Artist Statement: Same Ends Different MeansThe visual and written arts have often seemed worlds apart; but these different means generally work toward the same end. In the visual arts, text is used as a supplement to the visual aspects of the piece, emphasizing or de-emphsizing aspects of the visual work; in literature, images are used mainly as illustrations, again only reiterating segments of the text. Even comics and graphic novels do not succeed in combining text and image - the words and pictures remain separated, and work in different ways. Our goal has been to synthesize these arts into a united work to avoid informational redundancy and to enhance the aesthetic and tonal depth of the piece. By utilizing two complimentary forms, we are able to achieve balance of sensory and cerebral involvment that is desired in both the visual and literary art worlds. The style of the text is carried into the style of the pictures. The text becomes a visual part of the image: they are united and completely fixed together. Likewise, the image is an integral part of the text. There is nothing without both. The piece conveys a feeling of decay. It is a residue of a momentreferring to the unreliable nature of all photography and text. All media is ultimately a fiction, a flawed and incompleate repersentation of a moment true or false. The text matches the subjectivity of the pictures. In an age where motion picturesa medium that combines visual, oral, and written disciplinesis recognized as art, it is time to realize the power of combining mediums in innovative ways. Different parts of the brain are stimulated during reading and viewing, and by using both text and image we create a more holistic and fulfilling experience.
PK's Place burns all night til two and I'm afraid of fire. Got a pail of water but I still get skeert, hell I can't smoke and shit at the same time cuz I'm too skeert of blowin up my own ass, and I swear sometimes that place burns so bright I can't sleep and I just sit by the window and watch and wait and soon nuff comes up two clock and the main sign goes off. The whole thing smolders there awhile then fades like a dog fart, burns strong awhile then just peters out. And Emmeline lives up there in one of them apartments. Her light comes on a little after two then sticks there, one more bright spot in the dark til sun comes in and drowns it out
Emmeline likes to smoke Winstons, so I smoke Winstons near twenty years. I get all caught up when she says, "Walter baby, you gotta Winnie?" and her voice it's like tinkle and glisten in my head. She was flower maid at my aunt Addy's second wedding. Addy's my mom's sister. Emmeline come up to me and askt me, at the big cook after the service, if I had a Winston. I didn't, but I talked her into trading me a kiss for a Lucky. She caught bits of tobacco three times that day cuz she lipped the end so bad and then she didn't wipe em off. But what I know from that day is the way her cigarette flared up in front of her lips then faded. Flare. Fade. Flare. Fade. Out.
Can't hardly see round the kitchen, but it suits me, don't cook much. When I run the water I can hear the pipes grow and squeal against the drywall. There used to be a window in here, but I broke it out last night to let some air in, but then the noise is so goddamn loud comin from the tree and the wall and so forth I pound up some wood, but the noise is still worse than before the window was broke so I fill the cracks in with model glue I have lying around and it stinks, but it works. I'm still here, and it's quiet now. Til PK's gets goin and then I'll watch the pulse, the longest burn of the night, and when morning comes to quell sweet Emmeline I will sleep.
Emmeline's hands fidget no matter what she is doing. PK's is on fire and I watch the blaze but something is different. She's not in the bar. The light in her window moves left to right and then back, the bulb's swinging, and she's fidgeting. She rocks, opposite the light, and she's fading, I can see it. Her shadow is crisp at first, but loses stick-together. My Emmeline fades, a shadow of a shadow now. Later
Pressed up to the window, I can see her barely. The shade in her room jumps up and she's screaming for me at the top of her lungs and none of the inflamants at the bar hear her cuz they're all swallowed up and can't hear nothin but liquory echo coolers of pick-ups and rejections they will only half remember and only half care about. Dimming, faster when she lies down, like she wouldn't do with me until long after her mother's wedding. But tonight she lies down early and I watch her try to hold herself together with her ghosty hands and wrap her arms around to keep it all in and I think bout model glue and if that might help stick her back together but then by the time I can get up the go to go she's gone.
But I'm still here.
|(C) 1998 Sarah Wichlacz and Shawn Rider|