In September, 2024, M. Taylor sent one letter as three separate postcards to M, Scott and Micah. Two weeks later, the recipients were gathered, lines were numbered, and the letter was haltingly read back to the sender. As an exercise, letter writing makes an invisible audience specific and intimate and lets a person explore writing as a physical object. The text below is not the point as much as the action of sending your writing away from you.
M, Micah, Scott,
The question is this: Who are you writing to? and why? And why is it not yourself? And why do we pretend there is any writing that is not to ourselves? Or rather, for ourselves? And in that case (the case in which all writing to others is a request for recognition, assurance of personal existential weight), does it matter if we ever get it back? If we ever have a full, honest record of it? Of course it does. Of course it does. Because, again, if we’re honest, writing is a very selfish thing to do. As is all art. As is all attempt at connection. This was the wrong question. The question is this: How many layers of obfuscation are required for honesty? And what is the point of it? Bechdel writes her memoirs, tells the audience in the auditorium, “I’m not the authority on my own past.” So the question is this: If there is no backspace, and no spare paper to restart on because I’ve already put so much of myself into this one, (I dislike the way I phrased that, but I suppose that proves its own point), am I more do I is there less space between us? The question: What is art poetry language but a pressing against space? The question: What happens if I directly acknowledge the spaces where words get lost? The point of masking tape is to keep the paper in place, keep it from shriveling under the glare of water, but I am trying to write to all of you at once. Things are hidden the more with increased ears. None of this is making sense. I have the wrong questions. The question is this: Why is it so hard to __________? Why wasn‘t it hard before? What has changed? What needs changing? I say, “There is nothing left to say” from me; but The question: If everything is a blur of brain and nerves and no space, no space, how can I make sure that art is still accessible? Like a chair, like a lift, like a cane, open doors. Movements, thoughts, are all too small and cramped. People do not realize you are supposed to warm up before drawing. A well-lit room, with desks in conversation, posed figure holding complicated stances they only dare because you are meant to start fast, 15 seconds, 30, 40, big strokes, waving arms from the shoulder, across butcher paper. People forget you are not meant to start with finished products. When my brain is too fast for my body, all I can do is big, sweeping strokes. I am so stiff. The question: What is the warm-up, no see audience version of __________? The sweep? And can I start there again? McLuhan and the problem of Allan Kaprow’s Happenings: There can be no art without medium. The problem of trees in forests with no ears: Can there be art with no audience? I am cycling (perpetual issue) — I have already answered that question. The question: You have started swinging again, however clumsy. Are you ready to admit you are afraid of what happens next? Who do you trust with all this __________? I worry I make this sound mindless. I promise there is intention here. A familiar place where my head goes and an art exhibit that dug me back out. A gallery of fiber arts with dropped stitching and poor handiwork and signs that all say “Artist,” “Artist,” “work,” and “______”. The question: How to make art a craft? Not in the traditional sense, but in the sense of “I made this for you to keep you warm at night, to keep your hands safe from the burning pot, to brighten your room. I made this and it was not my head as much as my hands, as much as my prayer to repetition, as much as my time and care.” The question: How to make writing an act of love and care? A domestic thing. A private thing. A thing we pass down, as much object as text. The question: Can I write myself into How can this still be a connection beyond me? Bring others together? Can I make something that isn’t that is only complete with multiple eyes on it? How long until it forces people into conversation? The question: the more versions, bigger audience, does that give something more truth, more understanding? Or less? The question: Am I still here in all the ways I have made this illegible? In all the parts you don’t get to see even together? The question: Am I here? __________ The question: Can you hear me? The question: How do I get out of I? The question: Hello? The question: Can you hear me? The question: Hello? Borges’ library of Babel: The question: Am I here in so much text? The question: Can I find you here too? The question: Can you hear me? The question: Am I capable of making art that doesn’t sound like a cry for help? I’m really really good guys, I promise I’m not lying. This is all a good sign. I am sweeping my arms out in big strokes, and it is making something new and, I think, I am afraid to say aloud, beautiful, to me, at least. Maybe only in the fact that it exists and I exist and you exist and that fills me. I am writing to myself, like we all are, but it has a safe place to land. I will write again soon. I look forward to hearing back, whatever that looks like. All my love, and my most sincere well wishes,
M. T.
Over/Poetry 