Elizabeth Presa
Starting with the moment the hand touches the page, the moment the writer strikes a key, the first letters, words and sentences, unedited and uncorrected, I take hold of the edge of the white page and fold along each line of black ink. I fold, crease, join and rejoin, pierce, stitch, cut and knot the white threads. Like an aphasic, deaf and blind to meaning, I follow only the tone, the accent, pauses, cadences, the rhythm of the ink, the spaces and margins. I do not disturb, alter, maltreat or harm the written text. My hope is that my language, the language of a sculptor, can shape (fold) this other language there on the page (French, this most beautiful language, this most beautiful accent), into speaking by itself and of itself in another way. Thus, I construct garments from and for the horizons of the page - east and west, north and south - horizons archived within a body of language, my language, spoken with my antipodean accent, formed by my antipodean touch. Elizabeth Presa Hampton, Vic. - Australia |
