Julie Koldby

Restless legs undermine systems of thought, ideas collapse into muscles of unknowing and conceptual rhythms sweat apart. It’s like going to the studio in the morning and discovering a really good song. AAARHHUUU tectonic dance floor, hips on crunchy surface. Spasms. We like morning sessions; shoes prick the floor just as one would puncturing a cloud. Light squeaky mind. Dance like the world isn’t watching, no, dance like the world is watching and so what? Collapse and try again. Moving is flipping. Flipping is freedom. Verticality and attraction, fuck gravity on stage Amanda Lydert wrote on my bathroom mirror.

The installation “Force Field/Dance floor” for the physical graduation show is flipable. Here as a strip of scoreboards. Life and flips. Flipmoments are superstars. Flipmoments are moments of change. Green pants red ink. I promised to take your pants to the dry cleaner. Silver knee marks. I forgot. Okay, so this is about temporary freedom. This is a note on freeing mental activity accidentally on purpose. This is about an urge to live. This is about everything and nothing.

Experiments and intentions can and do fail. Fail in the sense that something else arise. The else is my step leader, the else is my excitement, the else is my necessity, the else is the field of possibilities. The else is freedom. Yeah, the else frees intentions from failure while operating as a temporary lighthouse. The else is a flipmoment redirecting itself. Freestyle. FLIP FLOP

I like to dance on my dissertation dance floor. I like to walk on loose paper sheets. I like to step on a sentence like mental construction or spaghetti arms. Mesh T120 openings within an inch in any direction. Scoreboard/sketchbook, just forget about time. BILLBOARD: what if this is just about feelings? WRRUUUSHHH cut. Images dissolve into colour clouds and start over. Squeegee push. Blue sky. Repetition and outbreaks. Potential energy. Don’t go back to reasoning. Repeat after me: Don’t go back to reasoning.