I posted one of the khadi images that I made whilst listening to music on Instagram. It entitled itself ‘Spinning the fragment’. The more I looked at the image and considered it, the more I saw. I saw the fragments of sound, the samples that are mixed in, I saw the rhythms and the wordless dialogue, but then I considered the energy, the sparks in it. Is it being wound or unwound. Spinning out and releasing or spinning in like a vortex (which reminded me again of the work of Shelly Goldsmith who’d I’d considered in my work for ATV (see links to this work by clicking here). Since my piece was born from considering my inner movement I thought about the notion of spinning in connection with winding action of wrapping. Spinning in my world is a creative act: it forms yarn from fibres, you ‘spin a tale’, whereas wrapping still has the negative connotations of binding and all the other doubts I had about it before. I then thought about all these fragments. One of the impacts of trauma is a sense of fragmentation. These sketches are far more positive in tone than the ‘Not All Wounds are Visible’ series. There is something growing here. What if dance, spinning, is a healing movement. I did go off in my brain as I looked again at the work of Sally Simpson this morning a recalled watching my Grandpa winding feathers and line to create a fly-fishing lure: a thing of beauty created to entrap! A beautiful lure hiding a barbed hook. As too, spiders spin their webs to catch their prey.
May come back to this.
Then, I went off visiting old haunts, poets that entranced me in my teens. Rumi was a Sufi mystic; he was the founder of the Whirling Dervishes – wherein the sema , the whirling, is a spiritual dance. Of course then there’s Shamanism and the journeying that comes from drumming (I am very much simplifying here). Rumi then took me to another favourite poet Khalil Gibran and a common thread started appearing. Then I found some of my old editions of their work illustrated with, in Rumi’s case, Persian Calligraphy. Not unlike the asemic writing that I believed had emerged from see Michaux’ work re-presented by Joachim Koester at the Turner. Perhaps instead I had rather recognised a pattern that had spoken to me in my early teens but had remained hidden and tucked away safe inside. Perhaps this spinning dance is in fact re-wrapping the fragments of me: binding me back together. There is some underlying force dancing the pieces of me. Not winding, not wrapping which feels caught: being bound, instead whirling and spinning.
‘In your light I learn how to love.
In your beauty, how to make poems.
You dance inside my chest,
where no one sees you,
but sometimes I do,
and that sight becomes this art.’
‘Lion of the Heart’ by Rumi; translated by Coleman Barks, Penguin Arkana, London 1995 (pg 16)
‘Whispers of the Beloved’, Rumi; translated by Maryam Mafi and Azima MelitaKolin, Thorsons, London 1999
‘A Treasury of Khalil Gibran: Author of the Prophet’, ed Martin L. Wolf, Mandarin, London 1996