"i believe you" : The ART of Witness

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Below are a few of the photographic collages, which have been gifted by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films, and printed by Griffin Editions, for our collaborative ART installation.

 

"Diver" by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

 

"3 Boys in Bath" by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

 

"My Venus, My Lover" by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

 

"The Other Junkies Call Him Dannyboy" by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

 

"Vadim's Chest" by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

 

"Boy Reaching" by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

 

"The Unmade Bed" by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

 

"Matsya" by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

 

"Dancing Alleycat" by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

 

 

If you would like to visit our collaborative art installation whilst it is being created, or to arrange a private viewing, please feel free to contact:

Rachel Chapple, PhD at http://realstoriesgallery@gmail.com

All art models 18+. We have been evaluating teaching tools via data we’ve taken in surveys with kids at-risk (sex work, hiv/aids, addiction) who are in the instructional process of acquiring photographic and video skills in ART direction. What art teaching instruments work with this population of older at-risk adolescents (17-19). Which instructional modalities do not work with students with a long history of school failure. Cinematheque Films: The Studio Arts Education, and Show Me Your Life art students (Real Stories Gallery): SMYL students are from a dozen different countries. Art students are allowed access to fair use art materials and mixed media in the teaching of iconic manipulation in photographic, video and film production. Representations and facsimiles posted here are presented as teaching tools and instruments employed to instruct students in the techniques and application of mixed media art and collage. The Digital Millennium Copyright Act allows art-teaching entities the fair use of such materials in classroom and teaching-research applications.

 

Tristan's Moon VideoART

http://real-stories-gallery.tumblr.com/

(played on ipads in the art installation)

how everything turns away/ all old men are dangerous by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

we’re dead anyway/ i see them as if they were horses/ they have turned away the night/ far gone in stippled blueish-grey/ caught up by the old men who would herd them into the conduits/ granted tombs, pits, banishment from entire kingdoms into wild where the kicking up its life containing whatever exists of menace above the trees of men/ the old academic crones are dangerous — they would fit you into the status quo/ for darkness, blood, stones; death awaits the slaughterhouse/ tell the bones being such frames of us, lives and grows these years of streets for those who cum to play and pay to let out their rage and speak directly to the music of the marches/ the sun climbs in / such skateboards in what appears to be translucent exhortation similarly plastered on the walls of time/ for a rock even and flocking where/ o you fell then suddenly emerge from a concrete floor whose ascending shadows are, in fact, concentric shocks, what heavens will attend to unsuspected viral loads almost worn away against his better judgment back behind us like the rings around the moon in bright and thundering formation must be counted in the bloodstream’s complex twist/ i have always seen them like the burning herd of horses that they are/ pegasus whose memories of wings were not confined to metal cages where a nail was shot into your head robed in pretty pink and grease-stained floors/ the dim-lit hospital rooms and boundary lines of after all how many of them can the land support beyond contamination/ madness leads the inner selves to theatre’s stunning audience of whores who themselves tho remain nomadic in the rounding up where the running through the dust of risk that the nail could be for them finished with its meat-packing protocols of blessing in disguise/ such a stallion’s noise when mounted by a man or another stallion, unborns where the tongues and wanting rubs the asshole clean/ the lure will come crashing to its roots of plunder — whipped on and slapped — the sun to swirl its milk in throats and thighs to be released back into a wilderness unbending where when man arrives and upon the salt and licks inundate our breathing sleep; our speaking spoke of speaking and our boots outrun by longing that spills so deep within us, the impudent among us can be counted on to kick the doors in/ how everything turns away/ the afterglow unfolding/ the stirrups still clinging to the groin and to the bed/  yet still the landscape as seen from above in flights/ falls away in ruin faster than a horse can gallop/

 

Horus by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

i will list in detail the names of all the tuscan hawks that have just barely managed to avoid the lengthening shadows of the prowling lions that haunt the falling of the world below/

 

is time turning around by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

 

VisionsRupture by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

Some of you guys have asked me, what really goes on inside my brain. YOU go on inside my brain. It’s about YOU. My brain is right behind my eyeballs. Thank you for your participation in constructing this. All you sex workers: Luke, Terry, Niul, Quinn, Sam, Ruben, Blake, Alejandro, Muhib, Miguel, Aron, Farid, Ashar, Ogwambi, Hakeem. You keep telling me this is your life. You keep telling me these images are symbolic. Show me. Do not tell me or preach to me. I’m not stupid. Do not talk down to me, and do not patronize me, and I won’t patronize you. I hear you. I see you. This is art, not church; this speaks to me about how we keep repeating the patterns of our stories and our lives. Just because you face a life of enormous struggle, doesn’t mean that your images are not in some twisted way eternal. They just might be. Poetry. You never know. Time moves. It cannot be disputed. Physics tells us there is only one thing time cannot do. It will not run backward. I love all of you madly. The road to hell. Blood is on the dance floor. 

 

SHOW HIM WHAT I'VE GOT by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

 

Damascus by Tim Barrus & Cinémathèque Films

Tim Barrus: Damascus/ talk don’t change a thing/ o it’s fading for ya/ words don’t sink, they swim/ o it’s fading for ya/ the olive clutches of damascus were far but not so far i could not sail away/ it works like a universe tonight by snakes/ setting sail for the speechless cities of the barbarous night strapped against my father’s breast/ we stood there mute for the longest time just watching her dance in her madness further and further away until she was the size of an ovum/ o mama/ daddy/ how can it be a surprise i/ love the people i love/ time coming down/ no sleep at all/ whores and thieves and we’re all going to fall/ my mother’s dancing in her ornaments could suspend reality for a time/ like the light through trees/ you do not believe my life/ it is not what you know/ to me it is just a life/ i lose track of how unusual it is to other people/ i, too, cannot imagine their lives/ freud has his inappropriate list of analogies/ mumbojumbo/ but i do not care about him and find people who ape that swill annoying/ do not go there with me/ get your sacred sigmund out of my face/ he is diseased by the cold and the smells of mold and fungi in his empty house/ my house was never empty it was filled with hate mostly for me/ he who has stayed forever/ with his copper wings green as a cadillac/ daddy is home from work and he will have you now/ his whores of fish and lipstick on his factory skin and i could smell them out in the cheap perfume of their woolworth stones/ your mind racing as he mauled you in your ten-thousand years of loneliness/ if you so much as made a sound, he would throw you naked into the unforgiving wall/ grab your hair and pound your face into the death of salt with death again and the only time he had ever regarded you with anything like regard was that one time you begged him to kill you — kill me now, daddy — break my skull in this foxhole you give me to live in and there she was/ my mother in her violent robes/ screaming at him to give it to me/ harder/ fuck him in the mouth until he breaks in two/ stands the man whose fists are never finished/ mother, what was wrong with you/ to unleash this whip and there was no home to crawl to/ his withering and i will shut my eyes/ i wore rags until i could move away/ the physical gauntlet i could take/ the rags were unmended like sawdust falling to the stage/ the boy hired for his hours to float like angels above the neon moon and lick daddy clean of deadly dreams, desire, and summer’s tombs, she dances toward the treeline twirling at my fields asleep in blood/ she drank her water from the pond and tortured the torturers’ wounded hours with exile from her vacant motherhood of love/ i was just a piece of meat to beat to them/ always dreaming of escape/ once joined/ there was no going back/ and when they died torn down and torn away and torn from the shreds they had salvaged/ a circumstance of dancing so far apart and falling/ i could only shudder at what flesh was left/ my bones were gone to aids/ all the letting go and narrowing/ i had moved and was living alone somewhere in damascus o/ how can it be a surprise i love/ the people i love/ time coming down/ no sleep at all/ whores and thieves and we’re all going to fall/ talk don’t change a thing/ o it’s fading for ya/ words don’t sink, they swim/ o it’s fading for ya/ o damascus/

 

 

Tristan's Moon Installations; mannequins holding ipads playing videoART

(work in progress)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



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