tree house and hummingbird

six-hour action with wood, ground, hummingbird body, cadmium pigment, dress, boots, honey, spinach, water, construction tools, shingles, thread, needle, scissors, dirt, dust

i had encountered a hummingbird body while out walking. corpses jolt, but this was displacing. even living a hummingbird only briefly present itself. if only it could have explained itself. stopped there, with time, i felt both kinship and withdrawal mashing over the dead snippet.

a decade ago an old tree house my father built finally separated from its bunk. it descended to the forest floor, where it persisted in lying—a mass of stuff, or the familiar thing. once upon a time you would find me inside out there. seeing this structure imploded, i wondered over its core, sensing too that pining for a center is immaterial form. oh, oh, the specter whispers, oh, the world’s secrecy.

made over six hours on saturday, october 10th, 2015 on the second floor of the new haven armory, moment-to-moment decisions were made for how to touch, move and assemble properties from my past tree house into and around an alternate form.

With support from Artspace New Haven.

Images copyright Chris Randall.

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