I’ve been feeling lately that time, or the moving time that whirls the hands on the clock face, is a thick, cement-y porridge filling any crack in my existence. I live bricked up inside a solid wall of time. My practiceâ€“â€“it inexplicably fetches me when I’m truly overwhelmed (I cannot explain why I am able to do it now; no resistance, but instead docility, even gratitude)â€“â€“digs a chink in the odd hour where I can slide through and unwind.
I prepared new visual film poem for my book‘s premier party. The film titled ‘Collections’ is a series of still life images. And I thought how odd it was to use still images in a video when the whole point of video is motion. As I edited, I saw the attractionâ€“â€“stopped time. Still life. Then, even better, I could surge time, sforzando, then stretch or chop it by how I transitioned from one image to another. Such pleasurable control. And the final joy was seeing the structure of the whole piece express classical lineaments. Themes returning. Themes developing. Beauty. Eternity. This sort of time.
Here are a few images from Collections.