Ballet of Little Liars “Chameleon”

My friend GlitterPrincess Destiny – Storie’s created into Second Life an installation named Ballet of Little Liars “Chameleon”.
This is my comment to it, and something else.

 

A portrait of Kristine Blackadder from the installation

 

The more the time goes on, the more you grow beautiful in your works. This expo (see also here) is quite not a silly thing… this one has nothing similar to the firsts ones I saw: Dracula, Alice…: this one is a very serious stuff for adults only, because a child cannot see nor understand what you do here. More than 65 pictures, sometime suggested again; most of them associated with a poem. Not to draw a story but the strong and large emotions of a mind, all (dis-)organized in a huge, complex and well-done building made by the skilful strokes of Terrygold.

This is a whirlwind made by everything you are, in which you involve and distort impressions that are very significant to you. One presence, above all, obviously.

Inside your magic hat you throw a lot of things: Second Life experiences, old photos, drawings made with your pencil, pieces of yourself and things and people you love. In the same hat you put feelings, emotions, sensations. Then, as if you shake everything in a huge blender, from the magic hat comes out … what? Yourself, simply. The same yourself that we know, the same one that she knows. That I know.

I’ve heard that this exhibition is too much messy, but it’s not true: this expo is you. Nothing else. The glass in which you look at yourself is not hanging on the wall, straight, in a nice  frame, in the right position: it’s broken and the fragments are all scattered on the ground in the most varied angles, and it’s there where we can see you. It is there that you mirror your face. Your mind.

The story begins in a basement, with a newspaper cutting:

Newspapers kidnap: Incredible as it may seem, it has been confirmed a ballerina has been kidnapped and her where about’s are unknown at this time. However odd the police have received a note from the kidnapper stating that clues lay inside of a metal trunk into the woods deep but adds it would be impossible to find.

 Signed: Shhhh Dance only for me

The ballerina: I remember your previous ballerinas, I remember yourself showed as a dancer. Here the ballerina is one of the leitmotiv of the work, and … not! The ballerina was not kidnapped, this was your own dream. Better: yes, the dancer was kidnapped but not by that person who could tell her: Shhhh … Dance just for me. She was kidnapped by herself, by her loneliness, by her desire to be taken by others. From her anguish.

The ballerina … that is the puppet, the inert and inane puppet who is caught and overwhelmed by greater facts, by deeper and mysterious drives, so that she (it?) undergoes his own life. Then, something or someone cuts the strings that hold the head and the arms and the legs; so, the ballerina, forced before to dance by another will, collapses inert, immovable, useless. fallen on her broken dreams.

 

A body collapsed
An escape I am not Dead
To kill a Rose is so hard
is it not?
How many times must I die

A doll not alive, no more alive. Someone cut her strings: she cannot be alive if alone

At the end of the first level of the work you put a room; in the centre of that space I can take on a dancer pose and then the whole room rotates; so, also the pictures hung on the walls turn: I see this idea as a way to enter into you, together with all the images that rotate fast almost like to blend one into another and all into myself (that is: into yourself).

Many mirrors, many fragments of that unique mirror, now irretrievably split into heterogeneous portions, they show us really you, yet in some different ways. How to tell us how many different people you are, until we understand that

0h: so many secrets… so many persons are we…

This moves me particularly and intensely. From several years, to find out how many people we are is my obsession: it is for this reason that I write: to describe all the men and the women that I have inside. I had in 2005 a first thought about this idea and it is for the same reason that the Virginia Woolf’s book, The Waves, struck me so much deeply:

 

Alia

 Now the mirror throws makeup undone
of a clown forced thus by the fate

this old bag of flesh blinds, masks and hides
a crowd deep inside me that is waiting

 
I see my mirror: it throws makeup
undone of a clown forced by fate

 this old bag of flesh blinds, masks and hides
a crowd deep inside me that is waiting
 

                          Judy Barton, May 2005

 

And the love.

The insistence of the red rose that you put almost everywhere into the installation does not affect the awareness about that love that is forbidden. In a picture, you are hugging each the other, almost kissing you, but his mouth and nose are concealed by a red mask, almost unwilling to be contaminated by you. And you’re blindfolded. With a red bandage:

secret little liar

 I dream,
I escape, a horror of insanity now
that my heart was so touched,
I will come …
… for you
This is our final performance
familiar breathing
Muted mouths
only you …
can touch close…
behind my mask

little lairs

 
Shhhh dance me one more time

 

It was she, Kristine, to involve you in a series of movies (this one is the first of them) in which she tells us herself, with the maturity, the irony and the intelligence of the experience. Moreover, you write by quoting one of those machinimas, Maya Veil:

 

we came alive from Kristine Blackadder “Maya Veil”:

I am your Veil of illusions
not reality
Come with me Come
      

  signed: maya veil

 

Well.

Here, almost being delirious, you face the pain of an impossible love by resuming and living again and twisting sections and frames of those movies, telling us yourself as seen in her reflection.

Especially two photos are shooting.

In the first  one (see above or here) she is very sexy yet terrible too: a pic full of blood, a face with no eyes because they are hidden by the hair; in the centre of the photo there is her mouth with her lips half closed: beautiful, soft, pink, full lips; the light is almost only on her lips, to kiss them but she shows no eyes, as no soul, as she is not really here but somewhere else. A second light spot is on the gun: also the gun is kissed by the same light.

The second photo is, significantly, one of the last and it is very similar to the first one: the same lips, the same face, the same gun. No colour: only sepia, almost a black and white pic. The gun is headed to the temples now, but the lips are the real terrible detail: she is quite no sexy here and her lips are the grey lips of dead body.

My Final Performance: ….

 I escape a horror of insanity now
that my heart was so touched
…and now…
my platter is empty…
I will come for you with a rose
This is our final performance

 

The second image is inside the place you called “your home“: a strange building that tends to the sky, like an old lighthouse without light, full of scraps and messy. Your house … yourself?

 

Then there is the matter of that other colour.

While I was visiting your work, I asked:

“Glitter, please, why that blue colour? It’s unusual for you”

You answered me like this:

“I felt it, I do not know why. I’m not sure, really: just a feel”

Just a feeling. In fact, from the first images, you add to the red of pain and tragedy, the blue of the cold ice. I did not know that even blue could do so pain.

 

Nearby, when we were walking together, I saw that image of you, dressed in long clothes, and commented: “Like a Greek goddess, but rigid, solid, like made by concrete”. You are blocked, even if the title of the picture is “I come to you”.

Finally, you wanted to bury all your own fragments in that birch wood. Each fragment in placed in its own burial recess. Really cannot we find the whole one who lives there?

Somewhere, among the pictures, you placed a Nietzsche phrase:

The demand to be loved
is the greatest of all arrogant presumptions

It can be true, but we cannot live without love. Yes: we all need it.

Kristine talked herself, also with you, in her logical, rational, sober machinimas. Here you compare her work with the chaos of your overabundant, colourful, dramatic images: heterogeneous drops of strong emotions. In this way you two keep talking, each one in your own way that is almost the opposite of the other.
I like you Glitter and I thank you to have allowed me to enter into you with this wonderful installation. This expo is quite not alike other expos I saw in Second Life.
Here I can see you, your depth, without any protection.
Here I don’t find only nice pics, but much more, also because to see you is to see me too.
Thank you so much for showing your soul, all your soul naked: that’s what I try to do when I write, even if without success.

 

August, 2nd 2017

Italian version

Ruined theatre

 

(Dedicated to my friend Sharrow Decosta)

 

Like an arrow you enter my dreams,
this my second life where my soul wants
to be naked and fragile to be
seen without pain nor bad sinful thoughts

 
On the stage of this theatre we run:
only a moment we meet, then alone
we go back as a ghost among chairs
of a ruined place without life

 
Soon the curtain will slide down, the scene
will return black and dark as before.
Now we are near and close: hug me, please!
Let the dark feelings out of these doors

 
Like an arrow you enter my dreams
this my naked soul and all her pains.
See my nude heart here down, on this floor
I feel you into me so deep, Sharrow!

 

Second Life, Kessler, 19th May, 2017

White and pure

Anemone nemorosa in wood. JB, 2017.

 

This silly spring song is dedicated to Angel Morning

 

Almost spring, sunny day, winter goes
in the grey velvet of each past times.
Under young woods the anemone's light
is the breath of the new life that cries

          White and pure, fresh and lovely
          you start dancing cute and lonely

Each tear drop that falls from the sky
like the kiss of dew on morning grass
recalls me that each thing must fast run
toward cold places; I always ask "Why?"

          White and pure, you are so lively.
          When you dance I grow sad, lonely

When the sunlight becomes low and shy
as at the sunset, when the mist wins,
leading me though me toward black nights,
I am a shiver that seeks my Love's eyes

          White is your soul, I am ugly
          like a savage herb, a pussly

Sin and death are deep in me: a fight.
As in a dream I saw you this morning
dancing alone in the wood clearing.
You are anemone light, fresh and white

          Without thoughts of sin, lovely
          you dance cool. I look at you freely



Second Life, Elven Forest, March, 11th 2017

Thank you to my dear friend BC for his suggestion to my bad english

 

Cozy

hand

 

(a joke with Melissa)

 

That morning I entered the chat and saw Melissa, never seen before nor after.
I was alone in my home, waked up a little before.
She said me something using this word: “cozy”, so i learned it. I also liked this new word.

 

 

Velvet dark is the night
like soft sheet, cozy bed
in which dreams can go on
 

Cozy thoughts come to me
while the sunshine begins
touching warm sheets you left
 

Outside here
fog and frost win the day.
Come back here cozy Love

I need your skin and lips


 

SL, Corchalo, December, 12th 2016

A joke for AngelRaya

 

arda-imbocco-grotta_005_web

Mitla at the door of the cave, in the Land of Arda

I entered the chat at the morning while She was saying bye the go to sleep, at the other side of the world…

 

 

 

As cold tears anywhere

the fog darkness hard hugs everyone,

kisses nude skin and lips

while I’m waiting for news.

 

Then and soon

a mad rush as the sun light hot strikes,

breaks each dream in my eyes, calls me to

my such grey, usual life.

 

I wake up, you go sleeping …

in a dream, maybe we

meet again


SL, Elven Forest chat, December, 10th 2016

 

After all

afterall

A beautiful photo by Anibrm Joung. Tank you Anibrm!

A long queue of poles enters the sea
as the wish to run toward the sky
where two landscapes quite different meet
each the other, where perhaps there’s true

Where do they go forward? To the sea?
They can not reach the line so far, there
the horizon is still farther, none
of those poles can go there to see God

I’m a beach, sandy place under waves
that come here then along always go.
My life swings like those cold and blue waves
my thoughts like those poles want to go there

All the lives are a wave: stop and go
start again, up and down, then be back.
After all, yet a gap then that line
which confuses my mind like my end

SL, Blue Curacao, January, 21st 2017

 

Italian version

To be softie

 

My friend Glitter invites me to share my stuff at a new expo; she, Kristine and AnnaFrancesca made the virtual building in which it is possible show pictures, 3d works and so on. I tried to show some words.

Glitter named that project “To be softie“. She, Kristine and AnnaFrancesca joked about it with this machinima.

I joked about it with some silly words.

 

To be softie I need your warm skin
under my lips and thumbs, I need hugs
of your strong arms around all myself
I need songs of blackbirds on the shrubs

 
When I’m softie I see better words
about peace and love and true full joy
I became like a mad silly cat
while it balances itself on the tree

 
Yet I don’t really know what’s the sense
of this “softie” about Glitter says.
But I feel happy and young just now, then
I can write this stuff and feel me so

 

 

SL, Eternal Possession,

November, 26th 2016