Three little wonders.
Three relevant words.
They all end in (wh)y.
Yes I went there. Pun intended. This wordplay is for the relationship of fragmentation and semiotics. Loose connections of symbols and signs have infiltrated my practice. It is the very nature of a sign. A familiarity, an association, sickeningly a language of replication and representation I had intended to avoid.
The materials I incorporate into my work are combination of found objects/text, most of which I come across from scanning routes I walk. This is then combined with text i’ve read from newspapers. Mostly I cut out phrases to do with time and I try as fast paced as I can to create a sentence without having to think to much. Often I find that the words and phrases I encounter reflect a internal dialogue of progress.
Here’s an inspirational excerpt from a review in the Los Angeles Review of Books on Daniel Levin Becker’s new book. The excerpt is actually about the catharsis of just READING. The method of writing it’s derived from (I may be wrong) is Oulipianic (on shape, meaning and form with restrictions, not so much chance with creativity) – read more by clicking on the link:
“Reading, no matter what you’re reading,” the book’s final paragraph declares,
presupposes a belief in the potential of the text — to speak to you, enlighten you, stir your imagination or temporarily distract you — just as living, if it is to have any sense, presupposes a belief in the potential of your life. If that sounds corny, remember that the man who first articulated this idea this way [François Le Lionnais, co-founder of the Oulipo] made it through a concentration camp by reconstructing the world’s most marvelous paintings in his mind. To live your life craftily, whether you read it as a labyrinth or a puzzle or simply a long combinatorial succession of evenings and mornings, is to move through it with the purpose and security that come from knowing you hold the tools to give it shape and meaning.’
So it is with a furrowed brow of irritability and adversity that I admit missing complacency. To reflect on a body of work which set out with the subject of time and presentness, I cannot fathom where things went askew. It could be blatantly obvious to some the supposition that this discontent was inevitable, possibly even more relevant and beneficial than I am aware of.
Tá mo chroí i mo bhéal, níl mé sasta ar chor ar bith.