dérive: literally drift or drifting. A technique of rapid passage through varied ambiences.
You know the feeling when you first arrive in a foreign city. The first few moments and hours in a strange city when you haven’t got your bearings or filed away the new landmarks. Dis-orientation. That feeling of non-reconnaissance where everything seems very strange. I get that feeling sometimes when I pick up a newspaper written in a foreigh language.
I made a little artmoney collage series made words snipped from a Thai language newspaper and type-written stories of memories or imaginings.
So this woman with a runny nose went to the Gifford Circus and fell immediately and madly in love with the Ringmaster, a flea named Ned. She waited for him after the show, by the roasted peanut stand. Ned was torn . . . .
He loved his career and offered the woman a place as a bare-back rider in the show, but tragically, she was allergic to horses. And she wanted to settle down in a cosy cottage for two with Ned. They talked all night long, under a full moon, next to the lion cage.
Just as dawn broke, Ned woke Bippo the Performing Dog, promoted him to Ringmaster and packed his carpetbag. He bade a sad, but fond farewell to the baby giraffe and elephant, the Strong Man and Bearded Lady, the orchestra of white mice.
Together, he and the mysterious woman caught the milk train. They got off somewhere in Nebraska and have lived there to this day.
Ned has never looked back once . . . . .
Dérive culturelle, no. 1
Sometimes you just have to make up the words