What happened in 2017…

Drawing, Drawings, feminism, installation, Poetry, process, Queer, shows, Studio, Uncategorized, Writing

It is the last day of 2017 here in Aotearoa, New Zealand, and as usual, I am taking some time to reflect on this year. Usually I do this with pen and paper, but this year I thought I’d share it with you here.

It’s been a year of big change, with some serious illness (five bouts of flu) meaning a lot of time spent at home, thinking and developing new ways of working that aren’t quite so draining energetically. A lot of that has been drawing energy that I’ve been expending far outside of myself, back in; a process of gathering everything closer.

Body is a mighty teacher, and this year she has shown me that the support and appreciation I need will come through continuing to build a practice that brings people together in various ways through expressive art making. At the beginning of the year I spent a week inviting people to come and be drawn on one long 10 metre piece of paper at Toi Tu in Auckland. Conversations, relationships, connections…

This work was part of an exhibition that showed a range of works that I’ve been developing around intimacy, starting with drawing myself, then developing systems to support fully informed consent around other drawing other peoples’ stories and images. How to ask properly, respect and honour the gift of people letting you look, listen and be together.

AAA Intimacy Stages Active Empathy at Studio One Auckland

My next project was to ritually let go of my role as a contract lecturer at Massey School of Fine Arts, where I have been for the last 7 years teaching drawing, sculpture and making processes. I wanted to honour the relationships I have valued, as well as give a significant gift to the students, particularly those grappling with issues around gender identity, cultural identity, and sexualities. The show ‘Te Aho Mano / A Thousand Strands, showed work from my Asia New Zealand residency in Bengaluru, India, as well as new work and collaborations with Anahera Gildea and Leilani A L’iga Pua. You can hear those here:

and here: https://soundcloud.com/siantorrington/final-chapter

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Anahera and I ran workshops where students and staff were invited to discuss what they are working on, what helps them to say what they need, and what holds them back. These conversations mainly focused on feminism and how we can stick together, as well as new models for critique.

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Full disclosure and acknowledgement has been a theme for me for some time, and in the show I included my book collection of inspirational and foundational writers for me. I was delighted that the books were re-ordered every time I cam into the show, telling me that people were using the comfy seats and having a read.

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I was determined to honour and finish We Don’t Have to Be The Building in 2017, which I did by taking the works to Auckland as posters with the help of Pride and Phantom Billstickers.

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With the support of many of you pre-purchasing copies, I also made a publication about the project, including colour posters of the final work, lots of reflection on the process, and an essay by Ellie-Lee Duncan. Thank-you to everyone who made this possible, including Creative Communities funding and The Armstrong and Arthur Charitable Trust for Lesbians.

The publication was launched in November at the HELP fundraising exhibition, where I also spoke and showed works in support of the cause of supporting survivors of sexual violence. As part of the week I ran a drawing workshop upstairs at Thistle Hall where we used drawing to express some of our feelings and responses to the #metoo campaign.

HELP opening

As part of my work revolution, I’ve brought my teaching practice closer to my art practice, and begun teaching my own workshops. I was delighted to be funded by Toi Poneke to trial a six week Queer and Trans* drawing class, building community and creativity together.

The success of this told me to keep going, and two more rounds have been supported by Rainbow Wellington, one still to come in 2018!

I’ve also been teaching at Gordon Harris my Expressive Drawing class, which I will run again in 2018, along with Life drawing at Toi Poneke, and Where do you get your ideas from? Excuse the glare, all the drawings were proudly hung in the front window of the shop!

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Some drawings found their homes with buyers, including these ones:

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And some others featured in art awards around the country, including the Parkin Drawing Award;

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So that’s some highlights! In 2018 I am looking forward to more teaching, developing new collaborative workshops and relationships. I will be working on some commissions, some exciting shows, and ways to keep sharing my practice. Happy new year, may it bring you everything you need.

 

 

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Things repeat, in good ways

Essays, installation, Poetry, process, Sculptures, shows, Studio, Uncategorized, Writing

I’m in the process of making my second publication about a project. Both of them have been to do with buildings, and process, and how to create and hold things together. The first, a physical building, the second, the building we make together by how we stick together. The structures that we form through solidarity, love and connection.

Both are using the same method; assemblage, complex, sticky and with each piece related actively. You can read one way, and then the other. This is the best way I can make sense.

I found this piece of writing and images from the first one; Inhabitance, so here they are… if you’d like to pre-purchase a copy of the second one, about We Don’t Have to Be The Building, contact me on siantorrington@gmail.com

Meeting points of nature and human maintenance in buildings and the built environment. I walk around to see what I find in the neighbourhood. Gutters are rich with trees, drips have made drawings down the side of buildings, and posters have made a mummy of a house. There is a bin which has been papered to make it look weatherboarded. Drawings are everywhere.

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I found the information about this place in the archives. It was owned by a woman and she wanted all of the best materials used. The best concrete, rimu and roofing. Now there are holes everywhere made by borer and when I bang a nail into the wall dust falls and falls. Without maintenance there is accretion. This is a scene where human action plays against inaction; because nothing has been done these patterns of mould and falling paper pile up. And my drawing repeats them, extends them, makes them clearer.

Someone broke the window in a shop next door. I looked in and saw that there were flags in there. I hadn’t noticed them before. Is this what I would do if I broke in? Is this what I am doing in here? Leaving a mark, leaving many marks. Leaving a sign of inhabitance and noticing what was found here.

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The tap drips. The bath is accumulated with water which has stained it brown. So what would I accumulate here? There is colour which drips also and builds up. The glitter in the bath, and the pastel which is imitating the spread of mould on the walls. There is a kind of communication here.

Things hold on, and things hold in. Lines are travelling through this space becoming tight and slack, falling into puddles or holding doors closed. Paper, wool and wood all serve the same purpose,

a structure within a structure which is holding its own

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Pre-sales of We Don’t Have to Be The Building publications

Essays, feminism, Poetry, process, Queer, Uncategorized, Writing

‘We Don’t Have to Be the Building’ (2016) researched diverse community stories about sexuality and activism, resulting in assemblage art and writing in the lightboxes on Courtenay Place, Wellington.

I’m now creating a beautiful publication that you can own and put on your wall, and keep to remember, or get to know the project. It will consist of:

8 A3 posters, of all 16 panels of the final work, printed on 150gsm paper

30 pages of process writing, images of the process, action sheets and reflections on making the project

A commissioned essay

All beautifully presented in a box for you to keep together, or choose your favourites to put on your wall.

If you’d like to go on the list to pre-purchase one, please let me know. They are $40 each as pre-sales and will likely cost a bit more after that, so grab one now!

Courtenay Place Light Boxes Sian Torrington We don’t have to be the building

Interviews from Intimacy stages / Active Empathy, Auckland

Drawing, Essays, Gender, installation, Poetry, Queer, Uncategorized, Writing

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I did two interviews; one with Artists Alliance, one with Phantom Billstickers, about this project. Read more here:

Interview | Sian Torrington

http://0800phantom.co.nz/interview-sian-torrington-intimacy-stages-active-empathy/

We Don’t Have to Be The Building at Silo 7 Auckland

Drawing, Drawings, feminism, Gender, Poetry, shows

With the help of GABA, Phantom Billstickers, Artist Alliance and Auckland City Council, we took all 16 works to Auckland as large scale posters that were installed in Silo 7 on the waterfront. It was an amazing experience to simply send a file to be printed rather than the usual carrying masses of drawings, sculptures and materials with me to install. Now I am wondering where else we could go……. here are some images.

 

I be myself

India, Poetry, process, Sculptures

I be myself. I build these things to express and shelter this being now. There is no shelter, there is only being. I cannot protect myself from who I am, I can only accept it and show it. I am the storm. I am the heavy rain. I am the gentle shy sunshine. I work to make myself visible. I shed layers of shame which would numb me.
There is no shelter, only expression
Making myself visible, finding the threads
To join together in difference
Threads of the feminine
Feminine space
Weaving myself in.

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You try to change your body, you try to accept your body

Body, Essays, Gender, Poetry, process, Queer, Studio, Writing

Something like a year and a half ago my body gave me a wake up call. The message was simple and clear; “You have to stop hating me”. I was pushing, demanding, ignoring, piling. So it needed to be clear. I became sick. I was overseas, and it was hard to breathe. Literally, not metaphorically. I’ve read about people who developed vertigo as they climbed too high and too fast in their careers, and I’ve always gotten strong signals from my body. So I listened, though I haven’t always. My chest rattled, and it was hard to walk across the room. It was Christmas, and I gave myself an extra two hours on top of the three they recommend to make my flight. That’s five in total. Five hours. They need to search your bags and put you through the machines. I needed to walk really slowly and repeat; there’s no rush, you can have whatever you want, there’s no rush. People looked at me, but I was incanting my antidote to denial, shame, fear. My body needed to hear that she was acceptable, even when she was weak, endangered, sick, slow. I have been afraid of not being able to afford what she wants, of feeding her what she wants until she becomes unacceptable. I have been afraid of having such a needy, uncontrollable body. So I have given her less, eking it out. We do this with children, the idea that if we only give them a little bit of what they want, they will learn that they can’t have everything, that there has to be limits. But the body expands and pushes, then, when ignored enough, begins to remove unappreciated privileges and pleasures. It’s always been hard to come, but when it becomes hard to breathe, listening gets easier.
The new deal began with trust. Listening and trust, and acting on whatever I heard, no matter how much I wanted to keep doing the same familiar old things. Survival. Expression. Demanding more.
I’m not even sure she is a her anymore. Like everything else in my life, she is a collection of many. Identities, pronouns, names and genders jostle in an embodied stack of being. They aren’t that interested in whether you use he or she because it’s not so much about the outside world, and you recognise them anyway though you may not have the language to speak to them. But your behaviour shows you see them. They don’t mind, because they are in creative space and they’re quite sure of themselves thanks.
My gender has always been a private thing, like my sexuality, my body, all of my spaces. I like to get to know them myself before I share them with others. I grew up without television, relying instead on books and stories; made up and connected with things in the world. My dad used to walk with me and make up stories about magic trees and people and weave them in with reality or his past; tramps, psychics and foraging. We read books of heroic anti-power adventures where I was everyone. For me, the connection between the physical world and imagination was strong. They affected one another, they created one another. And the other world, the spirit world. I come from lines of psychics stretched through both sides, people who knew when to move, and what you needed, just before you did and it wasn’t too late. Or maybe that’s just listening again. There are some stories I know about my ancestors, and many more I don’t. But it doesn’t matter, because I feel them, and they are real.
I realised that when I am in the studio I never hate my body. She is, they are, we are, allowed. Right from when I first ever had my own space, this was the rule. This is the place where everything is allowed. Noone comes in, and nothing goes out, without my say so. Here I am allowed wrinkles, fear, pain, insecurity, exhaustion, repetition and glory. I am even allowed to not be productive. I am allowed to sleep on the floor. This is a recent development and it’s so much kinder than driving through. I drip, collect, stack. I dance, I am quiet. I keep the door closed. I draw in my underpants. I look into my bright eyes and hold my white and lumpy belly. I grow a cock, compress and release dusty palms. I reach, I fade, I build muscles. I ride. I watch myself try to get born, adding paper for the overflow.
It is something about flesh, and action, and movement, the absence of hate. It is also about the decision not to be looked at, and to claim my space. This one room, I have been lucky enough and stubborn enough to hold on to. For ten years I have had a room of my own. Once it was a paper tent. Once it was a tiny room under the house which still had a toilet in it, but I painted it white. Once it was the realm of a book which I could carry with me. I am an expert at making space, and holding it. I watch the birds and how they do it with their mouths. I grew up near a festival which raised a city in a matter of weeks, then returned it to pasture every year. Temporary, but present.
There are materials everywhere. I have had help. Someone has always bought a drawing at the last minute. One time a guy helped me lift a desk.
The world encroaches, always. It has ways of making you behave. It has walls and they are owned. It has fences and barriers, rules and judgements. It has payments which you make for every space. It has boxes for your body, identity, sexuality. Imagination can replace the entire world. Try to stretch it as far as it will go. And then further. Feed it with pictures and stories. Inventing entirely different value systems, ones which reflect what matters to you. Make up words and practice them. We make them real through repetition. Practice. Your survival depends on it. The survival that is, of the one / s you want to be, the ones which are jostling and asking for a way to speak. The ones who will make you sick if you don’t learn how to listen.
Shame is a key method of control. Also wanting to belong. Also wanting to be loved. What would it be like if everything about you was acceptable?
How long is a piece of string? Once I started untying the knots I found the tangles stretched out and out. There are more lines than I knew in every direction and none of them are straight.
I pull a drawing out of the bin. It is dusty and brokenly, heavily overworked. I use it as an example to myself. How far is too far? What is a good drawing?
It seems to me that there are these two things:
The way I thought it should be / I thought it could be / how I saw it happen before / how all of the others said it would be / the way everyone else was doing it / the way it looked before / what they wanted / what you expected / what I expected / what I wanted / what it should’ve been / what I was working towards / what I thought would happen
And
The way it is.
You try to change your body
You try to accept your body
This, all bodies have in common, they change. Under your eyes, skin changing, mutable flesh, beautiful flesh. Graspable, feedable, flexible, dryable, stretchable, wrinkling, shinking, sagging, filling busting, beautiful flesh, shifting flesh.
I burn my hand on unexpected steam and it makes me lie down, hand in a bowl of water. It sends messages to my heart which are hot and fearful. It sends messages to my brain which centralise the body, which remind the brain it is part of the body, in service to the body. Put your imagination to use. Imagine the water is cooling and cooling. Body says, your thinking is not helping, the emergency is here, we are racing. I burn my hand and time seems to slow down. The time which is driven by a list; what needs to be done by when by who by when by when.
I see myself trying to get born
In a tangle of limbs, boy ones and girl ones and other
ones
they push first, the many fists, thighs
the parts unformed, the parts unmade
the parts undis / re covered, jostle.
All I know are shoulders and the head kept low
If I can keep it down
I can get on through
Before she sees
Before
The gap closes.

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Your uncontained movement has opened a new room in me

Poetry, Queer, Sculptures, Uncategorized

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Feb 2013

Feb 2013

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Tree 2

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Tree 6

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Tree 3February 2013 – with Sandersons Gallery, Parnell, Auckland http://www.sanderson.co.nz/
Your abandoned movement has opened a new room in me will explore how we create open and yet private spaces to protect and encourage queer intimacy, identity and play.
This sculpture is a kind of human nest, a shelter which rests, holding onto a tree. Contingent, temporary and fluid, it is a shelter which opens and closes. Buffeted by the weather, it reveals its raggedness at the same time as its beauty. Built in various directions, with pockets, platforms and a myriad of spaces, it explores how we are presenting and finding space for identity at the same time we are creating and living it.

I have these fantasies. They go like this:
I will draw one thing
I will concentrate
I will fit one thing, on one piece of paper
It will be even
You will be able to read it
And as I am squinting at breadfruit and looking for where the shadows lie and what shape they really are, something shifts and I am shoulder against the paper, breathing green. I tell them think of it like falling in love, make your looking obsessive, don’t let go. They look at me like a wild thing, and when she shoves a rubber in fury towards me with her wrist I say YES, THAT! Put that on the page.
And it spreads, and I can’t help myself
It’s like when you write the word bed to me
It’s like when it finally rains here
Something opens anew, and it is not a room, but it feels like home, like remembering perfect sense
Things shift, catch and other, hold, spread and swarm.
She says I can only write by looking sideways and I say yes, they are all contained here, if we can only find trust enough to reach them
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I have been called many things in my life. And then lately someone called me a peacock. I only knew from half dreams what they sound like. They made me screech and perform on a street corner, dancing on kerbs and feeling my spin stretch and lift sky proud, shimmering feathers, showing off.
Their butch found my femme, and there was joy and terror in it. Terrified of revealing, showing, wearing skirts which have always felt absolutely like sex to me. Of not being queer enough, political enough. If I care so much about expression and beauty and process and art and I don’t know the right words for anything, but I want to, is that enough? And if I can’t walk in high heels or write as well as I want to or build bridges to you or burn them in fury, is that enough?
And if what I want to do when they tell you ugly things in your ear and threaten you

and block my path is smother them with colour is this enough? And if when they make me fear to walk my own town without a big black coat if all I want to do is make an army of glittery dripping soldiers who flood bigness and love and wash the streets with shiny paths is this resistance enough?

We are in this together
I read you walking and stumbling eyes wide taking it in trying not to trip over curving roots and wishing to fall directly into soft places where hardness grows
Be slammed up against this backless place and push in return

Can we be more flexible?
These things they are my vents

I am looking directly now actually searching
I am looking directly now and there are many
I must create a space with safe open walls and you ask to come in?
Tell me your story
Open your mouth

And I say to you
Ride me home and my hips fit all the way up to my jaw and you say
I am the wind and I made the sound

This is not a note this is a stake
This is not a performance this is as best as I can say

Trust your instincts
Give them their space