an explination of the word “track” in Tibetan: shul, “ a mark that remains after that which made it has passed by - a footprint, for example. In other contexts, shul is used to describe the scarred hallow in the ground where a house once stood, the channel worn through rock where a river runs in flood, the indentation in the grass where an animal slept last night. All of these are shul: the impression of something that used to be there.” - Found in Rebecca Solnit ‘s“ A Field Guide to Getting Lost orginally from Stephen Batchelor’s 1997 Buddhism without Beliefs.
So I am making a shul in my backyard.
I am making a scar, a print, in the grass using a frame from my previous home[maker] installation.
I am constantly killing our grass. I will come out after a day or two of being trapped inside due to the sickness of a child or the state of laundry pile to see piles of rotting weeds, or an abandoned toy left to make a sickly yellow impression. I kill our grass through neglect, leaving my son’s toy or t—shirt out. Unable, emotionally, to pick up one more pile of stinking and wilted foliage, which I myself pulled victoriously from between the hostas.
These are the shuls of my domestic place. The traces of activity and indicators of a much too busy life.
For my Residency by Correspondence - Arts Territory Residency with Julie Briggs, we have been collaborating on a book and musing on :
layers of life
thoughts on remoteness - from the self, of place, and across time
place, and the labour, both physical and emotional that goes into mapping these spaces
(words taken from @swanlyric )
So in the midst of moving my studio back to my home, and managing summer time diaper escapades with my toddler, I am dragging out former projects to place in my backyard. Home as site for contemporary art.
Making a print, if you will, in the grass.
In the shape of a house.