Personally, when experiencing this shifting role I feel uneasy and transparent, like a ghost resting between two planes of existence. This feeling is strongest while looking through the lens of a camera. Although I enjoy taking pictures, it is not something I have done with great consistency because of the discomfort the camera brings to me. I am more content to set up the camera and step in front of it, than to learn to accept the uneasiness or discomfort that comes with looking through the lens.
As an artist in academia, there is an expectation that students should document our work for the sake of accountability, but creating this documentation is not always easy. When performing or creating an interactive piece, my thoughts have always been more focused on the work at hand and the documentation becomes more of an afterthought; a required last minute addition to the work. Because of this, some of my most successful pieces have been recorded most accurately in my memory or the memory of the participants.
I have been seeking a way to document public or social projects without the altering presence of the camera. The fleeting quality of time is something that I find poetic and beautiful, so rather than attempt to preserve an artistic event, I am often more content to let the moment slip away recorded only in our minds. But how can one remain accountable for such moments?
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