Salt Tooth
When I created Salt Tooth I asked myself the question, what becomes of me, as an artist, and as a human woman, when denied the use of my hands? In previous works I have attempted to sculpt without the use of tools as a way of becoming a bird and honouring the animal instinct. I have constructed large bower-like structures, buildings and nests, using my bare hands, collecting materials such as sticks and branches, clay from a nearby riverbed, stones. I tried to make art without tools. This time I am attempting to make art without my hands, this time I wanted to do it with my mouth. This performance was the logical next step; to create something without my hands. With a sort of self-imposed handicap that would (in a symbolic way) lend me humility, and force a kind of sacrificial posture, or submissive posturing, a way of bowing and kissing the hem of the skirts of mother nature and all the animals.
So I begin to imagine myself as a grub, a human worm, with no hands, and no ego, solemnly building for myself a cocoon to sleep, knowing every movement instinctively. I must work quickly before the sun dries me up, before a predator makes a snack of me. I realise that becoming feeble and vulnerable when tested against the reality of nature should be a part of this work. I wanted to find an inhospitable place, and carry out a race against the elements. The performance was scheduled at sunset, but the light escaped from us, so we found ourselves back on the salt lake at dawn the next day, on a day that ultimately reached 38 degrees in the shade.
I remember times in my life when I have worked earnestly in preparation for major life events – in particular the arrivals of my babies. The way that I began to understand myself and my body on an animal, instinctive level. The two driving forces of fear, and protectiveness, that tested my endurance and my strength (and continue to). So then I imagine myself as a bird, building her nest, understanding the impending need of her eggs.
Without tools I am attempting to build something. By depriving myself of my hands, I am hoping to reveal some intimate layer of myself.
Words transcribed from my journal after the performance:
There is pain and discomfort. I become a black bride in a dirty aisle, endlessly walking towards some looped destiny. My feet and legs are aware of the balancing and the holding that is required to carry out the work. My shoulders ache and complain, and I become a yogi as I banish the complaining thoughts and ask my body for one more walk, one more walk, one more walk. I remember child birth and how I asked for one more contraction, one more contraction, one more hour, one more hour. This is a piece of cake compared to that. My arms and hands begin to numb. My head, inside, is alert. The skin of my face is irritated with small scratches, and the salt in these tiny scratches amplifies them. A stray lock of hair that blows across my sweating brow first tickles, then becomes a torment. Unable to wipe my face, I become aware of the way the sweat and the air meet one another and dry into a film.
Here I am the earnest worker, the one who must sort and store and stack and worry, and work and protect her young from the elements – this feeling of beating the heat – of being up before the dawn, to get the sticks moved before the savage sun takes the land. This feeling of a deep and nagging worry – to keep working, keep working, beyond all odds and beyond all reason just put dollars down, make the same tracks across the city. Go from home to work, go up the stairs, go down the stairs, make phone calls, place orders, get staff organised, get things clean, count the money, go home, do it all again, do it all again, do it all again. It is somehow important to keep on doing these things. The rhythm and repetition of this life of work and worry is both comforting and mesmerising and is a commitment of sorts – a commitment to an action.
Here I am the crusader - finding and expressing a deep anger, a feeling of injustice that women have lost something; some sacred thing; I want to reclaim it so badly for all of us – reclaim ownership over our bodies, respect for having those bodies, those bodies that heave and bulge and leak and moan and move and are moved – vessels and vehicles and destinations, desired and demonised. Under my skin, a deep current of anger for all women.
When I created Salt Tooth I asked myself the question, what becomes of me, as an artist, and as a human woman, when denied the use of my hands? In previous works I have attempted to sculpt without the use of tools as a way of becoming a bird and honouring the animal instinct. I have constructed large bower-like structures, buildings and nests, using my bare hands, collecting materials such as sticks and branches, clay from a nearby riverbed, stones. I tried to make art without tools. This time I am attempting to make art without my hands, this time I wanted to do it with my mouth. This performance was the logical next step; to create something without my hands. With a sort of self-imposed handicap that would (in a symbolic way) lend me humility, and force a kind of sacrificial posture, or submissive posturing, a way of bowing and kissing the hem of the skirts of mother nature and all the animals.
So I begin to imagine myself as a grub, a human worm, with no hands, and no ego, solemnly building for myself a cocoon to sleep, knowing every movement instinctively. I must work quickly before the sun dries me up, before a predator makes a snack of me. I realise that becoming feeble and vulnerable when tested against the reality of nature should be a part of this work. I wanted to find an inhospitable place, and carry out a race against the elements. The performance was scheduled at sunset, but the light escaped from us, so we found ourselves back on the salt lake at dawn the next day, on a day that ultimately reached 38 degrees in the shade.
I remember times in my life when I have worked earnestly in preparation for major life events – in particular the arrivals of my babies. The way that I began to understand myself and my body on an animal, instinctive level. The two driving forces of fear, and protectiveness, that tested my endurance and my strength (and continue to). So then I imagine myself as a bird, building her nest, understanding the impending need of her eggs.
Without tools I am attempting to build something. By depriving myself of my hands, I am hoping to reveal some intimate layer of myself.
Words transcribed from my journal after the performance:
There is pain and discomfort. I become a black bride in a dirty aisle, endlessly walking towards some looped destiny. My feet and legs are aware of the balancing and the holding that is required to carry out the work. My shoulders ache and complain, and I become a yogi as I banish the complaining thoughts and ask my body for one more walk, one more walk, one more walk. I remember child birth and how I asked for one more contraction, one more contraction, one more hour, one more hour. This is a piece of cake compared to that. My arms and hands begin to numb. My head, inside, is alert. The skin of my face is irritated with small scratches, and the salt in these tiny scratches amplifies them. A stray lock of hair that blows across my sweating brow first tickles, then becomes a torment. Unable to wipe my face, I become aware of the way the sweat and the air meet one another and dry into a film.
Here I am the earnest worker, the one who must sort and store and stack and worry, and work and protect her young from the elements – this feeling of beating the heat – of being up before the dawn, to get the sticks moved before the savage sun takes the land. This feeling of a deep and nagging worry – to keep working, keep working, beyond all odds and beyond all reason just put dollars down, make the same tracks across the city. Go from home to work, go up the stairs, go down the stairs, make phone calls, place orders, get staff organised, get things clean, count the money, go home, do it all again, do it all again, do it all again. It is somehow important to keep on doing these things. The rhythm and repetition of this life of work and worry is both comforting and mesmerising and is a commitment of sorts – a commitment to an action.
Here I am the crusader - finding and expressing a deep anger, a feeling of injustice that women have lost something; some sacred thing; I want to reclaim it so badly for all of us – reclaim ownership over our bodies, respect for having those bodies, those bodies that heave and bulge and leak and moan and move and are moved – vessels and vehicles and destinations, desired and demonised. Under my skin, a deep current of anger for all women.