|
|
|
|
|
<DOCTYPE html>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<html>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<head>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<title></title>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<meta charset="utf-8">
|
|
|
|
|
|
<link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../style.css">
|
|
|
|
|
|
<link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="style.css">
|
|
|
|
|
|
<link rel="icon" type="image/x-icon" href="/img/red.png">
|
|
|
|
|
|
</head>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<body>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<!-- Nav bar -->
|
|
|
|
|
|
<nav>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<h1><a href="../index.html" class="title">vulnerable <br>interfaces</a></h1>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<div class="gummies">
|
|
|
|
|
|
<div class="gummy">
|
|
|
|
|
|
<a href="../ada/index.html"><img src="../img/purple.png" class="img2"></a>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<div class="caption">ada</div>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</div>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<div class="gummy">
|
|
|
|
|
|
<a href="../aglaia/index.html"><img src="../img/green.png" class="img2"></a>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<div class="caption">aglaia</div>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</div>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<div class="gummy">
|
|
|
|
|
|
<a href="../irmak/index.html"><img src="../img/yellow.png" class="img2"></a>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<div class="caption">irmak</div>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</div>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<div class="gummy">
|
|
|
|
|
|
<a href="../stephen/index.html"><img src="../img/red.png" class="img2"></a>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<div class="caption">stephen</div>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</div>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</div>
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
</nav>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<div id="content"><h1 id="backplaces">Backplaces</h1>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<p>adadesign.nl/backplaces<br />
|
|
|
|
|
|
</p>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<p>Hi.<br />
|
|
|
|
|
|
I made this play for you. It is a question, for us to hold together.</p>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<p>Is all intimacy about bodies? What is it about our bodies that makes
|
|
|
|
|
|
intimacy? What happens when our bodies distance intimacy from us? This
|
|
|
|
|
|
small anthology of poems and short stories lives with these
|
|
|
|
|
|
questions—about having a body without intimacy and intimacy without a
|
|
|
|
|
|
body. This project is also a homage to everyone who has come before and
|
|
|
|
|
|
alongside me, sharing their vulnerability and emotions on the Internet.
|
|
|
|
|
|
I called the places where these things happen backplaces. They are
|
|
|
|
|
|
small, tender online rooms where people experiencing societally
|
|
|
|
|
|
uncomfortable pain can find relief, ease, and transcendence.<br />
|
|
|
|
|
|
</p>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<p>I made three backplaces for you to see, click, and feel: Solar
|
|
|
|
|
|
Sibling, Hermit Fantasy, and Cake Intimacies. Each of these is the
|
|
|
|
|
|
result of its own unique performance or project. Some of the stories I
|
|
|
|
|
|
will share carry memories of pain—both physical and emotional. As you
|
|
|
|
|
|
sit in the audience, know I am with you, holding your hand through each
|
|
|
|
|
|
scene. If the performance feels overwhelming at any point, you have my
|
|
|
|
|
|
full permission to step out, take a break, or leave. This is not
|
|
|
|
|
|
choreographed, and I care deeply for you.<br />
|
|
|
|
|
|
</p>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<img src="index.png"
|
|
|
|
|
|
alt="This is the Index, the stage of my play. Each felted item is an act." />
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figcaption aria-hidden="true">This is the Index, the stage of my play.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Each felted item is an act.</figcaption>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<p>Solar Sibling is an online performance of shared loss about leaving
|
|
|
|
|
|
and siblings. This project used comments people left on TikTok poetry. I
|
|
|
|
|
|
extracted the emotions from these comments, mixed them with my own, and
|
|
|
|
|
|
crafted them into poems. It is an ongoing performance, ending only when
|
|
|
|
|
|
your feelings are secretly whispered to me. When you do, by typing into
|
|
|
|
|
|
the comment box, your feelings are sent to me and the first act closes
|
|
|
|
|
|
as the sun rises.<br />
|
|
|
|
|
|
</p>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<img src="solar-1.png"
|
|
|
|
|
|
alt="The initial comment shaped poems and their sun count." />
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figcaption aria-hidden="true">The initial comment shaped poems and
|
|
|
|
|
|
their sun count.</figcaption>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<img src="solar-2.png"
|
|
|
|
|
|
alt="The fillable comment where you can whisper your feelings to me." />
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figcaption aria-hidden="true">The fillable comment where you can
|
|
|
|
|
|
whisper your feelings to me.</figcaption>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<p>Hermit Fantasy is a short story about a bot who wants to be a hermit.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Inspired by an email response from a survey I conducted about receiving
|
|
|
|
|
|
emotional support on the Internet, this story explores the contradiction
|
|
|
|
|
|
of being online while wanting to disconnect. As an act it’s a series of
|
|
|
|
|
|
letters, click by click.<br />
|
|
|
|
|
|
</p>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<img src="one.png" alt="The first letter." />
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figcaption aria-hidden="true">The first letter.</figcaption>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<img src="two.png" alt="The second letter." />
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figcaption aria-hidden="true">The second letter.</figcaption>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<p>Cake Intimacies is a performance that took a year to bring together.
|
|
|
|
|
|
It is a small selection of stories people told me and I held to memory
|
|
|
|
|
|
and rewrote here. The stories come from two performances I hosted.
|
|
|
|
|
|
First, I asked participants to eat cake, sitting facing or away from
|
|
|
|
|
|
each other and sharing their stories about cake and the Internet. The
|
|
|
|
|
|
second performance was hosted at the Art Meets Radical Openness
|
|
|
|
|
|
Festival, as part of the Turning of the Internet workshop. For this
|
|
|
|
|
|
performance, I predicted participants’ future lives on the Internet
|
|
|
|
|
|
using felted archetypes and received stories from their Internet past in
|
|
|
|
|
|
return. Now the stories are here, each of them a cake with a filling
|
|
|
|
|
|
that tells a story, merging the bodily with the digital and making a
|
|
|
|
|
|
mess of it all.<br />
|
|
|
|
|
|
</p>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<img src="pie.png"
|
|
|
|
|
|
alt="The first two stories and their memory illustrations." />
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figcaption aria-hidden="true">The first two stories and their memory
|
|
|
|
|
|
illustrations.</figcaption>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<img src="phone-pie.png"
|
|
|
|
|
|
alt="The second stories in the way they were meant to be experienced." />
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figcaption aria-hidden="true">The second stories in the way they were
|
|
|
|
|
|
meant to be experienced.</figcaption>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<p>The play ends as all plays do. The curtains close, the website stays
|
|
|
|
|
|
but the stories will never sound the same. For the final act, I give you
|
|
|
|
|
|
the stories. It’s one last game, one last joke to ask my question again.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Digital intimacies about the digital, our bodies and the cakes we eat.
|
|
|
|
|
|
For the last act, I ask you to eat digital stories. To eat a comment, to
|
|
|
|
|
|
eat a digital intimacy. Sharing an act of physical intimacy with
|
|
|
|
|
|
yourself and with me, by eating sweets together. Sweets about digital
|
|
|
|
|
|
intimacies that never had a body. There is no moral, no bow to wrap the
|
|
|
|
|
|
story in. A great big mess of transcendence into the digital, of
|
|
|
|
|
|
intimacy and of bodies. The way it always is. Thankfully.<br />
|
|
|
|
|
|
</p>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
<img src="biscuit.png"
|
|
|
|
|
|
alt="Accept My Cookies, biscuits and bows for the performance." />
|
|
|
|
|
|
<figcaption aria-hidden="true">Accept My Cookies, biscuits and bows for
|
|
|
|
|
|
the performance.</figcaption>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</figure>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</div>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</body>
|
|
|
|
|
|
</html>
|
