Somewhere I am dissolving, somewhere I am melting, to milk, to you, to me, to it.
Somewhere I am playing. My me is soft and my you is shifting. My eyes on the soft and shifting is observing, they are like flies on the wall, everything I know becomes what I knew.
Now I must know nothing.
I am something that you create. I am someone that is many.
I live in the dead and they live in me. for a while. The death in me lives still, as it is what I know, what I hold on to, what makes me me. I think.
Will i be lost? On a quest for being somebody. A quest for being, every body.
As you watch me, you live in me.
The part of my body in wich you live is defined, my armpit, my ear, I thank you for that.
I see you have decided what I am. Maybe in every moment you decide new.
What you decide tells you something about you, maybe who you are, in that moment.
Maybe if we meet again you will decide differently, as many lives in me and many lives in you.
To love each other in more than one moment is a lucky clash, a beautiful vortex, to love many is a rare skill.
To love is to love. Many.
I observe you, I see many, I observe me. Maybe I am finally lost. Disoriented. Maybe I have to many manys in one body. maybe it is just me, in many variations. Maybe my labels are many. Maybe I can’t be pinned down, put in a box or defined. Maybe I am a murky being with a shiny surface. Man, woman, dove, a fly that dies tomorrow.
Maybe many is one, and one is many.
Edith Buttingsrud Pedersen
"Somewhere my me is melting" is a video installation in wich you encounter 3 dancers through a screen. It plays with the subjectivity of the viewer. Who controls what you see? And how do you define it?
As a choreographer and dancer I often felt like an object, I often saw my body as an instrument, that I could play in many ways, not necessarily in a negative sense, but in the sense that I felt like a projection surface for the audience to read into, the space between me and them is like a giant pool that can be filled by so many factors, and because of what they see, I am defined.
As a choreographer I try to control what the audience sees, because I wanna say something specific, but sometimes I must accept , that how someone in the audience reads the performer, might be totally different from how I read it.
I find there Is something freeing about the subjectivity in how we perceive each other, and our selfs for that matter, something freeing in not manifesting, and also in not knowing what or who we are. Something light about accepting the many masks and states of our being we go through as something we can play with. I often feel the need to be more playful and somehow childish in the sense of not taking my self too serious, by not manifesting; "this is who I am", as a human being and as an artist.
I often find my self longing for more courage to let my self be lost, to not know, and let my self mold, through the eyes of the other, and then again through the eyes of my self on my self, and let the other mold.
There is something heavy and stuck about finding one self in a specific identity I find, as if are finished, so it raises the question for me , when dose one end and another start.
The Brazilian writer Clarice Lispector, raises similar questions in many of her books.
"A breath of life" inspired me to theese thoughts and to create "Somewhere my me is melting"
It is one of her last novels, and is a dialogue between a writer and his creation, a character called "Angela", who he gives life and then kills.
Life is a kind of: madness - that death makes.
Long live the dead! because we live in them.
Suddenly - things no longer need to make sense. I’m satisfied with being. Are you? Certainly you are.
The meaninglessness of things makes me smile complacently.
Everything surely must go on being what it is.
Today is a day of nothing. Today is down to the wire. Could there be a number that Is nothing?
that is less than zero?
that begins, where there is no beginning because it always was?
and was before: always?
Clarice Lispector
The Installations consists of 6 independent videos.
