C Magazine


Issue 132

Joan Jonas/ Affinities
by Olivia Boudreau, Barbara Clausen, Corinn Gerber, Simone Forti, Tanya Lukin Linklater, taisha paggett, Erin Silver, and Robin Simpson

Joan Jonas’ From Away, on exhibition at DHC/ART in Montreal from April 28 – September 18, 2016, put five decades of Jonas’ practice on view, from the late 1960s to her installation for the 2015 Venice Biennale, They Come to Us without a Word. In her exhibition text, curator Barbara Clausen describes Jonas’ visionary use of performance in film and video as rooted in the artist’s physical engagement with everyday materials, gestures and technologies. Jonas’s understanding of art as a hybrid practice is embedded in the wider context of culture, history, mythology, poetry, literature and film. The accompanying events program, Affinities, which combined dance, performance, movement, film screenings and dialogue, pivoted around the resonances of Jonas’ work with contemporary artists. Performances by Jonas with Jason Moran, Tanya Lukin Linklater, taisha paggett and Simone Forti engaged with and extended the exhibition’s “liveness,” alongside a series of conversations and screenings.

Working from transcripts of the conversations that ensued, participating artists, audience members and other key interlocutors reflect on Jonas’ practice and three distinct “moments” from Affinities, rearranging textual fragments, working the line between memory and evidence, and co-aligning the anecdotal with the official record, attempting to keep these moments “alive” by intervening and annotating in the margins. Jonas’ influence, like the influence of others inferred yet not named here, provokes an examination of shared affinities between and across generations of dancers, performance artists and other kinds of movement-makers. Text and image combine to make a new “movement score,” retrofitting enduring artistic preoccupations with the aesthetic, cultural and political concerns of the present day. Dialogue and annotations are from Olivia Boudreau, Barbara Clausen, Simone Forti, Corinn Gerber, Joan Jonas, Tanya Lukin Linklater, taisha paggett, Erin Silver and Robin Simpson.

In Conversation: Joan Jonas & Barbara Clausen, Phi Centre, April 26, 2016

BARBARA CLAUSEN: Joan, you once said that you use illusion to deconstruct it – from your early work using different kinds of media simultaneously, such as mirrors and monitors, the close-circuit television effect, and projections, on stage, as well as within your video works and later installations. You were showing the audience what you were doing and how.

JOAN JONAS: Yes. I went to Japan in 1970, where I bought my first Portapak camera. That trip had a big influence on me. I brought it back to New York and started working with it in my loft. That was a big moment, when you could sit in front of a monitor and see yourself live. I began to work with all these different materials and practices: the material of technology, making drawings, thinking of text as material. It was all about mixing and rearranging and making sequences in the beginning. When I got the camera, I started to experiment with seeing myself and seeing the camera, asking, how does it relate. One of the first performances, Organic Honey (1972), was based on the idea of watching yourself on camera while an audience watches you. I got the idea when I read somewhere that Marilyn Monroe sat in front of a camera, and people watched her being filmed. The experience of seeing her in front of the camera was totally different than what the camera would see.* I made a whole performance based in part on that idea, and that’s how I’ve been working ever since: the idea that the audience sees the image that the camera sees simultaneously with the performance.

Olivia Boudreau: This is such a marvellous example of how we treat images and experiences in general. It is underlining what we choose to ignore and what we hang on to when judging and creating meanings. That’s why performance and video can be a very direct way to question our ability, or inability, to perceive things in their entirety. While working, knowing the limits of my own perception is the starting point of an ethics of looking.*

BC: […] Right, and also this effect of you looking at yourself through the recording of your own image. You can point the camera towards the screen you’re recording, but as soon as you do that, you can’t look at yourself directly; there’s a kind of distraction of the gaze. I think of Mirror Check (1970) and Left Side Right Side (1972) and several other works of this period, where the idea of de-synchronization, as [Douglas] Crimp would call it, was a key idea.

This probing of the image through various devices plays a significant role in your interest in female imagery and how, as you once said, you wanted explore the place of women in history as outsiders* – healers – witches – storytellers. How do you choose or find your protagonists and characters?

Olivia Boudreau: Women as outsiders! I can definitely link this to the fact that there are so many woman working in video and performance, mediums that are excluded from the definition of “beaux arts.” Being outside, while being restrictive, can also be a very powerful position. It is an interesting angle to explore in feminism today and a very delicate question.*

JJ: It began with Organic Honey, where I was exploring female imagery. It was during the women’s movement and part of the idea was to explore the issue of the female image, asking is there such a thing as a female image. I was dressing up, putting masks on, changing my identity, asking what is female. And then after that I began to think about the roles that women play, and the fairy tale, what kind of roles they are taking on and living.

BC: When I see your work, there is this moment of immediate understanding, yet the layers of stories are difficult to retell.

JJ: It’s non-linear but it’s also non-verbal, often. That’s why you really can’t – it’s a visual story. The words are mixed in with the visual – it’s more like poetry in that sense, if you tell a story… it’s fragmented and it’s very hard to retell.

Affinities: An afternoon of conversations with the artists of the Affinities series, May 26, 2016

TANYA LUKIN LINKLATER: I’d like to begin not at the beginning but perhaps before the beginning, less than a year ago, when I traveled to the Creative Time summit held in conjunction with the Venice Biennale. I heard curator Okwui Enwezor speak, as well as Jolene Rickard, a visual historian, artist and curator. I also spent time with Nadia Myre, who’s here today, and had an opportunity to sit with artists Charles Gaines and Rick Lowe and curator Eungie Joo, during discussion. It was also at the Venice Biennale that I encountered in real life, and not just in documentation, the work of Joan Jonas, with They Come to Us without A Word. I also encountered, in the hugeness of an international biennale, and in other simultaneous exhibitions, works of artists that I cannot forget: Lorna Simpson, Glenn Ligon, Felix Gonzalez-Torres, David Hammons, Chris Ofili, Dora García and many others. At the Creative Time summit, Okwui Enwezor spoke to the responsibility of an exhibition as a kind of thinking machine, which included infusing old images with new potentials. He agreed that art has no obligation; it can choose to stay silent, deaf to historical conditions in a stance of radical refusal and that it has the right of disengagement. However, an exhibition is something that happens in the world: it comes from the world, from the debris and catastrophe that’s called progress, and as a space of public discourse. Art has a relationship to its historical context.

I don’t remember the first time I encountered the work of Joan Jonas. And I don’t recall when I first read A Glossary of Haunting by Eve Tuck and C. Ree, but I read Eve Tuck’s glossary and it stayed with me. She begins her glossary with an epigraph by Gertrude Stein from her book of poetry Tender Buttons. I mention this because the title of my glossary is A Glossary of Insistence, which could be attributed to Gertrude Stein, although I never fully understand Tender Buttons. There are worlds inside worlds within this book, but rather, perhaps my understanding of Gertrude Stein’s insistence comes via Layli Long Soldier,* a poet, and her reading of Gertrude Stein – that repetition becomes a kind of insistence, which then titles my glossary. Although, I wonder if our kinds of insistence are different.**

Tanya Lukin Linklater: Layli Long Soldier recently won a 2016 Whiting Award and 2015 Lannan Literary Fellowship. Her forthcoming book of poetry, WHEREAS, will be published by Graywolf Press in March 2017.

They are. Consider Glenn Ligon’s Untitled glossary in 30 Americans, the catalogue, and his reference to Stein.

Consider Glenn Ligon’s work Negro Sunshine…

I read Eve Tuck’s A Glossary of Haunting; Eve Tuck is from Alaska like me. She is a scholar at the forefront of decolonization, at least in Indigenous Studies, and she’s invested in knowledge production through publication. I was interested in the conceptual form or structure of the glossary, particularly when the actual text being glossed was invisible or ephemeral. I wonder, does this become a glossary to my practice, to my thinking around performance, the ontology of objects, or lived experience as an Indigenous or more specifically, as an Alutiiq person? I’m also interested in the limits of text, the way a text can be imagistic or possibly sensorial, but cannot fully evoke that which is intangible. The text becomes a kind of constellation.

I gave a talk at Performa in New York for the Aboriginal Embassy organized by IMA Brisbane on Art, Indigeneity and Institutions, and I was thinking of collecting on my island for this talk, and specifically the Alphonse Pinart collection in France. He collected 75 ceremonial masks in the late 19th century from Kodiak Island, and he took those masks to France, where they’re housed in a museum named after him. Nearly a century later, my relative, the late Helen Simeonoff, an artist, was the first Alutiiq person to visit the collection, and she had this powerfully affective response to the masks. Subsequently, many Alutiiq artists have travelled to the collection and, finally, after much relationship building – although I wonder what that relationship looked like, given the power imbalances – the collection travelled to my island in 2005 on the condition that the Alutiiq Museum promised never to repatriate the masks. This promise was made by the director at the time, Sven Haakanson, Jr., a Harvard-trained Alutiiq anthropologist from Old Harbour Village on my island, of Kodiak. This was only 20 years after another Alutiiq anthropologist, Gordon Puller, from Woody Island, was instrumental in the passing of the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, legislation that allowed the return of many of our ancestors from various museums for burial on our island.* This glossary, as well as a number of event scores that I’ve been writing, are reckoning with this history, this loss, this grief, and this not-knowing, and perhaps, I hope, how Alutiiq people can exceed these structures and these histories through insistence.

I later visited the Detroit Institute of Arts and saw 30 Americans from the Rubell Family Collection, and during a walkthrough of the exhibition, a woman began weeping audibly. And it was the first time that I’d ever experienced someone weeping in public in response to an installation or to an object. The sound was loud, and it was coming from her body, and while I couldn’t see her, I witnessed the grief. I can only assume what she was responding to, but it may have been Carrie Mae Weems’ work, where’s she’s looking at anthropological photographs, working through this anthropology that deemed African American people subhuman.

And I say all of this because I have presented A Glossary of Insistence1 in one form, for the Wood- land School – a project by Duane Linklater since 2011 that’s had several different iterations, including residencies, film screenings and now a publication – and I’ll present an expanded version that responds further to these ideas and specifically to a glossary that I discovered by Glenn Ligon, which was in the catalogue for 30 Americans. And what I love about his glossary is his engagement with lived experience, and his critique of Gertrude Stein.* I also plan to respond to Beyonce’s Lemonade, the visual album, and further investigate Audra Simpson’s* generative theories of ethnographic refusal.

Corinn Gerber: The other day, a Jean Coutu sales rep was taking a smoke break on the bench behind the store on my street. When I passed by, he asked me if he could ask me a question. Since I was not in a hurry, I agreed. He asked: “Imagine that you are standing in a room which has mirrors on all four sides: ceiling, floor, left and right walls. How many times are you seeing yourself?” – “That must be a mise en abyme, so an infinite number of times, I think?” – “No. There is a number.” – “Is it algebraically traceable then? So that it would be a potentially endless multiplication of four times four times four times four…?” – “No, there is an answer, there is a number.” “Well, let me know then.” – “The answer is: ‘zero.’ Because all the mirrors are black.”

I am retelling this story in this rather raw, non-linear, non-conclusive and insufficient comment because it evokes a certain feeling, like a spot left empty as a result of an insufficient answer, that resembles the feeling I admittedly had towards the conversations in this series. This feeling is related to form rather than content. The Affinities series took place in relation to a solo exhibition by Joan Jonas, as its framing program. In consequence, the conversations held were a part of this framing.

As a form, a Portapak construction might introduce different selves that produce affinities among each other, but does not necessarily put into question the existence of an original body, a prototype.

When the Writing Group of the Libreria delle donne di Milano was working on their Yellow Catalogue, entitled The Mothers of Us All in reference to Gertrude Stein, in which they read their favourite novels towards a new novel, they forged characters existing between the novels read and their conversations in the group, between fiction and transcription. This led to the acknowledgment of a difference between figures and prototypes. The prototypes were that which the group sought refuge in when the meaning of everything had to be questioned, when the questioning of the existing symbolic order was no longer able to guarantee a common language. They promised to lend an identity. The experiences of most of the protagonists in the novels were fragmented, like those of the women of the group. They could not be summarized into a single figure or emblematic situation. Finally, some of the writers stood in as heroes. “In standing in for Gertrude Stein, I am standing in for myself.”

The goal of the catalogue however, rather than to represent an experience, it was “to find in the story, in the construction of the novel or language, the beginning of an invention of figure donne (“women figures”) towards the articulation of something not yet known. While in life as in literature, autobiography (with few exceptions, such as Gertrude Stein) represents the identity of a person, these figures were representations of female fantasies and ideas about the world. Various approaches to the figures were possible, except that of the literary critic. The women described their approach as “wild,” and it was undertaken from the perspective of the reader. The only thing that was clear, was that this was “a debate about something that we cannot yet name, but which is certainly more important than an interpretation of the author.”

What they found out, is that what they were looking for was happening amongst themselves, rather than amongst the prototypes they consulted. The function of the prototypes was not to lend an identity, but to provide the pretense for the group’s process of articulation, which derives from the differences among its individuals. And it is this articulation that allows new figures to come into being. The same can be applied to the catalogue, the publication itself in its materiality. A figure is never pre-existent, it takes form through a web of interactions among unequals.

Maybe, in order to become deflectable and multipliable in black mirrors, the questions, “How do we conceptualize ‘force’ in relation to the material, social and political body? How do we resist the aestheticization/anesthetization of political urgency? And how to we make a magazine that ‘moves’ in time with political movement?” need to be complemented by another question: “How to move on from ‘prototypes’ to ‘figures’?”

Tanya Lukin Linklater: Audra Simpson is an anthropologist, a citizen of Kahnawake and a faculty member at Columbia University.

BC: Joan, can you say a few words about your work They Come To Us without A Word (2015) in relation to how you convey the idea of non-linear narratives through your images and through the spaces you create?

JJ: They Come To Us without A Word is very much about a continuation of working with the image in relation to the technology. I use very simple techniques, I don’t use special effects. It’s all done, you could say, physically, with projections, with the different materials that I use. I was almost echoing, in my own way, my relation to movement and to the environment, working in the mud-flats outside New York, in Jones Beach, and considering who am I and what am I.

BC: Joan, you continuously break through essentialist clichés, having developed a language that from early on – three decades before [ Judith] Butler – questioned the construction and constitution of our awareness towards gender, within the self.

JJ: I began to think about roles that I could play. For instance, Organic Honey, that was my alter ego, that was the role I was playing. I dressed up and I had to become another character and I didn’t want to be Joan Jonas; that’s why I started wearing masks. Also, I was very self-conscious; I had never performed before so I wanted to hide my face. Then I began to play different roles: the fairy tale of the juniper tree, et cetera. I became interested in how women were depicted in the Grimm Brothers’ fairy tales and in the sagas, which were based on real people. They are three-dimensional characters. I didn’t want to play them all myself so I worked with actresses.

BC: taisha, each time you have performed Decomposition of a Continuous Whole (2009-), it was in completely different types of spaces. What happens with this choreography of lines, the duration and the moment of its inscription, through an activation of a space between the private and the public?

taisha paggett: In many ways, the piece was about me trying to find my way back into making work and, specifically, my way back into how to undo the frontal touring experience. On a basic level, I looked at what that concert experience was, broke that down into its parts and tried to undo it in some form.

It was hard for me, not only in trying to reconcile being a performing body in a space but to perform a work and then be absent while the show continues in the museum context. I was trying to find different ways of asking the question of how we know ourselves, this idea of repetition as a type of knowing* – we are what we repeat, we’re a product of habit, I’m taisha because people kept calling me taisha and I started answering to it. I didn’t know what it meant to practice repetition; to practice repetition there was the need for a trace, and that was where inscription came from.*

Robin Simpson: During taisha’s performance, I kept asking myself what it means to know what to do, what it means to find yourself watching someone who knows what to do or knows what they are doing, and what was I doing? Projecting. Maybe, as taisha circled the room sweeping, leaning, reaching and pausing with the line she was drawing after those already traced out, maybe there was actually a lot of room for projection in the sense that variation was available to spectatorship. That it could all be done again, drawn out and repeated in a different way. That what we were doing there at that moment was looking for a shared score or composition to start knowing and working on or to come to know again. Or we were sharing scores. To try it all out over and over again, not in order to get it right but to get into it, to really sink into change.

I wonder about playing with the emphasis here in order to dilate or contract the proximity between trace and inscription in order to think about embodiment again (not that we’re very far from it). Is it the “need for THERE to be a trace” left behind or is it “TO BE A trace…[from] where inscription came from” ?

Bound by the room, taisha’s performance circumnavigated three walls. As executed, her score only covered the southern half of the room, the rest left empty. Near the end, the score reads “stand pivot. small high circles/travel back,” at which point she breaks from the wall to traverse the room to the opposite surface where she started. Along this trajectory, she drew freely from her repertoire of motions. At this point, the score reads: “Invent line.” Pressure, one form of concentration, was literally lifted in that there was no surface for the crayon to meet, no friction, no deposit and no record. It drew out instead a threshold, point of departure and an arrival, a bridge and at its end a minor percussive instant when the crayon met the wall again – “repeat.”

In this sense, with trace, I also hear account.

BC: You actually come into the space, to write the script and the choreography.

tp: I spend time in the space and I approximate a script that I can follow, and it’s linear, it’s based on real elemental actions: stepping, recording a number of steps, an action that moves forward or backward. As a dancer, there are these traces and vapours and other layers of experience that are always present. I create a new score for every space and it becomes meaningful to perform the piece over time to see how the scores vary, and also my capacity to execute them.


There is also this real interest in performance research – we call it improvisation but I think of it as the performance of research. It’s always been interesting to see what happens to the body, to the experience of thought, to the kind of sourcing that happens in real time dance-making over an expanded period of time.*

Robin Simpson: I felt that taisha being blindfolded during her performance was also a way to welcome disinvestment or withdrawal as a form of self-investment and study. Undertaking this research again spoke to knowing what one needs to do for oneself and trusting that the audience, too, knows how to think on the spot with this, to initiate their own study, and to deal with the models and demands of transparency that they might bring with them.

Simone Forti, An Evening of News Animations, performance, with respondent taisha paggett, June 22, 2016

SIMONE FORTI: That statement expressing interest in finding a new way that was not taking for granted the proscenium and the costume and the virtuosity, that was part of the moment in New York. I’m going to go back a little bit because I really started with Anna Halprin and improvisation. We were working outdoors. Anna still works on her wonderful outdoor deck. And we were working outdoors in the woods on this beautiful deck and exploring movement and it wasn’t so much pedestrian. Before I met Anna Halprin, I had been making big Abstract Expressionist paintings and they were big, and then they were very wet, and they were very oily. I was jumping around, laying paint on the canvases and then I had all these wet canvases that I didn’t know what to do with, and then I came across Anna and we were moving around and jumping and being big and being tiny and then we’d put our shoes back on and that would be that and we wouldn’t have these big floppy wet things to deal with. And there was an aspect of Expressionism in the work, there was something about it that had a certain mood to it. And she had us work off of forms that we saw, in the environment, rhythms that we saw, and I found I could just get into it. Anna had a lot of different approaches; some of them were more anatomical. We worked with our bodies in certain ways but Anna also had us look specifically at the shoulder area, for instance. We’d look at a skeleton, we’d look at books of anatomy and then she’d say, okay, now work for 30 minutes and explore that through our movement and maybe, as weight bearing, or momentum, or the muscles or how the whole body gets involved in an exploration. She had all of these points of departure for improvisations and there was no question of trying to be virtuosic, but she did impart that the more you use your instrument, the larger movement vocabulary just develops on its own.

BC: This was the time in the 1970s when you first developed those dance constructions.

SF: Yes.

BC: And Huddle (1961) was one of the first pieces?

SF: Well, yes. I made seven of them, pretty much at the same time. Huddle takes anywhere from seven to nine people and you get into a huddle and you try to make a kind of a strong little structure, and then you take turns climbing over the top and down the other side, and ideally it goes on for 10 minutes. I saw it both as a sculpture and as a dance. You see someone put a foot here, grab a shoulder there to pull yourself up and start the climb, and the group underneath shifts to let the weight go through. It’s very nice how you work together without even meaning to, it just happens – the weight on this shoulder goes through the next person and then to the ground.

BC: At one point, you started looking at behavioural patterns, movements, not just of other humans or in relationships to objects, but also, of animals.

SF: A lot of my changes of phase were involved with my changes of personal situation and break-ups, and how a breakup happens or a loss happens and then you have to somehow turn the page. I went to Rome after my marriage and I found an apartment near the zoo. I met a gallerist, Fabio Sargentini, and the gallery was sort of the central meeting place for Arte Povera artists. He let me use the gallery in the mornings when it was closed, and in the afternoon I would go to the zoo and I’d sit near the wolf or I’d go hang out with the elephant, and after a while, some of them started to recognize me, and I had this sense of communion but I was also watching the movement. For instance, if we’re going to turn around and go in the other direction, we’ll do something like that. [She demonstrates a normal change of direction.] But a bear will go… [She demonstrates swinging her head to the side and letting that swing pull her whole body into the new direction.][…]

[…]And I made a lot of drawings. I started working with that study of body structure and how the transition between crawling and striding works. It interested me that I didn’t have to break stride to change my level, and I was looking not only at the difference but the similarity between their gaits and mine. And I could move like that, too, trying on those animals’ ways of moving in my body, and then at a certain point realizing that certain of them were playing with movement to pass the time of day. You could find it among bears, you could find it among elephants; I saw a not quite grown chimp that had found a little hole in the ground, put its finger in the hole and lean out. It was going around and around like that, so I started to see movement games and movement practices. I’d watch the elephants and ask myself, is that compulsive behaviour? Then one day I saw an elephant that was doing this… [She demonstrates a lilting back and forward stepping, with a kick at either end.] Another elephant came over and they slapped trunks a little bit, then that one went on, and this one went back to its practice. And I said, I know what that is, I do it too. And so I started to see what seemed like the roots of dance behaviour.*

Olivia Boudreau: While thinking about how Joan Jonas avoids the pitfalls of cultural appropriation, I had this realization: the rituals she creates, while deeply influenced by different cultures, are about similarities. What links us, what is it that we share through our stories, our rituals, our symbols? It’s made with deep respect in that sense, because it’s an act of communion. Like Simone Forti, she creates common denominators.


tp: I was struck by hearing you recount that how you began was an impulse toward experimentation and playing with materials you had – not to simplify a lot of other things but I came into making work from a very institutional perspective. I started dancing and I came to art as a dancer, and I was asking questions back at the form that I had come into. I’ve been trying to unpack and parse the institutional layers and find my own way and wildness in experimentation through that. I think there’s another layer of that in relation to improvisation, and being a Black body, and this notion of “wildness.” There’s a type of wildness that I didn’t have access to because* I was trying to prove or disprove a certain notion of what a Black body is and is supposed to do. […] There was a lot about thinking about how, for me, improvisation is a type of learning or unlearning, and so with every repetition it became interesting how much the body was able to replicate the line that came before it. After I did this work I continued with a series of similarly structured long-form performance works that played with repetition because that was my way of getting what I wanted in the context of performance.**

Robin Simpson: Before having this transcription in hand, I remembered taisha saying something along the lines of improvisation was not free but wild.

Tanya Lukin Linklater: This idea of repetition and long performance and how this comes to inhabit and be within the body – this is about methodology but also speaks to form… I wonder what occurs when we repeat. Perhaps we insist? Perhaps within the structure, we find space between. So it’s not the structure or form itself but these intangible, immaterial spaces between that we can access through the process.

Olivia Boudreau: Michèle Thériault used the expression “an insistent female body” concerning my work and I think it’s quite apt. Long performances and repetitive forms may suggest alienation and/or submission, whereas I see the body as resistant and assertive. A body that tolerates the experience and finds space within the structure, as Tanya says, is a creative and tenacious body.

BC: taisha, you evoked the hidden yet ever-present question of how we look at art and what this act of perception implies within the museum, as a place where ideological, economic and historical, as well as aesthetic, notions encounter each other. You did so on [the] one hand, through your choreography, and also by simply opening the windows of the fourth floor at Phi Centre. This caused the air conditioning to turn off. It became hot and there was wind and noise from the outside entering the white cube – a simple yet complex gesture, that undid the neutrality of the white cube. All your works address and reframe our understanding and visibility of the power relationships inherent to institutions. Simone, can you talk about the relationship of the inside and the outside in relation to the institution? For example, bringing the zoo/nature into the institution or using these movements within an enclosed environment.

SF: I’ve been asked to do a performance in nature and I don’t know what to do. I like to work in nature to get forms, to find movement qualities of a rock or water falling, but then I need to work with that in the studio. And if I then go on to perform, it needs to be in a kind of studio space or gallery space, and maybe that’s a fault, why I have to bring it indoors, but I do. If I’m outside, I don’t know how to enhance the environment. That doesn’t connect to how taisha brought the weather, the outdoors indoors, but in a way it’s similar to what I do, it’s bringing something from outside inside in kind of a viewing situation.

tp: When I watch you perform I think about making immaterial or invisible things visible by bringing them into action – manifesting forms and then they dissolve. It’s so much about space and so much about inside and outside, which is similar to what we see and what we don’t see.*