i always used to make myself create something new after the stroke of midnight on new years. it felt like a good way to start the year. a good way to assure the continuance of practice. i did this through the latter part of the nineties and throughout the early oughts and the earlier part of the twenty-teens. i suppose i have turned this practice more into thinking rather than making. thinking, reading, writing, being, connecting — all seem more important these days than simply making. but how does that really form into any sort of tangible practice? or does it even have to be tangible? i am still in the early phases of thinking about my practice anew. i have many questions and not so many answers.
after finishing my last project for 2019 i am feeling good about the progress, but also maybe a bit tense about next phases. i often look back to projects and create them anew. this has worked in the past, but again, there is urgency here. there has been talk on the signal-machine between the two of us to re-imagine citizen. i am interested in what this may mean. what it may become.
in the meantime, i will continue to seek answers in the studio. more likely, only more questions will abound — presenting themselves with glee and fear. anxiety and pleasure. ahh… the conundrums of 2020 present themselves. i have always said continuance is a measure of success. so i continue.
… and i awoke again, as tends to be the trend lately. round pain pushing through spaces that most likely shouldn’t be pushed. but we do — because we can. or is it, “we should”? or is it hubris? privilege?john ros, some kind of announcement, 01 January 2007
landlocked in this space with tributaries and their journeys — telling stories — finding ways to tell secrets and desires — one’s decree. as i look out that window of only a year… and ten… and eight and ten more. in time there is only air. this air. this space. this work fills walls and rooms and boxes — and me.
final as it may be — what is, what was, and how we are what we are. especially now — this moment — silenced by a stable song or riff or possibility of year on year — and this odd year. more war, more destruction, more hate… as we sit… resting… watching… listless and motionless.
some things never seem to change. we must change these things.