‘Frenetic’ is my new favourite word. I’ve been slipping it into conversations at intervals over the last couple of weeks and wondering if people actually know what I’m talking about.
I couldn’t sleep a couple of weeks ago. This isn’t uncommon for me, but there was one particularly awful Saturday night. I found myself awake at 4am knowing I wasn’t going to be granted any dream time. I got my project book out with the intention to make some more unrealistic to do lists or another elaborate sketch of a farfetched idea. Instead I started writing. Just writing. No stop for consideration, just impulsive words on paper. Mostly the same phrase over and over, with some sporadic moments of varied expression.
When Monday showed its face, I still had this phrase in my head. And the typewriter came out. Brilliant. Sitting on the floor of the studio with black coffee and pounding keys is good therapy. And you can sometimes make some art out of it.
Perhaps the writing is a physical representation of my overactive mind. Thoughts go round and round, every event gets analysed and scrutinised in detail.
I don’t like obviously confessional art. I don’t wish to submit a diary entry. Thats too easy for people to just get facts and nothing else. I like the ambiguity of the frenetic typing. I don’t want to tell you a story, but I want you to wonder what the story is about. I’m still expressing thoughts and relaying events personal to me, you maybe just don’t have a clue what I’m on about. And I like that.
I spieled for a good 48cm last week resulting in, ‘On Wednesday the 7th of November’, an object/text combination piece, I don’t really want to explain that one.