BASEBALL is a performance where I play with paper cutouts of images around – but not of – a mass shooting in the United States. 

I’m thinking about mass shootings as an instance of possession by images. I’m thinking about how images of mass shootings grab people who read about them and the shootings repeat themselves. I’m following the shape of certain images (shocked eyes, guns, gunshows, distance, suburbs, wastelands) through time, backwards, forwards, towards the limits of their visibility. I’m following Aby Warburg, and I’m arguing with him, too. 

There’s a loud-fun-scary-machine and a Downstairs Guy. There’s the physicality of sound. Maybe it’s an exorcism. Maybe I miss playing baseball – America’s other pastime.


DREAMS THAT BELONG TO NO ONE

You’re in the dark. You’re lying down, or maybe sitting. You were brought to this strange building from far away. There’s sound in the dark. What is that? It’s familiar but you don't recognize it. Is it… a balloon being rubbed? A huge glass bowl being bowed? A face submerged in water? ... And what is that presence that moves past you? Who is that in the dim light? 

I want to know: can we dream-together without dreaming-the-same? How can sound and music evoke something indescribably distant yet intimate? What images can the physicality of sound bring? Could this be a space to be transported elsewhere but also towards something, where thoughts and feelings and sensations roam free like animals, transform on their own, in the midst of a pandemic that has left no one unaffected? 

I am moved by the idea that dreams and images have an autonomy of their own, that with certain strategies we might invite them to join us for a little while… without knowing what, or who, will say yes.