Bricolage. The word embraces me. It has the graceful awkwardness of my long limbs. It describes the curious jumble of thought, aesthetic accumulation, fragments, the bit of stripe, the ragged graphic, the penciled cursive interrupted, torn. It accepts the enchanting ordinaryness of my life. All of it worthy. All of it rich. All of it in dreadful disarray.
Look how that irritating shred, that meaningless utterance, goes just right there and sings.
Bricolage defies the tidy. Bricolage is collapsed sculpture. Bricolage is image in three dimensions. Bricolage is askance and askew with asymmetric angles. Inclusive. What else can i say? Depart.
Distance necessary. Zoom out and edges find relief, echoing others. A rhythm.
Remedy in juxtaposition. Catalyst for a conversation.
How will i ever collect enough fragments? Will I be co-opted by the compulsion to acquire? Will my lab become a crowded respository?
Mighten't a found-thing include a particular shade of blue-grey, a gnot of cheezecloth, a print pressed repetitively in time with some disquieting urgency?
Alchemist the laboratory. Conductor. Here, a design birthed from self-forgetting during the intimacy of solitary play. What emerges is the world, the cosmos, writ through the flesh of hand, leg, eye, mouth. Here are awkward angles. Here are unexpected and unreasoned protuberances; the odd swing of a gait, an inherited limp, an endearing slump – echoed through body.
Bricolage is things gathered irreverently, corraled haphazardly. The arrangement that works best, the least-arranged. Not tossed, because nothing. is. trash. Flung from a churn of concentration in the audience of God.