Preparing for the Tate Exchange weekend
Tate Exchange - EATT
“Catering for the needs of myself and others”
To do - Thursday 1st Feb:
Write a shopping list
Collect tupperware from friends
Check on cutlery
Text friend about borrowing yoga mats
Anagrams of the Tate Exchange
(And understanding methodology)
Hang that tat
Cheat the neat
Tea at the tent
Gent at the teat
Axe the heat
Of the extent
Hang the extant tax
Get the net
On catering for myself and others
And I wonder about the plasticity of my brain
And the volume of the packaging
The ebb and flow
Of food gathering and preparation
Of information travelling from left to right,
Dice that generate random numbers
To determine the quotient of self-care
On this ship
My collection of plastic spoons
Has exceeded maximum numbers
And he tells me
It’s no good,
They get scuffed
And the scratches hold bacteria
But my intestinal flora, I beg
Is no defence for dirty cutlery, he says.
A sample (or dissonance)
of actions that take place in my kitchen.
As a powerful medium
Is a question of taste
Where the exchange is
Personal then public.
Making a Meal Of It
The process of making (art) always involves:
Putting in the fridge,
And clearing up.
Order and disorder
Catering and creating
With the same letters
Of self-care and
Others to consume
And spit out
And begin all over again.
I make my packed lunch the same as theirs
With the same treats,
So I do not feel left out.
Is what I do
Of inner experience
To be translated laboriously into
A series of hand-drawn brain scans
On my bedroom wall.
The first state of meditation is what?
We all look blank
Concentration, she answers
And I desperately try to remember the pose
she has just demonstrated.
The subject in the car today is crisps
And they discuss the meritocracy of various types and flavours
Till we arrive
And just when I think the subject has been exhausted
It is reignited on the way home
With a comparison of same flavour, different brand.
What is your practice?
Rearranger of disorder
Interceptor of artificiality
Expert in fakery,
Reacher into the void
In the dead of your sleep
Not to be confined
Delineated by your mind’s
Images of who I am
Stretched to the max
As tiny and invisible (at home)
As is humanly, robotically possible
And a voice
Like a baby’s cry
So precisely articulate, so infinitely loud
So painfully thin and rich that it hurts
To hear, that it’s best sometimes
To not listen at all
What am I?
A Shared Meal
hostile hospitality (from Latin ‘hospes/hostis/hospital’)