blank space

“Everything lives in the moment; that's the only time it can live, but its influence can go on forever.” Cy Twombly

One summer, I spent many weekends at Tate Modern flanked by huge Twombly murals. Words scrawled amongst flowers; even the spaces between shapes held meaning.

Movement is often taught as if paint by numbers, inspired by another’s creation, familiar patterns. Like method acting, there’s technique and structure.

Or we can express inside out, inspired by the fluidity and liquidity of body. No two bodies ever form the same shapes. The practice can never be about perfection, structure or control.

Instead, beauty lies in the messy awkward, smudged edges, body squiggles, blurred lines.

Moving upon an unseeable canvas, we scrawl invisible art, drawing lines beyond our lines. Energetic art sprinkled beneath and about us.

Attempting to perfect angles, placement and appearance, means we’ve lost the language of body.

Our bodies crave space, messiness, textures, unexplored patterns. We don’t need wild, erratic dance or weird movement. Releasing an idea is enough to recognise that blank space is actually substance.

We can speak so much when saying nothing at all.

This month is inspired by the unsaid, felt, textures of space between - and Twombly.