I write this at the beginning of
my final day as writer-in-residence at the In Between Time festival
in Bristol, where I've been leading a team of five emergent writers,
editing their work and guiding group discussions. Somewhere in the
slivers of time between that and trying to absorb as much as possible
of the IBT programme, I've managed to scrape together some bits of
writing myself. This is what we've produced as a gang; this page will
continue to grow over the next few days, as we continue reflecting on and writing about the festival; later, I hope to work with Jake Orr to curate another response, within the Dialogue website.
A note about the writers:
Rosemary Wagg is studying for an MA in
history of art at Bristol university, and is a writer and editor for
the student newspaper Epigram.
George Meredith is a first year
undergraduate studying English and drama at Bristol university.
Rasheeda Nalumoso is a dramaturg and
producer, and member of the Project Boondock artist collective.
William McCrory is an art critic and
curator, and writes for Urban Times.
Kate Kelsall contributes arts writing
to the online journal Fourth and Main
We See Fireworks – The Old
Commonwealth Museum
The cold limestone appearance of
Brunel’s imposing building and its former name ‘The Old
Commonwealth Museum’ suggest that anything hidden within it will be
a similarly expansive entity, designed to make the visitor feel small
and in awe. Instead, We See Fireworks by Helen Cole is intimate. A
terrible, sticky word that carries with it the faint whiff of
feminine hygiene products, but apt none the less.
Rather than use the entire room, We See
Fireworks is set in its own little bubble of domestic-sized space.
For long periods, the room is entirely black and I walk into the
thick darkness using that special walk reserved for advancing into
the unknown when one is scared of falling over a sleeping dog or a
childhood monster lurking in a corner.
There are five other people present
when I first walk in – or so I am told by the guide who controls
the most precious object: a torch. As lights come and go, I see the
other visitors sitting in a group on the floor. I feel intrusive,
like I have walked into a group therapy session and should now either
leave or find something to confess myself. Silly thoughts like these
are fleeting as the voices which make up the artwork rise up and mute
the presence of the other visitors.
Each voice relays an experience of
particular significance to them. Most of these are in relation to
seeing a piece of art performed, whilst others take a more general
outlook and speak of any little memory now wedged in the mind with a
label of significance attached to it. Like a good film critic, I am
obliged to not tell you what the specific stories are, even if I
placed Spoiler Alert at the beginning of the sentence. Out of
selfishness though, I will mention one, my favourite, but only
because it has a title like a Donleavey novel and reminds me of the
lampshade swinging above the bed I left too early this morning.
Sad Death on 12th Street. On his way
to the Magnolia Bakery to buy ‘myself a treat’, the narrator
comes across a little hummingbird dying on the pavement. Struck by
its beauty and perhaps a sense that the dying should not be entirely
left alone, he ends up sitting down with the ailing creature and
vaguely tires to make it more comfortable, eventually placing it on a
leaf at the foot of a tree. Whilst sitting there another passerby
enquires what he is doing and, when told, says: ‘Ah, Sad Death on
12th Street.’ This confirms my suspicions that New Yorkers only
ever talk in quotation marks, that Woody Allan works entirely from
nature and that hummingbirds, like cherry blossom, have come to
symbolize beauty in a way a blue tit never quite does.
Temple Meads Station, magnificent
curving structure that it is, is so often the site of daily misery
and drudgery. From personal experience, I know how the place is a
dirty haven of obsessive clock-watching, delayed trains and another
Starbucks. For the next few days though, one only has to walk 100
yards around the back to find a little globule of fireworks,
hummingbirds and lightning in Plymouth.
Fuck getting the train. This is so
much better.
Rosemary Wagg
Version Control, Gallery 1: Tim
Etchells City Changes, 2008
Coming out of the Arnolfini you said:
‘It made me think how ridiculous writing is.’
The work in reference was Tim
Etchells’s City Changes, a collection of 20 framed pieces of A4
containing an evolving and un-evolving text about a city. After
sleeping on it, I still couldn’t decide what this work was really
about, so I turned to the authority that is the exhibition guide and
searched for their description. Compared with the long paragraph on
Etchells’s other work, Untitled (After Violent Incident), 2013, the
offering is a little sparse: ‘City Changes is a re-worked text
about a city which never changes.’ I wonder if that description is
even worse than mine or if no one really knows what is going on here.
The 20 texts are created as variants of
one another. They are all essentially the same, be it with three or
four paragraphs. The changes executed each time are signalled by a
change in font colour. To begin with the colours seem to have
obvious significance, blue for c/Conservative tendencies and green
for newness. Then this disintegrates, but the brain wants to keep
things in order and so continues to think ‘well maybe pink is the
colour of craziness’ or burgundy that of stagnation.
In the first five one can also detect a
pattern in the political changes described, but this too stops
occurring. The texts jump between describing a vegetating cityscape
to a politically volatile age and back again. Then two in a row will
take the same direction of movement, so that the reader is unable to
second guess the next panel. The texts are unsettling because you
understand that something is happening, or perhaps nothing is
happening, but you can’t entirely describe what. At times he is
humorous, with great turns of phrase. I scrawl down my favourites:
‘Couples broke up through a legal process that took all the fun out
of their acrimony and misunderstanding’; ‘Acrimony, Anarchy and
Misunderstanding were the most popular names for kids’; ‘It was a
truly carnal city where eating weird food prepared in new ways became
an art form in itself’.
The characters, the structure and the
fickleness all remain throughout. Perhaps the exhibition notes are
correct, it is ‘about a city which never changes’, we only think
that it does in each panel, each age as it were. It evokes the same
feeling one gets if you spend too much time watching the BBC
Parliament channel. After a while you realize it is all the same, no
matter which side is saying it. The entrance of the ridiculous
advertisers into events makes the ‘you’re kidding yourself
thinking this stuff is truly new’ point more explicit and by the
final panel I think I have got the point.
Adding and subtracting, creating and
editing an arrangement of 26 letters is all a little farcical. It
wouldn’t take much to slide new lines in between even Eliot’s old
ones or to rearrange Auden. It is a ridiculous little game of
arrangement with something intangible hiding behind it. It is my
favourite game and I like it even more when someone does it in pretty
colours.
Rosemary Wagg
We See Fireworks
There are moments in life that
transcend the everyday. They are unique experiences that induce a
sense of overwhelming unity with our environment and with those
around us. Whether it is an evocative piece of theatre, an encounter
in the street, or a surprising moment of stillness and silence, these
moments converge on us, as forces collide deep in our stomachs,
leaving us shaken, and breathlessly affirming.
Helen Cole’s ‘We See Fireworks’
collates these moments, which are related by disembodied voices in
the gloom. As we sit, staring up at the flickering lights which hang
above us, we feel an immense privilege. We share each individual
experience, or rather, the echoing recollection of that experience,
an imprint – like the spots of light that remain when we close our
eyes. Each voice betrays its character: the strong, clipped New
Yorker; the soft, drawling Australian; the faltering London girl.
They have lives which affect their experience and ideas on life and
death which may be different from our own. But the conviction with
which these moments are retold grips us, dragging us along as the
lights fade and swell and flit across the ceiling.
‘We See Fireworks’ defines the IBT
experience: the creation of moments and the lasting effect on the
individual, spanning a whole city for one weekend, and then gone. The
voice stops, the lights fade, the moment ceases to be, and we stare
up, watching the afterglow of the cooling filament.
George Meredith
Untitled (After Violent Incident)
Tim Etchells’s Untitled (After
Violent Incident) is a reworking of an installation by Bruce Nauman,
seen at the Tate in 1986. Nauman’s 12 screens looped three versions
of a violent struggle at a set table, offering a stark comment on the
unfeeling cruelty of human beings. Etchells scales this down to a
single screen, a mounted descriptive text, and the set table and
chairs. The sequence, though, remains the same: a male performer
offers a female performer a chair before dragging it away, causing
her to fall. When bending to retrieve the chair he is goosed. He
cries out and advances on the woman, who throws water across his
face. He slaps her, she knees him and they struggle with a fork, each
stabbing the other and falling to the floor.
Rather than looping the same footage,
the video captures one continuous take of sixty minutes, with the
performers enacting the sequence, resetting and beginning again
relentlessly. What Etchells achieves through this stripped-down
approach is a more intense emotional engagement, a feeling of
personal involvement with the performers.
The set table instils a tangible
domesticity to the sequence and implies a certain stability of
relationship through its archetypal associations of family and home.
The couple are together, connected and emotionally involved. They
begin. The repetition, at first spirited and fervent, becomes
strained as the performers become exhausted, hair wet and clinging to
their faces, clothes ruffled, panting. Always the promise, the
gestured chair, like the flimsy assurances of a destructive
relationship. The performers eye each other before each repetition,
the smiles become more forced and the violence stale and habitual. We
watch transfixed, wide eyed and shaking our heads as the chair is
pulled back again, aching for one of them to realise, to know what’s
going to happen and to stop. But they can’t. It’s scripted,
mounted on the wall in black and white. Also, as we come to realise,
they don’t really want to.
George Meredith
Fake Moon
Fake Moon rose over College Green last
night, marking the launch of IBT13 Festival. Perhaps a ‘launch’
carries heavy expectation: we shuffled off somewhat disappointed,
leaving Fake Moon a little too low in the sky, quavering under the
wind and pale in comparison to the real deal, looking down smugly
from on high.
Did we want fireworks? Something
colourful and loud? Looking back on that glowing orb, I have revised
my judgement. That shining point seems a useful jumping off point
for my own ideas about public art and the city’s interaction with
the festival.
Naysayers spurn attempts to increase
accessibility to the arts by planting works in public spaces, on the
grounds that it alienates passers-by who don’t have the foggiest
idea what they’re looking at. Our moon, however, is a gentle invite
to find out more. Floating at a safe distance, it won’t set you
alight, but it stands as a teasing, un-prescriptive and open symbol
of what this festival could come to mean for you. Everyone who walks
past our moon will surely pass comment, some will have their
curiosity sparked, and of these a few will be compelled to explore
further.
Like all constants in nature, we have
attached human motifs to the moon since time began. To the festival
organisers it symbolizes the entrance into a dream land. I cannot
help but conjure E.T and skinny dipping. Laden with multifarious
meaning, yet suitably ambiguous, let the Fake Moon be a portal into
IBT that stands for whatever you want from it.
Kate Kelsall
IBT13 Day One
My first day at IBT 13 was
characterised by serendipitous interconnections between seemingly
disconnected works. What follows is an attempt to sketch the apparent
affinities between Helen Cole’s We See Fireworks and elements of
the exhibition Version Control, and the continuities between Tim
Etchells’ Untitled (After Violent Incident) and Reckless Sleepers’
A String Section.
We See Fireworks is an atmospheric
installation that consists of different individuals recounting a
variety of performative experiences, and moments of reflection
brought about through unexpected encounters with visual stimuli. The
piece has many ebbs and flows, intersecting with a variety of themes
such as mortality, diaspora, nostalgia and social taboos. We hear of
implausible Michael Jackson flash-mobs in Warsaw, Dutch bondage S&M
extravaganzas and Russian folk singers that make your hair stand on
end. Some of them strike a chord whereas others simply pass; this
imbues the piece with a hypnotic dreamlike quality.
As the myriad of personalities,
histories and stories came and went, I felt I couldn't see the
overarching narrative that encapsulates these disparate experiences.
But then, such a narrative isn't necessary: more useful is the
realisation that what is created, in part, is an aural archive
documenting encounters with spirituality and the sublime.
Perceiving We See Fireworks in this
light enabled me to connect it thematically to Version Control
(Arnolfini), in which there is also a strong dialogue with the
archive. Felix Gmelin’s Farbtest, Die Rote Fahne II (2002), for
example, consists of two films: in the first, made by Gerd Conradt in
1968, students take it in turn to carry the leftist red flag in a
process which has the appearance of a relay, except that rather than
taking place in an Olympic stadium it is happening on the streets of
Berlin. The second film features an almost identical format, with
Gmelin and his students passing a red flag through the streets of
Stockholm. Curiously, this is not a literal translation of the
archive, since in the original the red flag is hung from the balcony
of Berlin’s city hall, whereas in the re-enactment they fail in
this endeavour. Could this be a critique of the radical left’s
tendency to regurgitate past political strategies and critique?
Rabih MrouĆ©’s The Pixelated
Revolution (2012) explores the darker side of the archive. Trawling
the internet for citizen journalist representations of the Syrian
conflict, MrouƩ has stumbled across several examples of mobile phone
footage that documents the death of the person filming. He calls it
Double Shooting, one person shooting so that others might understand
what is taking place, the other shooting to lethally repress this
emergent consciousness.
Playing simultaneously, with audiences
invited to come and go, Reckless Sleepers’ A String Section and Tim
Etchells’ Untitled (After Violent Incident) presented another
consonance. A String Section consists of four performers, each
despite the apparent danger attempting to saw the legs off the chair
on which they sit. What ensues is an impressive bit of nihilist D.I.Y
that demonstrates an impressive array of ridiculous and acrobatic
poses, none of which seem particularly well-suited to the task at
hand. Importantly, why would any sane person want to saw the legs off
their chair? It is as if movement, action and gesture within this
piece have lost any obvious or rational function. This I believe
connects A String Section and (Untitled) After Violent Incident,
which involves two actors immersed in a violent confrontation without
any discernible narrative or catalyst. In this absurdist altercation
that has occasional bursts of laughter and prods on the bum there is
again a separation between gesture and function. The actors
impersonate violent acts and revert to moments of slapstick comedy.
These perceived affinities could just
be mere hunches, but articulating them is a useful way to enter into
dialogue with the curatorial decisions that underpin the festival.It
is important not to read works in isolation: whilst artists certainly
frame their artistic concerns, they too are being framed by the
conceptual methodology orchestrated by the curators. Equally, I
recognise that it is easy to reduce and compartmentalise the
creativity we encounter; perhaps it is more productive to find the
language that acknowledges the heterogeneity of what we find. This
was a fascinating introduction to the festival and I look forward to
everything else that I’ll encounter over the next few days.
William McCrory
Kate McIntosh Worktable, Arnolfini
Docks
In Worktable you are first met with a
shelf stacked with objects and the invitation to select one to
destroy. Do you choose an object because you want to take it apart,
or because you like it aesthetically or emotionally? I was drawn to a
shell. Aware I had not considered what it might be like to then
destroy the shell I momentarily hesitated. Should I pick the camera
or the roller skate, which might be easier to break? I had a slight
trepidation about what lay ahead: how would I go about destroying the
shell? We are all drawn to objects in different ways; by now this was
‘my’ object, ‘my’ shell.
Curious, I wanted to see what prompted
my fellow participants' choices. Were they different to me? Were they
more systematic? Did they choose an object they thought would be good
to destroy? Unable to proceed to the ‘Work Room’ until called I
sat alongside fellow participants patiently waiting my turn. The
banality of waiting was occasionally punctuated by loud bangs and
clashes as people ahead of us broke their objects. Someone popped out
to ask if anyone had an Allen key, presumably to further dissect her
object, greeted by a forlorn no. I looked around my fellow audience
members. Why did you choose a leather suitcase? Because it was the
biggest object. Why a ceramic vase? Because I know what it takes to
make them…
In the privacy of your isolated ‘Work
Space’ you are bidden to destroy your object. What is it to take
apart an object and render it useless? What if its original function
is long gone anyway? Workspace raises interesting questions of power
and control. Why should I destroy my object? By acquiescing to the
request did I capitulate too easily? Would my shell have better
remained intact (already a detached remnant of its distant watery
past)? Perhaps a camera could be considered broken simply by having
the batteries removed.
In the opening ‘In Between Time’
Festival Brunch, an open forum session on the subject of
participation, artist Kate Mckintosh talked of her interest in
Worktable “to not fetishize the objects: the objects speak for
themselves, the voice, material. You can feel people making choices.”
How do you embrace the ‘objectness’
of objects without fetishizing them? What is it to fetishize? Is it
not likely that in the very choice of the object you chose,
fetishization occurs? The object ‘plays’ more than we are
consciously aware. Attempting to mend a very broken tennis racquet in
the next stage of Worktable became very quickly redundant – it was
beyond repair! In any case, crafting new patterns with string was
much more fun. By rejecting the pre-supposed function of the racket,
I found a new ‘racquetness’ to a tennis racquet – and had much
more success.
This was confirmed for me in the final
room where I met with the new objects constructed by other audience
members. I most admired the uniquely brave abstract choices to make
new shapes and creations and not ‘fix’ broken objects - an
approach many people had taken. Through its periods of banality and
its encouragement to work with objects alongside other people,
Worktable stretches the boundaries between what we see and what we
know, beyond surface appearances.
Rasheeda Nalumoso
WORKTABLE – Kate McIntosh
For an artist accustomed to dance and
performance, Kate McIntosh boldly relinquishes the reins with
Worktable. The simplicity of its instructions give nothing of itself
away, nor impose anything external on your experience. Three rooms
with infinite readings and responses, the piece becomes what you
enter with and discover en route. A shell of an idea, to breathe your
own life into, giving lie to any myths of objectivity. Nothing is
neutral in this deceptively un-telling space.
A visibly weary father on the last day
of half-term energetically fuels his kids’ imagination, as they
struggle to rebuild a trainer into its original likeness. Founder of
South London arts organisation The Brick Box mangles several hammers in
her attempts to deconstruct a brick, the symbolic foundation stone of
her company. An enthusiastic engineering student spends over 2 hours
arduously recreating a Singer sewing machine, because he feels sorry
for it.
In Room One I can suddenly no longer
conceive of an impassive object, etched as all things are with our
nostalgia, associations and emotions. I choose an ugly porcelain dog
because I want to hold it by the hind legs and smash its twee little
face in, but as I cradle it in the queue I’m asked what kind of
spaniel I think it is, reminded of a stale grandmother’s living
room and place it back on the shelf. Someone holds a pair of glasses
and I think of mountains of belongings in Auschwitz. Even an apple
and light bulb seem to hold universes in their material, inanimate
selves.
In the Work Room you’re isolated
within the silence of your headphones, goggles and heavy gloves.
Perhaps frightened by what my original psychotic impulse towards the
spaniel said about me, I tentatively try to dismantle rather than
destroy. I want to get at what’s inside the light bulb without
breaking it, but I haven’t thought things through. I’m not very
practical. It’s frustrating. After false starts and fannying around
with pliers and other tools I cannot name, I take a hammer to the
glass and leave unsatisfied, envious of the wholehearted beating
someone’s giving a walking stick next door. We are told to ‘Take
apart, shatter or wear to pieces’ our object and this feels
tenderly tragic. The lives of things at our mercy; malleable and
marked by our agency and in our image, like sealing wax.
Rebuilding someone else’s bashed up
vase restores my mood. Room 3 is jovial, communal and alive. The
objects have lost their somewhat macabre command over my emotions and
I create a sculpture that looks something like a teapot, somewhat
like an elephant. As useless as it is, I have made it, a whole new
fresh entity, not yet laden with traces of time. Have I missed the
point? I realize that it is the making and destroying that matter,
not these things in themselves.
Kate Kelsall
Work Table
What I wanted from Kate McIntosh’s
Work Table, was to smash something to bits. Looking over the shelves
of available objects I want something big and hefty that would break
in an almighty, climactic crack. Glasses – too flimsy. China –
too easy. In the end I plumped for a walking stick made of dark brown
wood with a black rubber tip. Looking back I wonder whether this
choice reflects some latent disgust for age and infirmity, or a
youthful rejection of growing old. I don’t think so. I just wanted
to snap it.
Turns out I’m not that strong. Having
donned the gloves, goggles and ear defenders I tried a few swoops
against the table but to no avail. I grabbed a craft knife and gouged
into the wood, exposing the pale splinters beneath. Then, a handsaw,
thrusting backwards and forwards furiously until there was enough
give to force the stick against the floor, pushing down and bending
till it snapped. With sweat dripping into my goggles, I collected the
pathetic fragments of the walking stick into the tray. My relish in
breaking something in such an aggressive fashion seemed a bit
shameful, and I felt a bit stupid. Emerging from the room and meeting
the usher, I felt like the regular at a sperm bank; offerings in
hand, my forehead moist, and the sure knowledge that everyone heard
the grunting.
Coming into the next room the
atmosphere was lighter. People were mending and chatting. Compared
with the focussed, soundless solitude of before, this was a relief. I
deposited what was left of my stick and took a torn shoe. I sat down
next to a boy who had been there hours meticulously repairing a
sewing machine. Mending is easier and nicer, like how it takes fewer
muscles to smile than frown. The positioning of this process after
the violence of before brought to mind the equal capabilities of
human beings to destroy and to heal. It was a scary but uplifting
realisation.
I put my repaired shoe in the next
room, next to the crooked clocks and stitched bears. Each had their
own style and character, indicative of a journey. In relation to
this, Kate McIntosh spoke about relinquishing artistic control,
allowing this personal journey and seeing only the final objects as
evidence of the process. They are beautiful, but that’s not the
point. McIntosh does not want to fetishize these products as ‘the
art’. Objects are, as has been proved, fragile and fleeting. They
are the focus of the process, but not the message of the
installation. What is important is our relationship with them and our
inward exploration of ideas of destruction and healing. It is human
nature in shipping containers. As I left, I noticed on a bottom shelf
a walking stick, taped awkwardly together but whole again, healed.
Good. It was a nice stick.
George Meredith
Martin O'Brien: Breathe For Me
Breathe for Me, performed at the
Arnolfini on Friday, is a call to action already set up in Martin
O’Brien’s impressive body of work across pieces such as Mucus
Factory. As an audience member sharing space with Martin I always
feel drawn into the dialogue of his research – a conversation on
presence, the artist’s body and the artist’s work, the politics
of watching, you there, me here. The Other made visible.
Locked in time and space with his own
body Martin’s repetitive and painstakingly precise crawl sets a
constant durational rhythm to Breathe For Me. The beat is the artist
fishing for plastic medical swatches lifted out of a green liquid tub
with his teeth – a grim invocation of bobbing for apples. These
plastic swatches are then neatly laid out in rows before Martin
pivots back for more, occasionally stretching a limb as he goes. We
are witness to a grueling routine, self-reflexive on the
regimentation and structure of the activity and exercises that go
hand in hand with cystic fibrosis. I was reminded of Joseph Beuys'
1974 Coyote: I like America and America likes me; only here Martin is
both Beuys and the coyote.
The politics of this make uncomfortable
viewing. (Whoever thought it would be easy?) Outside, one teenager
warns another: ‘You really don’t want to go in there.’ This is
a response I have encountered before – particularly from young
people for whom Martin’s work might be a first introduction to
body-based live-art work. Yet the most healthily diverse group of
young people I have yet seen at a performance at the Arnolfini packed
the upper gallery dark room to watch him. I later learn this group of
students are from Reading University, and are currently being taught
by Martin as part of his PhD. A co-opted audience then? Perhaps –
but still an audience who gained a new awareness today of the
different types of performance work available. Recently the higher
education academic mailing list (SCUDD) has hosted a torrent of
opinions on the subject of Live Art, questioning the reach and
relevance of associated platforms for new performance work. Breathe
for Me vitally contributes to this discussion by showing that the
dialogue between young people and live art is healthy and open.
Rasheeda Nalumoso
Kein Applaus fur Scheisse
What it is to be young: a rough
patchwork of pop songs and outrageous behaviour, of adopting and
discarding different possible identities, of alcohol and drugs and
piss and puke, and falling in love so hard you would do anything for
the other person, you want to stitch yourselves together for ever.
Being young is exhilarating, messy, and – you forget this,
sometimes, when you're older – bloody hard work. In Kein Applaus
fur Scheisse, Florentina Holzinger and Victor Rieback perform their
own youth with an intensity that makes them repulsive at first, then
so charming you want to give them a hug as you leave the room.
That warmth takes a while to build,
because it's hard to tell whether their opening provocations comment
on white privilege or re-enact it, subvert female subjugation or
reinforce it. They enter the stage wearing tie-dyed African robes;
through the wide sleeves you glimpse colourful feathers; wrapped in
his hair are strings of fur like thickly matted dreadlocks. They
skank their way through Rihanna's Man Down, then Holzinger pulls her
dress above her naked hips, settles in a chair with her legs
upstretched, and waits patiently while Riebeck extracts a bright red
string from her vagina, holding the audience's gaze all the time. In
an era when women shaving their pubic hair has become the norm, it's
delightful to see that Holzinger's remains intact: a silent but
powerful statement of refusal to conform.
But that feminist stance is
problematised by the scene that comes after: a double-exorcism,
heralded by thrums on a thumb piano and the rattle of tiny shakers,
that begins with her shedding her robe and ends with him vomiting
Slush-Puppy-blue liquid over her bare stomach. When, a few minutes
later, he stands naked over her prostrate body and lets out a stream
of urine, her subordination seems complete. One person walks out,
then two more. As it happens, their lack of patience is the problem,
not Holzinger and Riebeck's willingness to test ideas, to push
uncertainly at boundaries and at themselves.
Because what's really happening here is
a fluid – yes, possibly too fluid – exchange of roles. Between
the puke and the piss is a deadpan scene in which they play out the
insecurity engendered by love: she accuses him of not wanting to
touch her any more, he accuses her of not being there in an hour of
need. There is a rape, a pregnancy, a death – but they belong to
his role, not hers. Experience is shared so equally that when
Holzinger takes in a mouthful of Riebeck's piss, she doesn't swallow
it but lets it trickle into his mouth so he can swallow it instead.
This is the moment when Kein Applaus
transforms: from a challenge to its audience it becomes a communion
with them. He puts on clean pants, she puts on a blonde wig; she
sings The Greatest Love of All while he cuts her fake hair. He begins
to talk to us directly, about money and love and his six-year
relationship with Holzinger, while she performs an aerial routine on
the silks that is surprisingly elegant and restrained. There is
booze, a small bottle of vodka passed around the audience (usually
it's a joint, but weed has been peculiarly hard to come by in
Bristol), and there is throbbing, psychedelic music (Devendra
Banhart's Rats). They are earnest, open, friendly, relaxed – silly,
too, because this zen atmosphere, so bucolic you can actually hear
birdsong, is comically ruptured by the firing of a bazooka that
splatters Riebeck in ultraviolet paint. Reborn, he hands Holzinger an
acoustic guitar and to her faltering chords they sing Marina
Abramovic's An Artist's Life Manifesto as though it were a hymn or an
ages-old folk song, something handed down from the elders to give
succour to the young. Which, in a sense, for artists finding their
way, it is.
Walking out, I knew I felt beguiled,
but I wasn't sure I'd caught the “generosity” of the piece
advertised in the IBT programme and identified by others in the
audience. At 6am I was jolted awake by the sudden realisation of how
carefully constructed Kein Applaus fur Scheisse is. Within that was a
recognition of their willingness to get things wrong, to do that in
front of others, and experience rejection because of it. An
awareness, too, of their trust in the audience, to join them on this
journey, and see their world, their relationship, their youth,
through their eyes. I'd found its generosity – and it made my heart
glow with love.
Maddy Costa
Breathe For Me – Martin O’Brien at
The Arnolfini
There is a smell to hospitals. A smell
of antiseptic, latex, linoleum and death. There is also a sense
associated with them. The sense that intellect and reason are about
to be usurped by corporeal facts. You can think and speak for hours
waving the Sunday supplement in your hand, but then the Doctors step
in and smash the illusion that you are in control or could change
anything.
There is no colour to hospitals. The
lights are too bright and whatever the hue, the walls always look
mouldy and sickly. The starkness of the white screens is a mocking
reminder of the absence of beauty. A blank canvas no one could be
bothered to draw on. There are cold hands and mouths full of jargon,
touching and talking and turning the body into a specimen. In some
way malfunctioning. An interesting example of a freak show.
But at least that makes it sound
exciting. Ten minutes in the X-ray and hours sliced open on a table
with a pair of sturdy rugby-boy hands yanking the bent pieces around.
A moment in the spotlight before months, years, a lifetime of being
perfectly uninteresting, particularly to oneself.
The unglamorous monotony of long-term
illness is encapsulated with exactitude in Martin O’Brien’s
performance-art work Breathe For Me. O’Brien has cystic fibrosis,
a condition which requires constant attention and carries with it the
threat of early death. In the sanitized workspace created within the
Arnolfini, he crawls back and forth, back and forth across the floor,
carrying in his mouth pieces of paper dripping with pastel-green goo.
Bobbing for mucus-covered apples and then carrying the burden for
yet another journey back to the top of the path. There is no sense
that this is a particularly worthy fight. It is not done
deliberately, as self-flagellation to achieve spiritual
enlightenment. Nor is the potential of spiritual enlightenment used
to frame this behaviour in terms that suggest the participant is
blessed to be as such. It is simply done in the way that if you have
a bad foot and need to walk somewhere badly enough you walk with the
bad foot. There is also no promise of reward at the end. No
beautiful body after hours spent in the gym or swipe-card entry
through the pearly gates. Just the terrible visceral uniformity of a
life controlled by a really cruddy lifelong illness.
The dark studio creates a sense of deep
claustrophobia suitable for a performance about a genetic disorder
which effects the breathing. The smell of the sludge is disgusting
and insidious. The low ceiling, repetitive movement and this dry
stench soon make the performance unbearably intense. O’Brien
portrays with unnerving accuracy the truly boring experience of
fighting a decrepit body day in, day out. He also conjures forth the
frustration and loathing directed from the functioning mind towards
the failing structure it is encased in.
I wanted to stay for longer. I wanted
to know what someone else thought about being young and having a body
that had been poked and prodded so much it became a hateful,
inadequate thing far out of the mind’s control. We seek
representation and shared experiences, or so we say, but then the
accuracy comes and it chokes us.
Rosemary Wagg
We See Fireworks
At first it's like listening to people
recounting their dreams. Disjointed images swim through each
narrative: one person describes a room full of tubas and people
wearing angel's wings, another a teetering Russian folk dance
performed by a woman with no arms. A woman stands crying and
abandoned by a river, a man nurtures a dying hummingbird in the
street. It's as though each storyteller had been transported from the
real world to the realms of the surreal, the deepest recesses of the
subconscious. These aren't dreams, however, but memories of real
events: unusual encounters, many of them with a piece of theatre, and
some with life itself.
Patiently gathered over the course of
several months by Helen Cole, the stories told in We See Fireworks
say much about our relationship with art, the proximity it creates
with extremities of experience, and its ability to reverberate in our
minds long after the event itself has passed. Cole presents them as
simply as possible: her venue is cavernous but she has created a
small dark space within it, lit by a galaxy of old-fashioned filament
bulbs, which illuminate in subtly choreographed relationship with
each narrative. Within this black box – a loaded term in theatre,
carrying connotations of cramped ambition, a lack of scope – Cole
takes us across the world: we hear accents from England and Scotland,
America and Australia. There is a quiet but powerful manifesto
embedded here: it doesn't matter who you are or where you come from,
live performance can affect you.
It's so dark that other figures in the
room seem as ghostly as the disembodied voices floating through the
air. What arises is a curious feeling of collective solitude, which
emerges as a unifying theme of the narratives, too. One woman
describes the prickling, thrilling awareness that someone she loved
sitting a few rows behind her in an auditorium was feeling as she
did, sharing her thoughts; as she does so, one lightbulb glows, and
then two. When experiences related correspond to a moment from your
own life, the start of unexpected connection is electrifying: the
young woman who describes looking out over a row of gardens on New
Year's Eve, watching people create their own ad-hoc fireworks
display, could be me the night 2012 became 2013; later, someone talks
about how moved she was by a performance in which soldiers received
letters from home and I realise with a shiver that she is reliving my
favourite scene from the National Theatre of Scotland's Black Watch.
This is what makes We See Fireworks so
magical: the memories are individual, but the feelings universal.
Love, loneliness, nostalgia, joy, pain, fear, death: one by one, the
storytellers are given greater understanding of these fundamentals.
Mostly that's through art or theatre or performance, but sometimes
it's thanks to an accident in daily life: incidents stumbled upon,
beauty caught by chance, or by virtue of being attentive to the
world. One of these stories exemplifies the transformation of
attitudes that art makes possible: a woman walking through a foreign
city takes a wrong turn and finds herself face-to-face with a gang of
youths. She feels vulnerable and afraid. But what happens next
astonishes her. They apparently break into a car – but when they
do, it's to play Michael Jackson's Beat It on the car stereo. And
then they begin to dance. A huge, choreographed routine, that makes
her feel lucky to be alive in the best possible way. “It was like a
sort of dream sequence or something,” she says, her voice ringing
with wonder.
It's said that nothing is more boring
than listening to people describing their dreams. The same might be
said of listening to people describe at length a performance you
yourself haven't seen and never will. We See Fireworks refutes this,
in the process rejecting the impatience behind such an attitude, the
impatience driving the modern world in which art is seen as a luxury
for the elite and not an essential to human understanding of our
complicated existence. Cole invites us into other people's minds –
and in doing so switches on new lights within our own.
Maddy Costa
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