In week 8, Laura Tack was joined by Jeppe Kondrup Adelborg to lead Just A Matter of Fluidity, a workshop grounded in what seemed to be mystery. Surprises were constant and kept us on our toes. The weather, too, constantly changing; inflicting change in mood and pace throughout the week.
As the snow was thick on the ground, bodies were thrown into cold waters and heated by fire. The week began with a swim and ended with a dance. Activities which were commonplace throughout.
Finding a new home in The Old Net Factory, we put our hands to use and active minds (momentarily) to rest. The foundations were set in frames, both inside and out. We abandoned impulses, spent mornings silently. Waiting, pondering, observing. Sounds of shuffling slowly becoming part of the furniture. Sitting in the sun, stationary.
We worked in colour, in motion, with waves, to music. We were thrown into situations, into group performances – encouraged to work with limitations, encouraged to take ownership of the school, encouraged to motivate and manipulate. Joined by friends in the afternoons, tennis with a headset, edible surprises after lunch and meetings by the coffee bar at obscure times. 14.07pm.
Piling into the car. Painting on the windows. Sun on the rocks. Navigating the unknown. Dancing in a boxing ring, dancing off the cold, dancing dressed in silver and a 130% Space Aquarium.
Lying in the sun outside the Gas Station; a breakfast of curly fries and coffee.
A walk through snow capped mountains with wind in our faces. Circling roads which upon turning reveal more of the landscape.
The first sip of coffee and freshly baked buns. Heat under toes. Book Club. A talk from a wizard and an insight into ancient rituals connecting us to the earth and the elements and with our bodies. Watching a labrador gallop home through a blanket of white. He followed us to the cliffs edge. Standing on the black rocks and watching the waves crashing underneath. A hint of yellow moss peppers the rocks. The sea a golden blue, frothing at the seams. Creamy brown and white like the head of a cappuccino. Around our heads and over the mountains fly flocks of birds. Their noise and chatter a calm chaos. We are in the bird cave. We can hear the waves. Hold us close to the earth and clutch us to the sky.
Can we simply lay this sight to memory? Walk towards the house made of red. Landscape of white and blue and grey and brown on white and white and white. Glimmer of light.
In week 6, we abandoned our habits and explored our personal rituals – in this we shared, before the chaos. And Then The Light Came. A night walk. Friends, old and new. The town illuminated, transformed.
In week 5, we were joined by the wonderful Erik DeLuca and Minerva Pietilä. We made radio from conversations, we wrote about Beyonce, about things we thought were secret. Endless lists that made our wrists go numb. We shared love letters, we danced with the town in protest to end violence against women; a collective movement of bodies. We recorded friends and strangers reflecting on daydream thoughts, we had afternoon tea and we witnessed the death of a cat named Neil Catrick Harris. We started a community radio station. We read a reading that we wrote and that was beautiful.
Visit terrain / terrain, a platform created in order to bring the mediums of word and sound together, to give you snapshots of the works created in week 5 here at LungA.
In week 4, we broke our own rules, we broke our own work, we danced on the roof in the rain, we made edible paintings, we dreamed up absurdities and asked google to translate them, we cautiously covered bones in gold and engineered handsfree painting machines. Days spent at the beach, a scalp cyclops sculpture & conversations with the fishermen.
In 36 hours, we transformed a fish factory into an exhibition. We named it Borderline Vanilla / I Hate this Shit Museum.
‘The rhythm of walking generates a kind of rhythm of thinking, and the passage through a landscape echoes or stimulates the passage through a series of thoughts. This creates an odd consonance between internal and external passage, one that suggests that the mind is also a landscape of sorts and that walking is one way to traverse it. A new thought often seems like a feature of the landscape that was there all along, as though thinking were traveling rather than making. And so one aspect of the history of walking is the history of thinking made concrete- for the motions of the mind cannot be traced, but those of the feet can. Walking can also be imagined as a visual activity, every walk a tour leisurely enough both to see and to think over the sights, to assimilate the new into the known.’