I’m going to write what I hope is only a little blog, as it is almost four in the morning, I need to be up for work at 8, and I have been emailing and the like for the past few hours. The voice that rabbits on to itself as a I type is sick of itself.
I mainly just wanted to exorcise a thought I’ve been having about my piece. It’s durational. To some extent, duration gives a piece a silence, a stillness. In my head anyway. If you’re sustaining a piece for anywhere upwards of 3 hours, your energy has to dissipate very gradually, or you’ll mess it right up.
In the same way that bedrooms have a silence and stillness to them – often, they’re empty for the majority of the day, and when they are occupied, it’s often by sleeping people, so more stillness. Or at least people who are relaxing. They can be places of great movement, of course (sex) but in general, not so much).
Depression is very still. Still and heavy. For me it is anyway.
The difficulty with this is that I don’t really see myself as a still, silent artist. So often, when I come to work on this piece, something, somewhere isn’t quite fitting. It’s reconciling, I suppose, what I want to express, with how I express myself, which I suppose, is just me finding my voice.
It’s taking bloody ages.