Is This What My Eyes Are For?

I was privileged enough to be present for a screening of Abigail Child’s series of 7 films titled Is This What We Were Born For? at a local university. The attendance was slight, but the effects were profound. I was not familiar with Child’s practices, which includes written and performance poetry alongside her idiosyncratic body of film works and film criticism. The entire series of films presented lasted a little over an hour, with pieces ranging from 2 to around 30 minutes in length. Exact descriptions defy me, but here is an attempt: Spastic montages of collected video from the entire gulley of human experience caught on film, some of which was spliced from other works and some of which were originals. Young girls’ emphatic dance moves, violent explosions and an ornery unkempt bearded fellow staring, frightened, with a palatable culpability all flash within seconds. Is there anything meaningful in frames from blockbuster movies conflated with nature, suburbs, couples dining outdoors, too much and too quickly to be absorbed entirely in one sitting? Throughout most of the ongoing spectacle the audio is coarse and widely sampled underneath an audible Child reading her poetry. These epileptic journeys caused a rumbling in my mind—an unsettling series of jolts with references to images and situations typical to any socialized American of the twentieth century.

I felt that the films were at once addressing the constructs I expect in film and attempting to destroy them. They reminded me of some mash-ups I’ve listened to from DJs like Soulwax or DJ Food, a mishmash of pop-culture with occasional moments of solace in upsetting or abstract directions. Part of me wanted to step out of myself and declare the videos to be nothing more than wacky collages of haphazard crud, but another part of me was joyfully revolted and distanced from what I watch on TV every day. Although I can’t deny enjoying the occasional episode of Scrubs or The Office, there was some deep internal disruption I felt during these films that I’m glad I was able to experience. Like most abstract performance poetry I’ve seen, it’s difficult to conjure a blunt synopsis of the work or determine an exact meaning. That being said, I have to say that this series is worth viewing for the few moments where the flashing collages of sight and sound fit into my brain and ruffle things around.