
This is an initial action in a series of performances based in and around the Walthamstow Marshes. This short piece came from a late afternoon walk on the marsh, just down from Springfield Park, Clapton. It took as its starting point the idea of writing performance into existence, asking: whwhat happened to the 'live' aspect of these performances? And, Is it enough to merely imagine a work into existence? 4:39PM - Walthamstow Marshes As the cobwebs reflect the afternoon light, a performance is underway. The deadly utility of a spider’s web seems to be of paramount importance to the work. A man lies amongst the Creeping Marshwort and Scot’s bracken. As he lays there motionless, still and bound, I contemplate the merits of this strange sight. He is bound with what looks to be thick shipping rope. From shoulder to toe the rope constricts all movement. I am reminded of past Houdini shows. The man remains calm. He lays there seemingly awaiting the sound of the starter’s pistol. Without warning he begins. Wriggling and writhing, he wears a pained expression. He is trying to escape with a great amount of effort. Time is moving incredibly slowly. 23 minutes pass. No luck so far. I begin to feel this may be an impossible task for our performer. Maybe, this is a performance of attrition, wearing away over time the very constraints that hold him? No, silly idea. Maybe, its a performance of failure and we are the only ones willing on his efforts? A few onlookers begin to leave, others look away. Discomfort has now crept onto the faces of those watching. Where do we look? At this individual who after 49 minutes is exhausted and may be beginning to realise the futility of his mission? Do we walk away and leave him there? Or, do we stay and remain hopeful? I watch on, another woman also stays and we silently will our performer to beat his self-made constraint. ***************************************** 7:44AM - Clifton, Bristol 'arm up. swivel right. hoot loudly. left foot down. lunge forward', read the instructions. 'repeat 300 times, do this in a cheery manner, without effort'. We stood in the car park in rows of 20. The light had all but gone apart from the orange glow coming from a near-by petrol station. '138.7 per litre', read the electronic sign. We started our task; we did this as cheerfully as we could. The orange glow gave out a false hope of warmth; mid-October is anything but here. As the task continued the exhalations of breath grew stronger, clouds of uniformed gas rose upwards. 'huhh....hurr....huhh....hurr....huhh....hurr....huhh....hurr....huhh....hurr.... huhh....hurr....huhh....hurr....huhh....' everyone in unison. The mass exercise propaganda films of Nazi Germany came to mind; except in this case no-one marched up and down the lines keeping time. We had naturally fallen into this rhythm without any effort. ***************************************** The link below (photo) was the result of a kind-of joint writing exercise between myself and the deceased author of The Living Mountain, Nan Shepherd (kind-of, because Nan had no say). Nan became somewhat of an inspiration for a single day's diary - written for the Sideways festival - which chartered the events of a days walking on route to Turnhout, Belgium. I was participating in Sideways as a Walking Librarian, as part of the Walking Library project. (entitled: kasterlee to turnhout) |
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