Static Flaneur in a Suburban Setting
Writing a piece for a residency but not being able to talk of the work in the show directly presented me with a challenge. I want to write about something and make it relevant to the time and space I inhabit in this moment and time, but how does one do this when the very subject has been removed? I decided to view the space and seek inspiration. I wandered aimlessly around, staring blankly at the bare concrete walls of this former bus station, the art, yet to be brought into the light of the public’s gaze, and the surrounding roads, still and unfamiliar. It occurred to me I could cast myself in the role of observer, forget about the art, the show for me would be the people who temporarily inhabit this space, drifting as they would in and out of my corner of the show. SO I decided to use take on the role of flaneur, but instead of me taking a directionless stroll amidst Beestons offerings, becoming all-too-familiar with the surroundings as I did so, I would sit in one spot, unmoving, and let the world float by me. So why call myself a flaneur if I’m not even going to bother walking anywhere? Well, my thought was that it is the process of travel with no specific aim which is the key to the methods of a flaneur, but what is travel? JeanDominique Bauby when asked of the frustrations of being confined to his bed, unable to do more than blink, replied he was able to go anywhere by merely closing his eyes. Travelling is a mental process as much as a physical one. When riding the train, or in a car one remains seated, static, and yet the world around alters. Einstein showed that it is not possible to be sure if one is moving or not, whether the observer may in fact be stationary whilst all around is moving, only time allows us to measure movement, and even then, without a point defined as fixed, it is impossible to know what is really moving or not, as everything is moving outwards from the beginning of the universe. Both Vivekananda and Kant mused on the reality and the relationship between time, space and causation. Vivekananda noting that to his mind “That which differentiates one thing from another is time, space, and causation. The differentiation is in the form, not in the substance.” So with this in mind, I did what man is so good at and self-validated my own opinion, and decided I
could indeed be a static flaneur and began to prepare for my observations. After selecting a suitable arrangement for my desk within my given space, I proceeded to organise my equipment and props. Besides my laptop (all I really need) I brought along an old typewriter, a coffee machine, a sound recorder, and had arranged for a projector later in the week. The props would hopefully draw comment or inspiration. With that I set to work. The journey had begun, and now all I could do was wait, and observe as all moved in front of me.
Day One. First impressions were that the space I occupied seemed to be ignored by most visitors. At times it was as if neither the artist I was working with nor I existed. The desk, upon which my possessions were arranged museum-like, became a mere stopping point, a clearing in the forest of art, in-which an opportunity had been provided where one could rest, prod at things absent-mindedly, and move on. Worse, as the day went on, it became a handy storage space for other people’s unwanted items. The attitude towards my colleague’s space was more lamentable however. Whilst all the art in the complex was complete, we were the only exhibitors to be creating the work as the festival moved from day to day. Thus on day one, we had very little to show. Thus his work-space was found to be an excellent forum for supposedly droll wit and to ruminate about DIY. "How’s your fingers?" One portly middle-aged man spoke loudly, though he barely turned towards anyone as he said it. The artist replied. With the reply somehow satisfactory he went to the toilet as so many before had. On his journey back he once more made a loud statement, seemingly to himself, but too loud not to be for the ears of others. "You should have said no!” and with that, he was gone. The DIY conversation was definitely the theme of the day "look that’s just the wire I’ve been looking for. Hexagonal Mesh" another man exclaimed to a disinterested partner. The man looked intently at the chicken wire on the floor. The artist seemed almost invisible to his gaze. He then drifted towards the table. Peering at
the hammers, he seemed to think about something and then, come to some conclusion. Having resolved the issue he briefly glanced at the information for the show, before moving back to the mesh. “Do you know what you are making?” The questions spoken with a flat readout quality. There'll be blood on the floor before the end of the day" he remarked before an answer could come, and wandered off. He was an interesting break from the toilet tourists and men for whom the most exciting part of the day is to state “aren’t you finished, or you should be done now" which dominated the early crowds. Of course there was the usual anti-art reaction from some people, but positive responses were also in the air though. "It’s really nice to see things like this in the local area. We don't get things like this out in this locality very often,” was a comment heard from some of the older couple. Those who chose not to engage with their deep-seated desire to expound DIY secrets or present their entry into this year’s Dave One-Liner Award, entered the space then hastily left, ignoring even the rooms beyond ours. An invisible barrier seemingly repelling them. Excitement gradually gathered as the day progressed, crowds slid in and out, stopped at some pieces, and generally milled, pondered, analysed. The demographic makeup of the visitors showed a strong bias towards young families and retired groups. Thus I listened to the contrasting sounds of children’s excitement and adults conversing in hushed tones. By the end of the first day, no questions had been asked, and so the performers were able to work without hindrance. With that the night began to draw in and I called it a day. The buzz of earlier began to subside with silence gradually enveloping the larger open spaces until they reached my cramped corner of the building. Day Two Upon my return I was aware the atmosphere had now completely altered. The air was now crisp and still. The quiet hung like a mist gently covering the space. Every sound made in the building seemed to ripple outwards
touching each wall. A tide pushing memories of each action outwards before withdrawing back to its own place. Bangs of a hammer, voices calling out inaudible instructions, the clip-clop of heeled shoes upon the bare concrete. The day wore on, and people arrived from time-to-time, the high pitched squeals of children becoming replaced by the lower hoots of adolescents playing ping-pong on one of the exhibits. Slowly I found myself growing to despise the work in the adjacent room, bringing as it did a stream of balls and torrents of shouts and stomps. The light began to stream through the space. Bright and warm. Through the window I could see the wind driving the clouds, white and billowing, across the baby blue sky. Maybe the atmosphere in the space would change too? Once again though, interaction seemed to be limited, the one occasion of human interaction, helping a visitor with directions. She walked past the crowd which surrounded my desk, almost passing through them in her desire to ask me a question. I had been chosen specifically. Why? I failed to be of any use to her. "How do I get out?" her eyes boring into me. She knows I thought, she has seen though my veneer of deception I had buried myself in. What else might she know? "I don't know, sorry". A lame response, I could see she felt as much. It was unsatisfactory to her, it seemed to restore my invisibility, I had deflected her gaze and now I was no-more a part of her memory than the brief glimpse of a pigeon taking off. The artist in the room continued to have more of the same comments as the day before. "All day, ya should be done now" "Thought you’d be finished by now" "Be good for yer chickens later" "I wouldn’t mind a chick later, ha-ha” Silence descended once more on the space as people exited en-mass. The
lunchtime period had passed and it seemed as though we were in for another period of stillness. The pip, pop of the next room was interrupted later by a well dressed man. Some small talk ensued, followed by very positive comments. The man looked the piece over admiring it. "Where did you get your body from? Your mind?" he queried. "Yes, sort of" replied the artist. This concluded any meaningful engagement with the public and the night began to draw in once more. Again an odd quiet was brought in with the dark.
Day Three Saturday began with a change to the parking arrangements. The "Event Car park" previously charging, now free. Perhaps the first days charge was part of a performance piece. If so kudos to them for incorporating a commercial aspect into the piece. Saturday brought families bobbing about like flotsam caught in the tide. The table tennis remains a source of entertainment for many. Still the space was a place where people neither dared to enter, nor question. Occasionally though, the space would be traversed and the rear portal passed through on the way to see the adjoining rooms. Near the middle of the day, after a series of children and adults with childlike innocence stared from afar averting their gaze when I looked up, I found myself approached by a couple. A writing machine related conversation ensued. Acceptance! I was one of them. It seems this was a breakthrough of sorts. From this moment on, I was approached and engaged in conversation by a queue of people. I spied two young girls hovering around the typewriter. I encouraged them to use the machine, to experience how different the feeling of typing using such a machine is from using a pc. Initially they approached it
cautiously, touching the keys too softly to make an impression, some of the hammer strikes not even reaching the paper. I explained how to use the keyboard and showed them the required method of tapping the lettered keys with sharp hits. They gradually began to explore the machine more fully until eventually they were using the machine with abandon. Other conversation followed about the typewriter and eventually, film, art, and writing (even my work). This woke me up and as the morning coffees effect wore off the conversation (along with the occasional glimpse of an amber eyed girl) worked like a caffeine substitute. By 16:30 even this had worn off and the tiredness began to take hold, pulling me deeper into slumber, only a brief moment of writing kept me from drooling onto my laptop and dreaming of girls with amber eyes. Another project in the adjoining room invited people into the space and with that the area filled up, people became emboldened and also followed into the space, eventually both the artist and I were working, surrounded by the public. As the music festival died down temporarily to prepare for the evenings events, the numbers of spectators dwindled and with the eventual departure of the other project, the public once more became wary of the space and the invisible barrier was able to reassert its authority.
Day Four An empty space. After a long journey along busy road, people of varying smells, good and bad. Once in the space a brief anti-pep was achieved by reading the sign-in sheet, many odd comments. This was followed by a battle with the slide projector and screen, the screen seeming to absorb every particle of light in the room, rendering the images washed out to the point of invisibility. The rooms were not silent but filled with a white noise of music bleeding out into the room’s vast area, and the occasional bang or conversation which would wind its way through corridors to my space. Ping pong continued to be the main creator of activity.
The art project was now a giant, with skin now partially covering his body, but the inside still visible, it loomed over the rest of the room. The giant loomed over the rest of the space, acting as a guardian of the space, both watching the space, and also gazing, almost wistfully out of the window, perhaps wishing for a chance to live outside of these walls, waiting in futility for the changing of the guard. Still the constant remained a lack of guests beyond the cinema area, and when the gateway is breached they tend to go around the space rather than through. Ah ha! At last, interaction. A couple who worked in the main part of the building entered and engaged in both physical and ultimately verbal communication. They asked about the space, whether I thought it was a good space and when the show was on until. Normality returned later. Hungry or bored? Maybe I'm just cold. After 4pm the place became quite lively. People wandering through, investigating the space and the art within. Friends arrived I talked about the typewriter and the projector. I found myself surprised the Giant didn’t engage the public more, or should I say I am surprised that it didn’t encourage engagement. The general mood, difficult to judge, was a mixture of frustration, boredom and resignation. A culture of whiling away the hours at the teat of lady drink prevailed in some camps. As darkness began to fall, the warm glow of the electronic equipment become more prominent. The image projected, now bright and clear. The heater and projector itself throwing out warm yellow light, the very colours warming the room as a fire would. The laptop's purple luminescence adding a retro modern feel. I felt the most at home as I had at any time. The day was slowly turning to night, and with that it was almost the end of the day’s work. A small buzz of activity could be felt in the air, the same kind as
you would find in any office or work site with 20 minutes to go before the end of the working day. Even the Giant seemed to adjust his position slightly in impatience. Like Atlas still holding the world. Day Five Rushed. That summed up the overall feel of the day. Late for Japanese lesson, late to meet up with friends to take them to the exhibition, rushed then sums up every action since. A friend was reading a book. "What are you reading?" I asked "Care of Wooden Floors, I don’t think it’s published" "Wow" I exclaimed "It’s an unfinished proof" He looked at the back of the book. The date said 2nd February 2012. It was covered on both outer covers with what appeared at first glance to be blurb, but on closer inspection were descriptions and quotes. Above the blurb was the line, UNCORRECTED PROOF - NOT FOR QUOTATION OR RESALE The text was actually full of quotes from people who had worked on the book, as well as a long description of the novel selling the book, not to the reader but to potential future publishers. After 15:30 there were a few visitors. People wandered around, occasionally stopping. Most drifted around the work as before but some stopped and chatted. Generally though people were more interested in commenting than questioning. Today was slooooow. Strangely Saturday which was a much more physically difficult day, went much quicker. Today was swimming against the tide of apathy, both visitors and gradually, my own.
Although yesterday I wrote surprisingly large amounts, it is definitely since yesterday that I am beginning to wonder why I am here and if I am fulfilling any purpose. I feel listless, devoid of ideas. The projector doesn’t show up until 16:00, no-one seems interested in what I do, nor understands what it is. The wave of apathy seems to have enveloped me and I am drowning in it. I seem to find myself once more washed-up on a beach of self-doubt and confusion. At the end of the day of much questioning and discussion it became obvious that my own fate may mirror that of Socrates. "You ask too many questions, that I think maybe I am also beginning to think about killing you" I was told
Day Six A radical change. People. Conversation. Questions. Conversation ranged from art, to photography to human behaviour, shyness, comment or question. Interesting commentary came from different directions and I heard of feedback from seeing some of the other exhibitions. This allowed the work from the rest of the festival to bleed through into the dialogue with the space. What is art? Do I like it? Do I understand my own role? The drinkers were still enjoying their anaesthetised existence. I pondered why drugs and alcohol were not a bigger part of my life. I prefer dreaming to numbness was the conclusion. My hunger eventually got the better of me, armed with a pitiful amount of change and the laziness which would prevent me from finding a cash point, I endeavoured to find an energy source that didn't fill me with guilt following its consumption. After debating between a choice consisting of chocolate, crisps, drink, and sandwich I went with sandwich as the lesser of evils. Returning to the space I sat and unwrapped my package. Immediately the air inside the package and
outside mixed, I gained a brief glimpse of time travel as the smells erupting left me acutely aware of the smells which would eventually be created by the digestion of this morsel. The day continued and finally received a visitor. God give me strength. To paraphrase Confucius "Be careful what you wish for" My kingdom for noninteraction. I was stuck with a lady from an unspecified nation standing directly behind me; initial questions about the piece took an odd turn. I should have seen this coming. The first question earlier was "have you come back from a job?�This was due to my return from "lunch" and wearing a suit. I mentioned I had dressed like this more than not during the exhibition. Following this she handed me two demonstration size perfume vials. "This one is for a man and this one you could give to may be a girlfriend or woman" I nodded. Even so, this didn't prepare me for the conversation to come. The word college was a trigger, from this point on what must have been a thirty minute going on 30 day discussion about the English education and grading system. Most of the conversation seemed to be repeating one’s self, trying to explain that different certificates defined the degree not the building in which they reside. At first I thought this would be a short question or two, but each time I turned back to my work, she started again. Stood behind me, looming over my shoulder, it became increasingly hard for me to concentrate, an acute sense of trying to observe whilst being observed overcame me. My patience was being severely tested, as were my neck muscles as I continued to strain to look behind in order to converse. Nothing seemed to indicate to her that I might be working, not the fact that I was facing the laptop, not that I had my headphones in, not that I was actually here to work. I finally snapped as the questions continued to go round in circles and the pedantry eventually got to the point of not being able to comment without a contradictory follow-up
Day Seven The day’s conversation was devoid of interest. Comments similar to the first days.
“What material is that?” “Chicken Wire” “Oh, I know about chicken wire, I have chickens at home” The glue and chicken wire were the hot topic of the day. Many people commented upon them and were inspired to buy some for use at home. Still overall it was a great day. The atmosphere was joyous and almost festive, with upbeat Kurdish music playing. There was a constant stream of visitors, and they have entered the space.
Day Eight The final few hours. Now the Giant was finished they interacted more. One lady said it was great to see it in this state. She was in Wednesday and mentioned "it didn't look like that, I’m really glad I came today" The final couple of hours were a party atmosphere. Japanese chanting and shamisen to a break beat background reverberated throughout the building. With that, I left. The arrow of time having passed beyond this festival now.