currently envisioning a large scale installation, involving 'bundles' inspired by
i. australian aboriginal sacred items, made with fur pelts and menstrual blood, as part of 'women's business' (and shared with me by the lovely indigenous artist Georgia MacGuire, who presented her contemporary interpretation at the Kristeva Circle conference)
ii. Judith Scott, an artist with Down's Syndrome and deafness, who discovered a way to communicate, with intricately, beautifully wrapped bundles of string and household objects
"I think that the rationalization of the vision of things rooted in the work of art is like the demasking of actors. It is the end of the game, it is the impoverishment of the question of the work. Not because art is an anagram with a hidden key [and] philosophy is this same anagram--solved. The difference is more profound. In the work of art the umbilical cord is not yet cut that joins it to the whole of the problem. The blood of the mystery is still circulating; the ends of the vessels escape into the surrounding night and return full of dark fluid. In a philosophical interpretation we now have only extracted an anatomical specimen for an entire problem."
"The road had disappeared, but it remained in the souls of painters in the form of an inextinguishable desire 'to go forward'. But where is 'forward' when there is no longer any road? In which direction is one to look for the lost 'forward'? And so the desire to go forward became the painters' neurosis; each set out in a different direction and yet their tracks criss-crossed each other like a crowd milling around in the same city square...
He once visited New York's Museum of Modern Art. On the first floor he saw Matisse, Braque, Picasso, Miró, Dalí and Ernst, and he was happy. The brushstrokes on the canvas expressed wild relish. Reality was being magnificently violated like a woman raped by a faun, or it battled with the painter like a bull with a toreador. But on the next floor, reserved for contemporary paintings, he found himself in a desert: no trace of dashing brushstrokes on canvas; no trace of relish; both bull and toreador had disappeared; the paintings had expelled reality altogether, or else they imitated it with cynical, obtuse literalness. Between the two floors flowed the river Lethe, the river of death and forgetting."
-Milan Kundera, Immortality