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Off course Breathing Matters

Academie Minerva - Groningen.

Sept 2019 - Jan 2020

Op vrijdag werken we met een groep van 14 studenten aan het maken van performances.

 


Off course Breathing Matters

Academie Minerva - Groningen.

Sept 2019 - Jan 2020

Op vrijdag werken we met een groep van 14 studenten aan het maken van performances.

 

Breathing Matters


Presentation of performances


Martina Priehodová, Roza Kootstra, Jascha vom Ende, Lorenzo Merico, Gezina Mulder, Mirre van Lenthe, Maja Bojanić, Annet Allers, Thao Do Phuong, Thuy Huynh, Gionata Girardi, Roslyn Schwengle, Danielle Tjon-A-Tsoi, Luísa Vitorino


BREATHING MATTERS

Off course about: Breath - Voice - Dialogue - Improvisation

In all art forms Breathing Matters, only Performance uses breath in the form itself. I question the materiality of objects and am attracted to making a work in the NOW.

The sparkle and challenge of making a performance in front of an audience creates endless possibilities and new experiences.

Final presentation after 15 classses of performance, done by 14 students from the 2nd and 3rd year of Minerva, Art-Academie in Groningen.


Martina Priehodová, Roza Kootstra, Jascha vom Ende, Lorenzo Merico, Gezina Mulder, Mirre van Lenthe, Maja Bojanić, Annet Allers, Thao Do Phuong, Thuy Huynh, Gionata Girardi, Roslyn Schwengle, Danielle Tjon-A-Tsoi, Luísa Vitorino
Groningen

Engaged performance


"In this performance, I was thinking about a performance where the viewers can join me, so together we form the image. I was inspired when I thought about how many young people are victims of mental issues. However, mental health is still considered a taboo to talk about. On one hand, the frustration, anger, sadness, irritation, etc, is expressed through the screams. It is all so intensive, yet still being ignored, only leads to more frustration and negative feelings. On the other hand, the image can also be interpreted as someone who is suffering from mental problems in our digital age. Her head is going crazy with anxiety, paranoia and depression, yet she still looks at her phone to find some memes, some cute videos to laugh about, only to leads to more intensifying insanity going on in her head. It was a short performance, rather like an image, however, I still enjoyed the result afterwards."


Thao Do Phuong


 

"In this performance, I was thinking about a performance where the viewers can join me, so together we form the image. I was inspired when I thought about how many young people are victims of mental issues. However, mental health is still considered a taboo to talk about. On one hand, the frustration, anger, sadness, irritation, etc, is expressed through the screams. It is all so intensive, yet still being ignored, only leads to more frustration and negative feelings. On the other hand, the image can also be interpreted as someone who is suffering from mental problems in our digital age. Her head is going crazy with anxiety, paranoia and depression, yet she still looks at her phone to find some memes, some cute videos to laugh about, only to leads to more intensifying insanity going on in her head. It was a short performance, rather like an image, however, I still enjoyed the result afterwards."

 


Thao Do Phuong

Performances / poems



Martina Priehodová


WHERE I COME FROM

My mom was made of Adam’s rib,

but we don’t talk about her now.

 

My dad is the God-like creature from the garden of Eden.

But he’s long forgotten.

 

My body grew from the ground.

It was fed from all the grass planes of the earth.

 

You know who else came from the ground?

 

The dwarves in Middle Earth; they came from the rock and the metal.

But they also came from hate of all the highter and godly creatures.

 

They came from hate of all the godly and higher creatures.

 

Then, OH GOD, WHY AM I SO VICIOUS?

 

If i grew up from the seed of love that my parents planted in the ground.

 

Why am I so vicious?

 

--------------------------------------------------------

Assignment political/engaged work:

I'm a mother of two children.

I'm a mother of two children,
Both blind and deaf.

I'm a mother of two children,
I've never seen them before.

They are children on love.
They are sprouts of momentarily lust.
They are seeds of passion.
They are seeds of passion that wasn't mine.

I'm a mother of two children.
Blind, deaf, I've never seen them before.
Seeds of love, joy, lust and passion.
I've never had it before.

I'm a mother of two children,
Neither one is mine.

I'm a carrier of two seeds, ready to ripen.
I'm a mother of two children,
Who will never be loved.

I'm a mother of two children,
Products of momentarily lust.
The lust picked me up one late night.

I'm a mother of two passions.
I'll never see their smile.
I'm a mother of two children,
A vessel for love that isn't mine.

 

Martina


Martina Priehodová

we nap


Aruba, our history will live on with the preserved cunucu houses. The skeletons of the houses will tell a story of how it used to be before the modernization took over our lands
and sadly it's out of our hands.
It will remind us how safe it used to be, sleeping with the doors open without a care


Roslyn Schwengle


week 4. where do you come from

"In Portugal we nap"
 
When the sun is neither high or low.
When my stomach is full and my heart is content, I lay for a while.
Sometimes I even smile.

The soft breeze that was carried from the coast passes trough my hair as the song of my ancestors play.
Fado always has allot to say.

The beautiful sound of strings from the Portuguese guitar tickles my ear.
I close my eyes and for a while I disappear

week 3. political: Cas di cunucu

Cas di cunucu.

Aruba, our history will live on with the preserved cunucu houses.
The skeletons of the houses will tell a story of how it used to be before the modernization took over our lands
and sadly it's out of our hands.

It will remind us how safe it used to be, sleeping with the doors open without a care
but in this time you can't or else you might get a scare.

It would remind us about a time where you wake up to the sound of singing birds
instead of the noise of busy roads.

It would remind us about how proud we are to be Aruban but like vulutre,
our children will scavenge the last pieces of our culture.

But that's all you will be cas di cunucu, a reminder,
we have lost value to what is important to us and now
we are blinded by greed and it doesn't look like any time soon
that we will be freed.

week 2. tell me about your family:  words spoken like fire

The story of his family, spoken in a a tongue which those infront of him cannot speak.
but this does not matter to me for his expression feels like fire
fire that fills up the entire room and is so hard to miss.
there is power in his voice and strangely enough that power brings an unknown presence that feels familiar.
and for a moment I felt blessed.

week 1. an object:  Microfibres

The fabric is soft and absorbent to clean and avoid scratches in the process.
something so simple and small but is carried wherever the host goes.
"it helps me see."


Roslyn Schwengle

performances


herinnering aan een sterke performance die gemaakt werd in een van de eerste lessen


Mirre van Lenthe


Off course ‘Breathing matters’

Een spannend begin, midden in de ruimte. Wat wordt er van mij verwacht en wat verwacht ik van de anderen. Een technische uitdaging was mijn verwachting. Dit liep anders. Een technische uitdaging in mijn hoofd werd het. Mijzelf openstellen voor publiek, voor anderen, voor artiesten. In de afgelopen jaren ben ik steeds zekerder geworden over mijzelf, over hoe ik mijzelf presenteer. Bij deze off course bewijs ik mijzelf. Hoe emotioneel sterk ik kan zijn, hoe kwetsbaar ik kan zijn. Nooit van mijzelf gedacht dat ik dit zou kunnen, elke week een nieuwe performance opvoeren en daarover trots zijn.

Het doen is voor mij het moeilijkst. Waarom zou ik elke keer weer naar voren lopen. Waarom zou ik wat van mijzelf laten zien. Omdat het goed voor mij is. Goed voor mijn ontwikkeling, goed voor mijn vertrouwen. Ik zal dit afmaken, ik zal hier sterker van worden. Je moet het alleen maar doen en ervan leren.

- Mirre van Lenthe

Performances:

• Welke politieke kwestie gaat je aan het hart?

• Where do you come from?

• Tekening geinspireerd door een van de eerste, intuitieve performances die gemaakt werden gedurende de eerste lessen


Mirre van Lenthe

Breathing, building and destroying walls


Family

1
He always looks and laughs at me, while with his Danish cap, he nods and asks me about connections. Uncle Tom is a warm man. Gray mouse eyes, with front teeth like a rabbit, cheerful but timid at the same time, explains his adventures. The venom is pervasive - only people who have seen something have a heart as big as a house, and rapid legs like a rabbit.
He comes to visit and eat pancakes every Sunday and brings goodies for us. Always the wine of choice for my dad, today it is the rose of 1886, and for me exclusive Dutch candies with raisins, raisins and more raisins. I'm sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth while he describes his house again.
None of us have stepped in there yet. He says that there is no place for us. He has so many things that accumulate and accumulate and climb over each other and over each other that he himself can no longer walk around. Uncle Tom likes to collect things. Up already at 7.20am in the morning, he’s in front of the antique shop to find the rarest items people throw away, and he gives them a new home. He takes care of his things like children. He immediately loved me, even though I am not from here - like his treasures from all over the world. I get caught up with mind painting the house he lives in while he’s telling my dad why he still has a nightstand. The floor is flooded with things so he can't get to the bathroom at night without stumbling upon them. Which, of course, can be dangerous.
The house is coloured as if you ate salmon and then shaved it off (if, of course, our digestive tract still retained the colour of protein). The door is greenish when you open it, it makes you warm at heart. It smells of ginger, mixed with curry and grapes, and the walls are covered with oriental, Roman and Mesopotamian mosaics. Oh, and the posters from the 1969 Woodstock Festival hang in the lobby, because Uncle Tom was there, of course.
2
To the left of the front door there is a small pantry. Uncle Tom can't get in, he's too big, as he regularly receives a lot of kindness from his friends. There are no windows, no lights. Inside there is only food and food products, you can almost hear the scent of smells. The woods, the hatch, are yelling. There is a sense of nervousness there – the pressure a young substitute teacher has in a school while first teaching in a wild. It is overwhelming. You get panicked. There are too many people in here, too many memories and places that do not belong here. They all belong here but at the same time not, just like you, stranger, and at the same time remind the space that it will never host something intimate.
The square. This is basically a market. This is where masks and non-masks of people show up. This is where things go, telling their every story, since none of them is the same as their family knows them. If the family can even know the individual.
In this illuminating darkness, Uncle Tom is often lost if he enters without a plan. Therefore, every day he thinks carefully about what will be for lunch, dinner and breakfast. Where will the taste take him so he doesn't get lost in this never-ending swirl of memories.
3
I run out of the pantry and climb the steep and narrow stairs. Each one is lined with words, completely overcrowded and stuffy, the is hardly enough space for a grownups pair of shoes.
I can easily overcome the stairs though. By myself. The hallway is blue, dark as the lights are off. There are five doors in front of me, each with different shades of wood, but neatly polished. The corridor is small, I don't know how my uncle gets around in here.
I hesitate, as I do not know which door to choose. I sit on the floor and crave in the dark. I no longer pay attention to my surroundings; I feel as if I can no longer absorb the information. There are is too much. Is that why uncle frequently doesn’t have a lot to say?
How do you choose the right door? How do you decide who you're going to marry, Mom? I ask her, when I am confused, picking out the dresses from the last century from her closet and cannot decide which one to take. “You just know.” How do you know? How did you know about your dad? How come my uncle has no wife, no husband, no dog, no cat? "Because there is no room for them in my house." Not in mine, since I don't have one at all, so will I always be alone?

4
My thoughts slowly creep back to the present when I hear Uncle Tom describing his bedroom – and surprisingly, inviting us over tomorrow. What a delight! Father’s face started to glow at this announcement!
Does the vendor trust us? What is the house he has been talking about all his life?
The next day, I walk through the door expecting millions of things dropping on me. The house is empty. Tom is looking at us sadly. There is no love here, there is no one here to fill up someone as alone as my uncle

 

Wall

What is silence? When you wordlessly lie in a warm bed at home - that is, in the house where someone had raised you. Is that home? I never thought I belonged there, since I really don't, but today I would go home. I didn't go to the studio because I couldn't stand thirty people breathing, walking, existing around me. I am increasingly losing the ability to express myself in Slovenian, I’ve been noticing. I'm confused, tired, but not me. How could I say something without using words? In fact, that's what I do every day. It's easier for me to speak through material than through voice. What do you want to say? That there is an unbreakable wall between me and others that I built when I was five years old and have been carefully nurturing it ever since. I water it, brush it, caress it, short it. I carefully add concrete layers to it and patch its holes so no one comes through. I'll be alone. I can do everything myself. Without people watching me, without us. I can be responsible for myself, I don't know with others. I'm tired. Sleepy. I run out of motivation and I feel lost. What am I doing here? How do I get started? What's happening? What's not going on? Why am I thinking too much about everything? What is it? It's tiring. It's tiring today. Today I was hiding behind four walls of my seven square meters. Is it normal that when you change your environment you lose yourself? I feel lost. The wall is standing, and I have no intention of breaking it. I have to write one or two A4 pages about my future work, but I simply have no idea. An empty head. Am I really that bad?


Maja Bojanic


Družinica / Family

1

He always looks and laughs at me, while with his Danish cap, he nods and asks me about connections. Uncle Tom is a warm man. Gray mouse eyes, with front teeth like a rabbit, cheerful but timid at the same time, explains his adventures. The venom is pervasive - only people who have seen something have a heart as big as a house, and rapid legs like a rabbit.

He comes to visit and eat pancakes every Sunday and brings goodies for us. Always the wine of choice for my dad, today it is the rose of 1886, and for me exclusive Dutch candies with raisins, raisins and more raisins. I'm sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth while he describes his house again.

None of us have stepped in there yet. He says that there is no place for us. He has so many things that accumulate and accumulate and climb over each other and over each other that he himself can no longer walk around. Uncle Tom likes to collect things. Up already at 7.20am in the morning, he’s in front of the antique shop to find the rarest items people throw away, and he gives them a new home. He takes care of his things like children. He immediately loved me, even though I am not from here - like his treasures from all over the world. I get caught up with mind painting the house he lives in while he’s telling my dad why he still has a nightstand. The floor is flooded with things so he can't get to the bathroom at night without stumbling upon them. Which, of course, can be dangerous.

The house is coloured as if you ate salmon and then shaved it off (if, of course, our digestive tract still retained the colour of protein). The door is greenish when you open it, it makes you warm at heart. It smells of ginger, mixed with curry and grapes, and the walls are covered with oriental, Roman and Mesopotamian mosaics. Oh, and the posters from the 1969 Woodstock Festival hang in the lobby, because Uncle Tom was there, of course.

2

To the left of the front door there is a small pantry. Uncle Tom can't get in, he's too big, as he regularly receives a lot of kindness from his friends. There are no windows, no lights. Inside there is only food and food products, you can almost hear the scent of smells. The woods, the hatch, are yelling. There is a sense of nervousness there – the pressure a young substitute teacher has in a school while first teaching in a wild. It is overwhelming. You get panicked. There are too many people in here, too many memories and places that do not belong here. They all belong here but at the same time not, just like you, stranger, and at the same time remind the space that it will never host something intimate.

The square. This is basically a market. This is where masks and non-masks of people show up. This is where things go, telling their every story, since none of them is the same as their family knows them. If the family can even know the individual.

In this illuminating darkness, Uncle Tom is often lost if he enters without a plan. Therefore, every day he thinks carefully about what will be for lunch, dinner and breakfast. Where will the taste take him so he doesn't get lost in this never-ending swirl of memories.

3

I run out of the pantry and climb the steep and narrow stairs. Each one is lined with words, completely overcrowded and stuffy, the is hardly enough space for a grownups pair of shoes.

I can easily overcome the stairs though. By myself. The hallway is blue, dark as the lights are off. There are five doors in front of me, each with different shades of wood, but neatly polished. The corridor is small, I don't know how my uncle gets around in here.

I hesitate, as I do not know which door to choose. I sit on the floor and crave in the dark. I no longer pay attention to my surroundings; I feel as if I can no longer absorb the information. There are is too much. Is that why uncle frequently doesn’t have a lot to say?

How do you choose the right door? How do you decide who you're going to marry, Mom? I ask her, when I am confused, picking out the dresses from the last century from her closet and cannot decide which one to take. “You just know.” How do you know? How did you know about your dad? How come my uncle has no wife, no husband, no dog, no cat? "Because there is no room for them in my house." Not in mine, since I don't have one at all, so will I always be alone?

 

4

My thoughts slowly creep back to the present when I hear Uncle Tom describing his bedroom – and surprisingly, inviting us over tomorrow. What a delight! Father’s face started to glow at this announcement!

Does the vendor trust us? What is the house he has been talking about all his life?

The next day, I walk through the door expecting millions of things dropping on me. The house is empty. Tom is looking at us sadly. There is no love here, there is no one here to fill up someone as alone as my uncle.

 

 

Wall

What is silence? When you wordlessly lie in a warm bed at home - that is, in the house where someone had raised you. Is that home? I never thought I belonged there, since I really don't, but today I would go home. I didn't go to the studio because I couldn't stand thirty people breathing, walking, existing around me. I am increasingly losing the ability to express myself in Slovenian, I’ve been noticing. I'm confused, tired, but not me. How could I say something without using words? In fact, that's what I do every day. It's easier for me to speak through material than through voice. What do you want to say? That there is an unbreakable wall between me and others that I built when I was five years old and have been carefully nurturing it ever since. I water it, brush it, caress it, short it. I carefully add concrete layers to it and patch its holes so no one comes through. I'll be alone. I can do everything myself. Without people watching me, without us. I can be responsible for myself, I don't know with others. I'm tired. Sleepy. I run out of motivation and I feel lost. What am I doing here? How do I get started? What's happening? What's not going on? Why am I thinking too much about everything? What is it? It's tiring. It's tiring today. Today I was hiding behind four walls of my seven square meters. Is it normal that when you change your environment you lose yourself? I feel lost. The wall is standing, and I have no intention of breaking it. I have to write one or two A4 pages about my future work, but I simply have no idea. An empty head. Am I really that bad?

 

Družinica

1
    Ves zvedav me gleda in se mi smeji, medtem ko s svojo na Danskem kupljeno čepico prikimava in me sprašuje o povezavah. Stric Tom je topel človek. Sivih mišjih oči, s sprednjima zoboma kot zajec, veselo, a hkrati plašno, razlaga o svojih dogodivščinah. Venomer je na preži – samo ljudje, ki so nekaj videli, imajo srce veliko kot hiša in urne noge kot zajec.
    Na obisk in palačinke pride vsako nedeljo in prinese dobrote za naju z očetom. Za njega vedno izbrano vino, danes je to rose letnik 1886, zame pa ekskluzivne nizozemske bonbone z rozinami, rozinami in s še več rozinami. Sedim na tleh po turško in se zibam sem ter tja, medtem ko ponovno opisuje svojo hišo.
Nihče od nas še ni stopil tja. Pravi, da za nas ni prostora, da ima toliko stvari, ki se kopičijo in kopičijo in povzpenjajo druga na drugo in čez drugo, da tudi sam ne more več hoditi naokrog. Stric Tom rad zbira stvari. Vsak dan je že ob 7.20 uri zjutraj pred starinarnico, da bi našel najbolj redke izdelke, ki jih ljudje zavržejo stran, on pa jim da novi dom. Za svoje stvari skrbi kot za otroke. Slednje ima tudi zelo rad, a jih sam nima. Mene je takoj vzljubil, četudi nisem iz teh krajev – tako kot njegovi iz celega sveta pridobljeni zakladi. Ponovno se ujamem, kako si slikam hišico, v kateri prebiva, medtem ko očetu pripoveduje, zakaj ima še vedno nočno posodico – toliko stvari ima na tleh, da enostavno ne more ponoči do kopalnice, ne da bi zletel čez njih. Kar je seveda lahko tudi nevarno.
Hiša je obarvana, kot če bi pojedel lososa in ga potem posral (če bi seveda naš prebavni trak še vedno obdržal barvo proteinov). Vrata so zelenkasta, ko jih odpreš, ti postane toplo pri srcu. Diši po ingverju, ki se meša s curryjem in grozdjem, stene so v celote prekrite z orientalskimi, rimskimi antičnimi in mezopotamskimi mozaiki. Aja, pa še posterji s festivala Woodstock iz leta 1969 visijo v veži, saj je bil stric Tom seveda tam.

2
Levo od vhodnih vrat je majhna shramba. Stric Tom ne more skoznjo, je prevelik, saj redno prejema veliko dobrosrčnosti od svojih prijateljev. Brez oken je, ni luči. Notri se tare hrane in izdelkov za živež, vrvež vonjav lahko skorajda slišiš. Šumi, loputa, se dere. Kljub temu, da je v neskončnost zevajoča tema, tu vlada pritisk, ki ga imaš, ko prvič kot nadomestni učitelj učiš na šoli v podivjanem razredu. Grabi te panika. Tiska. Preveč ljudi je tu notri, preveč spominov in krajev, ki ne spadajo sem. Ki so tu doma prav tako kot ti, prišlek, hkrati pa prostor opominjajo, da ne bo nikoli gostil nekaj intimnega.
Trg. To je v bistvu trg. Tu se kažejo maske in ne-maske ljudi. Tu stvari nastopajo, govorijo vsaka svojo zgodba, saj nobena izmed njih ni tista, taka, kot jo pozna njena družina. Če družina sploh lahko pozna posameznika.
V tej presvetli temi se stric Tom velikokrat izgubi,  če vstopi brez načrta. Zato vsak dan temeljito premišljuje o tem, kaj bo za kosilo, večerjo in zajtrk. Kam ga bo okus popeljal, da se ne bo izgubil v tem neprekinjenem vrtincu spominov.

3
Pobegnem ven iz shrambe in se povzpnem po strmih in ozkih stopnicah. Vsaka posebej je obložena z rečmi, kompletno prenatrpana in zasuta, prostora je le za par stopal moške številke 45 – tukajšnji ljudje so pač veliki.
Sama po stopnicah brez težav zdrvim, jih preplezam in se znajdem v prvem nadstropju. Hodnik je moder, temen, saj so luči ugasnjene. Pred menoj je pet vrat, vsaka so različnega odtenka lesa, drugače so polakirana. Hodnik je majhen, ne vem, kako se stric sploh stlači sem.
Obotavljam se, saj ne vem katera vrata naj izberem. Usedem se na tla in ždim v temi. Nisem več pozorna na svojo okolico, občutek imam, kot da informacij ne morem več absorbirati. Preveč jih je. Je zato stric velikokrat redkobeseden?
Kako se odločiš za prava vrata? Kako se odločiš s kom se boš poročil, mama? jo vprašam, ko cela zbegana izbiram obleke iz prejšnjega stoletja z njene omare in se ne morem odločiti, katere bom vzela. »Enostavno veš.« Kako veš? Kako si ti vedela za očeta? Kako to, da stric nima ne žene ne moža ne psa ne mačk? »Ker ni prostora za njih v moji hiši.« V moji tudi ne, saj je sploh nimam, bom torej vedno sama?

4
Misli mi počasi prijadrajo nazaj v sedanjost, ko slišim, kako stric Tom opisuje svojo spalnico – pri tem očetu obljubi, da naju jutri povabi k sebi domov. Kakšno navdušenje je spreletelo očetov obraz ob tem oznanilu!
Nama vender le zaupa? Kakšna je hiša, o kateri pripoveduje že vse življenje?
Naslednji dan vstopim skozi vrata in pričakujem, da bo name zletelo na milijone reči. Hiša je prazna. Tom naju žalostno pogleda. Tu ni ljubezni, tu ni nikogar, ki bi zapolnil nekoga, ki je tako sam, kot je stric.

Maja Bojanic


Maja Bojanic

onderzoek


 

 


Roza Kootstra


When I write,

I forget

When I sing,

I'm out of breath

What is there left for me to do?

I want to move

 

• Performance onderzoek naar hoe het lichaam zich verhoudt tot de ruimte, hoe je met beweging de ruimte kan beschrijven. Ook verder onderzoek naar hoe de communicatie met een publiek verloopt, direct of onzichtbaar? Werken met publiek of solo?

• onderzoek naar de stem

• Tekeningen gemaakt na de performances Tell me about your family


Roza Kootstra

Works by



Maria Luisa Vitorino


The title of this performance is "trying to fit perfectly"

The concept of it is: I made this object trying to understand the difference between metal, card and my body. Manipulating the card in order to get into the metal frame and adjust my body on it while falling on it.
Luisa Vitorino

:"This last months i've been trying to focus and still be free in my choices.
Concentrate but also being active and enthusiastic.
All about a balance between the obligations and the whims.
Even knowing that it's all about presence, i like to have it.
Highs and lows.
Grab the emotions of the surrounding moment.
With no clue of what’s next.
But still planning a little bit of confidence plus energy.
Knowing myself and how i can stand still, still.
This words are making the soup of me and my mind blows into water again."

Instagram: @maria_luisa_fv

 

Images on the right hand side:

Where do you come from?
In Portugal we take naps
music from Amália Rodrigues


Maria Luisa Vitorino

zonder titel



Annet Allers


In mijn werk gebruik ik vaak patronen of veel verschillende felle kleuren om tot een ietwat kinderlijk beeld te komen geïnspireerd op mijn directe omgeving. Vaak zijn de dingen die ik maak geïnspireerd op de drukke straten van het centrum van Groningen. Zo maak ik op een grove manier kleurrijke schilderijen van foto’s die ik in Groningen maak, waarbij het beeld door de veelheid aan kleuren en de grove verftoets vaak iets kinderlijks en naïefs krijgt. Andere keren maak ik driedimensionaal werk, meestal van hout, waarbij ik me laat inspireren door huid als een bescherming. Hiervoor gebruik ik meestal hout en zoek ik vaak materialen in het bos zoals bij voorbeeld boomschors of bastvaten of oude spullen die ik bij mijn huis vind. Verder houd ik van een soort onhandigheid of knulligheid, omdat dat vaak iets kwetsbaars met zich meebrengt waardoor het iets of iemand meer menselijk maakt en voor mijn gevoel daarom dichterbij komt.

Annet Allers 3A


Annet Allers

connection


Where do you come from? The differences of countries and habits, Vietnam opposed to The Netherlands, in particular Groningen. How the voice is ised so different and the habits, the bodylanguage.


Thuy Huynh


"She is kind. She is enthusiastic. She cares about everybody else. She always try her best to connect people, giving chances for everyone to grow" - what I'll proudly talk about Anet our tutor.

We came to this class BREATHING MATTERS, all strangers, without a clue what we're gonna do next.

I came to this class in hope to improve my presenting skill, and what I get now beyond what I expected.

I delayed my writing until after the last class we have together, but it worth the delay - our last class was beautiful. We sit together, giving opinions, understanding each other, laughing at other people jokes. We had a connection from this class, dare to express our feelings to other people.

All these voices, mouth sounds, actions, emotions - I don't regret applying this class.

It's not just about performances anymore, it's the experiment we got.

Here I am today, Thuy Huynh, confidently speak in front of people althought my English was bad - mostly learned from Breathing Matters.

"Close your eyes, walk around and imagine you're walking on ice"

Jan 21, 2020


Thuy Huynh

mijn werk



Danielle Tjon-A-Tsoi


About my work
I’m an artist that mostly focuses on work in relation to myself. I make personal works about how I think and feel about subjects. I do this in all sorts of ways. Sometimes I use a different kind of approach in art. This could be a performance.


Performance to me is making a powerful image. An image what has you thinking but mostly feeling. I’d like to make provoking paintings with tekst that are bold in a way. To say what everybody thinks but nobody has the gut to say it out loud. Same in performance these images are powerful and in a way touching.


Using my body is most of importance during a performance of mine. With words and sound I feel like you are already giving so much away from what viewers must guess in order to understand the performance better. Movement with body in a dance kind of way, using parts of body like hair as brush and lips as a pencil. I am the material and the canvas all at once, I am the work.

 

 

WHITE FUR

In the town of my childhood, little of note ever happened
so when the albino deer was found drowned in the slough
 
having been driven onto the punky ice by dogs,
the game warden brought the dead beast to the school.
 
I might have been seven or maybe six years old.
I suppose we were made to line up
 
since that is how we were moved from place to place
and were directed out the industrial doors
 
to admire the animal sprawled in the back of a truck.
We gathered around it, its whiteness a world
 
bled of distinction, its eyes pink and drying
in the prairie air. We were told we could touch it
 
and these many years since that March day, I can still
see my hand, pink and small, buried into the white fur
 
of the buck's neck, crackling with static
and coming to life with the electric surge
 
that animates all things. Later, the buck
would be mounted and placed in a glass case in the bank,
 
which is where the town kept things that were precious.
Behind it, the art teacher rendered the bluffs in oils
 
with the fussy hand of a miniaturist, and the buck
remains there today, in perpetual imitation of itself.

Danielle Tjon-A-Tsoi


Danielle Tjon-A-Tsoi

Eating



Jascha vom Ende


Where am I coming from?

Where am I right now?

Where am I going?

Who am I with?

with whom am I going?

Who am I?

 

Where am I coming from?     I grew from my roots

Where am I right now?          I’m right here

Where am I going?                to the unknown 

Who am I with?                     I’m with the sun 

with whom am I going?        with the whole

Who am I?                             I’m a soul.              I’m a grateful soul.


Jascha vom Ende

Poetry



Lorenzo Merico



Swallowing


Swallowing what I should say
I do it with education, a little resentful, tired breathing
I swallow right
I swallow throws of a leaf that helps me, which tell me to give serenity
I swallow the punctuation to touch with my hand letters swallowed by a hand faster than mine
I swallow the chewed words of other mouths that scream louder than mine
I swallow the bad germs because I hope they escape the environment and hide them in my skin
I swallow electric wires that shake my nerves and pulsate between the arteries that are then felt
I swallow wires that twist around my tongue and pull the joint out of my mouth
I swallow soaked words of saliva and thc in an attempt to give them a form that is not like society does not want
I swallow smeared words of other words in inextricable balls of wool
I swallow words but I never stop them and they accumulate in the imperceptible center of the point where the world has nailed them
I swallow but it is as if I never swallowed
I swallow Dionysian orgies to swallow once what is not word
To swallow something that has life inside
To be reborn inside an orgasm



I tore my days


I tore my days to paste them on a sheet of paper
I looked for words in the deepest abyss until I missed oxygen
I designed circles so big that they covered the planet
I spit on the pages of my Life and I recycled to the last piece of paper
to fill it with every meaning, until it was consumed and then disappeared.
I fought at night to get the words out of my neck with dirty hands from
all the people I had touched during the day
I wet my hair and saw letters that drained over my skin and corroded it
I looked for the best words I had to make myself understood by others but it wasn't enough
I lit candles in the dark and waited for them to melt on my thoughts
Then I tore everything up because I didn't have any blank pages to breathe
Then I traveled to look for new blank sheets and found only black ones.
Then I changed the color of my ink
I tried to write black on black in the darkness of my thoughts
And then I tore everything back up again.



Lorenzo Merico

I am/ I am not a printmaker


werk gemaakt naar aanleiding van dezelfde performance, alleen met een verandering van karakters


Gionata Girardi


 

I AM/I AM NOT A PRINTMAKER
This work stems from a reflection on my relationship with engraving and printmaking. The act of violently destroying the zinc plate, on which one should usually carefully engrave, represents in a way my dissatisfaction with a technique that has marked my academic career so far. Mine is a relationship of love and hate, as my interest in the graphic medium is undeniable, but I have always looked for alternative ways to use it. By printing the "dead body" of the plate I wanted to represent precisely this contradictory relationship, if the performative act, on the one hand, wants to represent my frustration, the act of printing wants to bring back to life something that however belongs to me and represents me.


Gionata Girardi

performance


Eerste beelden die werden gemaakt naar aanleiding van de performances die we hebben gemaakt. Toen is er niet gedocumenteerd. Watr blijft er achter op je netvlies? Welk werk en waarom?

 


Gezina Mulder


Deze cursus was een totaal nieuwe ervaring voor mij. Als vormgeving student heb ik eigenlijk nooit iets gedaan in de richting van performance art. Al met al was deze ervaring een erg leerzame op meerdere niveaus. Ik kwam erachter dat ik het comfortabelste werk binnen performance als ik mijn lichaam en stemgeluid gebruik op een intuïtieve manier. Voor de performance heb ik een idee in mijn hoofd en dit idee breng ik daarna intuïtief naar het toneel. Op het toneel hou ik me niet zo zeer aan vooraf gestelde criteria, maar eerder op wat er op dat moment bij mij te binnen schiet. Daarnaast ben ik er ook achter gekomen dat performance niet perse het medium is waar ik het meeste plezier aan beleef. Daarentegen ben ik wel heel blij met de uitdagingen die het op mijn pad bracht. Ik moest echt uit mijn comfort zone komen. Voorheen was ik altijd bang om een performance te doen, al helemaal voor een camera die al je bewegingen vastlegt. Nu, na deze cursus, heb ik het gevoel dat ik vrijer ben. Desalniettemin voel ik mij nog steeds wel erg zenuwachtig voor ik iets uitvoer, maar een beetje gezonde spanning hoort er bij.


Gezina Mulder
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