Nanci Amaka

Cleanse

Valiantly meeting imminent destruction with love and humility.

by Nanci Amaka

Performance: Wednesday, August 2nd, 2017

Private Performance; no guests.

Project Description

Cleanse is my own personal journey to trauma resolution and internal psycho-social growth.

My mother was killed when I was a child and I grew up beside a gnawing ache for her and any information about her life. When I found her family decades later, her brother told me his only regret. He lamented that due to the circumstances surrounding my mother’s death, her family did not get a chance to wash and care for her body before she was buried. Of all the terrible things about that story, this one heartache simultaneously filled me with immense love and agony. It was a poignant moment of learning for me and profoundly inspiring. 

I have since been evolving it into a performance.

In many cultures, including my own – Igbo culture – when a person dies, it is customary for their family to wash and dress their body before they are buried. It’s a powerful last act of nurture and a way for the family to grieve their loved one.  Cleanse is part of a series of performances I am developing that center around the concept of ‘acts of nurture’. Simply, I will find a soon-to-be demolished space, and clean it. As a final act of gratitude and mourning before it is ceases to exist and we no longer have a chance to care for it.

The Ward Warehouse has been a staple in Honolulu since 1975, outliving its original intended closing by 27 years and providing space for many local businesses in the community.  This August, it was shut down; the small businesses that have called it home have all had to relocate; and it will be torn down. It is an ideal place to do this performance as it is a space that houses the memories and experiences of many people in the community. Its impending demolition fills many in the community with anxiety for the unknown future, as well as sorrow for the loss of a place they’ve built memories in.

As I cleaned the space, I began to sweat profusely. It was immediate and more than I have ever sweat before. It began with my forehead and quickly moved down to my knees. Soon, even my feet were soaked so that I had to be quite deliberate in my motions so as not to slip and fall when I moved through the space. I found this all extremely interesting as I had done a lot of work to prepare for the performance and felt very ready for it. Furthermore, this was a private performance.  Aside from my two darling (and also well prepared) documenters, I was alone in the space. In essence, there was no reason to be anxious; no reason to be afraid. The work itself, was relatively uncomplicated and something I have done countless times before – cleaning. Yet, my body wept. From head to toe. As I cleaned, it was as if my body was also cleaning itself from the inside out.

I strongly believe that the most painful part of losing a loved one is the loss of chances to nurture and love them. Our loved ones and their agency are gone. However, we, the living, are left with wrestling our longing to nurture them with our powerlessness to do so. Cleanse is a silent moment of reflecting on all those that we have loved and lost.  Especially those whose passing took us by surprise and didn’t allow us a chance to say goodbye. It is an acknowledgment of the ability of loving actions to cleanse us of our burdens of pain and sorrow. It is also a moment of recognizing our power to act lovingly even in the face of despair.

Special thanks to Rob and Emily Lau of In Medias Rez for their help documenting this piece.

Very special thanks to Maile Meyer of Aupuni Place and Na Mea Hawaii for actively transforming Ward Warehouse in its final days and creating this pop-up exhibition space.

Honolulu Scars

Arts At Mark’s Garage

April 4th – 15th, 2017

As a child, my infant sisters and I were forcibly given traditional scars.  A woman we had only known for a few hours cut each of our cheeks, the center of our collarbones, and the top of our backs. The woman who scarred us was not given permission to by our parents, and even worse, the scars she gave us were the wrong ones for our tribe. This was not my first time getting scarred (or the last), but it was the most memorable as it was a shared experience with my sisters.  We revisit this memory frequently, and the scars have since become a badge of our bond.

Today, I collect memories from people who have been through traumatic events that have redefined their identity. This includes refugees, the homeless, amputees, the kid who just scraped his knee for the first time. From these interactions, I write poems, short stories, make paintings, installations and audio recordings - which I sometimes sew into soft sculptures.

Scar Stories Series asks participants to look at their bodies as a physical symbol of memory, and resilience. It also creates space for the utterance and contextualizing of traumatic experiences. The process involves first writing the story in a succinct manner unto either a small piece of paper (for physical scars) or fabric (for invisible scars).  The written stories are then brought to me. However, I do not read the story but ask the participant to ‘tell’ me the story.  In this second step, the participants have had a chance to remember the story and put it to text. It makes uttering the story a lot easier and creates a bit of distance from the pain so that what we talk about is usually not just the occurrence, but all the implications of it. In this moment, I encourage participants to express what their expectations were before the traumatic experience and how those expectations have changed since then. In doing this, there is usually a realization within the participant that they – as a person – existed before the experience, and continues to exist well after it. This fissure from memories of traumatic experiences is quite interesting to me and I explore that in our conversations. I try to answer for myself “What is the space between our experiences and who we are?”  

Scar Stories Series is also an aspiration to normalizing the ubiquitous process of feeling pain and healing from it.  All stories of physical scars from the current performance and previous performances of it, are hung around the space while I work. The goal of this being that participants bear witness to the pain of members of their communities and recognize themselves and their experiences in others’ painful experiences. It is a communal celebration of resilience.

We do not begin our lives anticipating trauma, but it is inevitable. Though scars are reminders of what we have been through, they are also a reminder that we have survived. Scar Stories Series asks for the recognition of our bodies and memories as symbols of resilience.

Santa Cruz Scars

Santa Cruz Museum of Art and History

Solari Gallery

June 3rd – July 8th, 2016

As a child, my infant sisters and I were forcibly given traditional scars.  A woman we had only known for a few hours cut each of our cheeks, the center of our collarbones, and the top of our backs. The woman who scarred us was not given permission to by our parents, and even worse, the scars she gave us were the wrong ones for our tribe. This was not my first time getting scarred (or the last), but it was the most memorable as it was a shared experience with my sisters.  We revisit this memory frequently, and the scars have since become a badge of our bond.

Today, I collect memories from people who have been through traumatic events that have redefined their identity. This includes refugees, the homeless, amputees, the kid who just scraped his knee for the first time. From these interactions, I write poems, short stories, make paintings, installations and audio recordings - which I sometimes sew into soft sculptures.

Scar Stories Series asks participants to look at their bodies as a physical symbol of memory, and resilience. It also creates space for the utterance and contextualizing of traumatic experiences. The process involves first writing the story in a succinct manner unto either a small piece of paper (for physical scars) or fabric (for invisible scars).  The written stories are then brought to me. However, I do not read the story but ask the participant to ‘tell’ me the story.  In this second step, the participants have had a chance to remember the story and put it to text. It makes uttering the story a lot easier and creates a bit of distance from the pain so that what we talk about is usually not just the occurrence, but all the implications of it. In this moment, I encourage participants to express what their expectations were before the traumatic experience and how those expectations have changed since then. In doing this, there is usually a realization within the participant that they – as a person – existed before the experience, and continues to exist well after it. This fissure from memories of traumatic experiences is quite interesting to me and I explore that in our conversations. I try to answer for myself “What is the space between our experiences and who we are?”  

Scar Stories Series is also an aspiration to normalizing the ubiquitous process of feeling pain and healing from it.  All stories of physical scars from the current performance and previous performances of it, are hung around the space while I work. The goal of this being that participants bear witness to the pain of members of their communities and recognize themselves and their experiences in others’ painful experiences. It is a communal celebration of resilience.

We do not begin our lives anticipating trauma, but it is inevitable. Though scars are reminders of what we have been through, they are also a reminder that we have survived. Scar Stories Series asks for the recognition of our bodies and memories as symbols of resilience.

A performance with Claire Kessler-Bradner of the character, Sethe, from Toni Morrison's novel, Beloved.

While reading Toni Morrison’s novel, Beloved, I was struck by the visual imagery of a tree on the character, Sethe’s back.  Beloved is my favorite novel and the metaphors in the book are themes that have followed me and my work since my first reading of it.  In the novel, Sethe has an experience with a white woman who nurtures and curses her all at once.  I invited a good friend of mine, Claire Kessler-Bradner, to participate in this piece with me.  Claire, who is a book maker, would use a book binding tool to draw a tree on my back.

Before the performance, Claire and I spoke about the characters in Morrison’s novel.  We spoke of race relations and how our history of slavery affects us today.  She worried about hurting me in the process. I worried of my trust in her to not permanently scar me. We met ahead of time so she could practice how much pressure she could use to get my skin irritated enough to raise but not break it. 

On the day of the performance, a recording of a heartbeat played while Claire put a tree on my back. I could tell she was nervous as her palm felt very cold on my back.  I tried in vain to remain stoic while she drew.  At the end of it all, I was overwhelmed with the knowledge of pain, and wept.

The speculum is a device used in most women’s physical exam after puberty.  I was curious about Anarcha - the slave woman whose body the speculum was discovered on.  As there are no records of her point of view, I chose to explore her experience by simulating it.  I invited 30 women to participate in this with me as we all benefit from her sacrifice.

For weeks before the performance, I told Anarcha’s story to the 30 women participants.  We spoke about their experiences in the doctor’s office as well as our assumptions of how Anarcha felt during her surgeries.  On the day of the performance, I lay on a table built by one of the women on stage.  Each of the 30 women was given a numbered placard with a needle and thread and asked to come unto the stage, make a cut into my underwear and sew it back up. 

Under the stage were speakers hooked to a recording device that played a telling of Anarcha’s story.  The audience could hear the story while they witnessed the surgeries.  My role was to be the ‘body’ and to remain present to the rustlings, pulls, pinches, and gaze of the participants and the audience.  When I found my thoughts drifting, I worked to focus it on thoughts of Anarcha and how she must have felt while laying on her back as Sims cut into her and sewed her up. More than 30 times.

Fatima was a very close girl friend of mine as a child.  We met when my family moved to a rural village in northern Nigeria.  She was bethrothed to a rich man in the village that already had multiple wives. We were 8 years old.  After her wedding, I never saw her again.  In the piece, Fatima, I revisit the days we spent together before her wedding. 

Under the stage for Fatima are speakers hooked to a recording device.  It begins with a song we sang as children.  As the song plays, I cradle a soft sculpture and rock it in time with the song. The sound piece then moves on to a recording of me remembering those last few days with her.  My role on stage is to cut into the soft sculpture, pull out a pair of eggs (previously filled with palm oil) crush the eggs together, and then try to scoop the mix back into the sculpture.

In the act of remembering something, we create new moments tainted with the experience of the past and the knowledge of the present.  In the recorded sound piece, blissful idyllic childhood memories of preparing for a great party are juxtaposed with my current knowledge as an adult.  I remember we were so excited about the upcoming revelry of her wedding.  I also remember my childish jealousy at the time.  I now know she was too young to be married off to a man decades older than her. At the end of Fatima, I pull out one last egg from the sculpture and put it on the stage.  I then exit humming to the sculpture.

In 2008, I read about a slave woman named Anarcha who was experimented on by a physician, J. Marion Sims.  Sims gained fame (including a sculpture in Central Park), the device he developed on her – the speculum – is widely used.  But she, Anarcha, remains obscure.  Although Sims developed the speculum on Anarcha, she had been sent to him for tears in her vaginal cavity – fistulas.  To ‘repair’ her, Simms performed over 30 surgeries on Anarcha in a period of 3 years of trial and error.  I found it hard to imagine 30 surgeries performed on such a small area of flesh.  I emptied out my studio, covered it in 30 feet of canvas and performed 30 ‘surgeries’ on it.

My goal in this piece was to take on the point-of-view of J Marion Sims.  I wanted to experience the pressing in of the needle, to feel the prick of it on the other side of the canvas, to cut into the canvas purposefully, and to experiment with different stitches. 

In time, the canvas became such a mass that I had to hang it up in a corner of my studio to be able to continue sewing.  The experience of it was exhausting.  As I had emptied my studio for the piece, I felt resentment towards it. In the beginning of the process, I delicately cut the material, but in time, my resentment and exhaustion began to show as I made more aggressive cuts. I lost my compassion for the piece as it became more of a chore and less interesting or engaging.  It was just a thing that took up my time and I was glad to be rid of it in the end.

Written by Anna Martine Whitehead

Performed with Anna Martine Whitehead (http://annamartine.com)

A story of territorial, emotional, and physical loss.