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wings walking water

a project, a practice, an ongoing story by Baco Ohama

For a long time I have had an interest in language; in what gets carried and conveyed, hidden and revealed, through one’s use of language; and in what gets discovered and understood when working with language as one aspect of an artistic practice. I am interested in stories that aren’t necessarily narratives told in one stretch, from beginning to end. My interest is in building, telling, and sharing stories in ways that might be experienced through glimmers and bits or felt in the relational spaces between locations and generations, between the dreams of night and the sensory experiences of day, between the uncanny and the mundane, and between the spoken and heard. 

wings walking water is a project and practice that plays in the osmotic space of both the known and unknown and tends to flow backwards and forward in time, moving from location to location, site to site, even as I try to live and work mindful of each present moment and experience . . . 

some current or recent works

In November 2022, I started writing from spines.

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Things can sometimes surface slowly. Some days it’s only a few lines, like the poem hum that was written on November 9th with the transcribed words from a text walk I did on October 19th, 2022. 

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This little one minute video, a dance of eggs, is part of my sensorial still project which began on August 16th, 2021 and which will run at least until August 16th, 2022.

(Monday, January 3rd, 2022)

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sweet brine is a quick pickling poem (a 50 second video), created as a part of the conversations and exchanges that I’ve been having with Jon Sasaki for the Yume. Digital Dreams project. Fourteen artists of Japanese heritage – representing diverse disciplines, geographies, and generations – were invited to participate, to connect online, and in collaborative teams of two to be in conversation and to create together over a four month period (February – May 2022).

For more information on the Yume. Digital Dreams project, you can go to the project’s website:

(Monday, March 7th, 2022)

Jon Sasaki's photograph 'Inept Paper Dolls' & my response piece 'I always say that I can't draw — but isn't drawing just a moving line?'

On the pages the play of slippages and ‘Yume’ responses & exchanges, I’ve shared more of the back and forth exchanges between Jon Sasaki and I, as we worked on the Yume. Digital Dreams project. The final piece of our collaborative process is the video Misconstructions.

(Wednesday, May 25th, 2022)

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healing lines (ginger)-June 2, 2022
healing lines (garlic)-June 13, 2022
healing lines (ginger & garlic)-June 24, 2022

While dealing with COVID aftermath challenges, I’ve picked up a pencil and started a series of small drawings, called healing lines

(Wednesday, June 15th, 2022)

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This short recycling eye poem was written from material gathered on an unintentional text walk that I did last week.

(Monday, July 11th, 2022)

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With the COVID-19 pandemic keeping me mostly inside the apartment, one of the things I thought I could do, is to try and mail out more everyday poetics postcardie letters. I thought that maybe finding a tangible, physical, personal piece of mail in one’s mailbox would be something others might appreciate, especially at this time when we’ve been asked not to gather or to visit with each other. 

I have stamps. And thankfully last month I bought a new box of MOAB’s Entrada Rag Paper, so I can keep printing postcards. Well, at least until I run out of printer inks.

Last week I figured out that it takes one stamp to mail out an envelope with three postcards in it. So although in the past my postcardie letters would often be longer, at this time I’m limiting each letter to three postcards. This way, I don’t need to make trips to the post office to get my postcardie letters weighed. I can just drop them in a mailbox, whenever I go out for a short neighbourhood walk (keeping a distance of at least 6 feet from others, of course). 

Today, I’ve started to make envelopes since I ran out of the store bought variety. And I’m remembering how satisfying it is to be making what I need from scratch or with whatever I have on hand. This process I realize is also comforting . . .

(Tuesday, March 24th, 2020)

This everyday poetics postcard series continues, although for now at least, at a slower pace. 

(Monday, July 11th, 2022)