Sabrina Koh

What does the artist look for in a private space? What can the artist do in private spaces? How private should private space be for the artist? Which artist has private space? How many artists form a private space? What kind of private space does the artist need? How does private space function artistically? Why should the artist have a private space? What does the artist do in private spaces? Artist’s private space? How much space can the artist private off? How much space can privacy provide the artist? Where is the spacious artistic private space? How does the artist space the privacy? What space? How private can privacy go for the artist’s space? Which artists need private space? Where does the artist go to find private space? Which private space is for the artist? How does the artist space privacy? How does the artist’s private space look like? Does space offer privacy to the artist? Why does the artist need private space?

Tracey Emin, My Bed, 1998
http://www.saatchi-gallery.co.uk/artists/artpages/tracey_emin_my_bed.htm

I heard footsteps. Footsteps made real, become louder. I stayed real still, that wasn’t the first time, anyway. The familiar metallic moans from that bunch of keys, ready to enter its hole. It got gripped real tight and then manipulated until it surrendered. The door released its tension. I saw it open as the wind pushed its way gently and then violently and then stopped. It became all quiet except the dirty jeans held swiftly between the feet and cold floor. The keys got flung back into position, the door got locked into position and I saw the shadow in a curious position looking at me.

My shivers and hopes were left unnoticed. I have counted the hours, minutes and seconds. Anytime now, something is going to happen in there, that space. Everyday, most of the days, it gets a little crazy in here. Some say, “it is not meant for the weak-hearted”.

At times, depending on a certain kind of mood, I smell kerosene, charcoal, oil, rotting flesh, smoke, I hear metallic plates, grinding, meowing, hammering, drilling, sawing, digitalized voices, thunder, cries, I see flashes, darkness, fire, flesh, tears, I taste blood, perspiration, hair, skin, nails, veins. I feel pain, a pleasurable kind of pain.

Gordon Matta-Clark, Splitting (detail) 1974
http://www.artnet.com/Magazine/features/smyth/smyth6-4-3.asp

That piece of cloth that has traveled so far, been through the places that I wished I was there to witness, got hung, swaying itself like a pendulum until it got bored. Belongings belonging in there was left inside as it has always been left except the dirtiest bible — the sketchbook. I quickly took cover and camouflaged myself like an au naturale being. As usual, without a word, without changing into cleaner clothes, I was being laid. I kept submissively quiet and took whatever was given. I laid there. I hear the scribbles on the paper, trying to sort of take revenge on the bigger personal issues or of the world which might be of no one’s concern to begin with.

There was so much energy in that space. Multiple layers of vibrations hitting and churning and colliding as if to explode to create a new beginning. Someone, please listen. I am listening, but does it help? I lay here for you to speak, for you to cry on, for you to work on. I was left alone for a moment. I heard the wine making its way into the glass and the music play, this time Chet Baker’s pieces.

I have seen them all, sometimes once, at times twice, the longest was thirty visits. It depends on how much they have to talk or laugh about. It was all written in that dirty book of sketches and truths. Page by page as I peeped from behind, showcased the anatomy of dead events that took place — waiting, hoping, thinking and mourning.

Tracey Emin, Everyone I have ever slept with 1963-95
http://www.tate.org.uk/magazine/issue1/images/emin_tent.jpg

These mental funerals only displayed the graveyard of one’s mind of experiences and memories, later to be challenged and exhibited in full nakedness, but perhaps they will never listen. As I continue to lay here and listen.

Vincent van Gogh, The Bedroom, 1889
http://cgfa.dotsrc.org/gogh/p-gogh7.htm

The camera and video and computer and brushes and canvases and hammers and saws and strings and ice and boxes and trays and books and newspapers and vegetables and chocolates and nails and clothes and blades and cookers and candles and oil and … that are used everyday may only equate to a microscopic level of my understanding of emotions and space. Try to vomit out the contents in your mind and heart, youcannot. You try and try and try and you cannot. It is not like a reversible process, it is not of positive and negative spaces, it is not about in or out. It is more than those. Last week, from this angle, I watched the video showing the human heart in operation. It was pumping, beat by beat, nothing particularly suspicious. There was no emotions involve- no love could be seen taken out or put in during the cold, sterile, technical operation.

Rachel Whiteread, House, 1993
http://www.artistsineastlondon.org/08_house/04text.htm

Heater switch got flicked. And then again. The clothes were falling off, detaching themselves from the skin. The tap was turned on and the shower curtain was pulled back. I can see everything. The rhythm of the water got synchronized each time the body moved a certain way at a certain speed. Skin got rubbed, throat seemed to have lumped, pores were tightening. The cold temperature only signified the need for an emergency cool- down, where it became an instrument of relaxation that is always and only temporary. The chemical scent that we were taught to find comfort in calmed the space, the bather was not involved.

Almost 483 seconds have passed. Sitting melancholically by the window, watching the rain hit the pavement drop by drop, left me ready to start a routine I grew accustomed to and uncomfortable with. It began — fingers started to wipe off the dust from the window sill, window grills were wiped clean, photo frames readjusted to a precise angle, hairline cracks on the wall were re-covered, total number of pages in the books in the space were calculated, careless drop-out hair collected and saved in containers, wires were re- tighten, dishes were washed all over again, pages from the dictionary were torn page by page to have them file up page by page, paintbrushes were counted hair-strand by hair-strand, stains on the underwear were bleached and scrubbed, wiping the floor tile by tile, counting the number of rice grains left in the container, pouring the bottles of detergent out to have them washed and then to be poured back again, taking out all the black tops form the wardrobe and have them placed back in order of their tones, melting the candle wax and mould them into a particular form, measuring the wall from top-to-bottom, left-to-right, to install a nail to its best position, fish the fish out of the tank to dry it so that it can be wet when it is put back into the tank, counting the number of ants crawling towards the cup of coke and divert it back to its original starting point and squeezing in the lampshade into the washing machine for a good spin.

Nan Goldin, Self-portrait in my room, NYC, 1983
http://www.clampart.com/inventory/inventoryimages/assets/Goldin_SPRoom.jpg

The interior designer was rejected because it was not possible to design or decorate an artist’s private space. A space that was meant to portray the very depth of integrity. A space that was private. A space that was truthful enough to reflect the value of one’s private thoughts — of all emotions.

Sabrina Koh’s Private Parts 2006