In a little alcove awaits a golden man in a bowler and a
suit (I’ve already since this figure before marching in and out of the space)
sat behind a small desk he finishes making a print of his hand. He introduces
himself in an accent that comes from an imagined Eastern European he briefs me
on what’s about to happen. Which is a kind of psychic reading part interview. He
paints my hand in golden paint making guesses about my occupation, as he
presses my hand against the paper, he says I’m involved in films I tell him I’m
a writer. He asks if I lean to the French or the German, French naturally, on
this prompt he mentions Paul Vrillo (that’s right I’ve read his stuff) and for
a moment I’m amazed by this incredible insight. Despite my knowledge of cold
reading there’s an element of me that sees this as an amazing ability. It is a
piece of mentalism which relies on given the viewer what they want to hear.
Nearby there is a figure rowing in a sea of gossamer fabric,
though it seems there’s a fine line between rower and ‘sea’. She rowing, moving
nowhere is she where she needs to be as she sings a wistful mournful song. This
figure is at a point that the furthest from any shore, at the point between exertion
and exhilaration, at the point where the possibilities of the journey have yet
to be fulfilled. In her position in the middle of this fabric ocean she is part
of a melancholic lyrical dream.
Lili Spain
There’s another figure sat still at a table which is covered
in talc, as is the figure. On entering the space the figure throws more talc on
herself then returns to her stillness. I stand watching wondering why, what
does it all mean? What processes are trapped in that dusty head? Is there any
meaning at all, is the action just a simple action, like a child digging a hole
for the sake of digging. Ultimately at this point it is unknowable a set of
symbols based on internal codes. As I leave the space she throws more talc on
herself.
Kerry Carroll
I’m told a new piece has started and I pass behind a curtain
where I discover the figure of a girl dressed in white on the floor. At just
her and me at the moment leaning a sense of intimacy to proceedings. In front of me she delicately roles and stretches
and as she does I notice a strange effect. It might be the dim light affecting
my perspective but the dancer in front of me seem so small lending her
movements a spectral delicately. At points her shadow has as much, if not more
of a physically presence in this space as it echoes the expressions of this
dancers body.
This piece feels the most ‘performacey’ as it has its
specially installed space, in which above a neatly set dinner table hang apples.
Maiada enters the space and disrobes she begins to ring a bell announcing the
beginning. Though at this point I and two other mistake this as an invitation to
take a place at the table, this is a mistake, though Maiada calmly continues,
picking and peeling apples despite our unwanted presence. We three interlopers
are male and fully clothed what it must look like to have these men served by a
figure of a naked woman. In a happy coincidence, later on reading the notes
provided I read that part of aBOUD’s practice is the exploration of ‘living in
a patriarchal society’ maybe I just
trying to justify my blundering presence in an otherwise meditative
performance.
Lotta SCAF
Outside there sits the Bank of Change… a piece which
attempts to create a dialogue regarding the value of money. Normally I would
find piece like this difficult to engage with but recent history has given me
an opinion on the matter. So me, the artist, and the others that have gathered
chat about the damn oddness of the capitalism and the like. Lotta SCAF proposal
for a new economy is definitely intriguing and necessary perhaps.
Earlier I signed a disclaimer form and instead of waiting I
saw other stuff but now I’m back to see what I signed up for. As for some time
now a remix of Depeche Mode’s Personal Jesus has been leaking out from behind a
blackout curtain. After been refreshed of the ‘rules’ of the piece I nervously
enter the space into a stroboscopic storm into the centre of a circle. I note
the blindfolded dark suited figure in the corner. Like something in a dream the
figure is in the circle with me and this is where the touching begins. It’s an intimate
kind of touching and the whole thing is pretty much like a nightmare I had once
I endure as much as I can then leave. Wondering exactly what to take away from
this, maybe it’s just the experience of the strange dreamlike environment.
As a welcome difference I look for a piece which offers the
chance to hear the most silent place on earth. On meeting the artist she
explains that there is a place in the world which well is silent to the point
that if recorded it registers in minus decibels. Hard to get your head around. Though
that element isn’t important to me, as there is something poetic about the idea
of the most silent place in the world and in Sarah Boulton’s need to or wanting
to share it with others. Having shared it, listened to I began to question the cultural
importance of ‘silence’ or sound, but I’m basis to this kind of thing.
I step outside to watch Paul Hurley run back and forth and
watch people join in imaging there breathless conversations, though I don’t
join in. Not long after this I leave though this part of Emergency of felt quieter
it has been thoughtful and I leave satisfied with the work I have engaged with,
which might sound like damning it with faint praise but putting together which
leaves the viewer (me) with a sense of completion, of being satisfied is hard
to do.
No comments:
Post a Comment