I am not here...yet
If you are waiting time can grow, it grows into a grey giant made from rubber which presses down in every space available. It fills everything, your eye sockets, your ears, nose, and mouth. It wanders under your armpits and snuggles around your skin. Little by little it encases you in a soft but unyielding mass of boring time. You may drown of a temporal interloop. The waiting grey is not silent, it also fills your senses with white noise till nothing can reach you anymore. The waiting time will grow until there is no future or past. Time is collapsed in itself. There is only now.
You must cut it down, the now. You must fragment the time into smaller and smaller intervals, so that in front of you, millions of tiny time slots unfurl. They are no longer grey. These slots are dark with a red ember glowing inside. Ready to be filled. Now start to do something: Move, jump, kick, turn, repeat. Every action will structure time. You will lend the grey rhythm, order, and duration. You will leave the endless now and change it into a linear concept of time. But outside the now is only so much time left.
This video is developed out of a dance improvisation I made during waiting. I sat in the reception area of a community centre, waiting for my husband to finish his work. It was dark outside and inside, I could here distant noises of cars and saw people passing the big glass door, but nobody noticed me. I had no light, no music, nothing to read or do, so I started to move. The glass front of the building with its red glow of the street lamps was a stage-like display case for my dance. I cut down the waiting time into intervals of jumps and turns. I conquered timelessness through rhythm. I sequenced the now.
The video was made with magix, the music with audacity, the dance with my body - 2018
The choreography starts in emptiness, in undefined space. Its structure is made of blank figures. The viewer finds only virtual individuality, movements that add up to even more movement. Intimate gestures create a web of persistent patterns.
Yet everything stays undefined in space. Not even others connect with another - the dancers stay distant. The viewer cannot penetrate the interaction, cannot stop the junctions and disjunctions. Layers obfuscate Layers, the innerst is never touched.
More and more Movements superimpose over other movements, by them the space is slowly filled. Sound, Imagery, Meaning and Movement condense to a dark mist until they are engulfed by darkness.
Regie: Tim Juckenack / Simone Neumann-Salva
Choreographie: Simone Neumann-Salva
Technische Realisation: Tim Juckenack
Sound: Tim Juckenack
Tanz: Christiane Athmer / Kirsten Ben Haddou / Simone Neumann-Salva / Dominika Nowak
It is molten Henrietta, run!
77 cm x 50 cm
Wood, brushes, acrylic paint, and freeform crochet
Woman are soft and pink and delicate. They are caring and nurturing. They are so emotional, connected to nature and life on the deepest level. They are fragile and need a defender. Their tiny hands can work small and intricate patterns of flowers and hate. Entangled in strings of beauty, and thinness and youth and stupidity and meekness. Holdings hands with other woman to stop them to rise and to revolt. Oh, so great is our task of emotional labour, but who pays for it? All the abuse and oppression are painted pink.
For centuries needlework and fiber art are deemed as women’s work, but not in an appreciating manner but as in describing a lesser art: An occupation of idle rich woman who do not know how to kill their leisure time – a occupation for the fragile woman with slender white hands whose delicate nature does not allow her to participate fully in life. A beauty creating beauty. Needlework is seen as a craft instead of an art (and with this devaluing crafts). A work that can be done at home, where the fragile woman is hidden from the world. So many stereotypes connected with fabric, wool and needles. Up today I know men who would be ashamed to be seen in public while knitting or crocheting. They feel that these techniques rob them of masculinity.
Although these limiting ideas of femininity and art are slowly overturning with many great artist and writers who tackle this topic they are still present. The bevor mentioned stereotypical image of a woman doing needlework encases so many lines of discrimination (sexism, ageism, racism, ableism, and classism) it is frightening me. Therefore, my sculpture.
The disrupted texture of crochet which sprawls unhindered like the unshaved hair on female legs. The pink turning neon and by this becoming visible and loud instead of soft and meek. The broken and worn brushes which show that art (or craft) is always work, persistence, force, and fight, independent of sex and gender of the artist. The wooden post with splinters which symbolises the many women (and naturally also men and people who define themselves in other ways) who already have fight for my many rights today.
I have built a sceptre to celebrate the freedom of choosing which role we follow. To show that female qualities are qualities which female defining people show. There are no set rules, we create them. Perhaps my work is also an umbrella which protects women from all the opposing demands of being a mother, a worker, a lover, a beauty, demands of staying at home or going out, of wearing heels but not too high… you get the point.
Photography and Performance
Dishonour of a public bathroom