I see

IC artists’ share their experiences inside the laboratories…

..::: VIDEO CLIP :::..

“On The Plaza Between” ~ for Joseph

Written & Narrated by Ann Dernier

Video by Jamie A. Lee & Adela C. Licona

…a multimedia cross-genre collaboration…


Renee Blakeley on Lab 3 (Jácome Plaza/Public Library):

I am cylinders of light growing brighter as the surrounding sky grows dim. This is my favorite time of day. This is Tucson. I am at peace; I am at home…I am where I have never been. When we explore that which we think we know, we find we never really knew it.

Kimi Eisele on Lab 1:

Friday, 10.17.08

Exploration of gravel lot, west of the Train Depot, the NE corner of 6th Ave. and Toole, not quite dusk.

I stop on a parking curb and balance, hands and face to the to the sky. It is not dusk yet and the sky is deep. I run across the gravel, crunch steps, to a gaping hole in the fence. I push my torso through and peer out the other side, down the long reach of chain link, lines of track, telephone wire. I could slip through and disappear beyond the prescribed space. Who would know? Who passes here? How can you look at gaping chain link and not think of border crossers, sweating migrants, fear? Yet there are no authorities here to prohibit. And my skin is the right color. And this is not an international boundary. No one is watching.


I climb the rebar coil. It is too heavy to spin, though this is what I know it wants to do—roll unfettered across the gravel. One step and reach. Next step and reach. Another step and reach. Body reaching, rounding over, atop the coil. Desire rolling. Unbudged.

Sky deepens.

A man in an orange vest comes and speaks to someone nearby. I am afraid this will be it. We will be done. We are illegal. We have trespassed. Go home crazy girls. But all he says is to not play on the rebar—there are wires sticking out. Someone could get hurt. He says nothing about our artmaking and by not acknowledging he legitimizes. As if: “Oh, women crawling around a makeshift playground. Yes. Carry on. Just don’t get hurt.” I feel tender toward this permissive construction worker. Don’t touch the rebar, I call out. Fairly warned.

I lean awhile on the gravel with Renee. Imaginary leaning. April joins us. We are serpentine and machine-like. I climb the blue container: rain for rent. Drape myself over the yellow railings with Jen and Amanda. Jen and I lift ourselves up, the yellow railing to support, and run through the air. A train passes. This is a silent echoing.

Then I am off the blue and on the ground. Running. Running circles. A sweep. This is motion. This is transformation. I can’t hear anything but the gravel, rock chomping beneath my feet. Slipping. Circling. I am a grey pigeon in October. Looping between the wires. This is my city. I hover. I swoop. I enter. I watch.

No one leaves the space. We are trapped, it seems, by desire. The imaginary perimeter, erased.

Here. This. Me. Us. Re-peopling.


..::: VIDEO CLIP :::..

29 october 2008


Here is a multimedia collaboration using Adela’s words, voice, and photos with my video from Friday night. It was fun putting it all together!



3 responses to “I see

  1. evocative. look forward to tonight!

  2. Jamie and Adela,
    What a wonderful collaboration of words and images. I am inspired to be . . . in new spaces and familiar ones, seeing with new eyes.

  3. Adela’s self-reflexive prose (her literary eyes) and descriptions of the city, accompanied by Jamie’s eye on the city as a vibrant, moving, tired, consistent, contradictory, space invite me–the reader, the viewer, the voyeur–to question, interpret, and read downtown as an open space with potential for. . .


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s