Whilst deciding that i wanted to have some sort of writings to accompany my films, i was undecided over what and how i wanted to display these writings. One thought came from this piece of writing (see below). I had the idea of what about having this piece of writing read out on the hour every hour. I dont think i would want it to be some sort of performance, rather something attached to the film. I would therefore have an hour long film that would loop. And at the beginning of each one i would have this piece of writing read out. Then it would keep looping and hopefully would work out. However, after making a hand held zine, i am now more interested in having it in a physical form, and may be too forceful if read out. My work is about subtlety and stumbling across something. The work is easy and you can sit for as long or as short as you want. You can take from it what you will. The work asks nothing from you. And i believe to have some of these writings read out, almost demands the audience to listen. Rather, if it was in a zine, the audience has the option to read or not.
see below the writing that would be used:
see below the writing that would be used:
Sickening creeps through the body as she lays flat outstreached on her back. The 1970s print of the fabric cushions her aching body. The hammock moulds and rocks her into a state unconscious consciousness. One arm breaks free of the weary body to stretch into the cooling soft blades beneath her. Whilst stretching out her small hand, it finds a soft weed. This is torn from the floor, ending its life, so she can relish in a momentary joy of smelling it. The church bells sigh in the distance telling her it’s time for food. The body heaves itself off the support, and though lighter from its illness, there is a weight of weakness. Over the lawn, and onto the cracked pavestones, she sees what she needs and why she strolled over. Her hand leaves the side of her body and works its way around the thorns to get the largest berry. She continues to work methodically. The skin on her hand gets caught in a thorn as it embeds its way in. The hand reverses its movement, to free the thorn or hand. A little red peers through. She squeezes the offending place until the red runs from the wound; there is a satisfaction here that the pain was for nothing. The green fleshy gooseberries are all she has eaten today. The sour bitter taste will cure all. The strength of the fruit will kill whatever is inside her stomach.
And the bell is singing that it is lunch time and all the children are playing in the open field. They are laughing and running. They are not allowing some to play. Children can be cruel. But she is accepted. She is the fastest at making daisy chains. The girl sits on the top of the back under one of the small trees. The sun can still reach her face and bring out freckles, showing the passing of time. Her mum will notice. She sits on her thrown and they run around the field in search of daisys to bring to her. They are her offerings and her work. She make chains as tall as people. And the bells goes again and they race inside. She wraps the chain up and around her arm in a place of victory.
And as I lie looking up at the sky, things begin to move. The church steeple is big and intimidating. It is both strong and frail from its age. I lie with my best friend looking up to the top, with leaves becoming tangled in our hair. There are clouds drifting over the blue sky and we become confused within our eyes. Our muted laughs show our confusion. The church no longer seems as though it is staying still. Instead it moves and the clouds are motionless. We feel like we are being moved, pulled, and dragged – even though we have only moved to breath. The bell is loud and a reminder of us being here now in the present. Time has past and something we cannot get back or escape from.
And the bell is singing that it is lunch time and all the children are playing in the open field. They are laughing and running. They are not allowing some to play. Children can be cruel. But she is accepted. She is the fastest at making daisy chains. The girl sits on the top of the back under one of the small trees. The sun can still reach her face and bring out freckles, showing the passing of time. Her mum will notice. She sits on her thrown and they run around the field in search of daisys to bring to her. They are her offerings and her work. She make chains as tall as people. And the bells goes again and they race inside. She wraps the chain up and around her arm in a place of victory.
And as I lie looking up at the sky, things begin to move. The church steeple is big and intimidating. It is both strong and frail from its age. I lie with my best friend looking up to the top, with leaves becoming tangled in our hair. There are clouds drifting over the blue sky and we become confused within our eyes. Our muted laughs show our confusion. The church no longer seems as though it is staying still. Instead it moves and the clouds are motionless. We feel like we are being moved, pulled, and dragged – even though we have only moved to breath. The bell is loud and a reminder of us being here now in the present. Time has past and something we cannot get back or escape from.