Avoiding Disaster
Lexi Z.
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In November 2022, I found a note in my backpack, signed anonymously, but I knew who it was from. Despite my friend’s wishes, I informed our counselor, knowing our friendship would be strained, but realizing I made the right choice. My artistic process begins with deeply investigating the music, uncovering the emotions within its soundscapes. The piece opens with a soft, straining siren, evoking the sensation of spidery legs crawling across my skin, symbolizing my friend’s anxiety. As the music becomes more urgent, I match my movements to its melody and tempo, shifting focus to subtle syncopations as the music builds. I use repetitive rhythms to shape cyclical movements, capturing the emotional storyline of our strained conversations. The music begins as an internal thought, escalating before ending abruptly. This mirrors my feeling of spiraling out of control—terrified I wouldn’t see him the next day—only to realize it all worked out.
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If I painted my memories, the details would be colorful, while the main images would be black-and-white. Through choreography, improv, or performance, it’s the smallest details that captivate me. My unique way of thinking—often attributed to my ADHD—has sparked a deep fascination with how people process, retain, and retrieve information.
