When something is copied over and over again, how can you tell which is the original? When different ideas are confined to the same space, how will their differences dissolve and their material elide?

I wrote The Outlines of His Body Blurring after reading The Memory Police by Yoko Ogawa, a book whose story and images moved me to tears. After closing the back cover, I knew that I had to write a piece to metabolize my feelings regarding her work, and although the operative themes of my piece do not align perfectly with Memory Police, my reaction to Ogawa’s writing is still central to my conception of Blurring.

            The material of this piece is separated into interconnected modules which can be rearranged per performance. The form is such that the ensemble may excerpt, repeat, and reorder the modules how they see fit. In my mind there are two or three types of modules in this piece, but their shared material calls in to question the boundaries and relationships between them; additionally, the order they are presented in may obscure or elucidate the connections underlying them, allowing the identity of the piece to shift without altering its materials.