03 Apr Holding my arms out

I’ve photographed the spaces directly around me, the echoing concrete stairwell (Elsworth Kelly inspired and noticing the Twombly like markings on the concrete), felt the surfaces, taken rubbings and drawn. It feels like holding my arms out and measuring the very limits of a shrunken world. Looking at the images and impressions I can maybe read traces of memories in the resulting images. If I print them out and trace them, focus in and out, reprint them and redraw them, am I losing them or are they becoming more processed and more/less real (part of me) with every decision I make. No longer representations but processes. The landscape exists through transparent windows, through concrete walls, through the monitor of my computer. It’s in the photos I’m backing up, the books I’m leafing through and the conversations I’m having with my kids. I can hear the hot, sandy, familiarity of Terrigal beach in phone calls with my mum and the seaweedy thick lap of Brisbane water in calls with my friend.

Can any of this be read in the images? Like a Rorschach test does what is read from the images say more about the person reading it than my intention. In the doubling and shifting multiplication is the physicality of what I’m representing redundant? Like Calvino’s Venice: “The city is redundant: it repeats itself so that something will stick in the mind.