Hear. Hear;
closely resembles a friend picking up a seashell, placing it in your hand, and inviting you to listen. "Here. Hear;" she might say.
You might prefer to think of Here. Hear; as an act of emptying a pocket. I'll stop to take a look at what I've been gathering, then I'll open my palm as I show it to you. Either way, it's a practice of keeping in touch.
Here. Hear; is a cousin to the newsletter. An envelope is sent to your inbox as a companion envelope finds its way to you through the postal service. This happens at a seasonal pace.
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Here. Hear; is the result of many small processes. Gathering images, copying prints, cutting them out, assembling them into small stacks, then tucking those stacks into addressed envelopes. Out of these tasks, a dance emerges. We witness a leap as the materials move from my hands to yours.
It seems to me that when an image takes on a physical form, the question of utility follows it around. Often, I find I am inundated with images but rarely amidst the searching or scrolling, do I ask myself–– what will I do with these? But I appreciate the way a printed image insists on its own presence. And, how often in its presence, we are prompted to respond. We gaze, we pile, we toss, we forget, we happen upon, we rearrange, we relate.
In the presence of your envelope, in the small, physical space it creates, you might find something to do with the ephemera or more importantly, a way to be in relation to it. You might interpret the pieces of paper as a prompt for writing, moving, or taking an action of some kind. Decide which surface you'll set them on and for how long. Foreground your own handwriting atop an image to remind yourself of something. Consider making a collage or tucking them away to happen upon later. Or, you might simply decide to let this ephemera drift away with the current of your days.
