The issues of religion are intimately intertwined with human nature. Examining religion is in fact opening the “can of worms” that is human nature. In his Theory of Religion Georges Bataille provides us with a performative examination of this slippery issue. From the very beginning Bataille addresses the embedded impossible in his pursuit:

“The inevitable incompletion does not in any way delay the response, which is a movement – were it in a sense the lack of a response. On the contrary, it gives it the truth of the impossible, the truth of a scream. The basic paradox of this ‘theory of religion,’ which posits the individual as a ‘thing,’ and a negation of intimacy, brings a powerlessness to light, no doubt, but the cry of this powerlessness is a prelude to the deepest silence.”[1]

     This “truth of the impossible” seems to be of great interest to Bataille. I’m interested to unpack this. First of all, the prospect of impossibility adds a tragic and perhaps absurd tint to a pursuit. This tainting from the start is curious to me. Perhaps it provides a function in the effort of inquiry. In an earlier text Bataille stated, “Pleasure only starts once the worm has got into the fruit, to become delightful happiness must be tainted with poison."[2] This tainting adds an element of the sublime to the inquiry.

     Bataille compares the truth of the impossible to the truth of a scream, which is again a curious method. A scream implies struggle, perhaps vain struggle. It is a sign of tension. It is a proof of existence. There is a truth there. This draws my attention to a statement of the choreographer Merce Cunningham, “It's when movement starts to become awkward that it becomes interesting."[3] It’s in this awkward movement, this struggle with the impossible, that the truth of our nature can be found.

     A large part of the tension in Bataille’s Theory of Religion can be sourced in the positing of the individual as a “thing.” This process of “thing-making” is a human trait of pulling aspects of phenomena out of the dynamic flow of existence in an effort to understand and make sense of the world. These things then become tools used for particular human purposes. When an individual analyses an individual, be it themselves or another, the dynamic individual becomes a thing – static and with tool function. As Bataille states, “man … refuses to be viewed as a thing.”[4] When our “thing-making” is turned on ourselves there is a great tension. The static nature of being a thing is strongly opposed to the open nature of immanence that we crave.

     Bataille describes the intimacy of immanence to be a “world like water in water.” It is a space of flow without boundaries, “from outside to inside, from inside to outside.” Bataille attributes this quality to animality. There is a craving for this intimacy, this union with the other, yet it’s an impossible. As he says, “Nothing, as a matter of fact, is more closed to us that this animal life from which we are descended.”

     There is a very interesting tension in the fact that the very nature of our manner of perception and “thing-making” forms a solid obstacle in attaining what we yearn for – “to be lost in the world, like water is lost in water.” Confronted by the “truth of the impossible” the powerlessness of the “scream” is faced with the “deepest silence.”

     In the words of Octavio Paz:

“Solitude is the profoundest fact of the human condition. Man is the only being who knows he is alone, and the only one who seeks out another. His nature - if that word can be used in reference to man, who has ‘invented’ himself by saying ‘no’ to nature - consists in his longing to realize himself in another. Man is nostalgia and a search for communion. Therefore, when he is aware of himself he is aware of his lack of another, that is, of his solitude.”[5]

     There is an encounter of the impossible. The term the “deepest silence” implies much. It is here that there seems to be rest after the tension of the impossible, the “truth of the scream.” There is a tragic nature to this acceptance of the impossible. Silence also implies a cessation of the “scream.” The existence that produced the scream shifts. Perhaps there is acceptance. Whatever the case may be, in the absence of the scream there is silence, deepest silence.

     “But this poetry is only a way by which a man goes from a world full of meaning to the final dislocation of meanings, of all meaning, which soon proves to be unavoidable.” Here Bataille again gestures to the “deepest silence.” Through collision with the impossible the worm enters the apple, so to say. When confronted with the impossible meaning dislocates. In the absence of meaning there is “deepest silence.”

     Bataille doesn’t seem to mention it, but there seems to be a certain kind of intimacy in the “deepest silence.” All meaning is dislocated. The scream has been silenced. Perhaps one may slip into silence as water slips into water. This may also shed light on the function of tainting the fruit with the worm of the impossible from the start.

Bibliography

 

Bataille, Georges, Yukio Mishima, and Ken Hollings. My Mother, Madame

     Edwarda, and The Dead Man. New York: Marion Boyars, 1989

Bataille, Georges. Theory of Religion. trans. Robert Hurley. New York: Zone

     Books, 1989.

Bel, Jérôme. Cédric Andrieux. Joyce Theatre, New York, 18 September 2010.

Paz, Octavio. The Labyrinth of Solitude. trans. Lysander Kemp. New York: Grove

     Weidenfeld, 1985.

Marsya was a personality featured in ancient Greek myth. He was a Satyr from Phrygia, which was an ancient kingdom that was located in central modern Turkey. He is often accredited as the first to composed tunes for the flute. He obtained his double flute from Athena, who had invented the device but discarded it in her displeasure over the bloating effect on the cheeks.

Later, Marsyas challenged the god Apollo to a music contest. The winner could treat the loser however they liked. The Satyr inevitably lost, when, in the second round, the god demanded they play their instruments upside-down - a feat ill-suited to the flute. The judges of the contest were the Muses. Naturally Apollo won, due to their connection with him. The victorious Apollo chose to have Marsyas tied to a tree and flayed alive. The rustic gods in their pity then transformed him into a mountain stream.

In Antiquity sources depict the contest as an example of the hubris of a mortal challenging a god and the justice of his punishment. This reading is very similar to the standard reading of the myth of Icarus. Some read this contest as a description of the supplanting by the Olympian pantheon of an earlier “Pelasgian” religion of chthonic heroic ancestors and nature spirits. This reading is rather interesting in that it has Apollo as a stand-in of the new gods conquering Marsyas, a stand-in of the old nature spirits.

In some alternative sources it is depicted that it was Apollo who challenged Marsyas to the contest. This version highlights the human quality of jealousy found in the god Apollo. This alternative source challenges the theme of hubris in the myth; rather we see a jealous god that cannot stand to see godly qualities in a mortal. Perhaps this is simply another kind of hubris - a god challenging a mortal who in fact brought them into existence. Seen in this way the story of the flaying of Marsyas depicts the backfiring of the metanarritive of gods.

The musical contest between Apollo and Marsyas is also particularly rich for psychoanalytic investigation because it resonates with the creative conflict on several levels. It may be seen as a metaphor for the Oedipus complex as described by Freud, for pre-oedipal issues of potential space between inside and outside as discussed by Winnicott and Deri, and for the splitimage of self sometimes experienced by creative people.

(image: Jusepe De Ribera, Apollo Flaying Marsyas, 1637)

     For nearly two millennia imagery of St. Sebastian has been prominent in the Western world. The following investigation is an examination of the iconography of this early Christian martyr and how its meaning and usage has shifted as it has moved out of its original Christian context.
 

     St. Sebastian was one of the early Christian martyrs that were killed in connection with the Roman persecution of the Christians in the third century. He is said to have died in 288. Sebastian was born in Gaul, modern France. He received Christian teachings in Milan and was later made an officer in the emperor’s guard in Rome.[1] He was a “closeted” Christian as far as the Roman court was concerned.

     During this time the Roman emperor Diocletian issued an edict, commanding the destruction of Christian churches. Shortly thereafter another law was passed making Christians incapable of holding any place of trust, profit, dignity, or of receiving any protection from the courts of the empire. We can easily imagine the difficulties this caused for Sebastian. After these laws were passed a man who pretended to be a Christian named Torquatus betrayed Sebastian and informed the Roman general Fabian of his Christianity. Due to the high rank of Sebastian he couldn’t be put to death without the direct command of the emperor.[2]

     The emperor Diocletian sent for Sebastian. He declared Sebastian as an enemy of the gods, the empire, and of himself. Sebastian denied all of this, saying that his religion was of good and didn’t influence him to do any harm to the empire. He attempted to prove this by the fact that he prayed for the health and well being of Diocletian. Some sources elaborate on this Sebastian went on to say, “I think to pray and demand help of the idols of stone is a great folly.”[3] This infuriated the emperor. He ordered Sebastian to be stripped, tied to a tree and shot with arrows. This was done and he was shot until “he was as full of arrows as an urchin is full of pricks.”[4] Some Christians that came to care for and bury Sebastian’s body found him showing signs of life. They nursed him back to health.

     When he could walk again he confronted the emperor Diocletian on his way to the temple. Sebastian reproved the emperor for his various cruelties and for his unreasonable hatred of the Christians. Diocletian had him clubbed to death and thrown into the sewer. Because of this Sebastian is sometimes referred to as the martyr that was martyred twice. It is said that a Christian woman retrieved his body from the sewer and buried it in the catacombs.[5] I can only imagine how this sort of story would have served as a great source of inspiration for the early Christians who underwent similar persecutions. This is the core of Sebastian’s story.

     Now let us turn to the history of his depiction in the visual arts. The earliest image that I’m able to find at this point is dated from 682. It is a mosaic found in the Church of San Pietro in Vincoli (Rome, Italy). In this mosaic we find a very different depiction of Sebastian than we are familiar with. Sebastian is shown fully robed with grey hair and beard. There is no sign of an arrow. He appears like an elder and respectable Roman nobleman. A couple hundred years later, in the 9^th century, we find a fresco at Chiesa di San Giorgio al Velabro, also in Rome. In this fresco Sebastian is depicted as a Roman soldier. This is natural as he served in the emperor’s guard and was seen as a patron saint of soldiers.

     After the 12^th century we see a major shift in the standard depiction of Sebastian. We find the introduction of archers and Sebastian in the state that we are accustomed to seeing him – a youth stripped, bound, and shot with arrows. This is very interesting considering that at this time the only semi-nude male form we find is that of Christ.[6] What provoked this shift?

      Major hints can be found in the medieval bestseller, The Golden Legend, which contained the stories of various saints and martyrs. This text helped to popularize Sebastian. In this there is telling of a king who fought off the plague in this town by erecting a shrine for St. Sebastian.[7] Through this he was popularly seen as a saint who protected against the mysterious and deadly plague. We see a shift of Sebastian’s depiction from a mature man to a fresh, healthy youth. In this way he symbolized the health and life that followers of the saint would petition for. In a similar way the scenario of his martyrdom became a symbol. Just as he was helplessly confronted by heartless archers, the victims of the plague found themselves confronted by a cruel and unknown killer.

     In the early 1600’s there was another major shift in the iconography of Sebastian. During this time there was a development of an erotic depiction of the martyr. This is a very unexpected shift for a Catholic saint. Upon a little investigation this is a very natural development for a tradition that places so much importance on the torture and murder of their savior. Considering this the collision of ecstasy and agony is quite natural.

     Most famous for his role in shifting the iconography of Sebastion is Guido Reni. He painted several St. Sebastion images. All of them have a similar quality of softening and romanticizing the meme. The St. Sebastian of 1615 shows a fit youth, bound with hands above his head. Arrows pierce his chest, but only at its edges, as if to not blemish the idealized chest reminiscent of a romance novel cover. This image will come into play again soon. Take note of it.

     In Carlo Saraceni’s Saint Sebastian of 1610-1616 we find very thinly veiled eroticism. Sebastian is depicted as a fresh youth not bound, but reclining on red drapery. His head is tilted back in a fashion that brings up memories of Bernini’s St. Theresa. A single arrow pierces his lower abdomen. He is shown holding it gently. The phallic reference is hard to avoid. He looks like he his in more pleasure than pain. In the 18^th century the Marquis de Sade took this notion to its natural end, influencing much to come.

     Now taking a large step into the 20th century I’d like to touch upon Yukio Mishima. He was a Japanese author, poet and playwright. He was nominated three times for the Nobel Prize in Literature. Mishima is considered one of the most important Japanese authors of the 20th century, whose avant-garde work displayed a blending of modern and traditional aesthetics that broke cultural boundaries, with a focus on sexuality, death, and political change.

     In his book Confessions of a Mask, which is considered to be a thinly veiled autobiography, he describes how he had his first ejaculation after contemplating Remi’s St. Sebastian.

“A remarkably handsome youth was bound naked to the trunk of a tree. His hands crossed were raised high, and the thongs binding his wrists were tied to the tree… Were it not for the arrows with their shafts deeply sunk into his left armpit and right side, he would seem more like a Roman athelete resting from fatigue… The arrows have eaten into the tense, fragrant, youthful flesh, and are about to consume his body from within with flames of supreme agony and ecstacy.”[8]

Mishima goes on in Confessions to describe his ejaculation. “Fortunately, a reflex motion of my hand to protect the picture had saved the book from being soiled.” Throughout his life Sebastian played a large role. The theme of the violent or painful death of a handsome youth played a role in many of his novels.

     This sadomasochist approach to Sebastian comes out strongly in Robert Mapplethorpe’s Polaroid photo entitled “St. Sebastian” from 1970-75. In this image the troupes that draw reference are bodily posture and bondage. There are no arrows or hints of bodily injury. Rather the male figure is bound up in leather cuffs and rope. He is blind folded. In many ways there isn’t much that distinguishes this from S&M pornography, yet the figure of Sebastian comes through clearly. Sebastian is now totally outside of the original context of Christianity. The concerns of “supreme agony and ecstasy,” as Mishima put it, are of vital concern. Another community with different concerns has adopted the Christian saint. The archetype of martyr and saint lives on.

     Other genres have also adopted Sebastian. A great example of this is found in the horror movie Carrie, directed by Brian De Palma in 1976. St. Sebastian is used as a theme throughout. Most prominently is near the beginning of the film and then at the end. First Carrie is most in a closet to repent for getting her period. After screaming and fighting against it and being locked in she lights a candle on a small Saint Sebastian alter. Perhaps Carrie herself is a St. Sebastian figure who fights back, rather than accepting persecution. Then at the end of the film after the disastrous prom, Carrie returns home and uses her telekinesis to make her crazy Christian mom into a St. Sebastian figure.[9]

     On the theme of gore, there is the example of the contemporary Taiwanese artist Su Hui-Yu in his piece entitled 
“St. Sebastian”
 from 2008. In this piece he photographs himself on a plain white background dressed in a small white cloth covering his pelvic region. He stands on a small metallic pedestal in front of a metallic pole. He assumes a Sebastian-like pose with hands behind, as if bound. On his body he has strapped many small boxes connected to cables. These boxes are set to explode with fake blood when the camera shutter opens. The act is very performative and feels very modern with its use of technology, yet the timeless meme of Sebastian is clear.

     The most contemporary work I’ve selected in this collection is an illustration by Chiara Bautista from 2009. This one is interestingly unique in that it presents the Sebastian meme with a female form. It’s interesting to note that the composition is almost exactly that of Giovanni Antonio Bazzi
’s St. Sebastian of 1525. Bautista is clearly making a reference to art history and the legacy of St. Sebastian. She does so in a surreal way. There are small teddy bear cherubs. One is throwing mp3 files from a computer folder icon, as if showering with consoling music. The other cherub has a few arrows in one hand and is gently touching a band-aide and the figure’s leg. When you look closely in this illustration there are many small interesting details. One is that she has a set of ear buds plugged into her heart. In her expression she is expressing the standard suffering saint expression. What does this martyr quality mean in this very contemporary context? A hint is given on the bottom of the illustration with the text, “To hear your heartbeat, that’s all I wanted kiddo.” We get a hint that the figure’s agony (and perhaps ecstasy) is brought about due to the double-edged sword of the pursuit of love.

     This collision of agony and ecstasy seems to be the solid thread throughout Sebastian’s long history of iconography. Sebastian was one of the first saints of the Christian church. As such his legacy is almost as long as that of Christianity itself. He has become an enduring heroic archetype throughout various aspects of modern life – the erotic, the grotesque, the sadistic, the spiritual, the religious, the historical, and the popular. He seems to be an enduring figure that will not be going anywhere any time soon.

 

Bibliography

 

Foxe, John. Foxe's Book of Martyrs. Chicago: Moody Press, 1954.

De Voragine, Jacobus. The Golden Legend : Readings on the Saints. Trans.

     William Granger Ryan. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton UP, 1995.

"Arrows of Desire: How Did St Sebastian Become an Enduring, Homo-erotic

     Icon?" The Independent. 10 Feb. 2008. <http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-  

     entertainment/art/features/arrows-of-desire-how-did-st-sebastian-become-an

     enduring-homoerotic-icon-779388.html>.

Scott-Stokes, Henry. The life and death of Yukio Mishima. New York: Farrar,   

     Straus, and Giroux, 1974. pg 78

Carrie (Brian De Palma, 1976), film.

This collection of nineteen prints in a wooden box, entitled "A Brief Survey of Voluntary Death," is a project that I recently completed for a school final.

Fall 2010 Independent Study

-----------------------------------------

Introduction

In a search for a steady theme in existence I come to motion. Movement combines together form, space, and time. Through a sequence of time a form shifts over space creating movement. It is transition. Movement is an essential element of our experience of the world. If the objects of the world were in stasis life as we know it wouldn’t exist. In this way movement may define life.

My attention shifts to the various functional movements that occur constantly within our bodies – blood circulation, muscle tension, breathing, and so on. This could be expanded to the subtle movements of mind. We are practically defined by movement.

The direct experience of movement may be coupled with a sense of mystery. What is its purpose? Where is it going? How does it affect me? This heightened sense of attention is interesting to me. In this mystery of transition our attention focuses on looking at what we’re seeing.

There is an interesting eroticism of the unveiling of events that’s interesting to me. It is a realm of openness, the unknown, and a space of anticipation. For me movement isn’t about where it ends up, but rather the way that it gets there. This is where movement has a subtle eroticism. It is about transition – a shifting from one state to another. When movement is completed and there is a release of tension the beauty and mystery of the transition is but a shadow. Movement is fleeting. I feel that much of its beauty is in its ephemeral nature.

Experiences of movement in a distant time and land

In his early thirteenth century text Hojoki Kamo-no-Chomei expresses an acute sensitivity of the theme of change and movement. This period was a time of many shifts and violent environmental disasters. Chomei demonstrates in his writing a sensitive and independent understanding of movement.

First Section: The Calamities 

The title of this classic of Japanese literature can be translated as meaning, “Writings from a Place Ten Feet Square.” The text is a mix of social commentary and personal testimony. It was written during the end of the Heian Period, which was a period of great strife and change. 

The text begins with the famous lines:

The flowing river

never stops

and yet the water 

never stays

the same.

 

Foam floats

upon the pools,

scattering, re-forming,

never lingering long.

 

So it is with man

and all his dwelling places

here on earth.

(pg. 31)

After this opening Chomei elaborates on this theme by describing the temporary nature of life and home. I find it intriguing how he presents the consistency of change:

The place itself 

does not change,

nor do the crowds.

Even so, of all

the many people I once knew

only one or two remain.

(pg. 32)

There is a steadiness in change. 

At this point Chomei continues with vivid descriptions of natural disasters that he personally observed. In 1177 fires destroyed much of the capital of Kyoto. 

The wind blew wildly –

this way! That way! –

and the fire spread,

like an unfolding fan.

(pg. 34)

The fire destroyed Chomei states, “I heard one third of the entire capital.” This must have been a disaster that effected not only those that lived in the capital, but much of the surrounding villages. 

Just three years later, in the year 1180, the city of Kyoto faced great difficulties beginning with a disastrous whirlwind in the spring. This heavy wind “wrenched off gates and dropped them blocks away.” In June of the same year the capital was abruptly moved to present day Kobe. It stayed in that location until only November of the same year, 1180. This change brought about much social strife. 

The old capital was in ruins

while the new was yet to rise.

 

Everyone felt adrift,

clouds.

(pg. 43)

It’s very challenging to imagine how many people in an effort to maintain their connections, or aspirations for connections, with the nobility tore down their houses and moved them; not once, but twice in the same year. Chomei describes how people would dismantle their homes, float the wood down the river, and rebuild in the new location. This historical event adds great import to Chomei’s opening lines. 

In the following two years there was a great famine. First in the spring and summer there was drought. This was directly followed by an autumn of floods. This in effect caused the crops to fail. Kyoto always depended on the countryside, now in this famine people attempted to sell their valuables, which were no longer valuable, for “grain was worth more than gold.” This was followed by a great plague.

Everyone was starving.

Time passed and things grew worse

-people seemed like fish

in a shrinking pool.

(pg. 47)

Chomei describes a monk of the name of Ryugyo-hoin who “felt great pity for the multitudes of dying.” He kept tally of the dead for two full months. The number of 40,000 is given. 

Just a few years after this in the year of 1185 Kyoto suffered from a great earthquake. 

Around the capital 

not one temple or pagoda

remained intact.

(pg. 51)

Chomei describes that after this earthquake the residents of Kyoto suffered from aftershocks that lasted for about three months. 

What great disasters Chomei faced.

Thus ends Chomei’s telling of the calamities of 1177-1185. At this point Chomei shifts from historical description to scathing social commentary.

Section Two: Social Commentary

Chomei’s social commentary begins strongly with the following, which is at the end of his description of the 1185 earthquake:

For a while right after

there was talk

of the vanities of this world,

and people seemed to be rid

of the sinfulness in their hearts.

 

But days and months went by,

then years,

and no one spoke of it again.

(pg. 53-4)

Chomei describes, “Many troubles flow from your social rank.” He elaborates on the difficulties of both the high and low classes along with the difficulty in living near others and in living far from others. Through this Chomei raises the questions:

And so the question,

where should we live?

And how?

 

Where to find

a place to rest a while?

And how to bring

even short-lived peace

to our hearts?

(pg. 58)

This question forms the pivot from which Chomei begins the third and final section.

Section Three: Retirement From the World

Chomei briefly describes how he came into property through his father’s mother. After the death of his father his relationship with his grandmother became distant and he fell in status. At this point he built himself a small house, “one-tenth the size of my former home.” He was without family and without the means to build “what most would think a proper house.” 

When it snowed 

or when the wind blew 

my house felt precarious.

(pg. 59)

He describes this move as happening when he was thirty. He lived that way for twenty years. At the age of fifty he left the Kyoto and made an even smaller house in the foothills outside of the city. He lived there for about five years. 

Then,

well into my sixth decade,

when the dew of life disappears,

I built a little hut,

a leaf from which

the last drops might fall.

(pg. 61)

This house is the house of ten square feet that the title of the text refers to. He describes how he made the house in such a simple way that if for some reason he had to move he could easily dismantle the house and carry it on just two carts. Chomei goes on to describe what his house holds. His possessions were made up of a few Buddhist devotional images and texts, a couple musical instruments, some written poetry and music, and a simple bed made of bracken. 

Chomei beautifully describes the four seasons and their simple pleasures as follows:

In the spring, wisteria,

rippling like waves,

blooming like a holy purple cloud,

also to the west.

 

In summer, cuckoos,

As they chatter on I ask them

to be sure to guide me

through the mountain paths

of death.

 

In autumn

the voices of evening cicadas

fill the ear.

 

They seem to grieve

this husk of a world.

 

Then in winter – 

snow!

It settles 

Just like human sin

and melts,

in atonement.

(pg. 64)

At this point Chomei writes of the pleasures of living alone. 

I can be lazy if I like – 

no one here to hinder me,

no one in whose eyes

to feel ashamed.

(pg. 64)

In a similar fashion he explains how even though he didn’t take a vow of silence he in effect is silent due to being alone. He describes how it is easy to follow the Buddhist ethical precepts since there is “little chance to break them here!” Chomei speaks of how at times he would write poetry or play music not for the pleasure of others but simply “to give sustenance to my own heart.”

Chomei does describe one person that he’d spend time with – a ten-year-old boy. I’m led to feel that he lived in a hut at the foot of the hill. The old man Chomei would wander around the hills with this young boy.

He describes how various animals would remind him of relatives and friends. There is a certain feeling of loneliness and desolation. Yet when he receives news of lords passing away in the capital he seems to be satisfied with his simple life.

The hermit crab prefers a tiny shell

aware of its needs.

 

Ospreys live by the rocky coast

fearing the world of man.

 

And so with me.

I know my needs

And know the world.

(pg. 71)

Chomei goes on to describe how he finds friends in “song and nature.” He elaborates on how servants often seek favors and become a burden. With this he states, “Why not be your own servant?” 

Now, I divide my body

and I give it twofold purpose.

My hands are my servants,

my legs my carriage.

(pg. 73)

In a similar way Chomei describes that he gets his clothing and food from what is easily available. He seems to be greatly satisfied with his meager livelihood and small hut. As he states, “Reality depends on your mind alone.” 

Coming from a Buddhist tradition Chomei has many traditional views. At the same time he is highly independent and a self-thinker by nature. In this way he is a highly modern man, way before his time. His insights still ring true now.

Movement in contemporary dance

The highlight of my experience of this year’s Time Based Arts festival, or TBA, was Jérôme Bel: Cédric Andrieux. I found the performance to be captivating and greatly inspirational. This piece is in the series of biographical compositions that the French choreographer Jérôme Bel has been working on. Both the subject and the performer is French dancer Cédric Andrieux. Throughout the piece Andrieux tells of his history with dance. He began contemporary dance when he was twelve. Later he studied dance in a school in Paris. He spent eight years as a part of the Merce Cunningham Dance Company, where he was able to train directly with Cunningham. After this he spent time working with other contemporary choreographers like Trisha Brown and Jérôme Bel. In this way the performance becomes a living slice of contemporary dance history.

The major aspect of the show that I appreciated was its ordinary nature. When Andrieux speaks he does so with very little gesture and a quiet and gentle voice. There's not set design to speak of. And very little use of props. His at times endearingly humorous monologue is interspersed with demonstrations of his experience with dance. This ordinary nature was nicely summarized in a review of the show featured in the Mercury, one of Portland’s free weekly newspapers:

“The performance is made up of little more than breath and gesture, so there is very little for the audience to cling to.”

What happens when there is very little for the viewer to cling to? As another of the artists featured in this year’s TBA festival, Maria Hassabi, has said, “You either fall asleep or you transcend it.” There is always the option of being bored. With not much to grab the viewer’s attention they may feel there is nothing to see. But as John Cage highlighted in his now famous silence piece, 4'33", there is always something to hear/see. When the viewer opts to transcend these small ordinary details – like breath and gesture – they shift and become monumental. I found that the quietness of the performance offered a very interesting space that aided in my being acutely attentive. The viewer is placed in a space where every movement and breath is significant.

I found myself being captivated by the periods of time when Andrieux would simply breathe and cool down after a strenuous execution of dance. I greatly appreciate this method of highlighting the ordinary. These periods stood out to me. The humanness of the performer is highlighted. This method seemed to create a space where an intimate connection can develop over the show.

I also really appreciated the section dealing with his training with Cunningham. Some very interesting points were brought up, which offered a different angle of perception. For example, Andrieux describes and demonstrates the warm up that started every training period in the Cunningham Dance Company. He mentions Cunningham’s influence from Zen; ideas like – the importance of the moment and the specialness of ordinariness. So, even though these exercises were repeated many, many times they offered a sort of meditative freshness. That said, Andrieux mentioned how most of the time this was really boring.

Another point of interest for me was a quote mentioned of Cunningham wherein he says, “It's when movement starts to become awkward that it becomes interesting." Andrieux mentioned how in his choreography Cunningham would demand that the dancers push themselves to their physical limit. At this point there would be much straining, struggle, and hopping. In this state of awkwardness Cunningham found interest. Why? I think it has a lot to do with the emphasis of the moment, the specialness of ordinariness, and the highlighting of humanness.

These issues seem to be very much subject of concern for Bel also. His choreography is a gentle and subtle arrangement of the ordinariness of breath and gesture. This could easily be boring to some. What is this transcending? I think that it may be a subtle appreciation of the beauty in ordinariness. With this appreciation what was once potentially boring becomes a fertile field of aesthetic appreciation. Andrieux performs with a sincerity and gentleness that is captivating.

Installed movement

This semester I had the opportunity to utilize one of the school’s gallery spaces. Together with my collaborator, Jaybird Marmaduke, I developed an installation, entitled JIZO/ENSO. The elements of this work were highly inspired by Japanese practices and thought. The word enso means, “circle.” It is a highly loaded symbol in Japanese art. Overall it emphasizes the moment of making along with its perfection in imperfection. In connection with the theme at hand, it also has strong connection with movement. 

The first stage of the installation was made up of making the over one hundred and fifty ensos. This repetition of movement was a vital aspect of the installation. In other cases this sort of making would often be carried out in a separate space before installing the showing of the work. We chose to emphasize the making as a primary element of the installation. 

In Zen Buddhism this repetition of making is cherished as a meditative practice. It focuses the attention of the maker on the directness of the current moment. This project was an investigation into the application of creative practice as a meditative practice and meditative practice as creative practice.

The calligraphy pieces were organized on the floor to dry. Then they were placed upon the wall in a variety of configurations. Throughout the span of the installation the space was in transition – in movement. If a viewer visited the site once, it’d more likely be different in the next visit. This transitory atmosphere is natural for the space considering its location in the institution as it’s right off of a busy walkway, near the school library. 

Considering the location of the space its public vs. private nature became very prominent. When working in the space it had a very comfortable private feel. It’s just enough off of the main walkway to feel separate. At the same time, the passerby can easily view the space, making it a very public space.

The Jizo element of the show was a showing of a separate project than the above mention, although their themes and manner of working were intimately connected. The making process also involved a high degree of repetition, as with the enso. The making process was formulated in such a way as to facilitate the meditative feature. 

Jizo is a Buddhist bodhisattva, who is seen as being a protector of women, children, and travelers. A bodhisattva plays a similar role in Buddhism as saints do in Catholicism. They are benevolent supporting personalities. Some people in Buddhist circles see bodhisattvas as archetypes of qualities that we possess. For the Jizo project I made twenty-nine small forms of Jizo out of unfired clay. I then placed them around the city, documenting their location with street information and photographs. I then left them in that spot where they were photographed. 

This making and then dispersing throughout the city was highly inspired by the Tibetan Buddhist practice of making intricate sand mandalas and then sweeping them up to be placed in a river. This sort of act emphasizes the temporary nature of form. This is a sort of motion also; from manifested to unmanifested.

Motion was further implicated in the Jizo project by my action of moving throughout the city to disperse the statues. In a similar way the interaction of public and private came into play. I decided to place the statues in public places. This made me higher sensitive to what defines public space in a way that I have never been before. 

The investigation and experiment that was JIZO/ENSO came about after a few years of studying traditional Japanese aesthetics. During much of that time I was studying and practicing Zen Buddhism. Interestingly enough the project also became a spur to guide me in a different type of expression. After executing the project I felt that the foreign Zen elements were artificially used. They are comfortable, well-trodden paths to walk on, but they didn’t feel sincerely honest and personal. This was an unexpected result for me; yet nonetheless very fruitful. 

Movement to what?

With all of this talk of movement I’ve come to my own movement. I started investigating and walking the “well-trodden” paths of Zen creative work some time ago. I got quite excited about it, considering it as a great place to work in for thesis work. But now I’ve grown weary and uncertain of placing myself in that box and path. Or, more specifically, I feel the need to break out of the need for a particular path of investigation. Why must I declare a name of my course of movement? What does it mean to travel on a “road less traveled?” 

One of the reasons why I have come to feel this way is because I feel that working with foreign references and terms (i.e. jizo and enso) limits the access to the work. My work is already esoteric in nature. Using such specific and foreign concepts and terms makes an already small audience smaller. The JIZO/ENSO project was a very interesting teacher in that regard. 

I proposed the question, “movement to what?” This implies the need for a clear destination. Perhaps that is part of the issue at hand. Is it possible to move and encourage the movement of others without a clear desired goal in mind? Throughout the course of investigation I have grown to feel that the idea of a desired goal or destination is itself limiting. Movement for the sake of movement is my feeling now – as that is closely reflective of life itself. 

 

 

For the last few months I've been quite busy with life, school, and attempts in keeping myself sane. So, it's been challenging to keep up with posting. Now that the semester is nearly over I'm going to post a series of papers that I wrote... starting now.

From the label:

"Artist's Shit," contents 30gr net freshly preserved, produced and tinned in May 1961

From the series called “Obscene Interiors” by the South African artist Brandt Botes, aka Von Brandis.