[…] That is the first thing was all have to try to figure out if we can go on, in a good way, and make it in any way possible to deal with this fucking world, as it is now, this dim, broken shell when everything and everyone we love is dead and all of us are dying. The arrogant asshole sun still bothers to rise, as if there was still a world. My pipe explodes in my hand. I can’t speak.
We have to do all of this, and do it in a good way. All of it is about healing, about justice, about fighting to build a world where we can all be together, in a good way. And be alive. I am angry. [….]
Stealing Home was held at the Interurban Gallery (1 East Hastings, Vancouver) in february 2012. Other documentation (& work) lost, but i found the artist statement:
Stealing Home is perhaps best considered a visionary environment turned in on itself to create the outlines and intimations of a home. And this home is a transitory space, and it is a struggle to feel at ease within one. Scavenged doors and windows, pieces of houses exist on their own terms and in tension with each other. Glass and mirrors face each other, bearing images as though burned into them, suffused with natural and reflected light. Salvaged words link together, building new texts and whispered associations about the problem of home and homelessness, both inside and outside.
This home is dissolving, fading from view. Many people are here because it’s at the end of things, because this is Vancouver, the terminal city: the last city on the tips of the ocean, literally unsheltered from the storms. It is a city of rebels and runaways.
Stealing Home is also a house turned in on itself, an interior exterior space. This unsettled house is also constraining: these windows do not open, nor can some even be seen through. Some look back at you.
What I hope to create is an experience of this strange home: intimate moments stolen from an all-too-real world, privacy in plain sight.
typing as though on a hammond, the sparkedplug joints follow along, floating with each click and stickier key. I find there’s no time to speak of unfinished sentences, with the way you move me, so much like water. bringing the noise that we whisper, of quick hope undiminished. tell me no stories of souls and smithys, and let’s find instead a smiley-face balloon, all hot air and latex, my misspent youth. can we call this working, dear, and let it go? it is, in fact, a sharpie in my pocket and i’m happy to see you: both things are true — I needed both to write this poem.