Irene · Loughlin

I started Sara's walk the way I exited the gallery when I went into the parking lot to shoot the beer cans. I had been thinking about that particular route, since Josh and I had been talking about it earlier. I was surprised that the parking lot seemed smaller than I remembered it. I walked up the alley on the left of this parking lot, two small cars from the parking lot patrol seemed to come after me. Maybe I’m paranoid. My departure from this area, leaving the cars behind, felt sunlit, under an expansive blue sky, and processional. This reflective blue building was at the altar of the alleyway (fourth picture below) I happened upon another parking lot. A man was cooking in a kitchen of a restaurant? and salsa music spilled out into the alleyway. For some unkown reason I became obsessed with beige things. Mostly building facades and doorways and such. I stopped to take a picture of the beige car and the drawing on the beige dumpster beside it. A man started coming towards me. Parking lot security. He was wearing a beige uniform. He asked me what I was doing. I said I was taking a picture of the drawing on the dumpster. The drawing, a monkey? He laughed. Since I was a child I have hated being laughed at. Todd Janes says they aren’t laughing at me, they are laughing with me. Hmm. I told the security guard it was no big deal. He said it was ok that I take the picture. He went back to sit in his car. I thought that must be a drag to have to sit in a car in a hot parking lot all day. My camera started to die. The battery, which I thought I had charged before I left. Damn. My back started hurting. I wish I had a straight spine like Sarah Wookey or Emma. Jealous. Jesus, I tried to take several pictures of the yellow monkey drawing on the beige dumpster. I had thought before the walk that I would trace the river bank. It didn’t happen. I headed for the industrial sites, which I must be inherently more interested in for some reason. I walked by a long, overhanging blue crane, and through the circular scaffolding. A group of lumbering teenage boys approached me. I got a bit anxious, aware of my heart rate increasing, wondering how we were going to navigate past each other through this narrow walkway. Amazingly they moved into single file and I moved to the right side of the scaffolding, so we gently glided past each other. I felt grateful. As I passed, I looked down. The first boy wore huge white leather running shoes, and was walking kind of pigeon toed. The second boy was talking on his cell phone and said “tell Casey I love her” with the third boy saying “that’s nice” as I walked by. I didn’t know teenage boys said I love you into cell phones, or even passed on such messages. Sweet. I circled the construction site, and took photos of it through the fence. And I ended up photographing more beige things. I stumbled upon a pathway walk in the park between condos. A man lay on his balcony suntanning and tapping his right foot. I wanted to take a picture but I thought it would be intrusive. A woman and a man walked slightly to the left and in front of me up the path. The woman bent over and picked up a plastic cup and spoon from the ground where an iced cappucino’s remains were splattered all over the pavement. She sighed and said, “People are such pigs!” with an angry look on her face, while depositing the remains into the public trash dispenser. I walked on the path behind an old lady with a walker wearing a bright purple pantsuit. I liked the colour, which seemed so bright after looking at so many beige things. I thought about following her, and almost did, but then thought better of it. I made an abrupt about face as she headed on to the Save On Foods, through the parking lot. I took photos of more beige things, like the façade of this Tim Hortons. I then decided to go home. I saw a man with a bright blue shirt and his girlfriend in a summer dress. They were holding hands. The trip back to the hotel was uneventful. I noticed a man sitting with a beige cane on a park bench. Otherwise beige seemed to fade and become less noticeable as I focused on getting back to the hotel.

a href="http://pics.livejournal.com/ireneloughlin/pic/0000yce4/"></a>

Josh’s work involves a long rubber strap that connects two shoes. Two people insert their feet into the shoes, one on each side. (in this case, I did, and Josh did) First I watched Amber and Josh do this with the pair of shoes connected at the ankle. They struggled to get on the bus. A woman with a cane watching at the bus stop said “that’s just stupid” and the bus driver was angry. Everyone wanted to get rid of them quickly, move them to the back. A great feeling of general disdain prevailed. They struggled to move to the back. I thought of how those with clunky objects, disabling, were the most irritated. (canes, strollers, walkers) I felt embarrassed that we had this choice, to wear these things that slowed us down, while others did not. I thought of my mother, how I was sometimes irritated after navigating my body around her walker for almost a year, sometimes angry and resentful towards that object controlled our movements so completely.
Walking with Josh and Amber, they moved through the parking lot, almost fell over, moved some more. We were amazed that someone actually walked through them and over their plastic strap as they entered the sliding doors of the mall. I lost the camera at that point, jarred by the aggressive movement, my own walking, the entry into the public/private space. We were pretty much left alone, surprisingly. Although living with the legacy of Tagny’s performance from a previous Visualeyez in 2001. (see photo) there was concern about the use of the camera, the walking transgression that unsettled the lulling pattern of walking generally unconscious as people move around each other kinetically every day, unthinking. I thought of my friend’s fear of learning how to drive, of hitting someone with the car he would potentially drive. I think of how often I could have a potential pedestrian accident, disconnected from my feet, walking around with LOTS OF THOUGHTS, and how often this potentiality is avoided. Josh and I traded shoes. His sneakers comfortable but rubbing against the blisters from my Campers, bought a day previous with the excellent prompting of Todd Janes. These purple polka dot Mary Janes with an edge brought more attention than the shoes joined with the plastic strap, as Josh strutted around the mall, looks askance, groups of girls giggling into their hands, boys with contempt, older men strange and questioning, women interested, curious and disgusted. How one look can carry a homophobic weight to it. I tried to buy a dress in the mall for 20 dollars. The line up was too long. We got on the bus and went home.

I love these pictures of Amber outside of Holt Renfrew. We thought that people would be more anatagonistic towards her in this location, but we were presently surprised. As people pass by, she asks them if they would like to break up with her, and offers a bitter, jealous or …good bye kiss. I have my own special request – bitter and angry. She writes angry on a card, stares at me scrunching up her face, and plants her lipsticked lips over the word. It does look angry. I am pleased. She does bitter for me too, which is standard I guess in the performance, and when you break up with someone. Others seem to not know what to do, passing by afraid to engage, looking over their shoulder saying maybe later. Rejection is key to this work. A willingness to be hurt, like I said before. A willingness to hurt? That’s a good point Karen. A couple suited men pass by. One stops to talk for a bit, touches her on the arm gently, sorry that he decides not to participate. Interesting. I like that everyone feels something about it.. sad and bitter and compassionate towards break ups and the urge to break up.

Josh at the petting zoo. I am impressed by his gentleness with the little lambies. Its like a scene out of “the last temptation of Christ” The lama makes humming sounds while Josh strokes his neck. I make him wash his hands afterwards. This picture is with Goliath the puppy. Goliath is looking for a home other than Edmonton mall if there are any takers!

Performing today was a strange event. "drinking in the kitchen" based on Martha Rosler's semiotics of the kitchen. I thought that it would be a kind of melancholy, angry and serious work. but in the end humourously received. a relief. I was surprised how far liquids splatter, lemon juice, lime, vodka, vermouth, the juice of olives, crushed strawberries, and that you can stack shot glasses full of liquid and they are distributable, in the end. surprised that the fridge at Latitude 53 has an exterior icemaking machine that doesn't work, but makes an excellent sound. If you make it there sometime, flick the switches back and forth and activate the ice maker. You'll see what I mean. interesting to be so inept at mixing drinks. I should know how to do that. better. two days prior to this piece, I walked around Edmonton feeling like I had a cotton ball stuffed in my mouth. pre verbal. the feeling started to set in on Monday. yesterday I was a basket case and drooled on the kitchen floor in the morning. whoever thinks performance art is easy, doesn't have to live in our bodies. like going out there purposefully accepting rejection. that's the kind of thing someone who is unwilling to hurt, just doesn't wanna do. the piece strangely synching with the video. at times. not.
I knew it so well I didn't know. the work was nothing like I thought it would be. Somehow I imagined it frozen in space, not living and breathing. and laughing. although I should know better, unpredictable! totally... a pleasant surprise. happy.
Irene

what to do when you get rid of one (or the last two) of your posts in a fit of discomfort or anger or somekinda thing, and then you miss them? is there any ways to recover those posts? someone help me out here. harrahsahara, I think you commented on those posts, which I regret losing your comments too. Next time I won't have a fit. Or I'll cut and past the post to Word or something for safe keeping. Hey check this out, one of the poets here whose work is great...
later xx

The Caged Bird Still Sings
For Maya Angelou

No sight of sky
No height
Nor width to fly
Yet the caged bird still sings
Still sings, still sings
The caged bird still sings
Soaring above misgivings
Singing
Dreamsongs to which it clings
The caged bird still sings
Glad tidings of freebird things
It sings, it sings, it sings!
Mighty hymns of wind-riding wings
The caged bird still sings
Still sings, still sings
Singing as if...
The ceiling is the sky
Singing as if...
To sing is to fly
The caged bird still sings
Still sings, still sings
The caged bird still sings

Klyde Broox

I just heard on the radio that today is the anniversary of John Lennon's death. I have been thinking about John and Yoko lately, what a brilliant couple they were, so ahead of their time, John naked, embracing Yoko's full clothed body, that comment on gender expectations...turning it inside out in the 70's. I'm glad they pissed off so many people. I hope we all have such creative partnerships and love in our lives.

Lincoln Alexander is reading from a book he wrote about his life tomorrow downtown. I'm excited, I've admired this man's work since I was a teenager. In general I think he would advise that I should stay in school, so I will. :) Maybe I'll get the chance to ask him tomorrow, keep you posted.

Lincoln Alexander was Canada's first black Member of Parliament when he was elected to the Canadian House of Commons in 1968 as a member of the Progressive Conservative Party of Canada, representing the riding of Hamilton West. In 1976 and 1978 he served as an observer to the United Nations. During his term in office he concentrated on bringing attention to education and youth issues. He remains an active spokesman on race relations and veterans' issues. The Lincoln M. Alexander Parkway (known locally as "the Linc"), a freeway through Hamilton, was named in his honour, though Lincoln Alexander has never held a driver's license of his own. More recently, Alexander was recently declared the Greatest Hamiltonian in a reader vote done by The Hamilton Spectator. In November, 2006, his autobiography Go to School, You're a Little Black Boy: The Honourable Lincoln M. Alexander: A Memoir was published (ISBN 1550026631). The book’s title was something Alexander’s mother often said to him during his childhood. “Those words, her words, have been at the core of what I’ve accomplished in my life,” he said. “She was right, of course. My education has always been my empowerment.” He said he’s always felt indebted to his hometown and to Canada because they’ve enabled him “to be myself. I’d like to think that this book repays that debt somewhat. It’s aimed at people who think they can’t do something or think they’ll never make it, and I’d like to think I’m helping convince others to never give up.”

Introducing Wax Mannequin...
I haven't met him yet but when I do I'll let you know...love this writing, the music's great too, check out his site...

by Wax Mannequin
I'm resting at home. I get frowns and askance looks when I tell people where I am from. Hamilton, I am told, is a dirty, corrupt place. Its water and air can make you sick, or stink. Its people are troubled and unkempt. Its animals are out to get you. All of this is true. All and more. But I choose to live here because of these bad things – not in spite of them. I walked through my city today to shop at Liquidation World. I was out for a new toaster. L. World is one of a few remaining businesses in the central, downtown shopping plaza. The L. World, the Cigar Store, the Wally Par Sausage stand and a handful of others. There were some people on the streets and in the mall. Most folks had obvious problems -- as obvious to me as mine were to them. We mutter to ourselves, or we sing little songs. We limp or hold our hurt back. Our pants hang low and our mouths loll open, expressionless. Bulbous parts, or sunken, missing bits. Few of us have fancy clothes. Those who do, seem like scary, sad clowns with suits and sequins painted fake over blistered, misshapen nakedness. There are cigarettes sticking out from every hole here. The best buildings lie empty, old and dangerous, while the worst house dodgy little shops, selling scraps for scraps to the homeless, or almost homeless... I bought a new toaster at Liquidation World. The word 'new' works loose here. The toaster was full of used crumbs and didn|t work at all in the normal sense. Had the words "Doesn't Work" written on the box in thick blue ink. (check out the rest at http://www.waxmannequin.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=277)

Struck by how the movie 8 Mile (I thought it was 5 mile) is familiar to me, kind a cross between the city I grew up in and the trailer park where we spent the summers. I managed a small factory machine called the tipper tie. just 2 months. They won't take me back. What's left the Tim Horton's here. Struck by lack of cushy pillowed couch chairs to sit on laptop all day barrista coffee. Yah right. Just the plastic tables at Timmy's, afraid to put down anything worth over 5 bucks. Suits me fine, no lotus land shit, daily grind winter boots dirty brown snow. Salt. It got kind of depressing. My mom thinks I'm a loser. In Santiago a guy wrapped himself in a crocheted blanket outside the library, leaned a cardboard sign against his sleeping body - it said "looser". Still trying to figure out if it was on purpose or bad translation. doesn't matter. brilliant 20 something guy feeling like a looser. feel your pain (i do feel). It only gets worse... older, trying to string something together...so tired years endless, unpaid work. looser and whiner. winner! generation xer, repent, sinner....Vancouver. The factory was worse, my back, my arms, everything compressing downward into stood on concrete. I looked for a tourist t shirt with the city of my birth emblazoned on it. None hanging in the mall. anywhere. That's a sign this place is the end of the world. closed steel mills, wandering, dusting shit off my coat. Nothing is convenient. everything's...might as well walk. I'm supposed to have a car, everyone does... just a rusty piece of metal late 70's or early 80's that can hurl around. this lj cut thing DOESN'T WORK. I want to punch things - boxing. Jogging endless miles on the treadmill. Where's the real rap music at lunch time, just this shitty piped in radio station, I feel ripped off, fuck I quit smoking. A lady crocheted cell phone covers hangs them in the window - 5 bucks. 5 miles. 5 days a week working some shit like that. Eminem, yo you your. How come only young skanky white boys get to be loosers with any dignity. anyhow. no I love you man, no really. I was in toronto, city supposed to do something for me. i know you wouldn't have been one of those guys barking at me fourteen. yah, right.

check out these photos...http://pics.livejournal.com/ireneloughlin/gallery/00004t27

I thought you all might like this, the Heart Sutra.
I personally love it, chanted it everyday for two weeks whilst on retreat, it made me very happy, I also found it quite philosophically profound. I'm sorry if it all shows up on the friends page, I haven't quite figured out this bracketing thing yet.

The Heart Sutra

Thus have I heard at one time. The Blessed One was dwelling in Rajagriha on Vulture Mountain together with a great assembly of monks and a great assembly of Bodhisattvas. At that time, the Blessed One was absorbed in the concentration of the countless aspects of phenomena called "Profound Illumination."

At that time also the Superior Avalokiteshvara, the Bodhisattva, the great being, was looking perfectly at the practice of the profound perfection of wisdom, perfectly looking at the emptiness of inherent existence of the five aggregates also.

Then, through the power of Buddha, the Venerable Shariputra said to the Superior Avalokiteshvara, the Bodhisattva, the great being, "How should a child of the lineage train who wishes to engage in the practice of the profound perfection of wisdom?"

(Thus he spoke and the Superior Avalokiteshvara, the Bodhisattva, the great being, replied to the Venerable Shariputra as follows:

"Shariputra, whatever son or daughter of the lineage wishes to engage in the practice of the profound perfection of wisdom should look perfectly like this: subsequently looking perfectly and correctly at the emptiness of inherent existence of the five aggregates also.

"Form is empty, emptiness is form. Emptiness is not other than form. Form is not other than emptiness. In the same way feeling, discrimination, compositional factors and consciousness are empty. Shariputra, like this all phenomena are merely empty, without characteristics. They are not produced and do not cease. They have no defilement and no separation from defilement. They have no decrease and no increase.

"Therefore, Shariputra, in emptiness there is no form, no feeling, no discrimination, no compositional factors, no consciousness. There is no eye, no ear, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind; no visible form, no sound, no smell, no taste, no object of touch, no mental phenomenon. There is no eye element and so forth up to no mind element, up to no element of mental consciousness. There is no ignorance and no cessation of ignorance and so forth up to no aging and death and no cessation of aging and death. Likewise, there is no suffering, no origin, no cessation and no path; no exalted wisdom, no attainment and also no non-attainment.

"Therefore, Shariputra, because there is no attainment, Bodhisattvas rely on and abide in the perfection of wisdom; and because their minds have no obstructions they have no fear. Passing utterly beyond error they attain the final state beyond sorrow. All the Buddhas who perfectly reside in the three times, by relying upon the perfection of wisdom, become manifest and complete Buddhas in the state of unsurpassed, perfect and complete enlightenment.

"Therefore, the mantra of the perfection of wisdom, the mantra of great knowledge, the unsurpassed mantra, the equal-to-the-unequaled mantra, the mantra that thoroughly pacifies all suffering, since it is not false, should be known as the truth. The mantra of the perfection of wisdom is proclaimed:

TAYATA OM GATE GATE PARAGATE PARASAMGATE BODHI SOHA!

"Shariputra, this is how a Bodhisattva, a great being, should train in the profound perfection of wisdom."

Then the Blessed One arose from that concentration and said to the Superior Avalokiteshvara, the Bodhisattva, the great being: "Well said, well said, O child of the lineage. So it is. The profound perfection of wisdom should be practiced exactly as you have taught, and the Tathagatas will rejoice."

When the Blessed One had said this, the Venerable Shariputra, the Superior Avalokiteshvara, the Bodhisattva, the great being, and the entire assembly as well as worldly beings -- gods, humans, demi-gods and gandharvas -- were filled with admiration and highly praised what had been spoken by the Blessed One.)

MacLean's Magazine

Recently, Margaret Trudeau has gone public to discuss her diagnosis of bipolar disease. She talks to Anne Kingston about loss, love, children, marriage, and her long journey to joy.

Margaret Trudeau entered Canadian public life in 1971 as the 22-year-old bride of Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau. She captivated, for a time, as the "flower-child" earth mother to three boys. Within years, however, the Trudeau marriage became a national soap opera, rife with tales of Margaret's erratic behaviour -- singing at a dinner in Cuba with Fidel Castro, a 1978 tell-all memoir, hanging out with the Rolling Stones. The couple divorced in 1984. That year, she married Ottawa real-estate developer Fried Kemper, with whom she had a son and daughter, and retreated to private life.

She returned to the public eye in 1998 when 23-year-old Michel Trudeau was killed in a skiing accident. Then, at Pierre Trudeau's funeral in 2000, she collapsed at Parliament Hill. In 2004, she was charged with DUI. The charge was dismissed; it is being appealed.

Recently Trudeau, now divorced from Kemper and working for a company that relocates government employees, has gone public to discuss her diagnosis of bipolar disease in 2000. At 57, she exhibits the vivacity -- and emotional range -- familiar to Canadians. Yet she is more guarded about her privacy, politely turning down a photographer's request to take her picture on the street outside the Château Laurier hotel, where she spoke with Maclean's about her near-death downward spiral, her ongoing recovery and the actress Margot Kidder, who once dated Pierre Trudeau and who now advocates the use of nutritional supplements in the treatment of bipolar disease.

read more at: http://www.macleans.ca/culture/people/article.jsp?content=20060522_127234_127234

Lisette translated this for me one afternoon at a lecture at Factoria Universidad Arcis, by an intellectual at the University - M. Baeria, who wrote Imaginary Materiality and Works and Their Stories unfortunately not available in English. I probably don't have it totally right, but here's a translation from my notes of the lecture:

Performance Art is important for the register of the body. There is a difference between presentation and representation. This hierarchy is also put into question through performance art. Christ's crucifixion is also still contingent to the problem of the body today. Narrative is also important to our understanding of the body, the medieval body and the modern body are very different. Art has assisted in the overexposure of the body. Through the "mediatic body" a radical separation has occurred between body and consciousness. In a hedonistic culture an extreme paradox has resulted, in the consumption of the body and its simultaneous disappearance.

The body has been overexposed to representation and therefore, has disappeared. There is no representation of the diversities of bodies and how they exist. The body has disappeared in weight and gravity and paradoxically exists in its spectacular apparition. The objectification of the body decontextualizes it, and makes it a primary object of consumption. Within the hierarchy, it helps to propogate a "natural" body.

Modernity is defined by its representation to the future. The self consciousness of performance embodies a tendency towards the liminality of possibilities, what may be possible...performance art could use possibilities so as not to alter, impress or scare the viewer, but to capture their attention and gaze. The body is formed through the construction of language. There is nothing natural in our relationship to our body, our relationship to our own body is formed politically and socially. To have a body is to lose balance, and we shouldn't try to prostheticize to representation.

With performance art, we could try to regulate the body to sensation and meaning, where systems of pregiven signification are arrested. The body is stranded in an interrupted signification process. In performance, the body conducts itself to language. Its wish arises from an unfulfilled desire. What is the other? The subject, or the other body, or is it the same body? How does language work...for communication, as an instrument, I send a message, if there is no response, I rework it. What happens when we are pushed towards language?

Language as expression is different, we are crashed against language. Someone who works with the body has everything against them, because of the principle problem of spectacle/spectatorship...where do you go from here? Bahktin worked inside of uniforms, breaking with codes...using the carnivalesque...the idea is not to recuperate a lost body, but to recover the loss...the problem is that we think we have recuperated the body, through nostalgic representation...

What is understood as natural? An order that we understand. There is no natural, this is an idealization, we are always defining the body historically. In the carnivalesque, it is demonstrated that there exists a flaw. In the way that art is an emancipatory practice. In modernism, there is only playing representation, post modernism is a conservative aesthetic, as it is "beyond emancipatory practice" there is a cruel aspect to performance, submitting the body to an order, imposing an order that evokes a response...()

Having a kind of bizarre surreal experience of illness. The kind of illness when you sweat in bed, everything hurts and you cant really do anything about it. but wait. for the time you can take the next tylenol. the next antibiotic. you count down the hours cause theres nothing else to do. theres a full pack of cigarettes on the shelf. I must be getting better cause my brain starts battling with you quit smoking. fear is an excellent motivator. once the edge is off, ill never do it again seems to disappear like a whisp of smoke on a cold winter day, when you are forced to smoke outside anywhere. and who wants to smoke indoors anyways. people hate you, and you dont really want to kill your friends do you. I am not a good sick person. reminds me of earlier times, of which I would rather forget. watched a movie with Johnny Depp where he drank himself to death. I want to go home. wherever that is. tomorrow will be a better day.

So I thought I would try this out, probably a good way to channel my writing energy, as writing friends long emails probably gets a bit tedious for them. Such a strange format, this post anything on the internet, so public or something. Guess I was also inspired by reading the blog of Darren O Donnell in Pakistan, its interesting-http://darren-in-pakistan.blogspot.com/ I have recently returned from Santiago, Chile and Buenos Aires, Argentina. Both places were amazing, Argentina made me cry in a bitter sweet kind of way. My new friend there, Gabriela, her husband said it was because Gabriela was mean to me. And everyone laughed, because Gabriela is the sweetest thing, and everyone knows it. We couldnt find each other by email or phone. I was in Miami airport for nine hours. One of the airport workers chastized me for getting down about not knowing how I was going to contact Gabriela. He said when a person has a problem, they should call it a situation because if you call a situation a problem no one will want to help you out. I guess thats some kind of American logic or something.

When I arrived in Buenos Aires, a teenaged girl in a military uniform was making drawings of teddy bears and hearts at the bank. She lent me her paper so I could scribble possible letter number combinations of what might be my bank machine code - in a fit of sleeplessness, later I made a collage for Emilio Morandi from her drawing. So eventually I was found, I managed the bank machine, and I took a taxi to Gabrielas house, which was beautiful, with big lemons hanging from trees in the backyard, that you would just want to suck on. I had to do the performance that night, after being in Argentina three hours. I wish I could have gone to Zonadeartes performance art Accion festival www.gazonadearte.com.ar/ earlier, there was so much great work there. But in that one day I saw so many great works, Emilios homage to Angel Pastor - everyone fell in lines as does Angel, who collapses all over the world in a particular sideways manner, knees bent to the side, he explained this way it hurts less. The women artists from Italy and Spain, whose names escape me right now, one drawing elastic bands over her stomach, arms and waist to deform her body shape, the other crouching and releasing a black powder into a pile on the floor from the back of her neck.