Every once in a while, we all lose our bearings. In our daily interactions, in our political moment, in a time of constant friction and dislocation, how do we navigate? 

In SLACK I perform with 100-foot marine ropes that are tied, braided, and sewn to my hair. The ropes weigh 51 pounds. 

I perform once every ten days - traversing each landscape for durations up to six-hours. For three months, I intervene in public space, interrupting daily habitus and patterns of movement by presenting unexpected scenes. Bearing the weight of the ropes, each performance confronts the physical toll of moving away from familiar anchors, toward undiscovered horizons.

A dedication and a wound. A carrying with no physical destination. Every motion tugs. Every exertion wrenches. Held in the body, witnessed by strangers, SLACK entwines the fragile to the fervent. 

I do not speak but I sigh – I grunt – I wail. I stare into the void. I watch you – you watch me. Risk and responsibility twist and coil. I search your eyes for connection – a stutter - recognition - we get tangled up.  Enchanting? Confusing? Work. The strain pulses across my neck, folds over my torso.

Over time, the ropes acquire remnants from each environment, - dust, refuse, seafoam, mud. Heavy becomes heavier.

I forget how to move. I fall apart in front of you. I start again. 

SLACK was performed in 108 degree and 43 degree weather – through 55 mile per hour winds and two eerily still sunsets. With the exception of the first performance as part of Mojave Sound Art - SLACK was never permitted or publicized in advance. There was no information available on-site for passersby and those who stopped to watch or take photos were made to confront and contextualize the live performance on their own terms and in their own time.