First I admit a pound of flesh for cross-examination:
Here is my body.
It has been aging quietly, in my studio, where I have let it marinate in the memory of days and molecules of air and terroir of my corners. One day I wake up and realize my composition has changed entirely. How did it happen?
I am curious.
I try to take a picture of it, but
can only capture a choreography of poses in the available light, so
I try to make a shadow with the bleach of the sun.
However in the heat I dry like a raisin and evaporate.
Then I become a cloud and rain, rain, rain.
I dip a vial in a pool of myself and re-admit myself for cross-examination.
The repetition is exhausting.
All of this transmutation and exposure, even when I still feel raw.
I move to the North and I freeze. On ice,
I look for my faces, no longer recognizing the person I was,
peeling layers and layers of chemical and skin and holding them up to the light,
registering their changes.
My skin becomes very sensitive, having become subject to such relentless scrutiny and inflammation and failed magical thinking. HERE I AM! HERE I AM! My pores scream. Red in the face.
My skin, my wall, my corner.
I press the texture of days into my pores and release their scent.
An essence, a body that exists as light as air.
“Within this temporal body composed of a hundred bones and nine holes there resides a spirit which, for lack of an adequate name, I think of as windblown. Like delicate drapery, it may be torn away and blown off by the least breeze.”
Siera Hyte is an artist and poet based in Montana. She has held solo exhibitions of her work at Partial Shade (Austin), Cordova (Barcelona), Queer Thoughts (New York), Muscle Beach (Portland), Ellis King (Dublin), and EGG (Chicago), among others.