15 December 2016

The Book of Leaves

I was in London. It had been a while, more than a dozen years, maybe a dozen and a half. I could do the math and tell you, or I could just talk about the leaves. The gingko leaves. The big, green ones, too, that I found, idly going through any number of that city’s wide, open parks. I like these. I had been in Cambodia for a while, not sure why, not sure what I was doing there, still, but the moving away from the West had helped tremendously with forgetting the social mores that had for so long pressed me towards directions that were ‘how it should be’ because that was ‘what you did,’ instead of the other thing. Critically thinking about that which moves you, and what you do, when you figure it out, exactly. Doing the thing that feels the rightest, in that moment… because you’re in tune with the ‘who you are’ and ‘why you make’ and ‘what it means to just be’… major questions. A lot of things to say here. I’m going to talk about the project pieces one by one, in these posts. When there is a clear narrative, I’ll open these protected pages and let them live, and breathe. In the meantime I”m incubating. I”m practicing ‘slow design.’ I’m working with y feelings. I’m turning out the lights, to let things be, to linger, to feel. In the starting places again, where I started. In Cambodia again. Recalling London, recalling the making of this pice, The Book of Leaves. <3

‘When I look at this,’ F. said, F., who was just 19 at that time, ‘it makes me want to cry.’

I was satisfied almost to the point of tearing up, too. ‘Then,’ I said, ‘it’s art.’


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