REWIND

10/31/10

Riddled by insanity
And coupled with guilt
I lean towards the past
To influence my tilt
Towards something…
Other than the empty
I see
Therefore plaguing me
With questions unanswered
Floating around
Provoking me to curse the ground
That God made.
The spirit that I believe
Allows me to stand
Up and through
the great new YOU
I would like to create
However I am limited by fate
Or thought,
That’s what I thought.
Until the endings were presented.
I am aware of my mind’s theories represented
I inspect forethought with painful shores
Brought here to not RE-create
Recreate, play,
I see the clean day
Where I will determine my family.
Standing firm while listening, readily,
And free
To feel and experience the ill
Beauty denied
Before our decline.
Please be kind.
Remind me to rewind.

costumes

I think about love all the time.

Perhaps, I was born with a forlorn heart. As a child, I can remember hugging myself tightly at bedtime, longing for something I had never experienced. Intimately, the breath of another is an almost primal satiation and I have observed nuanced reactions from the affection I give, certainly unaware of my own strength. Bodies recoil from my touch, as if reacting to a tangible blessing. Or a curse. My cordial moments of acquaintance contact are mistaken, accused, and refused out of fear and assumption of distorted intention. It is a reflection of my previous life. My mother used to tell me that I "had been here before". Now after HER life, I am living within reaction.

A POST-life, sometimes not my own.

I am other wordly. Life on this soil is an infinite discovery--of how to love myself and to truly receive my spirit.

Reverie

The moment where I am able to become the recipient of my own divine love--respectful of its purity--will be the climax. I predict this as my glorified and ultimate quest. Like Lancelot, I have traveled long, far, and broken paths in search of my dragon. While continuing to ignore the only dangerous and beautiful fire that actually threatened me-- the one searing me from the inside. I was determined to survive on other soil. To experience a grand victory and have answers unlocked--like dramatically piercing the dragon with Lancelot's Excalibur. And since, I feel like a hero, I needed to replicate the story of one. The realization lied in the acceptance of myself as the author of this story. My characters laughed and indulged loudly and openly, but loved with an enormous fear. Fortunately, this was not destined to exist as a narrative rerun, it was an original reality. I was in charge of the ending, therefore I could create the love story.

foreshadowing

Italian art jovialist, perhaps?
This will surely be a future look...just need some Mediterranean sun on the regular.
Amen, to the leopard flats.
For more FAB street fashion, go to the The Sartorialist.
delicious.

SIR: style.identity.reduxxx.

You can call me Sir.

I am realizing how much character informs my own personal style-- rather than aesthetic. Or therefore, my aesthetic is readily informed by intention. I WANT to provoke a specific thought by the way that I dress. Then you can attach more opinion when engaging my swagger, and therefore my outfit is formed. I wonder if this is the way I create, the way I work....of course, of course.

images, images...

Recently, a coworker (Patricia!) and I simultaneously came to the conclusion that my style is counterintuitive. Over the past two years, I have transgressed, progressed, and assessed my ensemble evolution. I have moved from "urban ballerina" wearing skin tight jeans and varying leo/uni-tards with hi-tops, bucks and chucks...while toting newspapers and slinging lattes for about a year; to "expat dancing detective" when I ran away from home for half of 2009-- living out of suitcases in Europe and the L.E.S. and crashing in the apartments of eclectic strangers. Wardrobe must be mobile on multiple levels--oversized trenchcoats, dark tights, and layered sweaters as coat substitutes. And now, my silhouette portrays "international dance teacher"-- rooted in one spot but certainly living in my figurative "house on a hill"-- producing insight and lesson plans from boyish layers and secondhand mens shoes. The intuition countered could quite possibly be the fight for survival--all perhaps invisible. Ah, yes, but seemingly INVINCIBLE based on appearance.

I sincerely enjoy evoking "character" with my day to day apparel. Call me crazy..or just call me. I love getting dressed and relish in the mysterious results. All abstract, ecstasy pour moi. And, I rally around those that do the same. Step into your wardrobe driver's seat and gravitate towards what you want to wear-- don't plan. Form narrative around what you want to wear, if you wish...

symbols, symbols...cymbals?

The man in the photo exemplifies such. His demeanor exudes more than his white top and bottom offer. Style is just as much about personality as it is about color coordination. The photo is courtesy of the Sartorialist. I hope he doesn't mind. The man in the photo, that is.

4 years later. Stranger on the Road.

7 million dollar settlement for Sean Bell family and two friends involved in Police murder in November of 2006.

Detective Palladino called the settlement laughable and that police were performing their lawful duty.

The officers were acquitted of all charges in June of 2008. I am struggling with resolutions here. It is alarming that this monetary reparation required almost four years--and what's even more unfortunate and is how little this will heal. It ends up driving deeper, the placement and empty value that informs the belabored perspective of black and brown people in America. I am not ungrateful, I am honestly finding it difficult to feel any real pathos on a human (forget social, at this point) level, when justice continues to be impaired.

"I'm just a stranger, traveling on the road. I don't know nobody and I don't know where to go....I'm just a stranger, a long, long, long, long way from home." - Shirley Caesar

Accept loss forever. KEROUAC

murmurations

According to the accordion of current catastrophes I am to unfold as many menageries. On earth. Replicating some symbolic growth on original soil. I taste irrelevance…familiar salt as I awaken again from this non-sleep repeat. Death to the learned me and light on ancient self that remains on my heart shelf. To see in shapes is to miss mistakes and movement lies when frozen inside.

Somehow God had been forgotten—therefore involved, but somehow rotten. I have never attempted to deny and have only been in search of reply…seeking the stars to get me by, standing, MY, decay, all in evidence’s way of shadow and smoke, identifying as a practical joke and creating my own symbol of gracious shape at night I would produce the magic tape hoping to win. And even if I got in-- my story grew scarce. The frown’s just purpose is to reject plastic repairs.

And so I begin the debate surrounding how to NOT wait.
To diminish time right up to the minute is the only way I think I will again GET IN IT.

Refusing to seek some final place, I pray to enjoy my own space.

"I don't rehearse, because performance art is not about rehearsal; that's what makes it different from theater." Marina Abramovic

And, that may be the only difference.

NY mag's latest piece on The Artist is Present

Intimacy as performance--roles that we take on to please ourselves and our partners. Places of understanding. These are considered our comfort zones where we fearlessly shield connection--therefore connection as a performer is also slightly disconnected? Nothing new, but what can be removed is the unattainable shadow of abstraction surrounding performance. Interaction is perhaps a variable; and regardless of its definition, its presence within performance art and theater are consistent and reflective. An audience will applaud or will stare at you stone faced without any understanding of what might have actually occurred. It seems that an audience reaction is not necessary.

However, this is the difference between intimacy and performance. Interaction must be static to cause exchange, dynamic, and finality. And it appears that expression may exist simultaneously within courage because the advances are based on assumption, repetition, and intuition.

excerpt from cowboy

My Beatitudes, July 2007

Never complain.

Believe.

Ask questions.

Intervene for your friends.

Expect nothing. HOPE for everything.

What your friends and loved ones believe is their gospel. Accept it, knowing the truth and let them feel comforted. Educate but do not humiliate.

Look directly into the sun--stare directly into the light.

Breathe.

Walk in the originality of your own path.

Spend wisely—time and money.

Always sing OUT LOUD.

Work hard and NEVER give up.

Ignore the devil--he is very busy.

Wash your hands, BEFORE and after indulgence—food, sex, and learning.

Say, “I love you”. Expect it in return.

Share.

Nourish your body with good food and good drink.

Listen.

Discuss sadness and tragedy as a way towards healing.

Remember, that your heart is your family and the foundation of your soul. Please do not forget this.

Speak to the dearly departed at rest and at rise.

Believe that God is everywhere and seek His inspiration.

Cry. Wail. Crumble. Release.

Do NOT explain yourself.

Enjoy laughter from your belly as often as you can.

Compromise nothing for a full experience. Be present.

Relish in your rebellion, but do not pursue it.

Maintain mystery.

Leave home and know you are allowed to look back.

Introducing....

PUERTO RICAN DISCOVERY #23: Portrait In Raising Self Esteem by Sandra Maria Esteves

Brooding Woman (recto), Three Children (verso)
Pablo Picasso (Spanish, 1881-1973)


Flirtatious dreamers
we judge ourselves all wrong

Backward guilt
feet-first jumpstarts into birth
innocent to realize
rain days can be good
blessings from heaven
disguised

We watch for signs
Survival manna
slow to discover learning lessons
on an oceanic route
full of rocky struts
fathomless caves
voluptuous hills
sea water from the unexpected...

We are infants compared to the universe
a wise great-grandmother
who can harvest the stars around the moon

The names of all things are sacred
like thoughts breathing clean air
More than loving
living means giving
Like homegrown food
from the eternal harvest within

But for real.

performance

My soft frailty center eventuates myth
Epic death at the hands of audience member
Fiction, determining the story
And choosing my own adventure
I conduct the show
Withdrawn from my conclusion
Creating on canvas of great life details
Seeing my individual visual emerge visible
And somehow, misunderstanding the colors
The stencils outlining the live action
The living performance
A moving image
Enclosing my opening
(Folding inward doublespeak)
Makes me
Not reality
This fantastic spirit fantasy vision
Envelopes your expectant entertainment
Earthly volunteers temporarily in seated agreement
Their applause rendering darkness
Reversing accolades
Not my goal,
Nor my fruit
I insist upon an encore

Gallery 788, Baltimore

This show features effervescent photographer and my super dance pal, Lauren Barnhart

Gallery 788
*a co-op featuring local artists
BALTIMORE
Sunday from 12-6 , with performances beginning at 2
check the postcard for address details

found these on my desktop

collage with end papers by the beloved Mark Bradford...looking for new work. Anyone?



Alana Davis

work: INSPIRATION

Old stuff...breeding new POWER.




THUNDER (the Gemini)

I see your hand reaching for my thunder.
Exhausted thieves spend lifetimes dodging guilty rain clouds.
Your smile does nothing to mask your crime.
I cracked your eggshell façade and spoke all the words you hate.
Honesty love faithfulness
Your eyelids wrinkle as you continue to reach.
Still present, yet in the dark, seeing only the red beneath your lids.
I don’t stop you, and cowardly claim “reasons”.
This glory will not comfort my thankless hard work.
You have taught me to find new ways to brew a storm.
Clutch my knuckles without touching my fingertips,
While making me feel good about myself by doing what I say.
Threaten my thunder to thoroughly defeat you.
Force me to rumble to discover my enemy.

outLOOKout!

My head slips deeper into my sweater’s neck.
The familiar turtle.
I’m willing to part with my shell.
Not now, she says.
Bumps raise on my skin’s first layer.
All is quiet in this corner.
Sight beyond is hollow and unnecessary.
It’s my turn with my mind’s game.
My thought’s current tactics are patient with my recollection.
Right now.
Nothing even matters, they said.
Right now.
I interrupt myself and change channels.
Returning to my regularly scheduled programming.
Smiling like I mean it and unbraiding my hair.
If only I could slow down and return your gesture.
But I can’t recall my last move.
I revert to an old remedy.
The shell surrounds me--
Guarded from penetration and winning the game.
The spotlight is bright and the prize extravagant.
You pawn me off with the king’s jewels.
I jump, swinging my leg over your head
And wrap ribbons around the maypole.
Shouting secrets over the uneven grass,
And mouthing fantasies across subway seats.
Doe eyed deliverance!
And posture maintained; I'm a decent bluff.
My stop approaches, and the doors open.
The game is forfeited, and I lose my turn.

REVOLUTION

The returned vibration
is a familiar flag
embossed with details edited
onto yesterday's framework
by diminishing prior birth.

gift ideas?

Lanvin, Fall Collection 2010

Alexander McQueen

The work of Alexander Mcqueen is nothing short of an experience with righteous art. I have never owned one of his designs, but I can certainly say that I was and will continue to be provoked and inspired by his innovation and fearless silhouette.

Long Live McQueen, in this week's NY magazine.

TOMORROW!!!

"...my life was recycled, my hope was renewed."

When Nature Calls
written by Josefina Lopez

Direction by Erica Cardwell
Choreography by Miriam Wasmund

Nuyorican Poets Cafe, 7pm
February 11-21

Get your tickets, here.
For more information, please visit The Impulse Initiative.

When Nature Calls

As a kid, I climbed a lot of trees. I can remember jumping to reach branches, tearing skin and clothing, and swinging up to the highest point of safety. There were times when my branch would give and release little me squirming like a fish on shore, laughing undiscouraged amongst the roots. Without hesitation, I would stand up and return to the tree to find a new place to sit.

Unfortunately the last time I climbed a tree was almost 15 years ago.

I can regard those moments as hallowed and secretive places of “outdoor worship” and consistency. Rehearsals with my all female ensemble mirrored this-- warm and smiling places of gratitude in anticipation of hard and collaborative work. I enjoyed watching these women with varying faces, backgrounds, names, and footsteps give to the movement and words through different languages. I felt welcomed by the separate awareness each performer gifted me with. Our cultural connection lies in our womanhood—our frailties, secrets, and lusts. These were our moments of silent prayer--places where we are held accountable for our beliefs.

Our text spoke of imagination and personal vision, therefore my research and inspiration primarily surrounded imagery. I explored the earnest work of contemporary and historical Latina performance artists like Astrid Hadad and Regina Jose Galindo; the melodrama and epic caricature within Pedro Almodovar’s storytelling; and the ethereal bedtime stories of winged messengers and dead giants by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. This shaped itself into a specific “deity” within collaboration—aggressive, sensitive, dark, and mythic.

Through this work I found myself redefining the oxygen that nature and its trees can provide. A unique nature that varied according to character yet is founded in us all. Oxygen and breath that is too often lost, yet somehow maintained in the life of women.
Thus, validating our need for excess and clarity within irrationality.

By revisiting my tree climbing days, I am able to discover my own nature by returning to my roots.

Where do you worship?

Purchase your tickets for When Nature Calls, here.

We open in 10 days!!

The NY premiere of Josefina Lopez's
When Nature Calls at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe.

February 11-21
7pm
Purchase tickets, here.

My toe tapping
finger pianos
exhibit occupation
within private concerns
over distant walkways
closed bathrooms
empty linen
illuminated by scribbles
nibbling
limber thoughts
only moveable
by the owner.

PARIS

(excerpt from vagabond:burning shoulders)

It was three years ago. My first trip to Paris without my family. It had been ten years. At 25, I was in young love, completed with rounded cheeks and a defensive drinking habit. My French was almost nonexistent as I was gladly preoccupied by my lover and letting him order my lunch and guide me around the somehow familiar city. I didn’t own a watch and my cell phone had no signal, so I rarely knew what time it was. And, I was secretly nearing the end of my Euro but absolutely LIVING with passion and without a map.

After my recent visit in the summer of 2009, I exited the city as a lonesome traveler with a specific knowledge of the city, and longing to be stranded there. I felt reunited with the anonymity that I originally encountered when I first arrived in New York. Maybe that is why young people can be so loud and attention hungry on the subway in my traumatic city. City life can be exciting and volatile for teenage eyes. Little hungry apes needing nameless shock value. Suddenly, those familiar feelings had returned for another city. After leaving last August, I felt like I had just spent an extended period of quiet time with an old friend. Those four days possessed the nuance of “first times” but also the familiarity of bookmarked friendships. Revisiting Paris’s romantic grandeur and creating my new, soft and lonely memories was extremely satisfying. A surprise considering my usual feeling is that of a mournful goodbye. It is nice to not only hope for and imagine a return to magic, but to experience it and watch its tricks. I liked tiptoeing around alone and asking strangers to take my picture. All of my journeys are completed by a moment of quiet time with myself. And, now I leave at the beginning.

I have discovered my Paris.

I think I am experiencing sincere possibility--like a gift for my hard work. My ambition.

I don’t usually like feeling like a visitor. Or I don't allow myself to. My fun began when I changed that. This makes me happy, when I let my evasive guard down and let this feeling guide me. The cab driver said on the way to my long bus ride to Barcelona that, “Sometimes time is more important than money.”


I stayed with new and cherished friends, Ikue and Lorenzo in the Paris’s Chinatown. To show my gratitude for a warm bed, friendly times, and their homemade blackberry preserves, I took the loving couple out to Chinese food. They enlightened me on the Parisian version of the “new” New York hipster - bobos. Bohemian Bourgeouis.

After dinner they took to me to a Canal where young people bring bottles of wine and stare into one another's eyes. While we were taking pictures a man excitedly ran across the street to enjoy his wine and tripped over a low chain barrier, shattering the bottle and injuring his knee on the cement sidewalk. The bottle dramatically displayed wine on the ground, almost admonishing his impulsiveness with its mark.

On my second day in Paris I ate a piece of plastic. Hard plastic that’s probably still lodged in my throat as I write this. It was deep within an apricot pastry I purchased on the Champs Elysees. That morning I had grabbed a dry pastry out of starvation near the Belleville train station before I jumped on the Metro. Then I purchased a bright nectarine at Chatelet and ate it as I walked towards the Musee d’Orsay bypassing the Louvre this time around. It was a gorgeous day, jam packed with tourists and families posing in front of the Louvre’s expansive majesty. The day felt endless influencing my thoughts on time and clocks. On this trip, I gained some sense and decided to carry a map, something that is truly hilarious for people that know me. I can go with the flow to a fault. And people watching in Paris is way more enjoyable than in New York, I can almost predict what people will say, wear. Now I want to impersonate looks, attitudes, strides.

I grabbed lunch in the Jardin du Tuilleries, possibly the first time I’d sat down and had a meal at a restaurant in over a month. Also rather unlike me…I have the tendency to treat myself to a "sacred meal" every once in awhile. As I ate, I do recall that being the exact moment that I decided to leave Europe in August. My journey would not be prolonged. Somehow the contentment in that moment, pacified all that I needed and I began to have confirming thoughts about my departure. These thoughts were slowly becoming concrete in Berlin. I was beginning to taste homesickness and at that moment, concerning my life, the decision to leave was heroic. Then I ventured down the Champs Elysees and chomped down on plastic. More confirmation, maybe?

As I walked, I experienced a bout of loneliness so powerful that I almost keeled over and wept in front of all of the families. I had to sit down and orient myself. I wanted someone with me, right at that moment.

After the Arc du Triomphe, I decided to return to Notre Dame. It is a place that I have visited with two great loves, my mother and my Frenchman of times past. After initially taking the train in the wrong direction, I made it. I walked and walked, passing the Hotel de Ville where an outdoor concert was happening with lots of friends and loved ones gathered –laughing and embracing. And then I crossed the Pont Nuoef and walked a bit to Shakespeare and Co. bookstore and found the spot. The spot where I took my favorite photo of my sweetheart from almost three years prior. The photo never really came out, but the warmth from the memory is unique and shared by another. Imagery is such, that some of our most treasured moments are blurry--never fully developed, possibly unfinished.

From PARIS 2009