ARTIST'S STATEMENT
Lisa Robertson
it seems unbelievable
as when there is a tree and you try to hear it
and the sensation of behindness
into the midst of which you have been plunged
shows equilibrium as inimical to life
as when you mime what you perceive
like a voluntary intuition
that ripples from body to friend
if the will is a rhythm
as permanent gesticulation in uncertain scale
as reviviscent motor element
into the midst of which she has been plunged semiologically so
my organism hankers
She made her muscles into thoughts:
Especially her facial muscles liked
a well-stacked wood-shed
I do this because it’s more portable than sewing
ARTIST'S STATEMENT
Micah Ballard
September 1, 2009
I enjoy cuts and scrapes, a little blood here, some there, but not just an overflow of anything. I prefer the particular in all things as long as there is an entrance out. I don’t like sprains and strains, things that inhibit movement. Those play on the mind too much and there is no escape. I also enjoy elegance, as much as the next, yet it has to be tailored to an alien wit, one unrehearsed, nonchalant and in command, that stays ahead of the notes while behind them. The question lies in the ability to lure and be lured. As in “our bodies give us away” or “when you have ghosts you have everything.” I shall leave out the Tupac Shakurs and David Bowies. Some of us prefer a saxophone to a handgun as others do a brush to a pen. That doesn’t mean we’re not all at the same dinner table. Those of the past remain at play with those present. There are so many rooms in this mansion I can’t remember the few I’ve been in save for what’s left on the page. I do know there have been others before and there will be those who come after, and we are all a part of one another. There are nights, weeks, years, where some of us arrive to the room late and others early, but we always meet for a toast at the crossing. One can’t hold the lantern all the time. Lately, I don’t even care what room I’m in and prefer not knowing how I got there. To be led in the dark, as it were, with only the flashing of this broken lighter. And to find one’s way, unknowingly, through the next wall, or down to the next hall. Whatever the case, someone will be waiting, if not, then it’s your turn.
