The ions express it all.
The ions express it all.
Medium. Thinking about mediums. Medium as ‘agency’ or ‘intervening substance’; thinking about (virtual..) tools. How we hold these mediums and what we use them for. This implies a physicality; and I am wondering about grip. And what holding really means.
If medium is in the middle, then what is grip, in the out/between? Where is the gap? Is there a gap?
Maybe we are all our own medians/mediums. Caught forever in the transitory midpoint, between birth and death. Alive, in the eternal of thought. It seems, to me, that what this virtual world- for all its emptiness (maybe)- actually highlights, is the human need to express, and be heard, and be held.
But: what is grip?
Thinking about medium in the spiritual sense too; thinking about women who were killed for hearing voices and seeing visions which existed beyond this realm, in former times. This (s)witching is something to now to be reclaimed, and celebrated, I feel; the squashing and extinguishing of such knowledge and wisdom deserves to be reignited as an empowering, energising skill, and held up to the light, all these generations of women later; in the memory of those who perished for this, before us.
:Maybe we all need to ‘lose our grip’ in order to cherish what grip really means, to us. And to hold, and be held, is the surely most keenly-felt, most human of comforts.
And: I feel everyone has their own intimate sense- and intimate knowledge- of grip. I believe we don’t need intervening substances to understand this. It is beautiful; it is human. It is heartfelt. It is meant.
Today, I drew my depression.
At first it looked like a black rainbow. Then I realised the shape was also like a magnet. The pull of the magnet is always there; and depending on my mood or state of mind the magnet pulls me closer or repels me. There is a plus and a minus. Opposites attract.
I can either try and climb up the side of the rainbow, sliding back down to the ground with varying measures of indignity, stunned; or stand on top of it, balanced, feet astride, powerful; or stand away from it, unbalanced yet safe, keeping one eye on the horizon; or shelter underneath it, cowering yet protected: but I always feel the pull of it. It is always there. A forcefield.
It is, in fact, an ally. An impetuous child. I am actually grateful for it. I can stand on its shoulders. I have stood on its shoulders. I will stand on its shoulders again.
Without it, I don’t think I would be a composer; I don’t think I would have started taking photographs; I don’t think I would have started writing. Or- maybe I would have. I will never know. But I have it to thank for this: it made my creativity rise up in me like an explosion. A quiet and very, very gradual explosion, but an explosion nonetheless.
It is a flow, going clockwise; what I learnt is that depression is actually a flow. It demands attention. It demands that you give yourself attention. Your full attention. It taught me about process. And time. And it also taught me about stopping. Stopping completely, where each second can feel like a year.
There might be glittering treasure at the end of this black rainbow; but all colour and meaning and magic have been drained away while in the middle of it. Cancelled out. The treasure feels like light years away while in the middle of this forcefield. It is a feeling of knowing you are in a rainbow- which is life, I suppose- but feeling that this rainbow is monochrome; and feeling that your spirit is dying, in the knowing of this. It feels like being exiled to another world.
But then a realisation: the treasure is in fact to be found in the simplest of things, such as making a cup of tea, or looking up at the sky, or a gentle hand on your shoulder. And the treasure has in fact been there all along.
At the height of the depression, I was reduced to a completely paralysed physical state, only feeling capable of breathing, my world reduced to inhaling and exhaling air: and even this I tried to cancel out in the depths of the very blackest moment.
The RSI in my arms represented my whole body and soul trying to tell me I had to deal with things. Taking away being able to express myself at the piano meant I was forced to deal with things emotionally that I had long put off. But it needed to be done, this addressing of things, despite the indescribable pain.
This impetuous child threw off all the lids of everything I had so carefully boxed up internally and giggled with glee. I needed to be made a mess of internally in order to see where I really existed, who I really was; depression wrought this from me.
I live with this black rainbow every day of my life; I acknowledge it and respect it, and never hide it. It will always be there. But today was the first time I gave it a name, a sense, an image. I think I have been too frightened to before, for fear of it becoming too powerful all over again.
I had, until today, portrayed my depression as standing alone, in the middle of an empty swimming pool, with no ladders, looking out at the people getting on with their daily lives above and raising my voice in a long silent scream: but I think this portrayal has changed; because I have changed. The water has returned; I can swim again.
And I love rainbows.
Pianist, composer and bandleader, Laura Cole has now decided that it is time to take that leap of faith, and wrote on her Facebook page on 12th July; “Decided tonight that I will share publicly that in September I will be taking myself -and my ideas- to be developed to the Northern tip of mainland Scotland, to Lyth Arts Centre in Wick, for work on my first solo piano project, As Warm As The Sun.. .this is the ‘solo thing’ I have shied away from for many years, but I think now is the time to confront it and see what music comes out of it.. think it takes courage to do it and I think I need to see where my courage- and my music- can take me. The album, in whatever form it will take, will be released on the Discus label by Martin Archer.”
Shortly after reading this open and honest statement, I contacted Laura and invited her to share her thoughts and feelings throughout the process, from the residency at Lyth Arts that lead up to the time booked at the studio to record the album. Laura had already had thoughts about about keeping a journey or diary of her experience, and agreed to submit a daily entry of her thoughts and feelings, along with photographs, during the making of As Warm As The Sun to be published in Jazz Views.
Laura’s journey can be followed with the publications of her writings and photographs over the coming days, and this will be followed up by an interview with Laura when the album is mixed and scheduled for release.
FIRST JOURNAL ENTRY – September 14th: 10.52pm
I am writing this sat in the cosy lounge at the cottage where I will stay at Lyth Arts Centre, with the Steinway waiting for me across the courtyard. There is no one else here; just me, and the Steinway, and the wind, which is insistent against the windows. Once I was let in and briefly showed around, I realised there was just the trees and my thoughts here, for the night- people working at the Arts Centre arrive tomorrow morning. The cottage is called Ann’s House: I will ask tomorrow who Ann is. I feel she is kind.
I feel the warmth of musicians staying here before me; this is keeping me company in a place which feels very remote, having arrived in the darkness, on my own, after a challenging drive up the coastal road to Wick.
As I sat at Manchester airport waiting for my flight to Inverness, eavesdropping on conversations and finding human interactions endlessly fascinating, I decided I will divide my writing during the residency into three parts: words I will only share here; words I will only share with people very close to me; and words I will only share with myself. I felt some clarity deciding this. I think this distinction between the private and the public spheres is very important to me. As a musician, as a composer, and as a person, this really interests me.
I feel composing and arranging are deeply private things to me; a kind of pulsing inner-lifeblood. But I express this privacy (mostly) through performing. What is this transition, to me? What does it really mean? I know that even just one person listening transforms how I play, and how I hear what I am playing. Maybe it is about projection. How I feel I project myself into the sound. How I feel empathy and connection. How I feel curious about how I am heard: the hearing as a presence in itself. Because as soon as one person listens, I feel the communication goes outwards. I have always struggled with this, I realise suddenly now, in this immense quietness, as a musician and composer. To release this internal life. Not in a precious sense, but in a protective sense. I feel it is essence.
I also think there is a pressure, as a pianist, to ‘just play us a tune!’ A sense that you somehow belong to everyone else’s tune, but not your own. I want to find my own tune… I think I have been searching for it for a long time.
DAY 1 – September 15th: 6.27pm
I am writing this sat again the cosy lounge in the cottage across from the Arts Centre, after a full day’s work. The last person at the Arts Centre left a few hours ago, so I am entirely on my own here now until Monday morning. I am finding this quite daunting. I have faith in myself though; I know I can be brave when I need to be. It is amazing here: bleak. I love bleakness; I love its wildness, its force. Today felt important.
Susie, one of the coordinators here (and also a conductor), showed me round the Arts Centre this morning before I started work. The main body of the building, which is now the venue space, was in fact the old Lyth schoolhouse. I really love this fact. I immediately heard the ghosts of children’s voices all around me. I discovered Ann was the sister of the director here; when she died he built this cottage with the inheritance. I was moved by this. So the cottage is a recent addition, although it has the feel of being old. I do feel Ann’s presence here; it feels warm and maternal. I decided today that I will write a piece while I am here called Ann’s House.
I was thinking today about being ‘available’ for people to contact me. Up here I am shutting myself off from that almost completely, with the exception of a few people very close to me. The thought crossed my mind that it would be very difficult to get back to my daughter quickly in the case of an emergency; I had to just strike it from my mind. But this led to me thinking about what it is to be a mother and a musician. What this responsibility actually means, to me. I feel one feeds the other; they are not separate, within me. But it is not always an easy pairing. Ann Truitt talks about this in beautiful depth and detail and emotional honesty in her book ‘Daybook’. I have this book with me; it is thanks to this book that I am here.
This place is reminding me of the only other place I have visited which is further north than here: Salluit, an Inuit community in Northern Quebec, just below the Artic Circle, where I visited my dear friend Jo, who had married an Inuit hunter, when I was just 21. It has the same character somewhere: a sense of space blowing through your soul. Of nature reasserting its towering strength.
I have decided that I will not disclose here the details of what I am working on, or the mechanics of the musical process; but speak more generally about my thoughts and impressions within this context. For context is so important to me. I think this context will seep into the music; the wind, the trees, the sky, the rain, the essence of being alone with a piano and my thoughts. I will however introduce the piano: he is called Sam, he is a Steinway, and he is very friendly. He will be my companion until Tuesday. We had a good day’s work, Sam and I.
Postscript to today: 11.37pm
After watching my favourite film, Salt of the Earth, about my favourite photographer Sebastiao Salgado by Wim Wenders, I have just remembered this moment during my journey to the far north of Canada more than 20 years ago.. thinking about journeys.
In the long journey up to the north, I became stuck at a place called Kuujjuac, which is where the tree line stops, due to blizzards (this was in mid-August..)… I sat in the tiny airport and had absolutely no idea what to do… suddenly the man sat next to me turned to me, and said ‘you’re Laura, aren’t you?’ ..I turned to him in utter disbelief.. I had no words… he patted me on the shoulder and said ‘I’ll be right back.. don’t worry. We’ve all been expecting you.’ Sure enough, he returned 20 minutes later with the the godfather of my godson in tow, who I had never met.. and who welcomed me like a long lost friend, and who I stayed with for a few days until the blizzards died down enough for me to get a plane up to Salluit. This experience taught me about the kindness of strangers, and it is something I still live by today.
DAY 2 – September 16th: 7.28pm
Today I worked really hard.
I am thinking tonight about how almost all the pieces I am arranging for the album are from composers who are alive; many of whom are very close friends and colleagues. With the exception of one piece, from a very special composer no longer alive: so I asked him aloud, ‘What do you think of this?’ And he replied, ‘Just keep going. If you like it, that is good enough for me.’ It took me into a space where I realise that this is one of the reasons I love my job; my music will outlast me. It enables me to have conversations with people I hugely respect and admire, both dead and alive. It is spirit. I feel the voices of all these composers surround me as I work. It is a source of great strength.
I talk to myself out loud a lot while I am working; conversations with myself. It helps me to vocalise my thought processes. I occasionally catch myself, and listen to my voice. It is here, and it is real, and I am listening to it.
I am singing to accompany myself a lot more than I thought I would: at times I need this extra voice, supporting what I am doing. It is the first time I have fully realised that this is why I feel the need to sing when I play; to support myself.
Around 4pm today I felt a huge fear; fear of the unknown; fear of being completely alone; fear of not finding the ‘right’ notes. I walked away from the piano, went outside and listened to the trees, and the birds. It was a huge comfort. I realised that my fear was actually coming from myself. That there was nothing dangerous here. Only birds, and trees, and clouds, and rain, and sun, and the wind. And Sam, my trusty friend.
I spoke to my daughter tonight. I asked if she would like me to write a piece for her while I am here. At first she said no, then changed her mind and said yes. I asked her if she would like to choose a title. I said it could be anything at all. She replied ‘Extinguish’. And then: ‘What does this even mean?!’ I laughed, explained, and said I thought this was a brilliant title. My daughter is amazing.
I went to John o Groats today- the end of a very long road. I love being this far North.
On the way, in the car, I was listening to Radio 3, and heard about Parsons Cross, which made me cry. And also heard a snippet from an interview with Tom Phillips about his opera. He said something which has stayed with me all day: ‘Our hearts speak louder than our voices.’ I was very very moved by this. My response to this is in my private writing. It is very personal.
Postscript to today: 10.11pm
DAY 3 – September 17th: 6.35pm
Today was very tough. My old foe, my RSI, has reared its head. I need to be very careful with my arms. But I still worked very hard and productively, with lots of breaks.
Today felt more about books and words than music, in some ways. I would like to share this passage from Camera Lucida, by Roland Barthes, which I read earlier, and gave me the words I was searching for in my first journal entry here about the distinction between Private/Public self-representation. The chapter is called Private/Public:
‘Each photograph is read as the private appearance of it referent: the age of Photography corresponds precisely to the explosion of the private into the public, or rather into the creation of a new social value, which is the publicity of the private: the private is consumed as such, publicly (the incessant aggessions of the Press against the privacy of stars and the growing difficulties of legislation to govern them testify to this movement). But since the private is not only one of our goods (falling under the historical laws of property), since it is also the absolutely precious, inalienable site where my image is free (free to abolish itself), as it is the condition of an interiority which I believe is identified with my truth, or, if you like, with the Intractable of which I consist, I must, by a necessary resistance, reconstitute the division of public and private: I want to utter interiority without yielding intimacy.’
I realised a precious, if obvious, thing today; that you really can’t hear the true voice and resonance of the birds and the wind in cities. Here, I can really hear their voices. I watch and listen to birds calling to each other, with the wind carrying their voices, and it is giving me such great comfort and inspiration.
I read the personal statement of William Wilson, the founder of this arts centre, on the wall where I am working today, about his ideas for the creation of this arts centre. He states that he was attracted to the idea of creating a building which houses all the arts in a single combined experience- as ‘gesamtkunstwerk’. I sat for a while and thought about this. I do love the German language, this way it has of encapsulating, of distilling, life-meanings. I thought about how I am approaching this residency- and my music- with the whole of my being. Playing and composing are, I feel, not the only creative outlets I have; creativity has, in my view, a boundless energy to express and be heard. I believe it has the capacity to plant seeds in the most arid of soil. It is source.
Tonight the wind has completely dropped; the stillness is wide and limitless: I am listening.
Postscript to today: 8.23pm
I am thinking about post. How this word has been appropriated by facebook (whose noisy shores I haven’t visited for a few weeks now). What this word means to us, to me, now. As an after-wards; as letters; as after-words. Tonight I wrote a postcard to myself, which I will send to myself from John O Groats tomorrow. I have been hesitating whether to share what I wrote on this postcard here, but I think I will; as a human message to anyone reading this: ‘Never forget what you went through here.’
DAY 4 – September 18th: 7.21pm
The last full day here: I am done.
I have successfully worked on everything I wanted to work on here, and have finished everything to a degree that I’m happy with as first- and in some cases, final- drafts.
I am exhausted again tonight, and words are not coming easily to me, but I do feel a real sense of pride for having finished. I have really surprised myself during this residency. It has been fascinating to hear what notes have come out of it, how I have felt during the process, and how I have felt being here.
This morning I was struck by a feeling of continuity and connection; in that many, many artists have been through this process, and I am sure have discovered many, many things about themselves and their art in the experience. What a gift this is. I felt a strong sense of legacy- a word that has permeated my time here- and lineage in this, words which are both inherent in how I approach my work, I think. My great grandfathers have been looking over me- after me- from the photo on the piano the whole time I have been working here: today I thanked them.
I finished the piece Extinguish for my daughter today, and had a lot of fun writing it; I realised that of all the people I am writing or arranging for, I am most nervous about playing my daughter’s piece to her when I return home. She will say straight away if she likes it or not! I found myself imagining her listening to it as I wrote it. Laughing at me as I talked to myself as I wrote it. She finds my music ‘weird and dramatic’: this led me to thinking about drama, about this tragi-comedy of life that we all go through. I intensely missed my daughter today- although as a single parent and musician I am used to having periods of time away from her, a song she likes came on in the cafe I was in at lunchtime- piped music feels so aggressive when you’ve been away from it for some days- and I felt a huge emotional surge of this ‘missing’ for my daughter.
I am also thinking about the nature of ‘returning’ tonight; what returning home means to me after this time away, with myself, and a piano.
September 18th marks the anniversary of the death of Jimi Hendrix; he was on my mind a lot as I worked today. I am listening to Little Wing as I write this, my favourite Hendrix piece.
DAY 5 – September 19th: 11.01pm
I can barely string a sentence together after a very long journey, so I am going to let my photos speak for me for today, and write some thoughts tomorrow.
Postscript – 11.48pm
Some thank yous.
I would like to warmly thank Nick Lea for approaching me and asking me to write a journal of my residency at Lyth Arts Centre for Jazz Views. I had intended to document this process in words and photos in any case during my time in Lyth, but this has made me think very carefully about what I present to people I don’t know at all, in the public sphere; what I present to people I know very well, in the private sphere; and what I present to myself, in the personal sphere. This tri-division has clarified lots of things for me; and I feel this has fed into the process of what it is to make a solo album, throughout my time in Lyth.
I would also like to warmly thank- from the bottom of my heart- the very close friends and family who have been there for me throughout this process. I hope you know who you are: I think you do: I really will not forget it.
And I would lastly, but no means leastly, like to thank anyone who has read this journal, whether known to me or not; it has been a truly learning and cathartic experience to write it, and experience what a residency means.
The final postscript will come tomorrow..
DAY 6 – September 20th: 11.26am
I asked myself when I got home: ‘Why did I do this?’ Not in a reproachful or regretful sense, but in a questioning sense: what were my reasons? When I was away I had moments when I said to myself ‘what am I doing here?’ Again not in a reproachful or regretful sense, but in a questioning sense.
I think my answer to myself is that I had to see if I could rise to the challenge of doing this. I think I am someone who relishes challenges. My time away was many, many things; and at times it was certainly challenging.
I also realised a simple thing yesterday: that it was only natural that I would take myself away, on my own, to prepare for a solo project, which I will of course be reproducing, on my own, in a recording setting next month.
However, I think one thing became very clear to me while I was away; that I was not divorced from my environment by this being ‘on my own’; that to be surrounded by nature, the support of some special people, and a feeling of legacy lent a very special sense of connected-ness.
Sam the Steinway rose to the challenge with me; I greeted him every day with a ‘Hello, Sam’, and at the end of every day bid him farewell with a ‘Goodbye, Sam’. I think every piano- indeed all instruments- have their own distinctive character. Sam always listened, and was always friendly.
I think there will be an afterword to this afterword, this evening; but these are my thoughts this morning, sat in my cosy home, with the sun breaking through the grey clouds and streaming in through the window.
Since yesterday, I realise that the sadness I have been carrying around with me on my shoulders- feeling at once like a light gossamer shawl lifting my head to the rain and a heavy velvet cloak dragging my feet down into the mud- is transforming into sorrow. This sorrow feels more distinct, more solid; a sense of words being etched into my soul rather than passing through me in tides of tears: an epitaph. A chrysalis, cocooning my sadness and distilling it into burnished wood; matter. Underneath, bright blue butterfly wings are very slowly forming, in gentle, constant motion. I need to give these wings time to come into being. But: they are there. I can feel them.
I feel a sense of relief in giving this transformation a name, a word.
I feel less passive in the process.
If Ai Weiwei’s favourite word is ‘act’, then I feel this is my ‘act’, for now. It feels in some ways like an act of resistance: resistance in the sense of fight.
Extract from Transcription of Organ Music, by Allen Ginsberg
I opened my door
The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post, the leaves in the night
still where the day had placed them, the animal heads of the flowers where
they had arisen
to think at the sun
Can I bring back my wounds? Will thought of transcription haze my mental open eye?
The kindly search for growth, the gracious desire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing amongst them
The privilege to witness my existence- you too must seek the sun…
My books piled up before me for my use
waiting in space where I placed them, they haven’t disappeared, time’s left its remnants and qualities for me to use – my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.
I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in the heart of things, walked out into the garden crying.
Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun’s gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were waiting stopped in time for the day sun to come and give them…
Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered faithfully not knowing how much I loved them.
I am so lonely in my glory- except they too out there- I looked up- those red bush blossoms beckoning and peering in the window waiting in blind love, their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat to the sky to receive – all creation open to receive- the flat earth itself.
The music descends, as does the tall bending stalk of the heavy blossom, because it has to, to stay alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.
‘The blog is the modern drawing.’ –Ai Weiwei
It has now been one month since I started this blog and I am thinking about the drawing of lines. Lines in the sand; the lineage of writing. The creation of this space that I use to explore the lines I draw for myself. Thinking about boundaries. Thinking about beginnings and endings. Thinking about lifelines. Thinking about lines on the stave; lines on the page. Thinking about the line of the horizon, where sky meets earth. Thinking about the invisible lines which lie underneath the words I write, both physically and emotionally. Thinking about drawing a line. Thinking about the saline sea and the feline me. Thinking about the linear as an inner ear and an outer fear. The line between birth and death. The internal architectural lines we all hang our lives upon..
From ‘Ai Weiwei Speaks: With Hans Ulrich Obrist’
‘Hans Ulrich Obrist: […] I want to ask you what kind of music you listen to?
Ai Weiwei: It’s a shame that this last question is the question I find most difficult to answer. Because I was never turned on by any music in my life. I am the one having the least to do with music. Of course, I am able to enjoy music, to be touched. But I never intentionally ask for any music. So for me, the best music should be silent, is mute.
HUO: […] You already answered the question of what’s your favourite sound- silence- so what’s your least favourite sound?
AWW: The least favourite one is the silent music being interrupted.’
I have been thinking a lot about silence these past days. About its quality, its context. I dreamt about silence last night. It was dark and enveloping and comforting, maternally wrapping a thick, warm, woolen blanket around me. A sense of the world delicately holding its breath after a thick covering of snowfall in the night; silence amplified.
As I sit and write this in silence, I think about what silence means to me, because I still hear sounds: the ticking of the clock; my breathing; my fingers rhythmically tapping the keys of my laptop; the fridge humming; the purr of the computer as it receives these words, like a friendly cat; birds calling to each other outside. I realise that silence, in the context of writing, means these things to me: the absence of music; the absence of my daughter calling to me or hurtling up and down the stairs; in fact the absence of my daughter altogether, whether she is at school or with her father; and the absence of any external dialogue, enabling me to listen to my internal dialogue: my mobile phone is on silent, and all social media is turned off while I write this. In this context, the sounds I hear are for the most part sounds I choose to hear: listening. So for me, silence seems to mean absence; silence also seems to mean empowerment, as I give myself the space to allow these words to tumble from my hands onto the screen, in an attempt to try and make sense of why it is that I feel I need to write, why I have to write, why writing makes me feel truly alive. I am allowing myself to listen to my words.
I have been thinking about the different silences I live as a musician. The silence I feel as I approach my piano and sit with it before raising my hands to play it. The pregnant silence at the end of a gig, those precious moments as the music dies out and the audience and musicians hold this silence, a spell, and listen to it, before the end is implicitly acknowledged, either verbally or physically by the performers; and the audience raise their hands to clap and the spell of silence is broken. How silence is implied within music itself; how listening space is given to each other as musicians through playing together, by NOT always playing. Which is echoed in the famous quote by Miles: silence is more important than sound. We are all raising our hands out of silence, towards sound.
I feel we all share silence, we all know silence, we all have a huge capacity for silence, whether implicit or explicit, internal or external. It feels like a truth.
I have been thinking a lot about filters in this past week. Sensory filters. They form a mesh around me. A silken cloak lying softly on my skin. These filters are porous. They also absorb. I feel I hear, smell, taste, touch, see the world in such intensity and colour. I remember playing alone in our large wild garden as a very young child and discovering I was experiencing the world in this heightened, sensual way. I have always respected this discovery, and I have let it guide me as an adult, even if at times it can be very painful: deafening, sharp, sour, abrasive, blinding.
As I lie quietly in my room, and think, and listen to the sounds of birds and people outside, I let thoughts and feelings wash through me, like tides. I feel the weight, wisdom, words of my hundreds of books which surround me, feeling their presence as comfort; as silent, complicit companions whom I know will always listen, so many of whom I have carried with me for so many years. I have so often used words, and music, to attempt to express the depth of field that these filters allow me: I am soulfully grateful for this outlet, because at times it can feel overwhelming.
I am struck by a passage in Anne Truitt’s Daybook where she describes her feelings on finishing a sculpture as being akin to having already met the work, like meeting her children for the first time- ‘the feeling of ‘oh, it was you,’’. A recognition. I have a similar feeling when I compose. I feel my compositions already exist before I create them, I just need to open up my heart and my ear in order for them to become alive. When they begin to breathe, I feel I already know them. This is the reverse process of filtering; my filters are porous in both directions. I absorb the world in, process as best I can, and then express in the most creative way I can. It is not always easy; it is not always successful. But I realise it is a constant in my life. I feel very lucky to be able to have the time to explore this, to allow it, to nurture it.
I have also been thinking a lot about the transition from private/internal to public/external, in relation to these filters. I feel there are so many different scales for this, so many different arenas to express this transition: I think we can feel bombarded, overcrowded, then ultimately discarded by these arenas. I feel I need to nestle back into myself again, rediscover my private/peaceful side again, away from all the metaphorical shouting. Shhh/Peaceful: In a Silent Way. We all create our own self-censoring systems; they have a myriad of shades.
‘Artists necessarily beckon the vulture.’ Anne Truitt, Daybook
Extract from ‘Ai Weiwei Speaks: With Hans Ulrich Obrist’
Ai Weiwei: I think right now is the moment. This is the beginning. We don’t know what it is the moment of, and maybe something much crazier will happen. But, really, we see the sunshine coming in. It was clouded for maybe a hundred years. Our whole condition was very sad, but we still feel warmth, and the life in our bodies can still tell that there is excitement in there, even though death is waiting. We had better not enjoy the moment, but create the moment.
Hans Ulrich Obrist: You produce the moment?
AWW: Exactly. Because we’re actually a part of reality, and if we don’t realise that we are totally irresponsible. We are a productive reality. We are the reality, but that part of reality means that we need to produce another reality.
HUO: Maybe the blog doesn’t so much represent reality but produce it.
AWW: It’s true. It’s like a monster, it grows. I’m sure, once someone looks at my blog, they start looking at the world differently without even knowing it.
From ‘Daybook’ by sculptor Anne Truitt
‘So I came then to the decision to ride out the jeopardy of art with as much courage and faith as I could.’