Wednesday, November 21, 2018

Home

Randall Garrett


FEATURED

Mexico City (2017 / 18)

New Paintings

Performances
  
In the Shadows (2017)
Performance Video
  
Shiva Shakti (2016)
Performance with Spoken Word

  
Dystopian Dreams (2016)
Performance with Spoken Word

Performance and Artwork

Performance

Performance

Performance

Performance and Artwork

Exhibitions

Deep Ellum Windows, Dallas

Artworks

Mexico City Suite (2017)
New Paintings

Performance Artifacts and Objects
Ritual Elements and Costumes

Writing
  
Writing (2017)
Dream Journal Stories:
Love, Loves, and Half a Love, Frontiers of Flight,

Unto the Sepulchre,, Buster Keaton, Tower of Shiva Tower of Shakti
  
Writing (2016)
Ten Days, Sweet Honey in the Rock, The Temple of My Heart,
Litany, Paradise is Burning, Round the Fires by the Shore,
Explosions in the Sky, Rainbow in a Black and White World,

At Water's Edge, Flowers on My Grave, The Aesthetics of Healing,
Nightshade, The Taste of His Love

incl. Graveyard Swag, Can I Get an Amen, Club Yamantaka, 11:11 (Listening)

incl. Apocalypse Poem, Deluge Refuge, Maya on the Midway

incl. Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen (Love, Alienation, Lust)

Spoken Word

Dallas, TX

Oak Cliff, Dallas
    
Randall Garrett is an artist, writer, instructor, and performer. His performance works explore questions of identity, both personal and collective. Using ritual and mythologies of the self, he navigates identifications based on gender, class, sexuality, and other cultural overlays. His works seamlessly mix performance, video, installation, costume design, sound, and spoken word. He has exhibited, curated, and performed in Dallas, Houston, Chicago, New York, Miami, and Santa Fe. In 2000, he founded the critically recognized Plush Gallery, organizing over 75 exhibitions, and has worked as Gallery Coordinator and Instructor of Art, Humanities, and Multimedia for the Dallas County Community College District since 1998.

Mexico City (2017-18)

WRITING / VIDEO / SOUND / PERFORMANCEMEXICO CITY (2017 - 18)


WRITING and VIDEO

  

  

ALLUVIAL

  
Everywhere is water, wet and relentless, as clouds gather under a bright sun. The ground it shifts beneath your feet as you walk. All is unstable here: the sidewalks they buckle, buildings sink into the ground, relationships fluid, flow and shift like the rivulets of rainwater along the curb and spiraling into the drain.
  
And down below, the pipes they leak, water seeping out onto five hundred year old skulls of sacrificial victims piled under the earth, mixing with dried blood and dropping further now into that ancient lake bed, where boats ploughed out toward distant shores, and the conquistadors first set eyes on the island city.
That city it's heart still beating, in the bustle of the tianguis, the taxis and micros blasting down the eje, the little children selling chicles on the street, borrachos passed out next to empty jugs of rum, as vendors shout "pasale pasale, todo bueno, todo bonito, todo barato".
Delinquents huff mona there on the steps of the metro, the dank aroma winding its way up from the platform below, where tattooed musicians and performers enact rites of suffering in the crowded cars, among the working people packed tight in the stifling air as they ride back to Pantitlan, then catch combis on home to Neza or Chimalhuacan.
You feel it inside too, the blood pushed along channels of flesh out from the beating heart, flowing to the shore of the extremities, dropping into the ocean of experience before it returns again.
And Tlaloc, the god of the waters, blesses them with rain and flooded streets, trash swirling in little whirlpools, shoes splashing through in wet socks, into mercados overflowing with brightly colored flowers, their petals falling to the floor of the pasillos, and crushed under foot in a continual offering of praise for life, and death. (October 2018)

CLOUDS IN THE TEA
Introspective, brought face to face with the ungrounded aspects of life, there in the airport waiting, looking into the faces of fellow travelers and imagining the stories behind those eyes: the successes, the yearnings, the loves, the infidelities. Some youthful and wide eyed, their full life ahead, others older, realism etched onto their faces. He remembers his own youth, not so far removed, and of age looming ahead.
Loading now, the man smiles as he checks the boarding pass. Walking in a faceless line of people, lost in their thoughts too, now on board the plane accelerates, its wheels lifting off the ground, a feeling of floating and weightless, untethered from any notion or fixed identity. There is a freedom suspended in that space, and a melancholy too, a wishing to be grounded in some identity, some place, tradition, or stability.
It flashes through his mind, the scene of the man wrapped in cloth, seated on the desert sand, carefully preparing tea for his friends, on the embers of a warm fire, clouds of steam rising from the glasses of tea arranged there on the sand. He wishes to be that man, but also sees the impossibility of that wish, the stark truth of being a nomad on this earth, of finding solace in oneself and in connection with some others in the true nature of solitude.
Looking out the window, as clouds float by, he takes refuge in that thought, the common truth though space is infinite, yet we all share in its vastness. The flight attendant walks by, and stopping says, “Would you like something? A coffee, soda, water?” He replies, “do you have tea?”. (October 2018)

MORELOS STEPS
Up and down the Morelos steps
todo la gente viene y se va
each with stories they carry
like texts on their phones.
A guy squeezes in through the exit
as the police looks down at his phone
el olor a humo de hierba hangs
in the air of the Metro entrance.
Sneaker prints left in blood on stone
walking into or out of other dimensions
it's hard to tell as dudes linger there
sube en el callejón y través.
Some working there washing cars
con cubos de agua en la calle
as desultory riders aimless wander
on bicycles too small for their feet.
The alley above these steps
it smells of danger
and respect and laughter
un lugar a salvar y ser salvaje.
(February 2018)

  
ONCE AGAIN
  
America, once again I float on the clouds high above your beautiful land, deceptive in its quietude and splendor. From here I can feel your anxieties, the inner struggle to manage your true feelings, lest they begin to rise and cause you to ask questions, to challenge the way things are with the proposition of how things might be.
I see the toll it takes to maintain a system that looks down on anyone born different, that puts them through a rigorous process to prove their rightness in the eyes of justice, so they can graduate into the ranks of the just us.
And yet somehow their creative lights shine through all of the enforced sameness, or perhaps it is the cause for these lamps most different to persevere in burning more beautiful and strange. And I wonder, what will be the next chapter of your story, our story?
As I wager my life and love with one that is caught up in the realization of your dream, what will be our trajectory, and will you welcome us back to your shores with all the gifts we have to offer? A coupling of two worlds separated yet by a conceptual wall, one that we have decided to bridge and destroy before it can even be built, through the inherent creativity of this partnership.
So I leave your skies behind for this moment, to return to the work of my own planning committee to the south, touching down with an optimism that we will conquer and in our own way bridge this divide that has risen when we return to your fair and troubled lands. (January 2018)






HIGH ABOVE

America, I fly high above your earth and looking down see the aspirations you hold. And still I feel inside me the anxieties coursing through your veins, your fastidious application of the law, the desires behind your fear to connect with yourself. I hope you can begin to see the humanity of those you purport to represent, and that your systems of justice mean nothing until they do.
A little satisfaction for that brother on the street, looking for nothing other than an opportunity to participate in your narrative, or at least a value meal to quench his appetite. A reliable journey to the woman in the chair trying to flag down the bus driver as he rolls past her stop without concern.
A moment to catch their breath and feel the heart beating inside for those in pursuit of a piece of the American pie. And a sense of belonging to that dreamer chasing her elusive future in a land that offers with one hand while taking away with the other.
America, take a moment and look inside. Your sickness has no other cure, and your potential no other means than to grow up and throw off the chains with which you bind yourself. I wonder of the next time I look down from this sky, if the clouds will grow more dark, or will they begin to disperse. (November 2017)




FRUTAS (LOVE COME DOWN)

I want to feel my love come down.
Me gusta todo tipo de frutas.
I want to feel my love come down.
Manzana, platano, mandarina.
I want to feel my love come down.
Naranja, zarzamora, mamey.
Rain on me.
Jaja... cacahuates.
Rain on me. (December 2017)



EN XOLA

En Xola, a blue eyed cat, she roams the street.
The bumps in the walk, comida corrida at your feet.
En Xola, un sonrisa, un chiste, y algun chicharones.
El mesero, el pescadero, y el pulquetero,
Tres hombres sin miedo.
En Xola, the borrachos lay passed out on the streets
In the most beautiful postures,
like Caravaggio's friends in contrapposto.
En Xola. (December 2017)



UN ELEPHANTE

Sunday morning the day begins. They sit at the table con un té caliente. Remnants of the party from the night before hang in the garage, talismans of child heroes and battles waged, piles of cake, leftover tacos, plastic cups of tequila, now empty.

Images of the party in full swing, Marta, the hostess, en el baño taking a hit from her bong as the children outside sing a birthday song. "Un elephante", she says as she blows the smoke out the window and onto the street, then taking another hit she exhales, "dos elephantes".
A child swings at the Minnie Mouse piñata as the smoke drifts out and along la calle, the Siamese cat with blue eyes trotting along la banqueta, joining others under the half moon as they begin to call out hauntingly.

Upstairs, en casa trampa, he gets up from the bed, his lover buried under blankets in the darkness, and stumbles naked into el baño to pee. Standing there in the half light of sleep, he follows the stream as it hits the water and hears a strange moaning outside, as though of a woman's voice divided into a chorus of three, wailing in an ethereal and sad discourse.

The next morning, as they sit at the table drinking té caliente, she says, "have you ever heard la Llorona, the weeping woman who wanders the streets at night?" He paused, holding the tea, as downstairs a voice softly sings "un elephante...". (November 2017)

CROSSING THE RIVER
Crossing the bridge on the bus, I saw the river I waded in as a child, and beyond that, the bluffs on which I climbed. I knew this was goodbye, and the magic I once felt there was not gone, because it was not located in a place, but that I carried it inside myself.
And I knew that magic is expansive, that it cannot be contained or limited by the perspectives of anyone: family, friends, or those in authority. The creative act is liberating, without restraint and absolutely free, and with it comes the responsibility to achieve new levels of awareness.

I have shown them, the lives of the family I was born from and grew into all that I can of freedom of spirit and how to shine in times of darkness and now I leave them free to find their own way. And I go out into the world, to create furiously, to give and receive freely in love and devotion, and to meet my destiny and the magic that awaits me with new beginnings. (November 2017)
COLUMBUS DAY
What is the process of letting go of cultural idols, but one of growing up? What, if not the realization of one's own ignorance? Is it an act of courage to recognize the falsities of what you were taught, or just a necessity that the chains of limitation may drop away? Or the possibility to see from another's perspective? Whatever it is, let them go, when the image they portray no longer serves you. To see the reality, the chaos and destruction behind the mask of history. And in the doing, to see yourself (and others) more clearly. (October 2017)

 


AMERICA

America, dónde está tu sombra? It is here, in all of the places where you don't see. In the back alley apartments, in steaming kitchens, walking in the desert heat, handling the food on your own table. Come, find the apparition, make friends with your shadow, or it will become the monster of your dreams, the unconscious dread and violence of your waking life. Dreamer, it is time. Awake. (October 2017)
SOUND COMPOSITIONS