Lenka Clayton

Lenka Clayton is a British conceptual/relational artist whose explores and creates play within the constructs and rituals of everyday life. 

She has hand-numbered 7,000 stones; searched for all 613 people mentioned in a single edition of a German newspaper; filmed one person of each age from 1 to 100, and reconstituted a lost museum from a sketch on the back of an envelope. She and writer Michael Crowe are currently in the middle of writing a unique, personal letter to every household in the world. In 2012 Lenka founded An Artist Residency in Motherhood — a structured, fully-funded artist residency that takes place inside her own home and life as a mother of two young children. She is currently serving as the first Artist-in-Residence-in-Motherhood. 

Alway, Never, Forever

I have a curiousness about the word, "always." Perhaps I could leave it out of my lexicon. Always. And forever. And never. These words contain the stuff I'm trying to shed from myself, my wife, attachments and desires and expectations.  
When I think of these words. I think to myself, will this go on forever? These words? Do I want it to? Do I want them to? Will I always do this? Feel this? Want this? Do I want to sleep in this bed forever? Do I want to participate in this domesticated lifestyle forever? Will I always be here? Will it always be this way? Will he always sneeze and snore in his sleep? Will I always have to wear earplugs to buffer that noise? Will I never get out of here? Will I never change the patterns that keep me from being free? 

I used to sit on this bus (I'm on the bus today) with an immobilized leg taking up a majority of the seats in the handicapped section. Will I always take up this much room? Will I always walk with a limp? I used to Google never and always. Will the bone never heal? Will the quadricep be feeble forever? But here I am, at the back of the bus, 8th row in, next to a blonde bearded fellow in headphones. I'm pretty sure he's listening to Pantera. These people and their morning smells won't always smell this way. No, throughout the day, this hot motherfucking day, their smells will shift to animal and mineral. Their smells won't last forever. 

Let's pretend the words always, forever and never don't exist. Let's make sounds with them and feel specific ways when saying them, but let's pretend they aren't there. Because maybe they aren't. You can't box these words or package them in cellophane. They don't come in high gloss or carry robust flavors. These words are not cockroaches. We cling to these words and allow ourselves to convince us that they're true. How could they not be? How could our breakfast lives ever change? How could those pair of jeans not fit anymore? How could he stop living? How could they stop loving each other? It will never happen. It will always be this way. I will always wear athletic socks in sneakers. I will never drink Pepsi. I will be a little girl forever. 
 

Cavity

I had my first cavity filled today. And now there’s a hole in my face. An invisible one. And in this hole I store nuts for winter, eggplants. In this hole I keep secrets and mouthwash vapors. I sing songs about getting the party started. My dentist, Dr. Sunberg, plopped the hole in my face with her red eyes and face mask. She coughed behind that face mask. She had talked with her assistant (who shoved objects into my mouth to keep my jaws from collapsing) about how my tongue was “pesky” and “had a mind of its own" They talked amongst each other as though I were asleep. They talked about winning an award at the bank for paying the rent on time and the grooves of my teeth and how to smooth them with sharp objects made in China by people without teeth.