I've been interested recently in 'converging' space by collecting environments into images or objects that can be taken in in one look (as opposed to spaces, which require moving around and adjusting the body). The latex strips did this to some extent with the studio floor, but I wanted to conduct a more thorough investigation and pick up more of the debris between the boards. I used a hoover to collect dust from each crack, emptying out the dust after each line and collecting it in bags. I was mapping the space with its own remains, observing how there was considerably more dust in the floorboards towards the centre of the room and there was more chipped white paint and plaster in the cracks closest to the wall. One idea I had was to really analyse the collection: weighing it, working out its density, deconstructing the colours present into charts, viewing them under the microscope... I have had several comments about the floorboard strand of my work being reminiscent of archaeology, which I really enjoy and would consider extending further.
I like the futility and almost ridiculous nature of hoovering a room floorboard by floorboard, where there always seems to be a sense of that question 'what's the point?'. But this question, instead of a criticism, always speaks to me quite profoundly of art and life and all human endeavour. I am content with, and even look to provoke this question with my work. People rarely apply it to very detailed paintings and drawings that require a lot of time and refined skill (although, for me, why not use a camera = what's the point) so I think this question arises because I observe the mundane, the things that people think have nothing more to give, and are too familiar or disregarded to be worth making art about. Dust seems particularly inviting of the 'what's the point?' response, as it is always disposed of and is also hard to preserve. Interestingly, two artworks that speak to me strongly of futility, Francis Alys' project 'When Faith Moves Mountains' and Katie Paterson's 'Inside this desert lies the tiniest grain of sand' both involve sand or dust. The futility of ephemeral artworks and installations might be an interesting topic for an essay or the dissertation.
I decided to further scientific connotations and present the dust in petri dishes, inspired by the artist Sonja Baumel (whose work I have previously spoken about). On googling their origin and purpose, a petri dish is said to be "a shallow cylindrical glass or plastic lidded dish that biologists use to culture cells" - there is a curious relationship between growth and decay in a petri dish; bacteria can be associated with both, and so can dust. The petri dish was invented to prevent contamination of air borne germs when growing cultures, and to be easily observed under the microscope... which is also what makes them a good display method for the floorboard dust.
On a side note, I was interested to see that the 'Petri Dish' wiki has a section on petri dishes in art, listing the works of Michal Rovner (which I really like) and Antoine Bridier-Nahmias. The connection between art and science is becoming increasingly apparent.
Somebody told me about an ex-student of the Fine Art course, whose practice became making very slight and subtle interventions in the exhibition space, such as cleaning the floor. I am also cleaning the floor (or under the floor) but the act itself is not the work, the material remains of it are presented as the work instead. Framing the work in this way not only allows it to speak of the time and space throughout which the dust has accumulated, but of the process by which it was collected and curated into an artwork. When relics are viewed in museums, you would think about the original time and culture to which they first belonged, as well as the people who excavated or found them and how they came to be in front of you.
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