The Cat Will Eventually Be Grey

7.4 / Moving Target

The Cat Will Eventually Be Grey

By Katie Dorame, Ronaldo Wilson May 6, 2016

In Katie Dorame’s collage Response to Lucy and Shadow (2016), my eye enacts in the kaleidoscopic, & I hear the twist of the device, the grind of what could be inside, as in fragments of colored glass, as if when—bits of memory of that green tree time, and here, now, a blue, not the blues, or the blues where patterns are never fixed, because neither is race, as we know, but what do we learn in the mist?

The collage is a horizon, a bandwidth of multiple selves, winded selves, white self in the wind, the many broken forms. 

I am thinking after Richard Dyer in his White, something (like in the light against pine, light rounding out above cloudsurface) akin to where he writes: “The white spirit organizes flesh and in turn non-white flesh and other material matters: it has enterprise..,” (15).   

Slipping through the gaps, race—the fields of mirrors, planes, nests, panes, ripped & layered, the subject found in who is there, then not there: mark of race, mark of  body, girl, boy, woman, child, teal—just noticed the figures in the door frame, people not known, lost and found: the skinned knee in asphalt,     when the eye is-is-is-is the rub: 

“The cat,” Katie, told me “would eventually be gray.”

Through the thicket of my projections, through the brown

of the broken pine crushed, by steps.

Something need not be stable, but still, it should enact though, seeing through the eyehole when it is rotated—to grind out not the seeing, but the sense of the shadow as blur, that leads not to the door, but more blur —so we too, are waiting, to not pounce, but to bound, or rest, rested, gray, was there, the blues, and the lake, and the thick wood, white board  in the collage’s center that is the Y in the X:

Patterns change. mistmeettreemettmisttreemistmeetmetheremistmemisssststststssssssssss

A grey cat slips beneath the bushes.

Birds cut into sight. 

…..

Maybe it was the water from the spring: the test they said,

said toxic, the spigot erect from the stone, clear as a catheter.
 

                                    (a mixture of dark bituminous pitch)

Bad stomach, I dream of dragging up, by rope, quiet white children,

up a hill that is familiar, 

many legs pushing up to the top,

X marks the spot, the space of the floorboard.  The top of a hill to see more, hills.  Recently, in a 1800 sq. ft. dance studio, an artist left a pre-painted large piece of wood (green and yellow dots in the splinters, and raised marks). I pulled this plank in, and I danced with it, and kicked as it circled, rotating on the smooth floor, and I jumped over it in a boot, split, now boxed or trashed.  And I made sure to look into the layers, the way

in shadow:  

where I look down at more mistThe mountains,   

Katie Dorame, Response to Lucy and Shadow, 2016; collage on paper; 24 x 30 in. Courtesy of the Artist. (Click to enlarge.)

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