Mark Jeffery

Mark Jeffery, Instructor for Abandoned Practices and Professor in the Performance Department at The School of the Art Institute of Chicago wrote the following Response to the students of the 2011 Summer Institute.

Dear He,
Dear She,
Dear YOU.

There are so many things that I want to say to you, I’m not sure where to start, and I am wondering if I can reach you in your sleep.

If I could remember how we got to this place today, this afternoon, this Friday, I would see a constellation of many things,
Of many things,
Of many things,
Of many things,

We need to wind down now. We need to take ourselves out in the garden and away from this place. We need to say goodbye.

A jumping bright pink leotarded woman leaps into the night.
An overhead view of a lecturer tied above a paddling pool unties herself and into the night a woman pushes a concrete pillar into another room, turns away, writes a love letter and sends it into the stars, into the night.
As the night turns so does a woman with a hula hoop, looping and hooping herself into a field and dances all night, dancing through dancing, her red fingers places onto another back, she has good fortune to tell, she sings and dances a bollywood backdrop awaits.

Sing your code into the machine, of zeros and ones, ones and zeros, as you give your hands to another man and he points, turns, follow him as he holds a letter to daddy, keep remembering, keep remembering.

It is hot, sweat on forehead, sweat on forehead, brightness of mirrors, fans, balloons, candles, one man and two women blindfolded search through the night,

Forever pointing
Forever pointing
For ever and ever pointing.

Blue, folds into blue, folds into blue, forever I place delphinium, blue, upon your grave. Tissue paper sky, tissue paper clouds, passing by,
your life little girl, is an empty page, the men will want to write on
your life little boy, is an empty page, the women will want to write on
your life little girl, is an empty page, the women will want to write on
your life little boy, is an empty page, the men will want to write on
that turpins will want to write on
that turpins will want to glide on,

to glide on

And dear one. I’ve had the time of my life, harmonizing myself/yourself/ourself and I owe it all to you, over and over again, placing fingers onto a piano, a paperscore, to begin, to begin, to remember this recital, to fold, to fold, to fold and to remember we have done many things. I stretch this body, leg to leg across this page, this ground, this surface, you look me in the eye and as you do a woman swings blue, stretches across the white page, blue, and in the distance flickers, sitting on a table, in a red dress, flickers standing in a white dress, flicker hitting a golden horn, horn of a buffalo or perhaps a dance of the horn. Flickers, fingers into hair, bubbles drip, cascade, falling down, falling down, fingers holding onto an apple, an apple as a ship in a bottle, careful not to choke yourself with water in mouth, apple in mouth, be careful of your audience
You wait little you on an empty stage, for fate to turn the light on.

Let fingers type, let fingers beat on the drum, a dance of horns, leaping men settle feet on the ground, settle feet on the ground as the scold arrives on cue, onto the stage, high above on the stairs she comes down, loops fall, water dunk falls, water dunk falls, water duck falls, cherry with care unpeeled, unbroken, she carefully now walks across this page, on a balance as I write

Duck head into water
Duck head into water
Duck head constellation onto the sky.

Wheels keep turning, turning wheels of ferris, crackerjacks, turning wheels, turn the page, rest spoons onto the page, turn delicate whispers across a grain of sand, caution us, caution us, caution us.

Hold, Held. Caution.

I am trying. I am writing. I am writing in water.

I am writing to tell you, he, she, you.

Have a good sleep, tae care and remember a guy loves you whose name is:

Continue Reading:

A Commonplace Book by Daniel Sack
Performance Response by Daniel Sack
A Future Abandoned Practice by Chris Cuellar
On Response by Matthew Goulish