Distillation Installation: With All Four Senses and Remembered Sight

Godin with head at Stravinsky's level on braille table top

Seventeen years of living in a three-bedroom Astoria apartment distilled into one art installation: so much lost and gained; so many things dismantled and recreated; so many memories… I lived and worked in every room of that home. Beginning in the front room with my first guide dog and the boyfriend whose munificence allowed me to remain long after us, to the back room where I came into being as a blind person and an artist. Once I looked out the window to fire escape and cherry tree, the identical buildings across the yards, but, upon my departure, I saw only a pixilated rectangle of light.

I last moved towards that window to open the curtains for Stravinsky, a creeping pothos (Epipremnum aureum) I bought to commemorate the untimely death of my second guide dog Igor. Igor’s poem, To Stravinsky, ensured that his plant spirit would occupy the living center of Distillation Installation. Also his small relics made into a piece whose description sounded, “Glue on memories.” (I audio labelled title and description cards with my PenFriend, dots that speak with my voice when touched with tip, analogue/digital magic!)

Finally, in later years, I came to rest in the dark corner room, dubbed the bat cave. Its purple walls with a genie providing pulsating light and smellscape in the last days, days when future was uncertain about everything except the important things: art and love, love and art, warm stability with our two hearts knocking out a stronger beat, keeping up the simple hard tune, “desire is suffering, desire is suffering, desire is suffering…”

So much potential had to be tossed. Braille books and maps, fabrics that wanted sewing, yarn that wanted knitting, paints that wanted painting–so many things collected and hoarded in the late stages of dissertation-that-wanted-writing. Throwing so many things out seemed so sad–so much potential lost that I conceived making an installation out of some precious drops of it. for months, I put things that might be of value in one corner and made bags for the street scavengers to pick through and utilize, minimizing landfill.

Godin with her hand sewn dresses hanging high.

I’d decided years ago that I had enough clothes and began repurposing. Too many things in the world. Too much crap. I kept ahold of my crap so that I would not be so tempted to buy new crap. With that in mind I first put fringe on deconstructed sweater and kept on with my refashioning old things into new by hand sewing. But of course, there are always things to buy that are not clothes–technology and musical instruments–and I can’t make shoes…

Distillation Installation manifested in the once-living room, the home’s center, with tin ceiling painted over long before I arrived. As I worked, around me as I sorted, discarded and built, its cracked paint fell about me in apocalyptic chips.

The braille blinds were the first part of the installation. “See ya later world,” I thought as I sewed double-pages of a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde braille book together, and lay them in cascading strips from the wrought iron double bar curtain rods bought in the early years of domesticity.

Then began the odoriferous papier-mâché experimentations. If I’d had a budget I would have invested much more heavily on smells, because flour takes a scent, is cheap, and good for sticking odd things together (pink taffeta on shovel) and mummifying others (drum music on accordion), but aromatic distillats, the cells of plant matter burst asunder to capture their aromas in oil or water, are rightly expensive. In the end, I could not give each piece a signature scent. But the room was scented: eucalyptus (Eucalyptus plenissima) and lavender (Lavandula angustifolia) bubbled in the ultrasonic diffuser in the Never Be Sorry exhibit, and in the corner under Prague Castle, a fan diffuser blew sweet orange (Citrus sinensis) and black spruce (Picea mariana), while the hanging braille cranes were lovingly spritzed with orange blossom water from the bitter orange tree (Citrus aurantium).

Godin tilting sunglasses at hanging braille origami cranes.

My origami braille cranes–not a thousand as planned, but a lot–hung from wire hangers suspended on the five blades of the dusty ceiling fan with three colored lights–blue red green–in the center sockets for a soft organic look.

Beneath sat Stravinsky on his personal braille-mâché tabletop–the last-minute decision that worked well to create small gasps when the curtain opened on the night of the goodbye tours.

I see it all in my mind’s eye and am proud to have done this thing–compensatory vanity! And why not cover over the mirrors (if I can’t look at myself why should anyone else?)–the gilt one sacrificed its mirrorness first, covered over by gold dust and finger paint scrawl, “Never Be Sorry,” another poem-inspired exhibit.

and “by following the scent” near the end–mirror removed from useless vanity, covered and dusted in mist and pink lipstick. Goodbye to the stage and the music and the light. Hello dazzlement and words and another trip in new places. No guilt just a bomb left behind, time tick tocking until another home will be made and destroyed, until the end when I leave all homes for the last time, leaving behind a fine distillation of my experience of the world, overwhelmingly flavored by brilliant hallucinations and this long eye disease my life.

Godin pointing at her self portrait, an abstract finger painted head on a reflector tape wall.

[All images by Geo Geller. Check out our conversation in Distillation Installation HERE!]

To Stravinsky, a poem in memory of my guide dog Igor

November 13 is the birthday of Igor, my last guide dog. It is a day to celebrate his short life as well as the diligent and loving lives of guide dogs everywhere. Please consider a donation to the fund I set up at the Animal Medical Center in honor of him and my first guide dog, Millennium.

This week Stravinsky, Igor's plant spirit, found himself front and center in the Godin's World Fair, amongst colored lights and origami braille cranes.

To Stravinsky

I write to you, Stravinsky,

Because he, for whom you are named,

Is nowhere to be found.

You sit on my desk next to keepsakes

From his short life

And are easy to take care of,

Therefore easy to love.

 

Let me tell you how you came to occupy

This tiny exalted place…

 

Three days after I lost him

I cleaned mindlessly,

Brought out the vacuum and went to work.

Being blind helps forgetfulness:

Out of sight out of

 

BAM CLATTER

 

I hit the aluminum dog bowls

And probably shrieked.

I picked up the two bowls

As if they might bite or squirm

And dropped them into recycling.

Then I went and cried in human arms.

 

In those arms,

Deep within my sobs,

I conceived a ritual from nowhere,

A rite of spring.

 

I want to go buy a plant tonight,

I will name it Stravinsky,

Spirit of Igor.

 

I picked out and washed the water bowl,

Set it on my desk,

Another empty vessel.

 

At the florist I asked for a plant

That was easy to take care of.

The woman named one

And I asked if it was viney.

She said No,

That one stood straight up like a tree,

A popular plant,

Recommended by some celebrity doctor

For its air purification properties.

 

I was not interested in pure air.

I wanted prehistoric leafy tendrils

Of encroaching flourishing

With minimal fuss.

 

Like all dark relationships,

Ours, Stravinsky, is complicated.

 

I might have hated plant life

Since green grass tempted him

And led him to swallow the neon vine

 

That stuck in his stomach

That led to the surgery

That sliced the tiny incision

That led to the microscopic sepsis

That led to the systemic failure

That led to the pneumonia

That gave final cause for his

Being nowhere to be found.

 

But I do not believe in fate

Or in the culpability of nature

Any more than I believe you to be

A fit substitute receptacle

For my I love yous.

 

Even so,

I love you Stravinsky.

In his bowl I keep you

Healthy and happy.

It is easy to water

You every ten days,

Gratifying to have your reachy growth

On this simple expanse of desk.

Still, if you do not outlive me,

I doubt I will cry at all.

*This poem was first published at Quail Bell Magazine*