Must make sure these dont get wet.

the transition in these images - between the models and the real, so clever and, well, haunting. I think her thought process is similar to yours, treading between intimate and removed. I liked these two images next to each other - a collision, a fight, playing, a support.
The pieces were grouped together, reading like a narrative almost.

"Questions For My Father #2"
The framed text was standing amongst other works, but it caught my eye. I hope its clear enough for you to read. It felt so intimate and also so public, to frame and expose the questions. More so that it would be to know the answers, I think.
I also liked its setting, leaning against the wall like that, frank and mixed in with other pieces. Not too memorialized.

I might get thirsty too. Better to bring one bottle each.

I know this wasn't officially on the list, but I think it will be useful, to listen to ships radios as they pass by, so we know when one is near or far.

I will find you one tomorrow and send it fast. With personal notations.

For our Island. An indispensable item.

I looked at my watch right then.
Walking with him on a new street down the block. There was a mural on the side of the school to the left, three old men playing chess in the sunshine in front. I smile at them, one responds with "Hey babydoll".

heres where I saw it.

We were deciding whether to go on an old ship, a wooden one with sails, to the arctic to look at and maybe swim with sharks. The trip would take 4 days, they told us. You were nervous, you wanted to see where we were going to sleep before we made a decision. You were very hung up on the sleeping arrangements, you wanted to know that you'd have enough space to turn over, and not too close to too many people. You were also worried it was a sham. I was pushing us to just make the decision and pay the captain for the voyage, I kept telling you what an amazing story it would be to tell afterwards. I thought about what I needed to do in the next few days and if I had 4 days to take off. We finally paid (without looking at the sleeping places) and spent the night on the dock, in a little cabin that had two-man tents (the long triangular ones) lined up in rows for us to climb into and sleep.
The next day we go to see the captain. He has short greying hair, very tanned. He is uncertain about us coming because he needs people who could help the crew with the sailing on the voyage. But he agrees after a bit. He shows us where we will sleep - in a small cabin with cushioned benches inside the ship. Its warm (though now you're worried about us being cold). The whole crew will be sleeping there, but he assures us there's space for us.
We go out walking on the pier, just before the launching with two people from the crew - a biologist/scientist woman and a man. They know the water well, they're showing us maps of where we will sail. In the water around the pier there are many sharks swimming. Its not scary, just interesting to see all different ones. Little tiny ones jump out of the water onto the pier and snap their teeth at us, we kick them back into the water gently. The scientist points out one in the water, a big one. It has a barrel around its body, its fins stick out the sides. The scientist seems to know it well, like a pet. It launches itself out of the water, this vision of the barrelled shark in the air is the strongest one.
We ship out. As we push off from the dock, I have a feeling that theres no turning back now. I almost fall off the ship with the momentum of the plunging waves. I ask for a life jacket, and the captain holds out a raincoat to me - its inside pockets are filled with drawing supplies - colourful markers and pencils and brushes. He apologizes, then starts to transfer the pens and pencils to his pockets, looking sheepish. I protest, I dont need it anyway. You watch this interaction with curiosity and a little glee.
We stop along the way on an island so the crew can get their mail - post from around the world. The island has a warehouse building full of little metal post office boxes and grey mail bags. They look pleased with their mail but also sad - they miss their families.
As we get back on the ship, I wonder whether I'll be comfortable getting in the water with the sharks, when we get to the arctic circle. I try to convince myself that its a good idea.

I forgot to bring my sound recorder, which is a great pity.
In my cousin Karen's house, Ruth and I talk about family dynamics and gossip, we eat hummus on grainy toast, we fill each other in. She's leaving in 15 min to catch a plane to Florida. We discuss my mom and trips to Joburg and Dina in New Zealand. And I have this sense of you, sitting on the couch just behind me, listening and adding to your mind's understanding of my history, my relatives, the narrative of where I come from. Then I take the chairs I'm borrowing from Karen and run to catch the bus home, I can hear it turning the corner...

I forgot you were at that opening at moma with me, there were so many people and we lost each other quickly. I went through the exhibition on my own, only half absorbed, looking around for you out the corner of one eye. I watched those two indy-chic boys whispering excitedly over the artist who was jolly and with his family around him. Then I saw you on the other side of the hallway, half smiling at the boys, quietly charmed by their excitement. But by the time I had crossed the hallway to you, you were gone into the dark and the russian marching music. It was riveting and alarming in that room, so many projections in every direction, noses and horses and measurements distracted me. Then I remembered my purpose and walked quickly to the last room with the horse collage. And there you were, not looking at the horse (though I have a feeling thats what drew you into that room) but at the drawing of a bird and a cage from the flute series. You asked me why he had drawn it on small pieces of paper, then pinned them to the wall in a grid to form a big image? I had no answer then, just a shrug and a smile. I'll ask him later, when no ones around and get back to you, when we see each other again.

You couldn't decide what to listen to. The stations sounded so different to you, the american style of broadcasting. You giggled at the christian banter and the spanish pop star, and I listened for the weather report. We need to dress warmly tomorrow, the snow's coming.

I'm sorry about the pear, I saw it and forgot to take it.

The white bats swooped around us. They headed in packs into the darkness, then came circling back one by one, screeching all the way. Their voices were a constant sound there on the pier. They yelled as if to warn us of something exciting… or urgent, we were not sure. “Shouldn’t they be sleeping?”

This was an otherworldly place at night. We wondered if time had stopped so we watched the Belgian clocktower closely, suspiciously. The floodlights on the dock gave everything a cinematic quality - catching some angles and facades in the bright glare, and letting others be invisible and forgotten. It made the water greasy and alive, and we could see the seals sliding through the waves sometimes.

The fog horn sounded into the clear night, and two red lights flashed in different languages. There were boats coming in. Two dark men walked towards us. We drew in our breaths… and let them out as they walked past us, smiling.

We felt both vulnerable and safe there, between the sea and the city, amid the patchwork buildings and the night-fishing boats.

online. It will cost about $30 with shipping. Do you want it?
I was researching water and art and found this work of ms tans, a video called News From The Near Future. I love the constant flow of water, it says so well what I want to articulate in this new work I'm making. Tell me about the venice show.

Sorry its so very early.

I really love Ms Abramovic's words, but they frighten me.
I remember being taunted as a child, I was a vulnerable and shy little person. I would tell stories to protect myself - make up memories of experiences I hadn't had and people that never existed. I was so afraid. But why? My family was caring and supportive. My mother says I was open and vulnerable from birth, that somehow I didn't get the armor needed to deal with the world. I learned to protect myself through stories and manipulation.
Her image is beautiful.

I think the day long residency could work, would you be able to get us in there? We could set up our paris studio just the same, with the line down the middle of the table and our notes and cups of tea + cookies. I miss those parisian wholesome cookies. The sesame ones especially.
I saw a Candice Breitz show last week, part of Performa, called New York, New York. I wasn't crazy about the piece, though I did think it was very brave on her part. It concerned twins. And it had an improvised live part that I'm sure pushed her tight-assed-video-artist boundaries.
It was set in a proper theatre, on a stage with a curtain, and I thought of how you want your videos to be seen. It felt really nice to be invited and required to sit down and pay all attention to the video, instead of feeling a bit uncomfortable standing or sitting on a hard chair which is usually the case with video viewing.
So are we still storying?

I wanted to tell you about my new obsession with the harbor. Its taking up alot of my brain, my thoughts head seawards in every free moment. I went on an old sailing boat, called a sloop, this weekend. It was freezing and windy, but I didn't mind. I have been so involved in reading about the currents and tides, the deep parts and the shallow parts, where the salt water of the atlantic meets the fresh river...It felt quite strange and wonderful to see the actual forces at play. The estuary is so magical - so many currents originating in far off places dance with each other. For one part of the day the rivers flow upstream, and then switch with the tides, flowing downstream.
Here is a drawing I made of the currents directions on 6 October at 11am. By the time I'd finished drawing, the tides had already changed. It feels like a living, breathing thing, this harbor.

I've been away from this blog for too long. Feeling a little distant from it, and from you. I dont like it. You know me so well - its wonderful but also makes me feel a bit predictable. How could you know that Marjetica Potrc is making drawings that I'm thinking about making in my head?
I feel further away from you than before, from my side, and that you are still close, from your side. Does that make sense?
I need to be making something with you, on a day-to-day, or at least week-to-week basis. Otherwise I get drawn away. My head is so filled with information about water and tides and wind, (I'm researching with relish), I need to be pulled in from the sea and think about our work. Are we still playing with our stories, or do we need new ones?

This is the harbor I'm obsessing over. The jet streams were just practicing, cloud cloud cloud.

After two weeks of family time, home again.
Paris seems closer than a year ago. Walking silently along side you, brains ticking in time. Lets do it again sometime soon.

I've been walking by myself in this city, seeking streetmarkings, symbols and chalk drawings to begin a new chapter in the story project. So it feels a bit like you're with me, trying to decipher the code of the streets. Not sure what I will do with them yet, for now I'm just happy to look for them.
The book is in need of printing, but its time to move on to something different.

been looking for you this weekend, with no signs of your presence. Maybe we'll find each other tomorrow?

Many ups and downs on my side. In the midst of a freakish rainy summer, grey and misty every day in the month that is usually too hot and sunburn. Its getting to me a little. Or maybe more than a little.

So the rainy summer is a time to be inside, to hit the museums and curl up with a good sculpture/photograph/video piece of choice and try feel a small blip of inspiration. I went to a really interesting show at the New Museum today - called "The Generational: Younger Than Jesus" - 50 artists from 25 countries all under 33. The first piece I saw was by Katerina Seda, a Czech artist. Robyn, I thought so much of your work! Her piece is called "It Doesn't Matter", and it came out of an exercise she did with her grandmother, who was depressed after her husband died. The title comes from her answer to most questions. She got her grandma to draw pictures of all the inventory (tools, supplies) she had kept in the hardware store she'd run most of her life. She did about 500 drawings all in all, and these are placed floor to ceiling on one wall of the museum. There was also a video, where you see her grandma drawing, and you can hear Seda asking why she's drawing something from the side and not the front, or why she's left the other side of the page blank.

She also made a series of videos - "Copy Mother" - where you see her following the exact steps of her mother as she folds laundry; "Copy Father" where she copies the exact movements of her father as he rakes the garden; and "Copy Child" where her parents walk on either side of her down the road, and they copy each time she looks a different way, and bends down to pat a dog. These were actions that she notes were 24 hours each.
I found a thoughtful article about the piece, heres a link

I put "The Walk Apart From You" up on our works page, loving the way it looks. Its funny to be back in the city, I feel both less and more like an artist here. Less because I'm not with you and the others in the comfy art scene of JHB - more because I'm poor and feel on the edge of things.
I'm trying to find someone to make me an accordion book, and I have another idea for your story too, will begin it next week hopefully.

dont you think?
Like maybe phrase 'look through the lens' - or something.
I really like the sculptural elements of the two toy video cameras together, and I think it should hang from the ceiling, at a height that is too low to look through, so it has to be picked up by whoever wants to look into it. It seems more active then, like the visitor needs to participate and engage to make the work.
Do your cameras have different images from each other inside, or are they exactly the same? I seem to remember they were a little different...

I just got a rejection letter from one of the schools I wanted to get into for an MA here. Makes me want to give up all this... if my works not even good enough to get into graduate school, what am I doing making work anyway?

Here are my thoughts on your thoughts...

I went to a meeting last night about showing Me Here You There as part of this event at Galapagos, called "For the Love of Art". Got me thinking about the technical aspects.
Spent this morning trying to work out a way to hang projectors from the ceiling pipes. I seem to always get myself in a position of doing something precarious and difficult with projectors, my need for a 'wow!' factor sets in. But it will look so cool if it works!
Here's a picture of what the space looks like, from the balcony upstairs. The plan is to put my ear and mouth into one of the circles, and yours in the other. We'll turn off the spotlights and have headphones hanging from the balcony.
The event looks like it will be interesting - there are hiphop dancers, acrobats, slavic folk singers, 3d video stuff... our work seems mild and tame in the group. I like it that way.

Your work is so genuine and powerful, no need to fear. Those exhibitions are totally intimidating, but your work is bigger that a masters show, however it turns out. You express such vulnerability in your work, so directly. Thats what gives it such strength. Stand by your art, dont let the art crowd get you down.