[And at the edge of this world, a box of wood / and canvas; light and
light and light. (chris abani)]


nd we started collecting words and thoughts on the title and toward a
statement for the show (more thoughtstormin...)

Liminal:  a threshold

Mined:  extracting the separation of a substance from a matrix -- an
abundant source -- natural deposit -- blowing up an enemy ship...

One thing I can add for "mined" is that it does conjure up the feeling of being exploited and exhausted of ideas and energy after creating art.


in the liminal

the social articulation of difference, from the minority perspective, is a
complex, on-going negotiation that seeks to authorize cultural hybridities
that emerge in moments of historical transformation. (Bhabha 2)

It is in this sense that the boundary becomes the place from which
something begins its presencing in a movement not dissimilar to the
ambulant, ambivalent articulation of the beyond

always and ever differently the bridge escorts the lingering and hastening
ways of [men] to and fro, so that they may get to other banks....

The bridge gathers as a passage that crosses (Bhabha 5)

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Bridges span liminal (threshold) spaces between worlds, spaces I call
nepantla, a Nahuatl word meaning tierra entre medio. Transformations occur
in this in-between space, an unstable, unpredictable, precarious,
always-in-transition space lacking clear boundaries. Nepantla es tierra
desconocida, and living in this liminal zone means being in a constant
state of displacement--an uncomfortable, even alarming feeling. Most of us
dwell in nepantla so much of the time it’s become a sort of “home.” Though
this state links us to other ideas, people, and worlds, we feel threatened
by these new connections and the change they engender.

(Un)natural bridges from This bridge we call home (Gloria Anzaldúa)


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What passes for night here has more to do with the place
where the body is flayed open to sorrow and wonder.
The boy on the bridge drops a feather into a lost river.
A rusting lawn dreams of grass rude and fescue.
A match held down to tobacco still burns with an upward flame.
There is no truth here.
Dutifully the mist comes down the mountain. What else can I tell you?

(Chris Abani)