HUB
the archive and movement laboratory of conceptual dance theatre company A House Unbuilt... spending at least an hour a day, making space, marking time,—making enough room to feel, tremendously, again.
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5 posts tagged finding
HUB 314:
I often wake up early, 5am (an excerpt from a brief stint in the studio, sped and stilled—will it be enough to hold us over for three more weeks? …an entirely different approach the absent partner is in order it seems.) 
HUB 242:
My dear,
I’ve been wondering to myself what that I’ve been up to these past few days… that is, that has kept me from writing. I suppose I’ve been catching up—on sleep, on nourishment, on school work and just being more present as I emerge from this sickness I’ve been mired in so long. The cough is nearly gone now and my head is clearing, I’m feeling like this week might be the last where I’m gasping for breath in a vacuum chamber. I still feel blind as to which way is this way or that, and yet, I have feeling again in the back of my hand and I can hit it against the surface that seems to impede my progress… I can begin to feel it out.
You sent me a text and the words that stick are of course Force and Stress… This evening, a moment of silence and a glance upon the wrong image swelled into an explosion of force. Fists pounding against skin, floor, walls. The stress in my voice — rapid, and of a strength of pitch only true utterance could command… my voice tried to counter those fists and the battle was well fought and yet futile. Perhaps this battle has been waging all the while somewhere inside of me and in the conversations I like to keep secret, and at the furtive meetings of which I am ashamed. Perhaps this battle is what has been clouding up my line of sight.
And yet I think of the dizzy swell in my head after spinning and spinning and spinning into your catch—or was it tackle?—the other day… and how despite the dizziness, all was so clear. So clear in the working and the making and the feeling. I need to get back to Aline and Eero and read and reread. I need to spend some time with my Pas de Deux, digging deeper. I need to continue—as I did begin this second half of the week—parsing through our correspondence and others that relate, piecing together a narrative of something I’m not yet sure.
I want to say to you that I hope we continue, as long as it takes, whether I leave or not… If I am still here, I hope you will have time to keep working as we have been. If I am not here, I hope we will find a way to utilize our correspondence to craft some new kind of rehearsals at/despite great distance. I want to say to you that I meant what I said last week about not thinking that people liked me and it means a lot both artistically and just as a person that you want to work with me. I want to say that I too am in a tender mood, so if I’ve responded with too much of myself, you should know this as my vice and not be taken aback by it. I want to say I think we are on to something. I want to say I hope you think so too.
(drag, catch, spin, tackle, slide, lift, soft, push, dance, hold, silence, close, shake, fall, release)
your,
v.
HUB 126.2: from thorough correspondence…
On the subject of intention, I suppose I have mixed feelings. I believe in a liberated audience, that is, that my audience will (and should) undoubtedly bring their own ideas of the world, it’s signs and symbols, their baggage, their desires, and their barriers to bare on the work. Knowing that, my investment in some kind of solid thesis of each individual piece is tenuous at best—and yet, I do slap a title on the thing, so I’m definitely wanting to participate in the conversation over what is seen in the work.
And then there is the question of when intention arises, or when ideas form, or even what justifies an “idea”—thus my waxing on about language earlier. I think I have these very clear ideas going into the work, but they are not verbal in nature, they are ideas that live in the body, in a gesture, a cry, a texture under toe and my reaction to it. I think you read my ideas, my language, these images of body, space, light, these sounds and rhythms—I think you read them well, taking them from the outstretched limbs of a mute interpreter, translating them into the words most find so familiar.
So, perhaps this disappoints you? Perhaps you wanted to be off base… But no. You seem to get it. Consistently. And I find your part in the process indispensable actually—you should know that. I look at your responses as a testimony that completes the piece as a full-on “work of art”. Part of me feels they should be somehow exhibited side by side. Or that I should be making some request of my audience to provide translations of their own.
Originally you asked about the distinction between life or a relationship [being at issue in We are Not Benign], and like you, I view it more as life, but others have viewed it the other way, and I find those responses valuable as well while not so close to my own point of view. I like the unexpected read. I learn things from making work.
Also, this idea of “self-expression” [in opposition to intentional meaning] feels so trite, and truly, all art is an expression if self and no art is just that—even when the artist insists that it’s so… As discussed before, I am putting my self, my energy, and my knowledge and lack thereof OUT into the world, to be encountered, make contact, perhaps connect. This is how I know best to participate in and contribute to the world. I am all the material that I have to do that with. So [I am] expressing that I have a sense of self, and with that self I’ll act in this world.
HUB 56.2:
Feeling like a chicken with my head cut off. How to make sense of this classtime expedition to the Goat. Let go the frustration and let the senses take over…
Echos of CNN broadcast and hemorrhoid cream ad upon entering the tavern. A warped reality, no sense of time of day in this underground hideout. Some strange artists book exploded on the walls, a story of a man and his goat. And beauty queens, men in drag, warnings for women… an additive environment, layered, coaxing me in coats of red and rich text and a lived in, peopled hum.
