Walter de Maria + Arwenack Avenue in One Step (Started October 2014)

My latest tutorial was very useful as it helped me unpack my interest in Arwenack Avenue and why I find it fascinating. I started the project thinking about how the space is used in the process of rope-making, so I looked at rope, cast it in different materials etc. but was not entirely satisfied with the potential of the results. However, Jonty's questioning made me realise that it is also the distance and the expanse that draws me to that particular place. This links with my love and awe of vast spaces, where you can see a long way into the distance. We discussed how puzzling it is to be able to look back on where you have just been, making you consider time, space and distance. I have always been baffled with how at one time I can be at a certain place, and then minutes later could be looking at that spot from far away.

It reminds me of John Berger's description in 'Ways of Seeing' of how humans (particularly women, he says) have a kind of dual-vision of the world; in the same moment viewing the world around them, and imagining the world viewing them from a different perspective. If for instance I am walking a long a beach, I see my surroundings as I walk and experience them in real-time senses, but when I turn round to look at where I have just walked I view the space in a different way, recollecting it in a memory as well as imagining seeing my journey through the space as if from a third person perspective. Arwenack Avenue invites this manner of thinking because it is a long expanse, each end visible from the opposite one, and invites the imagination to depict the journey along it.

 

It has occurred to me that this concept, of being stimulated to imagine and remember, is also true for photographs for spanning larger amounts of time. People use images to remember the past and in doing so relive a moment that traverses space, distance and time. This is fitting with how I routinely record things for memory's sake, photographing my bedroom to remember what it will have used to look like, as well as regularly looking through old photos to find what I was doing this time last month, last year etc. For four years I have also kept a video log of myself talking into a camera every few months to record my appearance and mannerisms in order to look back at myself in the future. This obsession with recording the present very much links to and inspires my Blue Marlble Instagram project, but I have been looking for a way to express it in my studio work and link it to my other themes.

 

I have been interested in Walter de Maria's work for a while, discovering 'Lightning Field' in the first year temporal practices seminar. I am particularly drawn to De Maria's investigation of distance and measurements of the world. I observed this in my mediascape essay, comparing his Verical Earth Kilometer in Kassel, to how Katie Paterson constricts time in her practice. I also saw De Maria's 'Apollo's Ecstacy' at the last Venice Biennale, where lengths of bronze rod were displayed on the floor of the Encyclopedic Palace. I started thinking about the way in which these lengths described something bigger (the world) and how they might be used to extend the imagination to a different place.

 

 

I wanted to make something that would condense the length of Arwenack Avenue into a tangible object or a work that could be experienced in a single moment, something entirely opposite to the place itself but taken from it. I watched a feature film recently called 'Exhibition' in which one of the characters described how a yard is a 'human measurement', there is something significant about it because it is a unit based on the human body. Indeed Wikipedia informs me that:

 

"Some believe it derived from the double cubit, or that it originated from cubic measure, others from its near equivalents, such as the length of a stride or pace. One postulate was that the yard was derived from the girth of a person's waist, while another claim held that the measure was invented by Henry I of England as being the distance between the tip of his nose and the end of his thumb."

 

The human experience of the space seemed very relevant to my ideas about Arwenack Avenue so I decided to create a work using the average length of my walking stride, or footstep. Thus, I made 'Arwenack Avenue in One Step' - rope the length of a footstep dissected and stretched out to the length of Arwenack Avenue. This involved a lot of calculations, how many lengths I should split the rope into etc. It also necessitated me walking up and down Arwenack several times whilst counting my footsteps. It was also quite a tricky process as the rope lost a lot of structural integrity once it was unravelled, returning to loose fibres. Although this was difficult to work with, I like how the rope became its own opposite, unable to hold things together and very fragile. Having researched 'picking oakum', a form of punishment where prisoners, slaves and children in the workhouse were made to unpick old rope into small strands, I also thought about how labour-intensive the task was that I had set myself. Time, however, was a central part of the work; taking a long time seemed to make it more significant.

 

I have not finished the work but because it will take a long time, wanted to reflect on it properly before I continue. It always feels like a risk embarking on a work that will take a long time when the outcome is unknown.

 

 

November 2014 - I have decided that I wont complete the rope work as I don't think it is strong enough to take forward. In the recent group crit, people said that my most successful experiment is casting between the floorboards with latex, because of the mystery surrounding the dirt's history. In a tutorial with Jonty, he also mentioned how it is good to leave the viewer enough space to make up their own meaning to the work, which the floorboard idea does but the stretched out rope does not. I now think that the idea is too obvious, it reveals too much without saying a lot, and because of its site specificity probably wouldn't invite people's imaginations as they might not know about the place that it describes.

Rope + Sticky Things

Initially I had envisaged casting the rope in a more translucent material than latex, that would be more subtle and closer in its qualities to the snake skin that I was given. I wanted it to be more fragile, paper-like instead of rubbery. Indeed I tried making a cast out of paper, but it fell apart very easily and was not at all a success. As I have a lot of leftover sellotape from last year's project, I used this; the process was dramatically quicker than the latex experiment, but still had the same sense of the result being 'revealed' when the sellotape shell was peeled away. I was happy with the shape, how it had taken on the twists of the rope fairly well and it was translucent as I had hoped; however, I can't see myself taking this material any further as I don't think it lends any relevant connotations to themes of 'memory' or 'skin' which I am dealing with.

 

 

Although in the workshop I was told that latex would be a better alternative to pva for casting the exterior of the rope, I decided to try it out. Releasing the dried glue from the fibres was even trickier than with the latex, as the fibres seemed to almost have absorbed the liquid so it was fused together to a greater extent. I really like how, although the pva did not retain the shape of the twists of rope, the fibres that set in the material showed where the strands were. The pattern is translated instead by the brown-grey colour of the fibre. Likewise with the sellotape, I don't think I will be taking this idea any further, but I found it a really interesting exercise to do.

A Small Resurrection

Material Experimentation

The last two weeks in the studio have been really exciting and productive. Having been told in my last tutorial to stop reading and researching and to concentrate on playing with materials, I have focused on exploring the possibilities of rope and latex. All Summer I had been thinking about covering a rope in something and then shedding it like a snake's skin, so this was my starting point.

It was suggested that instead of PVA I use latex, as it might give a better shape and has a skin-like quality to it. The result was fascinating to me. Having never worked with latex before, it was really interesting to observe how it works - its viscosity, how it can be applied to the rope, how quickly it dries, the colour change. I struggled at first to shed the latex, and made a lot of rips, finding that I was so eager to see the end result that I wasn't allowing enough time to do the process. This made me think about the pace of working, and how each material process demands a certain pace and state of mind. Reflecting on what I was doing actively helped me to do it in this instance, and I settle into a slower pace of working that better suited the material.

The process of removing the latex from the rope, slicing through the 'skin' and freeing it, fibre by trapped fibre, felt like a kind of scientific process. I was reminded of the 'What Do Artists Do All Day' episode with Polly Morgan, where she carefully shed the skin of animals for taxidermy, or even footage of surgery that I've seen on TV. I really enjoy the quasi-scientific feeling that I encounter occasionally in my work; I love the thought that through my own little obsessions I am making discoveries about the world. In the practices of Mark Dion, Cornelia Parker and Susan Hiller, I see similarities in how scientific processes are used for art purposes.

I am really pleased with the results of this experiment, the product is strange and fascinating. Although the 'skin' is thicker and more opaque than I had originally hoped, it has picked up the shape well and still very much resembles a rope. I was struck at once by how disgusting and repulsive the material was, outside and especially on the inner surface where it is both rubbery and furry at once. Everyone who has seen it has had a similar immediate and visceral reaction, describing it as 'gross', 'foul', 'disgusting' ...but still 'beautiful', 'cool' and especially 'interesting'. Last year I was looking at phobic materials and patterns and how something can at once fascinate/attract and deeply repulse. In one discussion I had, the word 'abject' came up, which is a concept I need to investigate further as I don't fully understand it.


http://www.tate.org.uk/learn/online-resources/glossary/a/abject-art

In initial research into 'abjection' on the Tate website I was interested to read that "the abject has a strong feminist context, in that female bodily functions in particular are ‘abjected’ by a patriarchal social order." In our crit, someone referred to my latex rope as an umbilical cord, which I suppose demonstrates these kind of associations. The abject is puzzling to me as I am not sure whether it is inherent, a material feature, or a subjective notion like beauty that exists in a work depending on individual sensitivities. I aim to investigate the idea further, looking at artists such as Sarah Lucas and Louise Bourgeois. 

British Art Medals

The British Art Medal competition seemed like an interesting opportunity to join a really fascinating and quirky institution, as well as to learn about bronze casting and metal work. Initially I had doubts about whether my practice might suit the medal concept, as it seemed to require quite an illustrative design, drawing instead of working in 3D. I very quickly decided that I wanted to make my medal more conceptual, causing something to happen in the viewer/holder's mind instead of it being purely visual. I thought the two-side relationship of the medal would lend itself to this way of experiencing the object.

Ed and I decided to work collaboratively as he was unsure of design ideas but keen on learning the process, and I was interested in producing a conceptual object but reluctant (very scared) about working with a new technique. I always seem to struggle with new ways of working, especially when they are technical and involve practice and precision; I am forever concerned that I am doing it wrong. Working collaboratively seemed to resolve both of our issues, as well as giving us a formal opportunity to create something together that we have both designed. We are always discussing each other's work and giving each other ideas but are yet to produce something together.

Experiencing the example medals was a great help in finding a concept. The medal seems like such a unique art form, which I hadn't encountered before and it seemed necessary to make the design intrinsic to the medium; it seemed too tenuous to use bronze if the message did not relate directly to the material. I was really struck by how heavy some of them felt, drawing my hand downwards by the palm. It was a delicious weight, comforting and grounding. I knew from this that the idea had to be about the properties of bronze. Inspired by Cornelia Parker's way of using statistics (length, weight etc.) in associating one thing with another, we began to look at significant numbers to do with the material... could the medal be the weight of a human heart, or skull? Perhaps Bronze has the same melting point as the Earth's core. How long would the medal need to be held before its temperature became that of the human body? The research was pretty futile as the statistics we found online were all very vague or didn't match each other. However all this searching provided us with the idea we are taking forward.

Ed discovered that both copper and tin (which make up the bronze alloy) are elements produced in supernovae. Stars seem to have an intrinsic poetry to them, perhaps because they are far away and mysterious, or because they look beautiful in the sky, or even because of humanity's historical relationship to them.

It seems necessary to understand my interpretation of the word 'poetic', as I use it so often in my work. Particularly significant synonyms include: romantic, dramatic, idyllic, imaginative. Something that is poetic, to me, touches on all these things; it appeals to the imagination, captures a sense of the Universe's power, is sentimental or idealistic, and is most commonly intensely beautiful.  Recently I have been thinking about other things that are inherently poetic: death, birth, religion, the Universe... they are all very powerful concepts, extraordinary but also ubiquitous, age-old but endlessly evocative.

The death of a star is an incredibly poetic notion, which we wanted to call upon with our medal. By changing the viewer's knowledge of the material, it will inherit a vast new meaning; at first holding a medal largely similar to all the other's, the holder will end up with a piece of metal that traverses time and space, the remnants of an astronomical explosion. The design will be very simple: on one side an impression of a hand so that it fits into the palm when held, on the other the chemical formula 'CuSn4', and around the edge the words 'REMNANTS OF A SUPERNOVA FITTING COMFORTABLY IN THE PALM'. Including the impression of the palm is a suggestion of our place in the Universe, making something personal and particular to one human at one particular point in time, from elements that exist throughout the existence, that are recycled through time and space.

When researching the artist Katie Paterson, I found a quote about her work that capture's our intentions for the medal... "It appeals directly to our imaginations, revealing our abiding wonder at the Universe and all its possibilities, whilst also making us acutely aware of the limitations of our own mortality".

Too Much/Not Enough (Latex and Time)

I am feeling a little overwhelmed at the minute, with work and remembering all the things I keep on meaning to do. My desk is swamped with lists and bullet pointed ideas about things I could make, but don't have the energy or belief, it would seem, to carry out. I have been asking myself many times over in the last 24 hours, what it is that interests me about Arwenack.... I've had a discussion about it, written down ideas, thought about it, thought about not thinking about it and have done an awful lot of vacant staring (has worked in past), with no illuminating discoveries to show. No one idea has jumped out at me that I feel inclined to follow.

 

One thing which has become more prominent in my thoughts however, is the concept of time. When I found out that Arwenack was once a ropwalk, with workers repeatedly walking the length of it, I began to imagine their journey. I have always found distance and time fascinating; how time passes when walking and how something is at one moment very close, and the next, far away. Perhaps I might try filming myself walking up and down Arwenack and experiment with the footage, observing time and distance (another idea I am already reluctant to do).

 

I think that maybe I am trying very hard for my work to have meaning, but am not entirely comfortable with the new ways of working that I have in mind... and I miss making. I don't want to put all my efforts into video or performance when I'd much rather be sitting and making things with my hands, although I am unsure what materials I can use that have enough connotative value. I've never approached a project with the concept at the forefront of the idea, it is usually the process that leads.

 

So terribly stuck.

 

I began covering my metre of rope in latex today, something I have been putting off for a while. I had a very uncomfortable afternoon in the workshop on account of all the things I usually avoid being present in one, fairly normal, situation. (Asking for help, hanging around, not knowing where things are kept, new processes, latex). I don't like having to ask for help, which has always been a problem. I would have preferred to go home and work with the latex in my own space, where I don't have to rely on other people and where no one is watching me... I think I will do this, it will allow me to experiment properly instead of being scared of doing something wrong. My phobia of latex also did nothing to ease my awkwardness. However, I did discover one thing that interested me, when I spilt latex on the floor and found that it collected debris from the floor as it dried. It would be interesting to do more floor experiments, observing the surface of place again.

I have never used latex before so it was interesting just to play with the material. I was surprised at how strong it is, resisting being pulled apart when I stretched it. I was interested to learn that latex deteriorates under touch, the oils in the skin breaking it down. I am really drawn to this transient quality and the notion of it breaking down over time.

 

 

 

The Fishbowl

I asked to be in the fishbowl this year as I felt it would be important to have other people around. Last year I worked late into the evenings, when it was dark, with few people in the studios and I thought it would be more helpful to my practice to be in a busier environment. I was very pleased to be in a space with people I know and will have discussions with.

The space was a bit daunting at first, two great empty walls to fill with ideas, but it is very handy to be so close to the workshops and the library. In the last few weeks I have found the library such a good resource for learning more about artists. Instead of using the internet I use books, which has given me a more detailed and critical scope on their work, and has provoked some new directions to consider for my project.

The first few weeks of being in the fishbowl have been a really productive, exciting time with many discussions of work and approaches. This has been particularly useful in the initial stages of the new projects, running ideas past one another and having feedback continuously available. We often end up having hour-long discussions on many different topics, sometimes about our own work or particular problems we encounter, or our opinions on the role of art, and how we approach our practice. Sharing artists, ideas and points of view has been such a benefit, and a wonderful addition to my studio experience.

We are also thinking of setting up an online collective (Ed, Tab, Chris, me) where we can post ideas and works, record our conversations from the studio and begin to collaborate on projects. I am really excited by this, I know that there are many areas where our practices overlap and I think it could be very fruitful to intertwine them in some instances.

How long is a piece of string? ...Not as long as Arwenack Avenue, it turns out

This afternoon I walked the length of Arwenack with a roll of yarn, unravelling it as I walked. My aim with this activity was three-fold. I wanted to walk the length of the space in a different mind set, viewing it from the perspective of a maker, instead of usually when I am catching a train or thinking about other things. I think you see different things when you approach them with different reasons, so the string was a tangible connection to this alternate way of thinking, keeping a focus on the work and my knowledge of the place. I have walked around with artworks before and photographed them in different places so I was aware that I might feel self conscious, but I think this feeling stopped me from focusing on the street and making observations. I also felt that I rushed the process, conscious of not keeping the others waiting; I needed to spend more time thinking and walking, and learning about the surroundings. Perhaps next time I will go alone, or be more selfish.

It is interesting to observe how memories can be built up around a site. For me, and perhaps some people who walked past, Arwenack will now be 'where that length of string was unravelled'. I really enjoy how art can do that, adding to the identity of a place through experiences and encounters. I looked back as I unravelled the yarn and really liked how the line of string became a 'drawing in space', suspended with tension above the ground. Tension and the weight of the string being held off the ground over such a long distance might be quite an interesting idea to investigate, especially as rope relies on tension to maintain its form and purpose. Maybe the tension could activate a process, unravelling or twisting...

In my first tutorial with Jonty, he mentioned Conrad Shawcross' 2010 installation 'The Nervous System (Inverted)', a complex rope making machine that was suspended above the ground as it spun lengths of coloured cord together. It was suggested that I have a go at making a machine that spins rope that I might position in Arwenack Avenue so that the action is referential to the space and its history. This seems quite removed from my ordinary way of working; I think it would make for an interesting work that recalls the old processes, but I'm not sure if kinetic works are where my interests lie.

My second aim was to come away with something connected to the place; a piece of yarn the length of Arwenack Avenue, from which I might subsequently make a work. I like the idea of a conceptual connection between two unrelated things, similar to Cornelia Parker's wedding ring 'drawings' with wire the length of a living room. However, The length of yarn I had was not long enough to complete the walk, about 20m short. This also hindered by third objective, to measure the street for future reference.

In future I think I might plan beforehand what I am going to do in more detail, so that I am more likely to get what I want out of the experiment... perhaps taking more than one length of string, and taking my time about it. When the string had run out, I wasn't really sure what to do next. I started reeling it back up, but then let it drag along the floor. The yarn started to pull leaves and twigs with it, tangling and looping. Now I have a great length of unravelled yarn, which I am not sure has any value to me. In this case the experience was helpful in coming up with ideas but the physical outcome was not a success.

First Year Exhibition - Final Piece (written in June)

Making the work for the exhibition was an exciting process because of the time constraint I was under. I really enjoy working to a deadline, and find it helpful in order to come to a conclusion. The repeated, modular forms that I work with mean that I can keep on going, so it is necessary for me to limit myself with time. I gave myself three days before the piece had to be installed and spent every hour possible making.

I have always considered the making process to be a part of the work, and the most enjoyable element. I pushed myself to get more done; 10 more, 5 more, 1 more, before stopping. As it is inspired by living things, the process of its growth was to me very important. I made and added as many cells as I could, before unfolding it and seeing how much bigger it had become; it was therefore as if it really was multiplying each time I spread it out.

Recently I heard someone talk about "art as meditation", and it is something I have always felt unconsciously when I subject myself to periods of making. I love how actions can become mechanic, carried out without thinking, as the mind is elsewhere. I would be very interested to research what happens to the brain in a state of meditation and the use of art in this way.

Although I did not reach my target to use ten rolls of sellotape (I managed only eight), I was pleased with the effort I had put into the work. I love the feeling of stretching myself to the limit of my patience and ability. Really, that is for me what making is about.

I found a spot in the studio quickly. There was an interesting link between the other works in the room, a painting with visual references to microscopic cells and a sculptural piece made of plants which recalled ideas of place and the environment. My piece seemed to echo elements of each. I've never really considered the curation of an exhibition before but it really interested me how works can draw out meaning from and respond to each other in unexpected ways. Perhaps next year I will try and be more involved in the show so that I can have a go curating.

I tried out different compositions on the floor but was disappointed in how small my piece looked from that angle and how insipid it appeared against the grey. The work looked a lot smaller in the studio than it had in my living room, where I had thought it a reasonable size. I feel scale is something I really need to address in the future as I often underestimate how big the work needs to be to sit in the space... I know I am always told to be more ambitious with scale (so this is an example to remember).

There was strong sunlight coming through the window when I was setting up my work, and I wanted to see the sellotape in the sun so I draped it over the windowsill. It was beautiful there, the sun illuminating all the dirt and detritus inside the cells. I also loved how it now became part of the space, not a sculpture to be viewed and paced around, but a more unexpected encounter to be peered at and investigated. The curator's also really like the position and how it appeared to be a growth on the wall... adding another level of meaning to the work and the title.

This is one of the very few times that I have been really pleased with a final work. I liked my foundation final piece but I feel this one had so much more meaning and depth and integrity. This is the first piece of work I have made that means something, instead of being about the aesthetic properties. There are layers of meaning in the materials, the form, the location, display and in the title. I received some really positive feedback from a lot of people (people I've never really spoken to! ...that meant a lot). Everyone seemed really curious about it, they didn't know what it was at first sight, which I think is one of its greatest achievements... I really love how it affected how the viewer was standing, it enticed them in, made them crouch down to peer in and look more closely. I also heard such contrasting and visceral reactions: That's so cool! Euugh! Oh wow! That's gross...

One of my favourite things about the work is how it is both beautiful and disgusting, attractive and repellent. I feel I have really succeeded in capturing the 'phobic' qualities which affect me with certain things and which provoke such a response from the viewer.