Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Day 89: Repeat a prompt of your choice

#89 Repeat a prompt of your choice

Thinking back, two of the most pleasurable prompts were "paint" and "improvise from sense of sound". If it weren't so close to the end of days, I might have stayed inside and reprised the paint prompt. But I am approaching the end, and movement seems called for. I went up to the roof, with a sort of sense of pleasing symmetry in mind - I did one of the earliest prompts on my roof. The sound of the wind up there was inviting, but it was dark and cold, and a little late to be stomping over my neighbors' heads. So I grabbed my tiny tripod and headed out, thinking maybe Dolores Park? I didn't get that far. A nearby parking lot called to me with the siren song of artificial light and graffiti.

Here's what came up as I stood out in a half-empty (or half-full for you optimists out there) parking lot around 10pm and began to dance...

There was the sound of the wind, of cars passing, the metal fence clanging here and there. This is great stuff for dancing to.

Then, pretty soon, a homeless man across the lot yelling out, possibly at me, but I'm not sure. It puts me a little on edge.

My eyes take over. Sorry, ears. There is too much to see here. It seems like you can see and hear at the same time. I mean, that's how we operate in the world. It seems like you can do both. But can you pay attention to both? I was irresistibly drawn to my visual sense as input for my improvisation, for a time. When I consciously tuned back into sounds, they rushed back in, as though I had just pulled out earplugs. The primacy of vision, y'all.

And the awkwardness of doing something out of the ordinary in public spaces. I have not overcome this feeling of tightness underneath all of the fun stuff when I'm doing some non-sanctioned art-type activity in a public space. I shouldn't be here. Someone is going to tell me I can't be here. Or mock me. Or attack me. Or honestly, sometimes, it's not even wanting to be watched or seen. Which doesn't make any sense. I love to perform. But this isn't performance. It's just exploring. Experimenting. Playing. And I can feel myself holding back. Everything is too contained and it's not just my not-warm-enough-a-little-too-old-to-be-dancing-at-this-hour body. It's something else stopping me from rolling all over that slanted wall. I mean, LOOK AT THAT WALL! I could have been mooshing my body all over it. Why wasn't I rolling around like release-trained modern dancer I was trained to be?Ok, the dirt might also be a factor.

But you guys, I think deep down, it's shame. It's me and my so-called art don't belong here. So I make everything smaller, make myself smaller. Small enough to fit in a studio apartment, even when there's a whole damn world out there.

Surely everything will change tomorrow in the wake of this epiphany.

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