“Every time we access a beloved memory it becomes slightly altered, taking on qualities we subconsciously associate from our peripheral experiences that have occurred since that original moment. Therein lies the tragic irony of memory: If the true intention is to retain the objective factual record of a certain event, then the best way to “remember” something would be to not think about it at all. The devastating loss of a portion of my Antarctic photographs revealed both an inadequacy and an unexpected kinship between the vulnerability of digital files and of memory. In both instances, I realize that the objective factuality and endurance of my memories are less valuable to me then the ability to freely and frequently engage with whatever version of them currently persists.”
— Devra Freelander, “Polar Desire” (2016)
Sweet Potato
Sharing some feelings about Devra and her impact on me as I approach the release of a project I’ve been working on for just over a year.
In December 2018 I had the extreme privilege to take part in a month long artist residency program at Brooklyn art space, Pioneer Works. I spent the bulk of four weeks locked in their backyard shipping container recording studio, lost in the production of numerous recordings which would become an album I’ll be releasing in April this year. It was a fairly solitary few weeks, and aside from a day or two spent with a handful of friends, my most dedicated companion throughout the process was my partner Devra. When she was home from her own residency at the Women’s Studio Workshop, and when I wasn’t obsessively recording myself writing out a poem from the ‘60s that really resonated with our conversations about global warming, we spent much of the closing weeks of 2018 chatting, cooking, and cuddling together.
Devra is a beam of light. A mountain rendered in neon— anyone who knew her will agree. She was also the ultimate support system for so many friends, in their art and in their lives. She was a huge inspiration to me as I began my first solo residency. A master of residency life herself, Devra was the perfect guide: a brilliant artist and writer with the capacity to make incredible amounts of work under any circumstances, who simultaneously could not help but share the unbelievable joy of her experience and her love for everyone she met along the way.
Until my residency, I’d never had the chance to spend so much time in a studio by myself, and with all the necessary gear to follow any intuitive impulse. I was anxious and nervous, but Devra was a cheerleader every step of the way. We’d listen to some weird track I made while laying in bed together, and Devra would assure me that something in it was catchy, or fun, or quirky, and moreover that I shouldn’t get bogged down worrying and simply keep making. She would make anthropomorphic nicknames for things I was doing like “squid music,” “birding,” “yamming”— a bunch of names and feelings I would then adopt in my process— each streaming from Devra’s imagination in the most natural way.
Simultaneously we were having discussions about why we make work in the first place. Devra described her work as “sculptures and videos that explore climate change and geology from an ecofeminist and millennial lens.” We were unpacking what it meant to make work about “climate consciousness” and “geologic epochs”— impossibly large events and ideas we struggled to comprehend. We contended with the paradox in feeling empathetic for the Earth itself while acknowledging our complicity in its destruction. (I learned how to name this particular experience from her, and it continues to register in my thoughts.) It boiled down to basic questions: How can we love something so much but keep harming it? And even if we can’t solve these issues with our work, isn’t it important to name these problems, codifying them in some way, so we can continue to question them?
Devra Freelander “Fluorescent Anomaly” (2014)
Devra and I also chatted a lot about how much our work was aligned— for example, how we’d title our work in very similar ways, but always different enough that we weren’t “explicitly” stealing from each other. Devra said her works are “in 2.5 dimensions,” in between a 2-dimensional sketch and a fully realized 3-dimensional form— a physical manifestation of the uncanny qualities in a digital rendering. I come back to this idea when I think about my approach to this set of music; how, in recording this material, I was trying to embody her practice through my medium. How does sound exist in 2.5 dimensions, or between the physical and the digital? I chose to use an image of Devra’s sculpture “Fluorescent Anomaly” as the cover art for this reason, because I’ve been imbuing my music with her perspective, and her artwork is its strongest visual representation.
I haven’t talked about my feelings much at this point, because it’s been difficult and confusing to figure out how. We lost Devra in a tragic accident in July, 2019 and even though she’s not with us in the physical realm, her spirit and joy continue to light our experience. Mostly, I want everyone to spend some time thinking about Devra: the parallel brilliance of her personality and her philosophy, the vibrance of her heart and her mind. Also, I want to remind you all of the importance that in her dating profile she chose to feature a gif of herself mid-snot rocket, just so you don’t forget her ever-present humor. Her sculptures, videos, words, and prints are here for us— simple gateways toward something like another bedroom floor hang session with our favorite scorpio sculptor.
Below I’m sharing a few links for you to spend some more time with Devra’s work and her words