Infrasonic

(ლექსის ქართულად წასაკითხად დააჭირეთ აქ)


Let me have a seat, so I can tell you

how I fell in love with a crow.

I want you to know that this story is not amusing.

I wasn’t so transparent back then. All winter I looked at the ground

and thought that the snow emerges out of the ground. All winter I looked at the snow

and thought that the sky emerges out of the snow. Then my eyes got ill.

They became anguished patients. I looked at them and thought they were dying.

They looked at me and thought I was dying. I fed my eyes some honey and took them for a walk.

My eyes filled me with snow and they took me for a walk. This is how we met.

He was sitting at the edge of the sky.

He was walking naked trees – the crooked hands of winter. He was flying along the traces of the sunset

pecking leftovers of the light in the sky. Then I went home, announced that I fell in love

and that I am moving in with him. Father yelled at me.

Mother cried, told me I wouldn't be able to take it,

the crow life is not for me,

but when I asked which life is for me,

she couldn’t respond. Then three nights followed one another with no intervals.

He – the center of my life, black crow –

was swaying on the wire in front of the house and cawed. As you'd expect, I packed my suitcase and escaped from a window. I left a letter

and a phone number for our new apartment – tree, This is how it all started.

Flying wasn’t too hard –

I am a fast learner. Sleeplessness bothers me still and at night I practice cawing.

I wear colorful dresses,

but the crow thinks they don’t go well with the winter landscape

and the crow life. When we fight, I jump from a tree,

but my crow has warned all the bridges,

and they catch me in the air

as long as I don’t jump straight into the sky. On weekends, from time to time, we fly out of town

and listen to the silence of abandoned houses.

Then we descend into a meadow

and my black crow

pecks love tides off my spine. I know he worries that we have no children

and tries not to let me know.

But sometimes, as he faces away,

a grey feather trembles on his neck. That is when I wrap my arms around him,

put his feathers on my shoulders

and as roaming lone trees

sing in meadows about crying

crows who are in love,

we dance.


Why have I become like this?

Why have I lost all my colors?

I don’t know, that’s life.


Soon starts the seasonal disease of my eyes –

– Spring rains.

During this time, I want to sit down and talk to someone.

And I spend all my days in flight recounting

how I fell in love

with a crow – a black, lonesome speck in the winter sky.



*Poem translated from Georgian by Salome Kokoladze




როგორ შემიყვარდა ყვავი

ლია ლიქოკელი


მოდი, სადმე ჩამოვჯდები და მოგიყვებით, როგორ შემიყვარდა ყვავი. მინდა იცოდეთ, რომ ეს სასაცილო არ არის. მაშინ ასე გამჭვირვალე არ ვიყავი. მთელი ზამთარი ვუყურებდი მიწას და ვფიქრობდი, რომ მიწიდან ამოდის თოვლი. მთელი ზამთარი ვუყურებდი თოვლს და ვფიქრობდი, რომ თოვლიდან ამოდის ცა. მერე თვალები გამიცივდა. ისინი იყვნენ ჭირვეული ავადმყოფები. ვუყურებდი და ვფიქრობდი, რომ კვდებიან. მიყურებდნენ და ფიქრობდნენ, რომ ვკვდები. თვალებს თაფლს ვაჭმევდი და ისე ვასეირნებდი. თვალები თოვლით მავსებდნენ და ისე მასეირნებდნენ. ასე შევხვდით. ის ცის კიდეზე იჯდა და ზამთრის ხელებად დაგრეხილ შიშველ ხეებს ასეირნებდა. ის ჩავლილი მზის კვალზე დაფრინავდა და ცას შერჩენილ მზის ნამცეცებს კენკავდა. სახლში შევედი და ვთქვი, რომ შემიყვარდა და უნდა გავყვე. მამაჩემმა მიყვირა. დედაჩემმა იტირა და მითხრა, რომ ვერ გავძლებ, რომ ჩემთვის არ არის ყვავური ცხოვრება, მაგრამ როცა ვკითხე, მაშ რომელი ცხოვრებაა ჩემთვის, ვერაფერი მიპასუხა. სამი გრძელი ღამე გადაება ერთმანეთს მერე გაუთენებლად. სახლის წინ მავთულზე ქანაობდა და ჩხაოდა ჩემი ცხოვრების მთავარი შავი ყვავი. ჩავალაგე ჩემოდანი და ფანჯრიდან გადავძვერი, როგორც წესია. დავტოვე წერილი, როგორც წესია და ჩვენი ახალი საცხოვრებელი ხის ტელეფონის ნომერი. ასე დავიწყეთ. ფრენა არ გამჭირვებია - ნიჭიერი ვარ და ყველაფერს ადვილად ვითვისებ. უძილობა ისევ მაწუხებს და ღამღამობით ჩხავილში ვვარჯიშობ. ჯერჯერობით ისევ ფერად კაბებს ვიცვამ, თუმცა ყვავი ფიქრობს, რომ ზამთრის პეიზაჟს და ყვავურ ცხოვრებას ეს არ შეეფერება. როცა ვჩხუბობთ, რომელიმე ხიდიდან ვხტები, მაგრამ ჩემს ყვავს ყველა ხიდი გაფრთხილებული ჰყავს და ისინიც ჰაერში მიჭრენ. მთავარია, ცაში არ გადავხტე. ზოგჯერ შაბათ-კვირას ქალაქგარეთ მივფრინავთ და მიტოვებული სახლების სიჩუმეს ვუსმენთ. მერე სადმე მინდორზე ვეშვებით და ჩემი შავი ყვავი ხერხემალზე სიყვარულის ჟრუანტელს მიკენკავს. ვიცი, განიცდის, შვილები რომ არ გვყავს, და ცდილობს, არ მაგრძნობინოს. თუმცა ზოგჯერ ზურგშექცეულს ყელთან რუხი ბუმბული უთრთის. ამ დროს ხელებს ვხვევ, მის ფრთებს მხრებზე ვიწყობ და სანამ მოხეტიალე მარტოხელა ხეები ტრიალ მინდვრებში მტირალ შეყვარებულ ყვავებზე მღერიან, ჩვენ ვცეკვავთ.

ასე რატომ გავხდი? ასე რატომ გავხუნდი? რა ვიცი, ასეთია ცხოვრება.

ახლა მალე დაიწყება ჩემი თვალების სეზონური ავადმყოფობა - გაზაფხულის წვიმები. ამ დროს მინდება, სადმე ჩამოვჯდე და ვინმეს ველაპარაკო, და მთელი დღეები დავფრინავ და ვყვები, როგორ შემიყვარდა შავი, მარტოხელა წერტილი ზამთრის ცაზე.

Marcus Coates, a London based artist and amateur naturalist, explores the pragmatism and insight that empathetic perspectives and imagined realities can offer. From his attempts to become animal to his vicarious experiences on behalf of terminally ill patients, he seeks to uncover degrees of understanding and knowing, testing our definitions and boundaries of autonomy.


Coates has collaborated with people from a wide range of disciplines including anthropologists, ornithologists, wildlife sound recordists, choreographers, politicians, gallerists, curators, psychiatrists, palliative care consultants, musicians, primatologists amongst others. His exhibitions and performances have been featured at venues such as Hauser & Wirth, Somerset, Serpentine Gallery, London and Kunsthalle Zürich, Switzerland.


Marcus Coates. Blue Footed Booby, performance still from Human Report, a film for Channel 9 News, Santa Cruz, Galapagos, Ecuador (2008). Photo by Elke Hartmann. Credit: Courtesy of the artist.

Salome Kokoladze: The European Cave Art often depicts herds of bison. Some archaeologists interpret these paintings to be made by humans whose function was similar to that of a shaman. The places where some of the paintings are found generate echoes that resemble sounds of hundreds of bison hoofs. Archaeoacoustician Steven Waller suggests that these echoes might have been heard by early humans as “the voices of spirits” [1]. I am interested in this interpretation of the prehistoric art, because it is a reminder that art as well as shamanism emerge out of a certain physical space that enables communication between multiple worlds. When, for example, you perform a ritual in a crowded mall, a politician’s office or a person's room, I wonder how these spaces support or feed your practice.

Marcus Coates: It is interesting you brought up the cave paintings. I think about them often. When I last visited the Lascaux and Peche Merle caves in France, I started to understand a causal chain of influence that the cave had on the human actions within them. What is difficult to see from photographs is the features of the rocks themselves the curves, reliefs, and seams jutting out and running across them. These features evoke images. The curved edge of a rock might suggest the back of an auroch (now extinct cattle), a ridge could suggest a horse’s rump and back leg. The rock has made the projection and the ‘seeing’ of the animal possible. In this sense, the rock has given life to the animal, transferring it to the person’s mind. In its manifestation, the mark making on the rock joins and returns the mental image back into the actual reality of the rock/place. The rock, as such, holds life, which is made apparent through human activation, not origination.


Another significant activation in the caves is the use of torchlight and how its flickering influences the shapes and shadows of the rock features; the sight must have been a magical ‘bringing to life’ spectacle. I try to keep this sort of happening in mind when I am working with people in their places. My role is not to create anything original, but to offer new light and forms of connectivity, as well as new narratives and insight. While working in the culturally defined places, I have had to create a disconnect with the dominant way in which reality is presented by place. I achieve this through actions or costume.


Marcus Coates and Henry Montes. A Question of Movement, 2011. Photo by Nick David. London, UK. Credit: Courtesy of the artist.

In the places you listed, there is a pervasive influence/power that you can feel when entering them, whether it is the symbolism of a mayor's office or the private intimacy of someone’s living room. They are worlds that are predefined on many levels. The place, in this way, is bound to ritual and language. If confronted and/or played with, it can create a very different mode of thinking and communicating for everyone involved. The reimagining of a place as a site for experimentation, or as a site of theatre can give license to a reframing of thinking and meaning. Somehow there needs to be an opportunity or chance for other worlds to be available. In a way, my practice involves making the multitude of peoples' own realities available to them.


SK: In addition to working with people, your practice involves defining and understanding ways of connectivity with non-human animal species. One aspect of establishing this relationality is sound making. Why is embodying a sound or simply listening to it important in understanding various animal species as well as ourselves?


MC: To some degree, we can relate to everything that is living in terms of our human understanding of what it is to be alive. Our basic sensitivity to being light, touch, sound, temperature, time is a starting point for a relational basis between us and the most unlikely animal and even plant. Sound making and communication is very widespread among a variety of life from mammals, birds and reptiles, to amphibians, insects and even fish. For me, it is a place of potential shared consciousness; there is, to some degree, a commonality of experience the mechanics of making and receiving sounds.


The functions of sound making, its interpretation and the culture of learning how to make sounds (as birds and whales do) are all activities to which we can relate, because humans communicate for the same reasons and in similar forms. Sounds can: be a proxy for action (violence), attract and stimulate others (breeding), function as a warning (alarm signal), be socially reassuring (contact calls), carry information (where food is) and be the marker of an individual (recognition bond between parents and young). Some complex sounds need to be learned by individuals over time. As a place of connection, sound is very rich, we see ourselves in it. We understand the calls and songs, because we recognise them in our own.


Marcus Coates. The Sounds of Others, 2014. Graph designed by Fraser Muggeridge Studio. Credit: Courtesy of the artist.

We see various meanings of sound more so now in our technology. The digital world reduces sounds to their most efficient and effective forms (notification beeps, alarm signals, ring tones). This development is similar to the evolutionary process of adapting the calls of animals and birds for millennia. In this sense, we are catching up with the effectiveness of animal songs and calls.


There is also mystery and room for speculation. Beyond functionality, is there music in animal song? It is a world that is wonderfully complex, and I find myself returning to it as a baseline of connectedness to the ‘other than human world’. Making the sounds of animals is a skill that must have been with humans as early as we discovered our aptitude for mimicry. For me, it opens up a world of possible sameness.


SK: It is interesting to think of mimicry as a skill that creates kinships for unlikely species. Unfortunately, mimicry very often has pejorative connotations. It can be associated with superficiality, sometimes mockery, or the lack of originality. It was not until encountering Japanese avant-garde dance Butoh and later Gilles Deleuze and Pierre-Félix Guattari’s A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, that I started associating the concept with possible metamorphosis. Can you further discuss how you understand mimicry, especially in the context of your practice?


MC: As you say mimicry is a loaded term. I have, in the past, distanced myself from it, feeling that the attempts I made to embody were distinct from the impersonation that mimicry implies. Although now, I am more aware of it as being a stage in a process of relating, or ‘an attempt to become in relation to’. Mimicry is important to me as a starting point in accessing radical empathy.


Mimicry is part of the behaviour and physiognomy of so many varied species from birds and insects to octopi. The advantages of mimicry have created an arms race of evolutionary adaptation. As such, mimicry is, as far as I can understand, hardwired into human behaviour. We are compelled to mimic. Moreover, the act of impersonating animals and birds has been suggested as one of the possible origins of spoken language. In many hunter gatherer societies, the calls of animals were mimicked to attract prey or disguise human presence when hunting. These behaviours increased range and diversity of our vocal calls [2]. Mimicry is also fundamental to the way we learn, form attachments, play, seduce, mock, trust and communicate. In many ways, it is not something we only choose to do, it is something on which we rely to make sense of the world.


Thinking about mimicry and its role in play, learning and communication drew me into using forms of vocalisation and movement as relational tools. To translate what is heard or to attempt to make the same sound necessitates using human physiognomy, which is most likely inadequate. Although we can only approximate sounds, the sound making is itself an experience, which corresponds to that of the animal when it too makes the sound. For instance, in its most basic form, we both are pushing air out in modulated ways. The attempt creates a territory of sameness. This degree of similarity or knowing, although often slender and tenuous, feels like a connection.


I think this movement between worlds, a way to initiate a manifestation of our interiority in relation to another, is a vital social tool. In my work, I am looking at this impact on how we, in an extractivist and neo colonial culture, relate to the natural world and the need for diverse relationships to redefine values.


SK: Speaking of an extractivist and neo colonial culture, there has been so much irreversible harm done already to humans, animals, environments at large. Reconciling with or simply thinking of the irreversibility can be taxing to say the least. Your piece Extinct Animals, 2018 addresses this impasse in a particularly moving way. The animal bodies are lost, gone extinct, but we also experience the absence of images of these animals. The composition of multiple hand sculptures also reminds me of Picasso’s Guernica, depicting a pile of shapes, body parts coming together in a monotone space, blending into one another. To withhold an image, a sophisticated shape or diverse colors, is this action an invocation for spirits, for intense emotions, or more of a path to forgetting and hopelessness?


MC: It is a path from one to the other (from the idea of a living animal to the hopelessness of its loss) that lots of us find ourselves trying to reconcile. The objects are like archeological remnants, dismembered classical sculptures. There is a museumness about them, as if they are off the past already, like bleached bones that cannot be identified. In this way, they have passed into history and need to be dragged back to life if we are to relate to them.


Marcus Coates. Extinct Animals, 2018 (Group of 16 casts, plaster). Credit: Courtesy of the artist.

It is this resurrection that interests me. The sculptures were made as a kind of summoning, to bring to life what cannot now be seen or known, a futile, pathetic gesture. In creating a ‘shadow’ shape with my hands and casting it in white plaster, I am offering the viewer the opportunity to imagine the shadow of the extinct animal for themselves. I am supplying the source of this imaginative leap, it being as close to anything that exists of these species. Is this enough to scaffold an imagined reality/being onto? It is ‘inviting’ you as the viewer to try. This act could be an evocation of sorts, there is a potential magic to this process, but a hopelessness too. The imagination is the only place the extinct animals can exist.


SK: Extinct Animals, 2018 shows well that remembrance is an important social tool and that it is not as simple or apparent of a process. At times, forgetting is an inevitable consequence of using various technologies. For instance, in Phaedrus Socrates warns us that writing will become a form of forgetting [3]. Entrenched in the oral traditions of philosophy and storytelling, he saw the reality of not needing to remember stories that are preserved on paper. In short, paper retains information instead of our brains. We often depend on images in this same way. However, images you create resist forgetfulness, focusing on a conscious effort to embody history and diverse daily experiences. Can you talk about how you utilize images, for instance, in your piece Ritual for Reconciliation Series?


MC: Ritual for Reconciliation Series was created out of a need to confront the fetishistic appeal of wildlife photography and my own obsession with it. I see these images as alluring, and in some ways pornographic, a form of idealizing and commodifying the animal as an aesthetic experience. Is it the animal or the image we are appreciating? The animal is captured, a trophy which has been ‘shot’. These are all the verbs a hunter would use. The increased intimacy that the telephoto lens promises, is literally an illusion, in many ways it serves to create distance.


Marcus Coates. Ritual for Reconciliation Series, 2013. Pigment on rice paper digital prints, 60 × 48 × 9 cm (framed). Credit: Courtesy of the artist.

My response was to use my ‘best’ wildlife photography in a manner that would attempt to reconcile the distance I perceived between the image and an experience of the animal. By compressing the printed image as small as possible into my hand, I both ruined the image and brought the idea of the animal into actuality through action and physical contact. The engagement with the animal is now as an activated symbol, the image is not necessary. The animal is now held in the hand, the ball of paper is its proxy. The value of the image, to me, is not in its likeness, but its symbolic and material presence and connection through sensation (touch is more intimate than sight?). The absence of the image opens up the possibility to reimagine the animal, to see its essence or ‘spirit’ in the paper ball. I am closer to the actual animal now that the image is denied. This is the theory anyhow. The uncrumpled images are evidence of these attempts. In this way, the images are used, rather than ‘appreciated’. They are in association with a need and a purpose that they enable or facilitate. In this way they are ritualistic.


ENDNOTES


[1] Pappas, Stephanie. “Sound Illusions: Eerie Echoes May Have Inspired Prehistoric Cave Art”. LiveScience. October 28, 2014. Web.


[2] Knight, Chris and Lewis, Jerome. "Wild Voices: Mimicry, Reversal, Metaphor, and the Emergence of Language". Current Anthropology, 58:4, August 2017, pp. 435-453.


[3] Plato. Phaedrus. New York: Oxford University Press, 2002. p. 69.


I first encountered the work of an American Italian Postmodern artist, dancer, choreographer, and writer, Simone Forti three years ago. As I was conducting movement research about the evolution of sleep patterns in predatory and prey animals, Forti's work inspired me to bridge language with movement and curiosity with empathy. Her dance seems to belong to both ancient traditions of moving religiously, with ecstasy, and to more direct and concise scientific approaches to the body in motion. Forti's drawings, sound pieces, movement experiments and writings have a playful and raw quality, dedicated to the in-depth and honest explorations of natural phenomena in this world.


Forti is one of the pioneers of Postmodern dancers and Fluxus artists, who revolutionized the artworld in the 1960s and '70s in the USA. Her work continues to defy art traditions and institutional practices today, inspiring new generations of dancers and artists worldwide. Forti is a recipient of various prestigious awards including a Guggenheim Fellowship in Dance in 2005 and a Yoko Ono Lennon Courage Award for the Arts in 2011. Her work has been shown at international venues such as the Louvre Museum in Paris and the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Forti is represented by The Box LA Gallery.


Simone Forti. Al Di Là: An Evening of Sound Works by Simone Forti at Roy and Edna Disney/CalArts Theater (REDCAT) in Los Angeles, (Feb. 1, 2020). Photo: Steve Gunther. Credit: Courtesy of the artists and REDCAT, LA.

Note: The text below is a transcription of the phone conversation Simone Forti and I had in November, 2020. The text has been edited and condensed for clarity.


Salome Kokoladze: You are considered one of Margaret H’Doubler’s legacies, who had more of a scientific approach to dance, incorporating physiology and kinesiology in her curriculum. According to H’Doubler, natural is not without form, but represents perfect, correct [1]. Can you tell me in what ways you have applied this belief to your practice?


Simone Forti: Well, that's going back to the very beginning of my study with Anna Halprin. She was just breaking away from working with technique, dance technique, and focusing on improvisation. Halprin had different ways in which she focused on movement improvisation. One was that anatomical approach. We would look at, for instance, the shoulder area. She had a skeleton and books with images; we would talk about the different joints and really look at that area by examining different forms of information. Then she would have us explore on our own, maybe throwing our arm with the sense of momentum of a swing or weight bearing. As we would move that area of our body, the rest of the body became involved to support, because the movement would shift our weight. We might have also wanted to move fast to see how the speed affected the subject of our study. Halprin would encourage us to be inspired by the movement that was coming from this point of reference to which the whole body was relating.


This was a way of improvising, let us say, it was dance improvisation with that anatomical focus. This approach to studying movement was not the only way we were improvising. Halprin's studio was outdoors in the woods. She had us observing movement of the clouds, of the leaves on the ground as we walked, or also of solid things like a tree, the bark of the tree. We would abstract some quality that we saw, touched or felt, and tried to bring it into our body, into our movement. In a way, we used our eyes to select what we would take as a score, and what we saw in our environment. That process was really just as strong as the anatomical approach.


I carried the memory of the anatomical point of reference to when I spent quite a few years observing animals in a zoo. I studied how animals are structured and how I am structured, how their movement is different than mine. But I would also try their movement. For instance, when a bear wants to turn to the left, it will swing its head over to the left, and that movement pulls the rest of the body along. And that is not how I would usually turn, so I was curious to try the movement. I would also try to hop like a rabbit. I observed how a particular rabbit would land and from where the start of the movement seemed to come. I think this study would have been different if I had not had the experience of working with Anna Halprin. And the thread of movement improvisation goes back to Margaret H’Doubler.


SK: Do you remember any specific observation (of trees, clouds etc.) that moved you deeply or with which you identified when improvising on Anna Halprin's dance deck?


SF: I do remember once in a while Robert Morris would take one of the classes with Anna Halprin. One time, we had the task of spending time in the environment to select an object and work with its qualities. It turns out that Robert had looked at a stone. When it was his time to show what he had found, he laid down on the floor. He took two or three minutes to compress himself together until he was as much in a ball as possible with a little surface of himself on the floor and he became a stone.


SK: What do you hope to learn from the experience of looking at other bodies, let's say, animal bodies that you observed in a zoo?


SF: I was developing a movement vocabulary with which I was improvising. I would be inspired from one animal to another. I started doing a lot of these observations in Rome because I was living near the zoo. I also remember going to Turin, where they had the Egyptian and Etruscan Museum. I was interested in some of the gods, some of the deities that were part animal. In my improvisations, I had those in mind too.


Simone Forti. Animal Study - Ox (Breathing), (1982). Ink on paper, 10 5/8 x 12 5/8 x 1 1/2 inches framed. Credit: Courtesy of the artist and The Box, LA.
Simone Forti. Sleep Walkers / Zoo Mantras, (1968/2010). Performance at artist’s residence, Los Angeles, September 7, 2010. Photo: Jason Underhill. Credit: Courtesy of the artist, The Box, LA and Jason Underhill.

More recently, I have been closely watching the ants in my kitchen. I stopped going to the zoo. I do not know things change, but also the zoos are very sad. When I moved out to Vermont, to the countryside, I thought I would start seeing animals in the woods. But they stay away. It is hard to see them. However, I had a vegetable garden and there I started to notice a lot of worms, beetles and different little animals in the ground. I even started finding some movement myself from watching. Worms are really interesting, how they stretch forward and then they pull their hind parts together, and stretch forward and pull their hind parts together. Well, I can do that. And at one time that was part of my movement vocabulary.


SK: More generally, what is the significance of quotidian and repetitive movements for you?


SF: Looking back many decades, I was working differently at different times. But I am thinking of, for instance, the Dance Constructions, which came before looking at animals. I am also reminded of the Slant Board, which is a dance piece with a board, a wooden surface at a 45-degree angle with some chords to help climb around. To climb the board, it is a normal movement in relation to the task, to the job of climbing around on the board. But I think that my interest was to feel the strength in my arms, to feel the strength in my body, and also to see people simply moving and the beauty in that. I was also interested in the photographs of Eadweard Muybridge, and in the feeling of looking at the material, which is the body in motion, without stylizing it or without using it for some other reason, but to look at it.


This sort of movement also comes through in my work with Charlemagne Palestine. In Illuminations, I am dancing, I am working with the dynamic forces of running in circles. It is a study of circling, momentum and centrifugal force while he is working with sound waves. I have really worked in different ways. In working with Charlemagne, I am confronted pretty directly with the forces encountered when you run in a circle. Rather than stylizing the movement, again, it is working as much as I can with the raw material.


SK: Can you further describe the process of collaborating with Charlemagne Palestine and your movement inspiration for Illuminations ?


SF: At the start of the work with Charlemagne, we were both at the California Institute of the Arts. There was a beautiful, not very big studio with a wooden floor and wonderful piano. We called that space the temple. We were going in there, I do not know, maybe three, four times a week. And he would play while I was finding what dance I was going to make based on how I felt like moving with this music. I started doing the circling and then I did a lot of drawings of circles. I was working with the geometry of the Star of David, how the Arabic numerals fit on it. I have made drawings that were coming along with my movement. But to find the movement I was moving.


Simone Forti and Charlemagne Palestine. Illuminations, (1971–ongoing). Performed at Vleeshal Markt, Middelburg, April 2, 2016. Photo: Marian van der Weide. Credit: Courtesy of the artists and Vleeshal, Middelburg.
Simone Forti. Illuminations - Red Vegetable Ink, (1972). Vegetable ink and pencil on vellum 11 x 8 1/2 inches. Credit: Courtesy of the artist and The Box, LA.

SK: How has your work evolved or changed more recently?


SF: I am writing more poetry these days. I am trying to find a form. I do not know if I would call it poetry. Some poems, sometimes. I am kind of testing around, engaging in different processes. I think I am still looking for something, a form on which I can start depending. If you are interested, you can read some of my recent poems in the latest publication of the PEAK Journal.


SK: Are there any emerging dancers or movement artists whom you find inspiring?


SF: Well, you know, I was just thinking that I really need to be more open or not so lazy, to see what is going on. I almost know more about New York than Los Angeles. There is a lot of work confronting systemic racism, which is very energetic and motivating force right now in many art forms including dance. I would recommend looking into Danspace Project in New York City for those interested in dance, choreography and movement improvisation.


Endnotes


[1] Margaret H’Doubler. Dance: A Creative Art Experience. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1957. 93.