> I couldn't bear the thought of another woman having your child.
Torrential rain in Berlin, alternating brilliant sunshine. Corresponding dips and hikes in the temperature.
Yesterday at some pretty haphazard Wall Museum with the kids. Strange arrangement of random artefacts, photos, texts. At some point for no reason that I would grasp the focus shifts from 1945 and 1953 and 1989 to a room devoted to 'Religions Of The World'. Its a temporary glitch tho – before long you're back to the rooms featuring models of the East and and the West, photos of wall construction, bona-fide chunks of graffitied concrete and the hollowed-out Trabants and improvised aqualungs that people used in escapes.
What stayed with me was the whole genre of photos showing people just after escape – earth-covered men and women blinking in electric light on emerging from tunnels, two families stood next to the home-made hot air-balllon they flew over the border.
Best of all was the whole string of shots of people smuggled out in the trunks of cars, or people emerging from them or people stood proudly beside the cars in fields, driveways and garages – drivers and escapees, proud, pleased, dazed, numb. Adults playing hide and seek. Pictures taken to mark the moment, to prove that this happened, a certificate of some kind. In some cases the eyes in these images are blanked out – like in personal-ad sex pictures, or as if they were innocents caught by accident in pictures of criminals and whose identity must be protected.
More than anything else though all these pairs of people stood next to cars or clambering inexpertly from the trunks, look like they're in clumsy publicity shots for a set of strange deconstructed magic-acts. A series of drab magicians lacking glitzy costumes, all photographed in black and white, with their grinning but dazed-looking assistants stood next to them, gesturing prouldy to their dated, home-made automotive disappearing cabinets. A kind of old urban magic.
A beautiful combination of vagueness and super-concrete detail in Tony White’s great new story at 1001 Nights Cast, Barbara Campbell’s project which I wrote about already here with some thoughts about my own most recent contribution. In Tony’s story Ahead in the Line men whose names you don’t know are telling tales that the narrator can only half-remember as they wait in some kind of line for something that you don’t really get to the bottom of but which you intuit is probably horrible.
Most of the time you’re filling in narrative blanks, running scenarios in your head about possible contexts/ relationships/contents. All the while you’re addressed as if you were a visitor from far away, for whom common sayings or phrases need gloss and explanation. Even the narrators voice might best be called enticingly unsteady; oscillating as it does between thick and thin, contemporary and slightly antique. But there’s really more than enough in the constellation of details coming out of the fog, and the constant gaps in information, for your brain to get to work with.
“There was a funny story too – I can’t remember. Something about a woman and her daughter. I think the daughter was this guy’s niece. Who was telling the story. And this was when those wretches were going from door to door. And they had no respect at all.”
This one reminded me, although it’s very different, of M John Harrison‘s stories for the 1001 project, especially his first, from the prompt Cocking A Snook, in which the narrator seems to overflow with details about a situation, but on the other hand utterly neglects to give any kind of overview. He generalises a lot too, in description, which is beautifully disconcerting – “a man” arrives in his room in a “long house”, “figures in authority” do certain things in the corridor just outside and a radio plays “the local music”, where we can’t possibly know what kind of music that means or what kind of authority these “figures” have over what. Very wonderful and funny and deadpan. Taken together its a picture that’s totally in focus some places but murky and blurred in others. You’re aware of vivid detail, but lack much solid framework to put it in. The world comes out of fog, or emerges through a constellation of points and shadows, or is discovered like a gift only half unwrapped, or an object wrapped hastily and inexpertly in rags – in some places you see precisely what’s there, other places you can only make out forms, shapes and structures that must be guessed at.
“It was impossible to calculate how many rooms there were in the long house. This information was known only to the figures of authority who often squatted in a line along one side of the corridor eating a vegetarian meal.”
Very funny. Also frightening.
What both stories do really well I think is show how it’s the arrangement of words and the gaps between them that create the zone in which meaning can happen.
These stories also celebrate the reader very much, pulling us into the game of language; knowing full well that where there is space, a lack of information, disjuncture, incompletion or anomaly, it’s imagination that thrives. They’re both really enjoyable too – texts where the sense of incompletion doesn’t mean melodramatic puzzles with an old-fashioned ‘mystery’/ denouement but rather structures that are somehow loose and tight at the same time, and which test nicely at the border of what we might be prepared to call a story. For now, in these cases at least, that seems to mean creating a kind of totally gripping situation which also remains somehow ‘only’ a constellation of possibilities, summoned by words, sentences, phrases.
I guess the interesting question might be if or how this kind of approach could be sustained over something longer length. 1001 Nights Cast lends itself very much to the fragment, the almost-a-poem, but if you think ‘novel’ I guess there’s a need (?) to fill more of the gaps, or perhaps, at least, to confirm or deny what’s inside them.
(Interesting recent stories on the 1001 site also from other friends and colleagues Adrian Heathfield, Sara Jane Bailes, Peter Petralia, Cathy Naden and Rinne Groff.)
Watching Bloody Mess last night in Toulouse I felt like I’d forgotten so many things. At the end I walked around the stage and took more pictures of the shredded tinsel, strewn popcorn, spilled water and beer, boiled sweets and other stuff that’s littered everywhere – detritus of the performance.
The popcorn, sweets and tinsel against the black floor look so like galaxies.
my main impression of the audience was a constantly changing glow of faces lit up by their mobile phones as they were checking the time. I found myself whimpering like an 8 year old at one point in what felt like a free fall of lack of interest – but a couple of vodkas in the bar nearby seemed to help – a bit.
F. describing life in general at the moment:
no big stresses besides the usual bike falls, benzine flares, lost keys, learning how to be loved, shopping at german discount shops, etc, etc…
Some spammer/robot inserting random text after the usual gif with info on unmissable Cialis/Viagra/Stock Exchange Options:
We are the civilian contingent – representatives of the town intelligentsia and merchants. The caller can disable this behavior by setting bit 3 in DX.
I’ve written a short text for Humus 3, a book on the 30 years of the Kaaitheater, about the extraordinary duets by Jonathan Burrows and Matteo Fargion – Both Sitting Duet, Quiet Dance, and Speaking Dance. The complete text, titled Brecht might have liked it, is below (and continues after ‘read more’). An edited version of it will be in the book, which comes out in September.
Kind of similar-looking but for sure not identical, semi-bald blokes in identical or nearly identical clothes are sat on chairs right next to each other and doing things. Mainly it’s movement broken by stillness – a lot of hand and arm action, some of it recognisable as versions of everyday gestures, the rest of it more abstract or more dance-like. There also seems to be some interest in sound; the noise that comes when the slapping palm of a hand makes contact with a knee, or the sudden exhalation of breath when they both slump forward in a posture of exaggerated rest.
In the next piece they lose the chairs and move around instead, sometimes together, more often alone. They are pacing paths back and forth, walking circles repeatedly. With these paths and circles they make sounds; a long ‘aghhhhh’ or ‘aaaahhhhh’ for instance, which although done without noticeable emotion still invokes a notion of falling, dread or non-specific fear. Sometimes, moving down there on the black floor of the stage, they look like claymation – simple-figure-humans with a comically (or tragically) small vocabulary of action and sound. They are creatures living within a limit, two men caught in some skeletal scenario, an encounter whose pieces have been disordered, dislodged from continuity and causality.
In the final of the works they go back to the chairs and make yet more sounds – speak words and sing even. The words run simultaneously – going with and through each other, side by side, over and under, point and counterpoint. The words are mostly describing movement; movement that could possibly be dance or could possibly be something else. Run. Run. Run. Stop. Run. Run. Run. Stop is all I can immediately remember. It’s fast, vivid exhilarating.
All of it messes with your sense of what’s simple and what’s complicated. Mostly it starts at a place you’d call simple, very simple, but then they pattern it zealously; repeating, overlaying, looping the sequences, moving in and out of phase with each other and altering the time so that what maybe began as something you could teach to eight year olds, ends up more like Bach. A lot of maths, a lot of counting. Strangely virtuoso, for all its insistent aura of banality.
Vlatka sent me a great clip from YouTube in which John Cage performs a composition called Water Walk on some 1950’s gameshow. As part of a very showbiz intro that Cage deals with really well, there’s a big joke from the presenter concerning the various items that Cage will use to make the music, including a bathtub, a duck call, five radios, a vase of flowers, a pitcher, a soda-syphon etc and a grand piano. He asks Cage if he minds that some people in the audience might laugh when they listen to the piece and Cage says ‘No, that’s OK, I think laughter is preferable to tears‘.
The music when it comes is great and his performance – deadpan, stopwatch in hand but somehow still relaxed – just amazing.
The UK Premiere of That Night Follows Day is this Friday and Saturday (18th and 19th May), in Birmingham as part of the Fierce Festival. I’m really looking forward to that. The piece is a collaboration between myself and the Flemish theatre company Victoria, and has a cast of seventeen children, between the ages of eight and fourteen. The set is by Richard Lowdon (Forced Entertainment) and the lights are designed by Nigel Edwards who has worked with me and my colleagues at Forced Ents for a very long time. The pictures here are by Phile Deprez.
Someone wrote a very nice blog entry following the first performances in Brussels the week before last. You can read it here.
You tell jokes to us.
You grade us. You tell us that we’ve worked hard, or that we have to work harder.
You save our drawings.
You say that Rome was not built in a day.
You say that silence is golden, that silence is important.
You sit by the bed.
You stand in the doorway.
You wait in the car.
You wait outside.
You teach us to swim.
You read to us about things that happened in a very far off, very distant galaxy.
You watch us when you think we aren’t looking.
You look at us with expressions that we can’t exactly read or properly recognise.
The whole tour list for 2007 is down below. There are already more dates planned for 2008, and I’ll try to add these here soon.
I’ve done a few very short stories now for this project by artist Barbara Campbell. It’s an on-going work in which she’s web-casting short text-based performances each night for 1001 consecutive nights. She’s reached number 693 at this point – nearly two years work.
Each nights performance is relayed as a live webcast to anyone who is logged on to her website at the appointed time – sunset where she happens to be. 100s of different writers and artists have contributed to her project – each writing a story (or stories) for her to perform.
The seed for each story in the project is a prompt word or phrase selected by Barbara from journalists’ reports covering events in the Middle East. She renders these prompts in watercolour and posts them on her website. Participants then write a story using that day’s prompt as inspiration. This is the one I did yesterday – a rather bleak tale, from the already bleak prompt line ‘generally unsmiling’ and these are the ones I did before, here, here and here. These other stories are also pretty bleak so you can see that I’m consistent.
There’s something quite exhilarating about the process of writing for the project – depending on how your time-zone synchs with the one Barbara happens to be in you get more or less time to write, and you get the prompt at different times of day/night. The previous one I did (from the prompt ‘wanted to get a good look’) I was in the UK while Barbara was in Australia. So I think I got the prompt at about 9pm and had to complete the writing before I went to bed. The other contributions I did were when I was in New York and Barbara (I think) was in Europe, so I was getting the prompt mid-afternoon and having to turn the writing around by midnight or so. For someone that travels so much it seems I get quickly confused by timezones.
I really like working against the clock as a writer and also on 1001 Nights Cast really enjoyed the fact of having to deal with some random stimulus. Barbara always lets you know where the quotes she chooses have come from but I never look at the larger news stories that she’s drawn on until after I’ve finished the writing. There’s something about the prompt – always a super-brief fragment – that’s very inspiring to work with, a level of incompletion that’s highly generative.
There are also some really great stories at 1001 Nights Cast from other people I know – from the writer/academic Adrian Heathfield, the director Peter Petralia, performer Cathy Naden (Forced Entertainment) and from the science fiction writer M. John Harrison – as well as loads more by people that I don’t know. My friend Sara Bailes just did a story there too. You can search for these other stories, and check out how to contribute to the project at http://1001.net.au
They’re showing That Night Follows Day in Rotterdam as part of De (Internationale) Keuze van de Rotterdamse Schouwburg in September and are busy working on a publication to go with the season. For the publication there are interviews but they’ve also set up a complicated email thing whereby different artists in the programme get to propose questions to each other. So, yesterday, this in email:
“The question that Pavol Liska and Kelly Cooper of the Nature Theater of Oklahoma ask you is: ‘How specifically do you subvert your habits? How do you trick yourself, on the most practical level, so your own work keeps changing and surprising you? How do you cultivate your creative longevity?'”
And my answer:
“I don’t have a strategy for this. I get tricked by accident – by being too tired, too busy, by being distracted, by getting fascinated with something that is happening, by becoming delirious (in a banal way, not thinking of hallucinogens), by making mistakes, generating accidents or by following a flow. I guess a ‘strategy’ could be putting yourself in a position where all that is more likely, however one would do that wether over a period of hours, days, weeks, months or years. As if creativity were a matter of making mistakes that you quite like and then trying (with all your best ‘craft’) to live and deal well with the consequences.”
I also proposed a question to Pavol and to Kelly, and to Lina Saneh and Rabih Mroué from Lebanon, and the other artists in the season including René Pollesch and Romeo Castellucci. Do they consider themslves to be optimists? I’ll post here if there are any responses.