I have chosen to work with poetry because I think it holds something similar to art, it has the strength to create movement and pace in a confined form, allowing the reader to respond quickly to the atmosphere and mood portrayed. I create work which brings an immediate emotional response, absorbing the audience into a created environment. Poetry gives me the emotion and rhythm to work from.
Barbara Guest “My poems tend more to language than ideas.” ‘There is an invisible architecture often supporting the surface of the poem, interrupting the progress of the poem. It reaches into the poem in search for an identity with the poem,’
‘By whom or by what agency is the behavior of the poem suggested, by what invisible architecture, we ask, is the poem developed. The Surrealists taught us to wander freely on the page, releasing mechanical birds, if we so desire, to nest in the invisible handwriting of composition. There is always something within poetry that desires the invisible.’ I am researching the way Guest forms poetry, the structural sequence to her poems is deliberate to influence the readers’ unconscious to pause, reflect and relax during the time spent digesting the poetry. In the article below Guest describes this structure as an invisible architecture, a structure which exists previous to the visible appearance of the poem on the page, it’s the poet taking control over the reader like the poem took control over the poet. I found this article interesting because it shows the power of poetry in expressing emotions in the way the emotions can take over the writer and become an in identity in the form of a poem. This inspires the way I can visually communicate poetry through form, material and space.
Alice Greenwood Bliss - The Door Harp On the door of the house is the old, unusual harp. Shape of a halved fig, an upset wooden heart. Three deep brown wooden balls hang from three wooden spikes and lie still against its three taut strings. It looks like a bird house. The balls are the birds that visit and sing their secret for a moment. Bought by my mum in her twenties as an apology for staying out too late and worrying my grandparents, it ironically became the tell-tale of her entrance time. The wooden ball is smooth between my finger and thumb, like a warm marble, I let it fall. The note is sweet. This awkward unhomely house on the edge of the motor way. The pebbles in the drive way crunch under car wheels. It has always felt oddly hollow; the door harp brings it home. I imagine she opens the door. I stand engulfed by her perfume; it precedes her hug. Fingers of scent that fathom my skin. She bends to my height. Note her blonde hair-do first, then her gleaming earrings hanging. Her powdered cheek is cold against mine. She has the magnetism of Christmas; this vision has the superficiality of Christmas too. It fades like a scent. Then I see him peeking from behind, a grin splitting his round, red face from ear to ear. Like a present poking out from behind a tree. He pinches my ear. Then I follow the line of his corduroys up as I am swooped from the ground and he swings me round. Their beloved doll. The hallway before me, the lines narrowing to the square of the landing where the dust does ballet under the grey gaze of a cloudy afternoon sky, is as unyielding as a static TV. As I step forward it feels as impossible and foreign as the world behind a screen. Another family will move in soon. My little brother’s laugh bounces in behind me, his platinum curls twisting round his rubbery youthful face. Immortal. Nabbing ‘the animal bedroom’, as always. The one the colour of first prize. The one the colour of Africa. The one adorned with frames from grandparents I don’t recognise. Grandparents on elephant’s backs and propped in front of waterfalls. They don’t feel like mine, they don’t feel human, they are treasures. Relics of the past. They look so free. Next door is where I sleep: ‘the spotty bedroom’. It is always winter here. My private sphere. I lie and wait for the knives of cold sunlight to penetrate the dense blue of the curtains. And on the curtains are red and green flecks, I imagine each of them as a person who has or had a life once. Caught in this moment, what are they each feeling? This house is just bones now. My grandma shakes in her motions round the kitchen. I float into the dining room; the glazed, oak, oval table catches on my sticky fingers. It is almost the last to go. I once flopped naked on this table eating chocolate from a jar – I have no memory, just a photo. Faces round the table crumble into tears. Dissolve like snow on a child’s tongue. And the change evokes a change in me, a realisation forms like water freezing. My grandma at the heart of the company. She has never looked so fragile and I’ve never felt her to be so strong. Never felt the strength of the family so crushingly. The door harp chimes as the door creaks shut behind me.
— Alice Greenwood Bliss
I am continuing to work from Alice’s poetry which we exchanged for the Ampersand project. This is a piece of prose she sent me. The imagery which she creates in her writing really inspires me, I like how she creates a sense of transition and time by describing changing atmospheres, which act like markers to enhance the navigation of narrative.
I also admire the way she can document mundane personal focus points, for example ‘on the curtains are red and green flecks, I imagine each of them as a person who has or had a life once. Caught in this moment, what are they each feeling?’, this isn’t logical thought it’s almost dreamlike, she’s taking us through what she sees and what thoughts are triggered through the transition of her surroundings. This reveals her personality and gives the reader fragments of what goes on inside her head. I am deeply intrigued by this connection formed between Alice’s external and internal environment, each continually reacting off each other.
Robert Desnos - Under Cover of Night
To slip into your shadow under cover of night. To follow your footsteps, your shadow at the window. That shadow at the window is you and no one else; it’s you. Do not open that window behind whose curtains you’re moving. Shut your eyes. I’d like to shut them with my lips. But the window opens and the breeze, the breeze which strangely balances flame and flag surrounds my escape with its cloak. The window opens: it’s not you. I knew it all along.
— Robert Desnos - Under Cover of Night
I interpreted this poem as a confusion with identity, almost like a battle between who you are and who you desire to be. Truth vs disguise.
I chose to look into this poem because I am interested in the idea of identity not just of individuals but also the identity of our surroundings. Questioning the concept of reality. I like the way this poem uses structures and mundane elements from our environment as metaphors for the battle of identity. My proposal discussed the way in which I want to create utopian environments - perfect environments which distort reality, taking the audience away from where they really are and feeding them a new, created, purposeful space. This poem does writes what I want to physically create - the use of the environment to communicate emotions and themes.
Jun'ichirō Tanizaki - In Praise of Shadows
This book is by Tanizaki one of the greatest Japanese novelists. The essay poetically describes traditional Japanese interiors and how Western influence can overpower and challenge the artistic qualities of Japanese architecture.
He creates fluid visual imagery through his writing, giving life to the interiors by describing the movement of light and the beauty in the shadows it creates.
I read through the book and drew out sentences which inspired me, those which had the potential to form a narrative… ‘And yet, when we gaze into the darkness that gathers behind the crossbeam, around the flower vase, beneath the shelves, though we know perfectly well it is mere shadow, we are overcome with the feeling that in this small corner of the atmosphere there reigns complete and utter silence; that here in the darkness immutable tranquility holds sway.’
‘I blink in uncertainty at this dreamlike luminescence, feeling as though some misty film were blunting my vision. The light from the pale white paper, powerless to dispel the heavy darkness of the above, is instead repelled by the darkness, creating a world of confusion where dark and light are indistinguishable.’
Barbara Guest’s - ‘Deception’
This poem particularly influenced my because of the way it reads. Each line seems slightly detached from the next, I feel like I am actively piecing together the narrative as I read rather then absorbing the narrative which already exists. The lines and spaces physically presented on the page fill in the detached gaps of narrative, the space becomes a part of the narrative.
This method of piecing together a narrative is something I am working towards.
I have been researching and reading a diverse range of poetry in search of a piece of writing that demonstrated atmosphere, emotion, and topology of space. After vigorous searching I found that many poems inspired me but they individually lacked a strong narrative form to work from. I also found that setting the atmosphere was only a small part of many poems rather than a changing element communicated throughout. I began to collect and paste parts of poems onto a document - when I read back through the selected parts a narrative started to form, I began to subconsciously make connections between disconnected parts of text. This lead me to a table full of printed verses, lines, sentences, chunks of visual language which I physically used to piece narrative together. My UEA collaborative partner Alice continued to send me work which I am also using. Her sense of atmosphere and narrative was something I struggled to find anywhere else.
The underlining themes to the text I selected looks at: Identity/ Objects/ Dreams/ Reality/ Death/ Life/ Light/ Time of day
These are snippets I have selected from texts and poetry as follow: The Blue Stairs BY BARBARA GUEST The Screen of Distance BY BARBARA GUEST Words By Barbara Guest Jun'ichirō Tanizaki, In Praise of Shadows BY WARSAN SHIRE Backwards BY WARSAN SHIRE The House After Frank O’Hara / After Roger Reeves BY EILEEN MYLES Dream 2 BY IZUMI SHIKIBU Although the wind.. BY JANE HIRSHFIELD Chair Identity, Constantinos Grigoriadis The Door Harp By Alice Greenwood Bliss Skipping Stones - Alice Greenwood Aubade - Alice Greenwood The Dawn Chorus - Alice Greenwood Sharmistha Mohanty By Angela Carter The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories Robert Desnos - Under Cover Of Night Identity Of Images (IdentitÉ Des Images) - Poem by Robert Desnos
I have selected the verbatim sentences and words from the poems I have listed above. Constructing these sentences together on the computer made the poems all blend into each other, it was hard to keep track of the poems as individual pieces. I started printing out all the lines I was working from, I wanted to physically handle them and piece them together. This process was really fun and effective in creating interesting narratives.
My Final Constructed Poem - Yes, here’s a room Yes, here’s a room so warm & blood-close, I swear, you will wake-- & mistake these walls for skin.
I need only pause before it and I forget the passage of time. The sound of softly falling rain.
My private sphere. I lie and wait for the knives of cold sunlight to penetrate the dense blue of the curtains. And on the curtains are red and green flecks, I imagine each of them as a person who has or had a life once. Caught in this moment, what are they each feeling?
I blink in uncertainty at this dreamlike luminescence, feeling as though some misty film were blunting my vision. The light from the pale white paper, powerless to dispel the heavy darkness of the above, is instead repelled by the darkness, creating a world of confusion where dark and light are indistinguishable.
Transparent bottles huddled on the floor, In the sunlight only, I can see right through. In this bright hour I’m awake before, I contemplate that soon this might be you: An empty bottle in the light, consumed,
You walk past, turning to look again, and yet again;
The little sunlight from the garden that manages to make its way beneath the eaves and through the corridors has by then lost its power to illuminate, seems drained of the complexion of life.
A life glitters under leaves piled for anonymity …
So dilute is the light there that no matter what the season, on a fair day or cloudy, morning, midday, or evening, the pale, white glow scarcely varies.
A degree of dimness, absolute cleanliness, and quiet so complete one can hear the hum of a mosquito.
There is no fear in taking the first step or the second or the third
The hallway before me, the lines narrowing to the square of the landing where the dust does ballet under the grey gaze of a cloudy afternoon sky, is as unyielding as a static TV. As I step forward it feels as impossible and foreign as the world behind a screen.
On the far side of the screen, at the edge of the little circle of light, the darkness seemed to fall from the ceiling, lofty, intense, monolithic, the fragile light of the candle unable to pierce its thickness, turned back as from a black wall.
And yet, when we gaze into the darkness that gathers behind the crossbeam, around the flower vase, beneath the shelves, though we know perfectly well it is mere shadow, we are overcome with the feeling that in this small corner of the atmosphere there reigns complete and utter silence; that here in the darkness immutable tranquility holds sway.
Then suddenly send forth on ethereal glow, a faint golden light cast into the enveloping darkness, like the glow upon the horizon at sunset.
so that the distinction between what is human and what is not falls away And the shadows at the interstices of the ribs seem strangely immobile, as if dust collected in the corners has become a part of
The person who insists upon seeing her ugliness, like the person who would shine a hundred-candlepower light upon the picture alcove, drives away whatever beauty may reside there.
My presence dropping, my outer walls locked, Like sinking cargo carried by the sea . into the cadmium yellow of a bewildering sunset rendered by apprehension where a broad approach to a narrow tunnel is fanned by leaves is faced with a decision— at the stylized ominous entrance I wonder if reality will maintain me or empathic snow subdue my quest ….
To slip into your shadow under cover of night. To follow your footsteps, your shadow at the window.
An empty space is marked off with plain wood and plain walls, so that the light drawn into it forms dim shadows within emptiness.
There is a cold and desolate tinge to the light by the time it reaches these panels.
If light is scarce then light is scarce; we will immerse ourselves in the darkness and there discover its own particular beauty.
About the Final Poem... Comparing identity to the changing perception of an interior space. Interior spaces are within a shell like exterior similar to the face of a person, this interior is constantly changing its presence remains the same to a certain extent, although what’s within the shell shifts and alters to the activity of its inhabitants. A built space is similar to a person, it’s affected by natural and artificial acts yet it remains the essence of it’s original build. Identity of a person is sometimes challenged by external and internal forces, yet the person still remains.
This is the final poem above, I am continuing to edit it as I create the visuals. This poem uses light to express the changing identity of space. I have tried to piece together a narrative which uses poetic imagery illustrating the time of day, so the sequence of poetic imagery is formed from the movement of light throughout the day. I did this to give the narrative a structure and a natural form, so the reader already has a connection to the existing text.
The poem plays with the personification of space to illustrate the concept of 'Identity'. In some parts the movement of light is describing the feelings and emotions of a person.
The tenses are switched throughout, it talks about ‘I’, ‘You’ and ‘We’ - this creates changing perspectives of a person witnessing the changing identity of space, using this imagery as a comparison to the changing emotions within them.
This comparison of a persons identity and the spaces identity becomes unidentifiable, the words continue to switch between both of these subjects - this switching creates confusion, illustrating the journey of identifying yourself, your surroundings, and those people around you.
Light moves through a space, identifying objects in it’s path, casting a shadow over what it leaves behind, carrying the cast of objects onto the next object in it’s path, it is everywhere, then it is nowhere, then it’s here, it’s its own element, yet it can be in more than one place at one time, how can we identify it as this individual element? A person transitions through space, their surroundings are constantly changing, creating a response in them, they adapt to what they are experiencing, their shell changes with time, as does their non physical identity, yet we call them the same person?
Analysing the Poem
Establishing the narrative of the poem to inspire the sequence of visuals within the film. The narrative is greatly led by the time of day, so this will be coherent in the film. As I was reading the poem I was trying to visualise space and where the photographs should be taken within my house. This process helped my to identify the spacial journey which can communicate the poem effectively.
Audio
I have decided to record the poem to be played when watching the film. The reason I was reluctant to do this earlier on in the term was because I don't want my audience to listen so much to the words that it restricts their personal perception of the installation experience. The poem is the content to which I was inspired to create the visuals, I don't necessarily think it's needed. However, after some thought, I decided having optional headphones for the recording allow the audience to choose how they want to experience it, whether they want to see the film first and then listen to the poem, or not at all, or during. Everyone likes to experience art in their own way, the important thing for the artist is to provide the accessibility to the content but now shout it out.
My first intention was to collect recordings of other people reading my poem. I was interested to hear how other people read it, and how the tone of their voice enhanced the narrative and changed the rhythm.
After collecting over 10 people reading the poem I decided I wanted to try and cut and past lines from each recording to create an audio of the collection of lines from a range of people. I felt that it would help to communicate the concept of identity and it's diversity in people and space. I did find this interesting to listen to, but I felt the poem lost it's own identity, lost it's rhythm. I wanted people to hear the poem from how I interpreted it, I wanted the audience to hear the rhythm I felt it had when I formed it. So I recorded my own voice. I do still feel sad not to be using the collected voices, but I am glad I experimented with the audio. I am still contemplating having two recordings of the poem, the second being the collected voices overlapping, so the listener can hear a crowd speaking, allowing them to draw out lines and verses through sound.