Notes about “The Geography of Memory,” possibly an ongoing lifelong project.

Why do projects have to be completed? Maybe they can just evolve…

Things are not always what they seem or what we expect them to be. I notice the cracks in the painted highway lines. I see the abstraction of filming them to create a kind of animated expressionist painting. The original white line has disappeared, breaking apart into cloud-like shapes as the black asphalt fractures beneath. Sometimes, these shapes vanish completely only to reappear. They drift apart, never forming the original white line again. They've been trampled upon, driven over, rained on, and scorched by the sun, and the evidence of this wear is visible. As my camera records the fractured line while I walk over it, I become captivated by the swift movements of the shapes. No longer is it merely a white line marking a bike path on a black asphalt surface; it transforms into an image reminiscent of clouds viewed from a plane. That is what it feels like to be aware in the present - not an easy task.

I increasingly feel compelled to live in the moment—a practice that many, including myself, find challenging. Embracing the present has become an essential strategy for survival, productivity, curiosity, and creativity, especially when the future appears bleak and uncertain.

The past has transformed into a rich landscape of secrets, signs, and symbols. Images, sounds, movements, places, tastes, and tactile experiences emerge, a humid day brings back memories of trying to sleep at night when air conditioning was not as common. Or a crisp fleeting breeze that feels just like riding bikes in October on an island in Ireland.  

This past is also intricately connected to the body. I can turn my head in a certain way, and suddenly I am transported back to a moment on a hike where I glanced back at my daughter just before I nearly slid down the hill, catching a branch that was strong enough to keep me from falling. My shoes didn’t offer the best traction; the sandy trail was mysteriously slippery. The fear and relief of that moment surge back, along with the memory of her laughter, oblivious to the seriousness of the situation and the height of my fear. I laughed with her to keep her from worrying.

I am collecting these motions—these souvenirs of memory—and connecting them, both for myself and for other movers. Are these memories still intact, or do they shift and transport us to different times and places? How does the act of linking movements create a new narrative of the past?

The Geography of Memory project is ongoing. As I delve deeper into isolating, amplifying, and sharing the movements that enhance and unravel what we can remember, the past continues to expand, and the present becomes richer. Is this process reciprocal? Do these recollections shape how we move, influencing the gestures that feel comfortable, hurtful, painful, or joyful?

As the project progresses, so do the opportunities and ideas for expanding its presentation and participation. This includes installations featuring films displayed in diverse spaces - workshops, homes, outdoors, large and small areas, textures and venues. This ongoing exploration mirrors the nature of memory itself—malleable, elusive, enriched, and adaptable to the ever-changing present, much like the fire that destroyed my home; the past resides within it.

The work will embrace impermanence. The project becomes an inquiry into our need to preserve what time and nature inevitably erase: the stories we hold, the bodies we once trusted, and the fleeting moments of life that slip beyond our grasp.

Doors opening, closing on us

Marge Piercy

1936 –

Maybe there is more of the magical
in the idea of a door than in the door
itself. It’s always a matter of going
through into something else. But

while some doors lead to cathedrals
arching up overhead like stormy skies
and some to sumptuous auditoriums
and some to caves of nuclear monsters

most just yield a bathroom or a closet.
Still, the image of a door is liminal,
passing from one place into another
one state to the other, boundaries

and promises and threats. Inside
to outside, light into dark, dark into
light, cold into warm, known into
strange, safe into terror, wind

into stillness, silence into noise
or music. We slice our life into
segments by rituals, each a door
to a presumed new phase. We see

ourselves progressing from room
to room perhaps dragging our toys
along until the last door opens
and we pass at last into was.