to day. The answer is in the queerness of living as a million possibilities, of finding wholeness in all the moving parts.
afterschool snack of apples and peanut butter, draw fan- tastical made-up creatures, listen to Ramona Quimby Age 8 and the Harry Potter series, both on repeat, from a cas- sette tape player. The fort welcomes my childhood home into my new home, and it whispers as it crinkles in the wind, of the magic that is everywhere. While cooking dinner one night, I asked my partner if they ever built forts when they were a kid. He told me that his forts always took place in a blizzard. His stuffed ani- mal friends would get lost in the storm and he’d bravely rescue them. Once back inside the fort, safe from the snow and wind, he’d nurse the animals back to health. When Luca told the story, he emphasized the heroism he felt when facing the blizzard. Afterwards I think, what tremen- dous heroism lies in acts of nurture, too. I REPEAT TO MYSELF, My feet are standing on the floor My feet are standing on the floor My feet are standing on the floor. Which is to say, I am a part of this earth and the
I AM WRITING FROM WITHIN my very own fort. This fort is made of draped and hung pieces of tracing paper, which have been cut through with an x-acto knife, dunked into a pot of leftover beet juice, sprayed with water, crumpled up again and again, colored upon with oil pastel, sewn together, glued together, and splattered with black ink. This visual art/performance piece I am currently in conver- sation with- this fort (which has yet to have the right title) has been slowly finding form in my imagination for a long while now. On nights when I can’t fall asleep I lay in bed, close my eyes, and bit by bit compose ideas in my mind. I see a dark theater space, with tracing paper drawings hang- ing in different formations. I see lights creating shadows on the walls. I see lights layered upon other lights to create dou- ble images with differing foci. I sometimes see myself in a red suit in a corner, either installing the work or laying down
earth a part of me. I am real. I am taking up space in this room. I am in relationship with the world around me. IT IS MORNING AND I GO INTO THE KITCHEN. Mom is pouring hot water into a tall, silver teapot with a long spout. She’s bustling about in slippers and
The answer is in the queerness of living as a million possibilities, of finding wholeness in all the moving parts.
within its nest. There is never an image of me performing. I started to hang up these drawings in my apartment (in a room partially designated as empty “making” space). I hung the drawings from the ceiling with tiny nails and thread, used sewing pins to attach them side to side, and push pins to secure them to the walls. Every now and again I rearranged the pieces in the space. I started to make more drawings. I grew curious about the texture of tracing paper and all the ways I could manipulate the material. For a medium that’s commonly used to transfer an image from one surface to another, or to act as one layer of a larger whole, tracing paper is quite durable. I grew excited about the paper as something born from a liminal space. In cut- ting out shapes from the thin paper I designed a map of where the light can and cannot go. As the papers began to take shape as a fort, I realized that I needed to make the piece in my homespace (rather than a separate studio). With the COVID-19 pandemic and losing my mom, going “out and about” and “hitting the town” have felt challenging. If my life was once a large cir- cle, it has now shrunk and condensed to a smaller, but no less bright circle. I am fortunate to have a safe and cozy apartment, which my partner and I moved into only three months ago. I am still nesting and building trust with the space. And seeing as I am still getting to know the space (and the space is still getting to know me), why not make a space within a space - a time travel device heading straight to the heart of my childhood, in which I might eat an
sweatpants. She’s putting dishes away. She’s washing dishes. She’s roasting nuts in our toaster oven. She’s warm- ing up two mugs with a pour of hot water, in preparation for the tea. She’s warming up milk and adding the milk to the strongly brewed Earl Gray or Irish Breakfast. She pours two cups of tea and sits down with me at the kitchen table. Together, we do a word puzzle in the daily newspaper. IT IS MORNING AND I SIT ON THE DECK outside of my mom’s studio in the backyard. The dogs lay on blankets soaking up the bright, hot heat - heat that seems to melt and pour like a thick slow river from the mouth of the sun. Mom is meditating inside her studio. Around her shoulders is a worn red and orange cloth that my sister and I bought years ago from a vendor at the Telegraph Avenue Winter Street Fair. She is done meditating and she comes outside to sit with the dogs and me. We chat about this or that. A part of me wishes that this moment of morning - of skin soaking up sun, of beginning, of saying hello - could last all day. ZOE HUEY is a queer interdisciplinary artist born, raised and currently resid- ing on unneeded Chochenyo Ohlone territory, also known as Oakland, CA. Through painting, drawing, movement, and multi-media experimentation, they weave together curiosities around mixed race and non-binary embod- iment. Their making is propelled through work with children, a deep love of dogs, and abundant gratitude for the ocean, redwood forests, collaboration, and friendship.
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In Dance | May 2014 | dancersgroup.org
u n i f y s t r e n g t h e n amp l i f y u n i f y s t r e n g t h e n a p l i f y
44 Gough Street, Suite 201 San Francisco, CA 94103 www.dancersgroup.org
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