Maytal Rotenberg - Artist Investigator
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Home. Morning. 9:13 appears on the phone screen. Nine-twenty on the analog clock in front of me, on the sideboard. A winter day. Strong winds outside. The heating buttons are clicking. Lisa just got up, walking, black, toward the kitchen. I've brought her food and water bowls inside the house. Quiet. Some humming sound, maybe from the refrigerator. I'm smoking a cigarette. A bird calls from outside and the palm leaves across the way rustle in the wind. Knocking, banging of things swept up in the wind. And that monotonous hum of the refrigerator like a flat, continuous EKG. Quiet. Lots of room for thoughts. Saturday. I'd planned to clean but I want to write and read. And rest. A moment from this whole busy week that was. Everything is still in the room and I'm alive. Coughing for a moment I feel my aloneness in the space. Sun came out and still winds and rustling. Winds close by and those muffled ones heard from far away. The sound of the heating buttons clicking. Winds getting stronger. A car passes. Through the window I see the trees outside struggling against the wind. How strong they are. The call of a crow. Heard through the closed windows. Everything through closed windows. A world bustling and moving. Cold. I hear a squeaky chirping, like a door moving back and forth on its unoiled hinges. The wind, there's something existential about it. That makes existence present. The struggle for existence. A car passes. The wind grows stronger. The cigarette is finished and I already want another one. The sound of footsteps from the apartment above me. Knocking sounds from outside. And quiet. Everyone probably sheltering in their homes. Every home is a scene. The sound of the heating buttons again, like marking the beginning or end of a chapter or thought. Like punctuation.

 

 

*

 

 

I'm taking a walk. I see a man and a dog. A man walking with a dog and a leash stretching between them. 

 

Two objects and a line in the middle.

 

Choreography for a man and a dog.

 

 

*

 

 

Idea for an exhibition

 

 

Three white spaces

Three everyday situations

 

Space 1: A girl jumping rope. Jumping and jumping. With energy and excitement. Jumping and jumping until she begins to tire and slows her pace. Slowing more and more. With her last strength, she swings the rope and passes one foot and then another until finally stopping. Breathing heavily. Maybe sitting down for a moment. When she feels able to jump again, she continues, and so it repeats until the exhibition spaces' closing time.

 

Space 2: A couple - man and woman, sitting facing each other, looking at each other, between them a round coffee table on a single leg.

 

Silence.

 

They barely move. There's much to say but nothing is said as if it's difficult to speak or everything has already been said.

 

On the table are two glasses of water - one for each. Each drinks when they feel the need.

One of them might stand up, turn around while thinking, turn their back, return and sit or stand up and look at their partner with crossed arms. Or sit with crossed arms. Or lower their gaze and fidget with their fingers. However, their gaze toward one another remains constant. They look at each other. The moment stretches. Without outcome. Until the exhibition spaces' closing time.

 

Space 3: A woman stands in front of a face mirror on the wall and observes her face. The woman is obligated to look at herself but she can, if she wants, fix her hair, touch her face, get closer to the mirror to see if there's something in her eye. She can smile, cry, laugh, whatever authentically arises from the moment. This is time dedicated to her self-observation. Until the exhibition spaces' closing time.

 

Three everyday situations in which people function as sculptural material in space and in dialogue with an object (rope/table/mirror). The figures are in silence, still or with minimal movement or repetitive motion. Extended scenes without beginning or end.

 

 

*

 

 

A beach

 

A man and woman playing Matkot

 

A black ball defines the horizon

 

 

*

 

 

A playground. Birds. Mountains around. I'm waiting for an interview. There's no one here but me right now. Morning. A car passes by. Birds chirping. A gentle breeze. A fly circles around me, probing, jumping - forehead, cheek, nose. A composition of dog droppings on the sidewalk in front of me. Dry. A car passes, going up the street. The sound of sawing heard in the distance. Leaves drift in the wind, dancing on the ground, and the fly keeps circling around me and on me - knee, elbow, stomach, calf. Birds spread across the sky in an arrow shape into a wide-legged triangle until they disappear from view. The fly - one on my forehead, one on my calf. A car passes, continues down the street. Another one stops. A man appears, gets in the vehicle and starts it. A red car. He makes a turn and goes down the road. Four more minutes and I'll go to the interview. The sound of sawing in the distance. A crow calls. Leaves in the wind. A cyclist riding up the street. The fly circles around, far and near. Lands on my hand, probing. A bird calls. I'll probably be early anyway. One more minute and I'll leave. The wind returns to the trees around. Palm trees. A car passes, continues up the street. It's eight o'clock. I get up for the interview.

 

 

*

 

 

The movement of the ants on the slabs

 

is the movement of my thoughts

 

 

*

 

 

A piece for the stage:

 

A woman in her fifties enters the stage. She's wearing a floral dress and heels, her footsteps are heard. 

She sits down on a chair facing the audience. She looks toward the horizon. 

 

Silence. 

 

At some point she begins to tear up. 

She wipes the tears with her palms. 

Her eyes remain directed toward the horizon the whole time. 

At moments she manages to maintain composure, at times she tears up again. 

 

Like this for about ten minutes, and then she wipes her tears and stands up, returns backstage.

 

 

*

 

 

My head is full of thoughts

 

and in the sink there are many dishes

 

 

 

*

 

 

Home. Nine-thirty in the evening. The sound of air coming out of the AC can be heard. The coffee cup I drank from beside me. A car passes on the street below me. A small light shines from the desk lamp to my right. The clock is ticking. I'm a bit cold. I turn off the AC and suddenly I can hear the computer's fan. A knocking sound from the apartment above. In my imagination I see a woman moving something there. A car passes. The building is layers upon layers of happenings, one on top of the other. Another car passes. And a muffled sound, maybe a motorcycle? And the computer fan sound. I remember I dreamed about a whipped cream and chocolate layer cake. Another car passes. And a motorcycle. This time it's definitely a motorcycle. And another car. Each car is like a thought passing by. In the river of the street nearby. Each car is a wave. Passing. And another car passes and its cargo jumps. And silence. The sound of some machine from outside. A low sound. Darkness outside. A sound from the kitchen direction, like something releasing some burden from itself. And the kettle button pops just like that, without boiling. I remember I also dreamed about a fire. The computer fan sound. I think I'm going to have a sleepless night. The sound of a car passing. And another sound from the kitchen as if it has its own life there. The computer fan is straining. It's been with me for almost sixteen years now. The sound of a car door clicking from outside. And another one. A dog barks. And that whipped cream cake. How long since I've eaten a good cake. The clock ticking. A vehicle starting up. A muffled knocking sound from outside. The clock ticking. One of my ears suddenly opened up. I hadn't noticed it was blocked. The clock ticks, sometimes as if emphasizing one particular tick more. A sound from the apartment above. The woman moving things. And it's actually a man who lives there. A muffled voice and laughter. Where is this text going? A car passes, as if answering the question. I hear the tip of my pen on the paper drawing letters. Sounds of movement from the apartment next door. And again a knocking sound from the kitchen, that same burden as if breaking. A car passes. All the noises and sounds like an ongoing concert. A dog barks. Night and I'm still thinking about the whipped cream cake.

 

 

*

 

 

Earth. A single tree, its arms rising up to the sky holding a cloud dropping rain.

 

 

*

 

 

I'm walking down the street. 

A father and child pass by me.

"It's like a soft candy," the father says to the child.

Passing them, I imagine a red gummy candy.

 

*

 

 

Bar. I'm drinking a Carlsberg third. I ask if there are pretzels. There are. Great. On one side of me - two men sitting. On the other side - two young women and then a couple. Still early. Nine fifteen in the evening. Sunday. Quiet. On the bar - between the men sitting to my right stands a round wooden tray with half a pizza and another slice on it. They're talking about jiu-jitsu. The young women on the other side - laughing. I - light a cigarette. The bartender - talks with the young women. From a distance. The men - talking. And the pizza - in the same state. Half and another slice. One slice is taken. The one that was outside the half. Two guys enter the bar. Like into a play. The bartender goes for a round. I know him from Tel Aviv. And it makes me think about Tel Aviv and why I'm not there. I ask the bartender -why not Tel Aviv? He says - a new page. There was Tel Aviv and there was Jerusalem. And he won't go back there. Meanwhile on the pizza tray - one more slice remains. The men are talking with the bartender. About pouring your heart out. And how hard it is and how you do it. I'm eating pretzels. 'Simple Songs' in the background. I feel warmth coming from the direction of my legs. Tel Aviv, I think. 'Simple Songs' ends. The pizza - still at the last slice. Marking a quarter like a quarter of an hour. I ask for another beer. Another third. The pizza - still at a quarter. The last slice. It changed direction. Moved. The men are rolling a cigarette. Another guy enters the bar. I ask for more pretzels and it turns out there are also pickles. The bartender suggested. American music from the forties I think is playing. The pizza is finished. The tray is cleared. The guys are talking. I got pickles. It's spicy. I turn to the guy who came in, ask him what he does in life. He's a storyteller, he says - helps people with their storytelling, say if there's a man selling street lamps and he tells how good and economical they are, so he suggests he say that they light up the surroundings and make it safer. That's so poetic, I think. The men on the right are talking, with expressive hand gestures. They no longer have something in common like pizza. Disco music. The young women left. The men are talking about animals and adoption and death.

 

 

*

 

 

A mouth chewing gum makes a word

 

 

*

 

 

A piece for the stage:

 

A woman in an apron cutting onions. Lots of onions, one after another, and she starts to cry from the sting. She keeps cutting more and more and cries. 

The sting reaches the audience and everyone cries together.

 

A moment of unity.

 

 

*

 

The food scraps in the sink strainer

 

are the archive of my day's events

 

 

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