Wednesday, August 18, 2010
bio
Molly's recent bio: Molly (me) studied theater then trained intensively for 4 years in an improvisational technique developed by the late performance guru, Scott Kelman. Her (my) most recent work, Duets, debuted at High Concept Labs in Chicago. Performance heroes that she (i) looks up to are Deborah Hay, Anna Halprin, Kazuo Ohno & SK.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Coming Up
I'll be at the Op Shop this weekend at 5225 S. Harper Avenue in Hyde Park on Saturday at 6pm to perform after Silvita Diaz Brown. Formulating some ideas for my Link Up residency through performing.
I'm also looking for performers for my Link Up residency. The piece will delve into the stories, cultural & personal that are written in our bodies, the way we move, gesticulate, carry ourselves through time. Anyone? Contact me if you're interested 971-212-2554 / info@theperformingspace.org. Come to an exploratory audition to check out the work & my approach at Links August 28, 3-5pm.
I'm also looking for performers for my Link Up residency. The piece will delve into the stories, cultural & personal that are written in our bodies, the way we move, gesticulate, carry ourselves through time. Anyone? Contact me if you're interested 971-212-2554 / info@theperformingspace.org. Come to an exploratory audition to check out the work & my approach at Links August 28, 3-5pm.
Monday, August 2, 2010
[Disclosure: this is a reflection of my awkward body stumbling forward & back.]
What is art to me now? Why does this question co-exist in me with such doubt? Rather than enthusiasm. Rather than vigor, or desire. Instead fear, anxiety, confusion. Art is art. Art is everywhere. Too much everywhere. I want to distill essence. To be an alchemist instead of an artist. Everywhere life is divine. At the moment I am resolved to not having a plan because I only know that I don’t know enough yet to formulate anything too strict. I’m going on, moving on, outward as much as direction forward. I’m touching the edge of a dream, soft & vague, deep, and all a vision. But why such a sense of isolation, individualism? Everybody can be treated with the same medicine. To different effect, but still treated. Everyone lives in a room of their own, with perforated boundaries.
In the Rocky Mountains this week, I mistook a bird call for a human voice. I tried not to consider it too hard. Did the mountains open their secret to me? I felt there was something there to know, the answer was there, but not to know quite, rather to slowly ingest, over time, seeking & definitively not seeking. I began to understand the idea that trees have wisdom. The wisdom is bound within their structure, maturing with their age. It is in part their role as witness, other formations of life passing round at a greater speed. It is, in part, the solidity of their trunks, its density in combination with the space between their branches & leaves. It is, in part, the equality between their being heavenbound, called up by the sun, & earthbound, drawn down by water. I’m about to cross a boundary with all these words & descriptive phrases. A boundary between opening & closing. Too many definitions can shut a door. The more I try to capture a tree, the further I fall from their wisdom. The more I try to capture wisdom, the sillier I sound with my words.
This is my puzzle with performance making. I want to capture & bind something that is all too elusive. I want to package it & hand it over to an audience to open. Or at least, this is what I try too hard for. Because I can’t grasp the wisdom of the unstated. Ever, that is. Not that I will one day, but that I cannot. But I will still try, in my ridiculous way. That is, until I figure out another way. That is, until I’m a chicken, pecking at corn kernels in the dry dirt, unaware of the stalking fox. isclosure: With words I will probably shoot myself in the foot. In the arm, in the other foot. Please, don’t commit my own frustrating mistake & take any of this literally. It’s my vision, a reflection of my awkward body stumbling forward & back.]
What is art to me now? Why does this question co-exist in me with such doubt? Rather than enthusiasm. Rather than vigor, or desire. Instead fear, anxiety, confusion. Art is art. Art is everywhere. Too much everywhere, I want to distill essence. To be an alchemist. instead of an artist. Everywhere life is divine. This world is deeply sick, I am deeply lost in it. I am resolved to not having a plan. Because I only know that I don’t know enough yet to formulate anything too strict. I’m going on, moving on, outward as much as direction forward. I’m touching the edge of a dream, soft & vague, dangerously deep, and all a vision. A vision, as in my own creation. But why such a sense of isolation, individualism? Everybody can be treated with the same medicine. To different effect, but still treated. Yes, a room of one’s own is precisely vital. Everyone lives in a room of their own, with perforated boundaries. I’m always confused, doing qi gong inside on the second floor, palms down, taking in earth energy; the ceiling 10 feet above, palms upward taking in heavenly energy. Does that not confuse you too?
In the Rocky Mountains this week, I mistook a bird call for a human voice. I tried not to consider it too hard. Did the mountains open their secret to me? I felt there was something there to know, the answer was there, but not to know quite, rather to slowly ingest, over time, seeking & definitively not seeking. I began to understand the idea that trees have wisdom. The wisdom is bound within their structure, maturing with their age. It is in part their role as witness, other formations of life passing round at a greater speed. It is, in part, the solidity of their trunks, its density in combination with the space between their branches & leaves. It is, in part, the equalilty between their being heavenbound, called up by the sun, & earthbound, drawn down by water. I’m about to cross a boundary with all these words & descriptive phrases. A boundary between opening & closing. Too many definitions can shut a door. The more I try to capture a tree, the further I fall from their wisdom. The more I try to capture wisdom, the sillier I sound with my words.
This is my puzzle with performance making. I want to capture & bind something that is all too elusive. I want to package it & hand it over to an audience to open. Or at least, this is what I try too hard for. Because I can’t grasp the wisdom of the unstated. Ever, that is. Not that I will one day, but that I cannot. But I will still try, in my ridiculous way. That is, until I figure out another way. That is, until I’m a chicken, pecking at corn kernels in the dry dirt, unaware of the stalking fox.
What is art to me now? Why does this question co-exist in me with such doubt? Rather than enthusiasm. Rather than vigor, or desire. Instead fear, anxiety, confusion. Art is art. Art is everywhere. Too much everywhere. I want to distill essence. To be an alchemist instead of an artist. Everywhere life is divine. At the moment I am resolved to not having a plan because I only know that I don’t know enough yet to formulate anything too strict. I’m going on, moving on, outward as much as direction forward. I’m touching the edge of a dream, soft & vague, deep, and all a vision. But why such a sense of isolation, individualism? Everybody can be treated with the same medicine. To different effect, but still treated. Everyone lives in a room of their own, with perforated boundaries.
In the Rocky Mountains this week, I mistook a bird call for a human voice. I tried not to consider it too hard. Did the mountains open their secret to me? I felt there was something there to know, the answer was there, but not to know quite, rather to slowly ingest, over time, seeking & definitively not seeking. I began to understand the idea that trees have wisdom. The wisdom is bound within their structure, maturing with their age. It is in part their role as witness, other formations of life passing round at a greater speed. It is, in part, the solidity of their trunks, its density in combination with the space between their branches & leaves. It is, in part, the equality between their being heavenbound, called up by the sun, & earthbound, drawn down by water. I’m about to cross a boundary with all these words & descriptive phrases. A boundary between opening & closing. Too many definitions can shut a door. The more I try to capture a tree, the further I fall from their wisdom. The more I try to capture wisdom, the sillier I sound with my words.
This is my puzzle with performance making. I want to capture & bind something that is all too elusive. I want to package it & hand it over to an audience to open. Or at least, this is what I try too hard for. Because I can’t grasp the wisdom of the unstated. Ever, that is. Not that I will one day, but that I cannot. But I will still try, in my ridiculous way. That is, until I figure out another way. That is, until I’m a chicken, pecking at corn kernels in the dry dirt, unaware of the stalking fox. isclosure: With words I will probably shoot myself in the foot. In the arm, in the other foot. Please, don’t commit my own frustrating mistake & take any of this literally. It’s my vision, a reflection of my awkward body stumbling forward & back.]
What is art to me now? Why does this question co-exist in me with such doubt? Rather than enthusiasm. Rather than vigor, or desire. Instead fear, anxiety, confusion. Art is art. Art is everywhere. Too much everywhere, I want to distill essence. To be an alchemist. instead of an artist. Everywhere life is divine. This world is deeply sick, I am deeply lost in it. I am resolved to not having a plan. Because I only know that I don’t know enough yet to formulate anything too strict. I’m going on, moving on, outward as much as direction forward. I’m touching the edge of a dream, soft & vague, dangerously deep, and all a vision. A vision, as in my own creation. But why such a sense of isolation, individualism? Everybody can be treated with the same medicine. To different effect, but still treated. Yes, a room of one’s own is precisely vital. Everyone lives in a room of their own, with perforated boundaries. I’m always confused, doing qi gong inside on the second floor, palms down, taking in earth energy; the ceiling 10 feet above, palms upward taking in heavenly energy. Does that not confuse you too?
In the Rocky Mountains this week, I mistook a bird call for a human voice. I tried not to consider it too hard. Did the mountains open their secret to me? I felt there was something there to know, the answer was there, but not to know quite, rather to slowly ingest, over time, seeking & definitively not seeking. I began to understand the idea that trees have wisdom. The wisdom is bound within their structure, maturing with their age. It is in part their role as witness, other formations of life passing round at a greater speed. It is, in part, the solidity of their trunks, its density in combination with the space between their branches & leaves. It is, in part, the equalilty between their being heavenbound, called up by the sun, & earthbound, drawn down by water. I’m about to cross a boundary with all these words & descriptive phrases. A boundary between opening & closing. Too many definitions can shut a door. The more I try to capture a tree, the further I fall from their wisdom. The more I try to capture wisdom, the sillier I sound with my words.
This is my puzzle with performance making. I want to capture & bind something that is all too elusive. I want to package it & hand it over to an audience to open. Or at least, this is what I try too hard for. Because I can’t grasp the wisdom of the unstated. Ever, that is. Not that I will one day, but that I cannot. But I will still try, in my ridiculous way. That is, until I figure out another way. That is, until I’m a chicken, pecking at corn kernels in the dry dirt, unaware of the stalking fox.
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