Attention
When I enter a cemetery, it takes a moment for me to adjust my attention. I embark on a search. I have no pre-determined intention to visit a particular plot or monument. I never know what it is I am looking for. I always know that I will find something. Gradually I develop a pace and begin to tune myself to the site. I harmonize myself with its fabric. Moments start to stand out to me. I observe the shadow of a vine droop onto the back of a marble slab constructing a tessellated pattern. I count the slow drip of water falling from a faucet, aligning my internal clock to its sense of time. I visit the narrow space between two mausoleums, captivated by the illusion of depth it creates.
Unlike an archeologist, I carry no shovel. I don’t need x-ray technology to pierce through the surface. Instead, I dig with my eyes. I trust that I have enough tools held within my body to discover what I wish to know. My ears hold onto the whispers of trees rustling to find an ancient witness that existed before this was even a place. I hear the wailing of shrouded women trailing a coffin raised above the arms of their husbands. My tongue tastes the sweet stale air. My nose smells the familiar scent of formaldehyde and rotting flowers. The sun hits the back of my neck, baking it into a red tinge. I press my feet into the architecture belonging to those who are long gone.
I pull out my unlined Moleskin notebook to translate and capture what is happening. Drawing is a form of close looking. It slows me down into a practice of intention and discovery. Using my ballpoint pen, I break down what has grasped my attention into lines, shapes, and gradients of value. What I cannot draw, I write. I create a rough aerial map of the site filled with detailed symbols. A diagram of nothing and everything.
What is knowing?
I look for ways to hold onto these feelings of freedom from fear and a strange sense of connectedness with this place.
The ultimate conundrum of the project is that I cannot truly record it. I fill every inch of my paper, cramming my writing into the corners so that there is no negative space. This is compensation for my anxieties. I demonstrate all my effort to hold onto every feeling my living body has, but again they vanish. My field notes only go so far. Their excess tries to conceal the unknowable, but I cannot know it all. I trust my attention to lead me to what I can.
When I enter a cemetery, it takes a moment for me to adjust my attention. I embark on a search. I have no pre-determined intention to visit a particular plot or monument. I never know what it is I am looking for. I always know that I will find something. Gradually I develop a pace and begin to tune myself to the site. I harmonize myself with its fabric. Moments start to stand out to me. I observe the shadow of a vine droop onto the back of a marble slab constructing a tessellated pattern. I count the slow drip of water falling from a faucet, aligning my internal clock to its sense of time. I visit the narrow space between two mausoleums, captivated by the illusion of depth it creates.
Unlike an archeologist, I carry no shovel. I don’t need x-ray technology to pierce through the surface. Instead, I dig with my eyes. I trust that I have enough tools held within my body to discover what I wish to know. My ears hold onto the whispers of trees rustling to find an ancient witness that existed before this was even a place. I hear the wailing of shrouded women trailing a coffin raised above the arms of their husbands. My tongue tastes the sweet stale air. My nose smells the familiar scent of formaldehyde and rotting flowers. The sun hits the back of my neck, baking it into a red tinge. I press my feet into the architecture belonging to those who are long gone.
I pull out my unlined Moleskin notebook to translate and capture what is happening. Drawing is a form of close looking. It slows me down into a practice of intention and discovery. Using my ballpoint pen, I break down what has grasped my attention into lines, shapes, and gradients of value. What I cannot draw, I write. I create a rough aerial map of the site filled with detailed symbols. A diagram of nothing and everything.
What is knowing?
I look for ways to hold onto these feelings of freedom from fear and a strange sense of connectedness with this place.
The ultimate conundrum of the project is that I cannot truly record it. I fill every inch of my paper, cramming my writing into the corners so that there is no negative space. This is compensation for my anxieties. I demonstrate all my effort to hold onto every feeling my living body has, but again they vanish. My field notes only go so far. Their excess tries to conceal the unknowable, but I cannot know it all. I trust my attention to lead me to what I can.