Last night I went to the Denver Art Museum's world premiere of Stacey Steers' new film, Night Hunter. It was an interesting blend of artistic dreamlike images and disturbing sequences. The film left me with tangible themes drawn from the web of unconscious, alluding to reproduction, loss and fear. There is an installation in the fusebox, on the fourth floor in the new wing of the museum, if you are local and interested. The film consists of over 4000 tiny collages made by the artist over a four year period and each second of footage represents no less then 8 collages. Now that is dedication.
Yes, I know it doesn't look like much. It was only about 5 inches in diameter and 8 feet tall. The root ball was no more than 3 feet deep. But it was a sweet red-bud tree that we planted the year Bodhi was born, his placenta was buried in it's roots and like many of the trees in our neighborhood, it died (see this post to understand why) . I can't say that I mourned its death in a tangible way, rather it produced in me a sort of unnameable melancholy. I am a woman who loves the spring. I nearly live for it. When the first signs of life emerge like a haze of hope, I drink in green with the passion of a desert crawling woman sipping at an oasis. I gorge. This year has been hard. Our neighborhood isn't leafing out in native splendor, instead the tired trees seem to begrudge the effort, only offering a tender shoot or bud occasionally. The north side of many trees appear to have given up all together, too tired after a long winter...
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