Elizabeth Chitty

October 24 2016

Written By Michelle Lacombe

Daylighting Walks

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PHOTOS by Henry Chan

Despite actually arriving early, the first time I attend Elizabeth Chitty’s Daylighting Walks I manage to miss the introduction, which frames the action for participants. Consequently, I do not participate at all in the way that is intended. I chat the whole time, excited to see friends I have not seen in a while and thrilled by the coincidence of being in one of the only neighbourhoods I know in Toronto. While I enjoy myself, I can sense something is off as we quickly shuffle down the street in a broken line. No one attempts to fill me in but I eventually realize that my experience is not representative. I decide to go back, in part to participate in a more appropriate manner, but also to confirm if Chitty is offering the same trajectory each time.

My second attempt is not more successful. Late again. Regardless, I jump in and rely on information I have gathered from other participants and from Chitty’s artist talk to frame my engagement. I know to keep silent and to reflect on water as we move. Unfortunately, while others seem to fall into the work quite comfortably, I struggle.

Throughout the walk, my mind wanders constantly off subject. I find keeping silent in a group context isolating and difficult. Periodically though, Chitty stops to share interesting historical information about nearby shores and underground rivers, or to wait for the group to catch up. These moments re-centre me each time because they actively prompt me to consider what is not visible; the past, the underground, the group dynamic… Left alone, I just can’t stay focused. It’s not my strength. And my struggle is exasperated by the presence of the video camera and the microphone. The tech generates in me an unbelievable pressure to connect, to perform, to participate in a very specific manner that I feel is just not happening. I am one of those people. Consequently, I spend most of my time being very self-aware and frustrated by my inability (or refusal) to extract a meaningful experience or to produce content for Chitty to work with. I wonder if this would be considered a form of participation or not?

Daylighting

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We go outside, greeted by a soundscape of voices reflecting on water, rivers, land, etc. Gleaned and edited from the recordings taken during the walks, the voices effectively flow, becoming itself a wonderful form of watery movement. As I listen, I am pleased to hear that people connected with the walks and have generated such sincere and reflexive content. You should understand why.

In the distance, glowing blue lights call to us. The public makes its way up the street, moving in an organic mass that shifts as people join the movement or stray and stop along the edges. Eventually we encounter Chitty, who is walking slowly towards us. She is closely followed by someone holding a small piece of equipment that projects a video onto her long white plastic apron. The image appears to be a water treatment facility, a plant filled with pipes and vats. As we follow her, I get a better look at the blue lights that move around us. They are illuminated watering cans carried by two volunteers who snake their way up the street to wet concrete cracks whatever flora has pierced up through the ground

Both the voices and the lights are a beautiful complement to Chitty’s more stoic and rigid presence. The fluid soundscape recalls the past, both recent and distant, and the dancing lights that feed the ground playfully evoke depth and resistance to burial. As I move along the street, for the first time I am brought to think of what is gone (and our complacency in that erasure) and what is below us. Earth, seeds, rocks, and yes, water. Covered but not yet totally erased by the city. This is the walk I have been waiting for and the walk I feel Chitty was attempting to offer me earlier in the week.

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Sue Murad (with Vera Koshkina)

Written By Michelle Lacombe

Brush, Paper, Scissors

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PHOTOS by Henry Chan

I totally love to see a performance and, as I watch it, to realize that I have seen this artist’s work before. This happened with Sue Murad, who I had met in Chicago a couple of years ago at an event that was buried far away in my memory. The work she presented back then was different, but used a similar strategy of display and rearrangement that is clearly a part of her artistic vocabulary. I recognized her work immediately.

In the context of Brush, Paper, Scissors, Murad is perfoming with Vera Koshkina. However, from what I can tell, the work is still very much her own. Koshkina reads as an extension, a mirror or an echo, which works well with the form of the work. To underscore this relationship, they wear the same outfit, a cool urban spa look that is feminine without being too heavily gendered. This can actually be said of Murad’s performance in general. Simultaneously formal and playful, Murad’s treatment of (a type of) feminine subjectivity is refreshingly light.

As they enter the space, Murad hands a brush to an audience member and, as it makes its way through the crowd one curious interaction at a time, the artists take their place in the centre of the stage. Facing each other, they hold open the pages of a pamphlet containing an assortment of professional hair dressing supplies. They fold, rotate, and turn pages, pausing at regular intervals between each movement. The action is somewhere between a choreography and a demonstration, and, as they go through their formal game, we peruse the visual contents of the pamphlet: Small dressers, hairbrushes, aprons, make-up boxes, chairs, scissors, plastic capes, mirrors, chairs, scissors, spray bottles, aprons, curlers, plastic capes…

The pages are then laid out on the ground in two tight grids, and, using tiny synchronized steps, the artists work their way around the flat forms. Again, their movement follows a structure, though one that seems to leave room for interpretation; rotate, step forward, step to the side, rotate, step to the side, rotate, step forward, step forward, step to the side, rotate… While Murad’s and Koshkina’s execution is more delicate and reserved, it is impossible for me to not think of Bruce Nauman’s walking works on the perimeters of squares. I love those videos.

When their sequence of movements leads them to facing each other, the work shifts into its third choreography. Mirrored, they sit on the ground and remove their hairpins. Two small circular cut out images and two balls of hair have been released and rest in their respective palms. These objects then move back and forth between them, again using a series of regularly executed gestures taken from a bank of possible arrangements. The delicate objects moves from hands, to ground, to hands, to between fingers, to ground, to between fingers, to hand, eventually settling on the floor one on top of the other.

The artists stand up, take a pen from their pockets trace each other’s ears, move to the audience, and trace their hands. The action is delicate and intimate, and breaks from the more demonstrative quality of the previous three choreographies.

To close the work, they lay out the performing objects near the paper forms: brush, balls of hair, cut out paper circles, and scissors… (Where did the scissors come from? Were they also moving through the audience?). The arrangement is complete and they leave.

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Margaret Dragu

Written By Jessica Karuhanga

VERB FRAU TV Season 5: 7a*11d

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I have just returned from the kitchen with Michelle. We were guests on the last episode of the fifth season of VERB FRAU TV. Well, it was more of a follow-up to close the season. The idea behind our debrief was in essence to unravel and process what we had witnessed and endured the last couple of weeks. We wrung out our sponges of all the energies they had absorbed. Our episode was one of recovering and rediscovering. I have tuned in and out of the series over the last ten days. I play these videos as I wade through my daily tasks. I appreciate the intimacy. There is always something a bit melancholic as a festival draws to a close. Some of these contents remain with us. We process these ghosts. We try to draw from these elements. To translate our response back into form. There remains a reflection of something passing. Golboo Amani instigated the possibility of a blogger’s reflection with Margaret Dragu aka VERB WOMAN. During our debrief we discussed our own practices, symbols, archives, what has moved us, what has stuck like glue and the future. As our conversation drew to a close Margaret Dragu asked us to do a one-minute performance. She has asked all of her guests to contribute to the record in some capacity. A series of processes, sounds, arrangements and movements. Michelle and I begin by talking about the possible action. There is pressure and words and nervousness invariably get in the way. So we improvise dancing hand movements instead. First her hand. Now mine. Slow and elegant sweeps across the counter and beneath the frame.

mikiki ferrando elizabeth,  katebarry

Adrian Stimson

Written By Jessica Karuhanga

150 Blows

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IMAGES by Henry Chan

On a Saturday afternoon I arrive in a corridor shaped like a waiting room for a spa or treatment centre. An assistant greets me at a desk and asks if I am here to see Adrian Stimson. I am immediately implicated in the performance and wilfully assume my role of the guest or patient. The assistant passes me a clipboard with a stack of waivers. I fill a form. This process feels silly. A more accurate articulation of this process would reveal that my investment in this specific task is carefree in its materialization. I am rushing in my desire to arrive at the next point. My signature is consent to my photograph being taken and incorporated into the work. How it is to be incorporated is yet to be revealed. I am barely concerned how my image is being used. I am a stereotypical Aries where impulsivity and patience are concerned. In truth I felt an urgency to be present inside the doctor’s office and the space of the art. A door swings open and leaning against the frame Dr. Stimson emerges. His smile is charming and contagious. He exclaims, “You here to see me? Come right this way.” I follow and the door to the space closes behind us.

I am immediately drawn to a wooden bunk bed covered by white drapes in the centre of the room. Stimson invites me to put down my bags and cuts to the chase. He asks me to get into the bottom bunk. He wants me to draw a white sheet over myself to reveal only my head. All traces of clothing must be concealed. I oblige and Stimson proceeds to climb on to the top bunk and inching towards the camera to diffuse the awkwardness he gently breaks ice, “Hope you don’t mind me being on top.” I laugh and he is smiling. He then tells me as he adjusts the camera that he wants me to think of the best orgasm I have ever had. I know exactly the orgasm I will conjure from my memory. I embrace the awkwardness. Stimson quickly follows this request with yet another. He now wants me to think about Canada and one-hundred and fifty years of confederacy and occupation. I am confounded as I lay beneath Stimson swaddled in white sheets. As I begin to process this turn he says, “Now make your best orgasm face!” The camera clicks. He asks, “Did you think of England?” This colloquial and subversive expression is familiar and fitting in its re-contextualization of the here and now. How can one not think of this mass in this two-fold request? The casual delivery of the phrase often suggests a reconfiguring of a memory, site or place. It encourages a gesture of flight, leaving your body, and forgetting while enduring.

I emerge from the bed and Stimson leads me to a corner of the room. Two sheets of paper are pressed against the wall where he is keeping a tally in red marker. He adds a line for my contribution. Beside us stands a podium holding bowls of candy shaped like vulva, breasts, and phalluses. He says I may take one. I choose a chocolate breast. Adjacent to this podium is a projection feed of previously taken photos. I observe several of the orgasm faces knowing I will not be in the space long enough to witness mine emerge. A trace of the mess of my confusion and mirroring pleasure. Their images are flanked by blocks of red to form a Canadian flag. Stimson tells me our expressions will be projected onto his face. Later his face is awash in white and he stands before the projection cycling through our drifting and contemplation. 

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Francesco Gagliardi

Written By Jessica Karuhanga

Some Reconstructions

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IMAGES by Henry Chan

The room is book-ended by two boards on wheels. Stacks of vertically placed card-stock lean against these dividers. These piles are organized by colour or shade. Their surfaces are black, cream, grey, brown and blue. Francesco Gagliardi emerges on the stage and begins an elaborate and thoughtful choreography of spatial and aural cuts, divisions, reorientations and displacements using the objects staged within the space. He begins a poetic mapping. He arranges and re-arranges. He slides the card-stock across the desk. He flips this form to its side to reveal a new shade. The sounds are dragging and swiping. He opens the top of desk and props it up. He closes it. He feels beneath the table and removes a sheet of paper. He holds out the sheet that teeters between fingers forged together. You think the sheet may drop but he has full control and it does not. This teetering is orchestrated. All gestures are an exploration or staging of balance and precarity. He procures a stack of paper and lifts leaves one by one to reveal text. He orates their contents before gently placing each sheet on a tilting display. Each action imitates the previous activity. There is play with the aesthetic of surface and form and frame.

Some reverberations I could discern and still recall:

Sunday begins with food and bath and man and the obstructed line view. Sunday begins with garden, sage and parsley. Sunday begins with kitchen cloth, bread cheese and spoons. Sunday begins with waiting months, weeks and years…

It could have been memory loss described. It could have been restaurant, fish and fresh soup. It could have been eating ice-cream. It could have been oil and salt. It could have been sunny and then suddenly sad. It could have been nerves as mouth and temper…

Was also wearing makeup at home. Was also migraines forcing white silk over hats. Was also taking the bus and fearing gunpowder. Was also older women and racial preferences. Was also diagnosis. Was also certainty.

A steady progress to winter. A steady progress to paint and paintbrushes and safety pins. A steady progress to the heart of the matter. A steady progress to brother and sister. A steady progress to gardens and being stolen and to no return. A steady progress to health and knowing things. A steady progress toward death.

The sheets of paper now begin to slide as they accumulate with each successive addition. They slip under each other’s weight, impression and thrust until the last sheet is placed on top of this tower. All the  lines refer to its predecessor. They all begin the same until there is a rift marking a new sequence of poetry. Gagliardi proceeds toward his final station where there sits a pile of folded and patterned sheets. He lifts the first and undoes its meticulous folds. Then grabbing the corners to join them at the centre he reconfigures and manipulates the cloth into a new form. He tosses the new construction onto the floor before moving to the next sheet. He continues these manipulations a second and third time. With each successive unfolding and remodelling a new form emerges until all three folds sit side by side on the floor and Gagliardi is bowing and leaving us and the space marked differently.

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