Transcripts of Cruelty

Version 2 Documentation

2011-12-06T14:38:00.000-08:00

Version 2 was performed as part of the Trashing Performance Fringe Event, which took place on the 30th October at ]P E R F O R M A N C E S P A C E[ in Hackney Wick. The performance was a collaborative action between myself and Kris Canavan and is part of an ongoing series by Kris.

Photos by and appear courtesy of Marco Berardi.

www.kriscanavan.com

www.performancespace.org

Untitled Action Documentation

2011-10-18T14:06:00.000-07:00

XXXWhether secretly or not it is important to become different...or else cease to beXXX My cousin's heart still burns in my chestXXX

Pictures captured of an action over two nights at ]P E R F O R M A N C E S P A C E[ on 14/15 October 2011 as part of 2 Nights with 2 Gyrlz. Thanks to both parties for their kind generosity and support. Donations can be made to ]PS[ here for their upcoming event as part of the Trashing Performance Festival.
Photos courtesy of Jade Lucy Boaler.

Piss and Sick: Thoughts on Kris Canavan's Version 1

2011-09-10T06:56:00.000-07:00

I have for some time been involved in a dialogue both personal and artistic (if you would class the two as seperate) with Nicola and Kris Canavan and whilst I have spent many hours discussing their work and viewing documentation I had yet to see them action. Having unfortunately missed their joint collaboration of their week long residency at 25 Stratford Grove I did witness Kris' action of Version 1, taking place in the converted garage space.

The piece unfolds from the image of a static body, bound to the space by a pulley system of cotton upon which is connected large blocks of frozen urine, collected in the run up to the event. The audience is invited to witness the piece either within the space, or in a more voyeuristic and detached manner through a large window from the yard outside. Canavan signals the beginning of the piece with a bleeding from the head, and then the body begins to move.

To say that Kris falls through the piece would be a gross underestimation of the time that he has spent working through the piece psychologically. There does however appear to be an element of discovery within the piece that can be seen and is captivating to watch; in much the same way that you would stand fascinated as a statician calculates odds in some indecipherable language and the way they move through these equations with a focussed, investigative mind.

The tension of standing watching the piece with no more than 10 people has to be taken into account. We all know Kris personally but this makes the piece no more important than viewing a stranger actioning at a platform or club event. There is no ego to prove something, nor external preconceptions about the artist that can be prevalent within the context of a multi line up setting. What we are witnessing is a raw, primal message being enacted upon the body.

Version 1 is unapologetically old school in its invocations of previously utilised aesthetics. There are clear nods to the works of Gunter Brus with the body being enveloped in paint and being grotesqued by the piece's mechanics; the cherubic face is twisted and warped by the wrapping of string cotton around his face and frame. The body is being mashed and traumatised by the voluntary yet robotic turning on its own static axis. This turning raises blocks of frozen piss which melt and break apart, giving some relief to the tension on the body as the load is lightened. There comes an ecstatic breakout where Canavan unhitches himself from the machine and smashes the now cracked blocks with a hammer, scattering shards of yellow ice throughout the space and reaching into the boundaries of the room.

The piece has to be seen within the social context of the area and the period in which this piece has been crafted. Jarrow is where Canavan resides and the weight of the historic march to London that took place hangs off the piece and could be viewed as a springboard into unlocking the mystery of the action. This is essentially a social conflict abstractly presented upon the body, with the dripping of black and white paint upon head and torso producing shades of grey.

Whilst the subject matter is heavy the piece is not a difficult one to watch, it is injected with a sense of cheeky rebellion throughout. The word 'SICK' carved into Canavan's chest which is clearly a nod to brandings given in the mainstream media and art press about both body work and the the recent rioting throughout England just weeks earlier. It could be read that the choice of font (a kind of scarification graffiti wild-style) is a direct tribute to the urban youth which were so readily dismissed by the right wing press as thugs and vandals that participated in the political action. We also see a beautiful moment in which he places a tin bowl upon his head and a mischievous affectation as the paint drips down, in much the same way a child would dispose of an unwanted meal.

Kris Canavan is an artist with a mixed legacy; the process of the solo work beneath the aesthetic standing in sharp contrast to his recent investigations with his wife Nicola and performance to camera with Dominic Johnson. This collaborative work can ultimately be seen as poetic affirmation of the ying and yang love brings and investigation of powerplay within relationships. His solo work seems to tread the boards of political dissent and a frustrated need to problem solve his own agitated and enquiring mind of sex and society. Version 1 like much of his work is a beautiful, playful, FUCK YOU.

For further information and documentation of the work and Kris Canavan please visit:
http://www.kriscanavan.com/index.html

Photo Credit: Rachael Allen

Untitled

2011-09-02T09:01:00.000-07:00

Photos courtesy of Chris Watson

I want to put myself absolutely at your mercy for good or evil without any condition, without any limit to your power.

-Leopold von Sacher Masoch

Venus in Furs

Secretly or not... it is necessary to become different or else cease to be.

-Georges Bataille

Acéphale

Dream 3

2011-08-21T12:48:00.000-07:00

I dream of deaths.

Multiple ones.

You dying thousands of times in a single flicker.

A car blows up. Shot by police. You hanging from the light fitting with a belt around your neck. Pushing a knife up into your rib cage and waiting for the rouge to run down your chin. You trip and fall down the stairs, when you land theres the solitary crack that means lights out. The city burns and no one answers your screams. A silent poisoning. A frothing cyanide induced suicide. A drive out to the woods, a digging of your own grave and a shotgun to the back of the head. A dousing of petrol and a match to the face. A hammer to the head under a streetlight, the blood running black under the sulphur glow. I stamp on your neck till there is a wet and terminal snap and the gurgling gives out.

Then I wake up.

Rage Actions Showing 23rd July, Bradford, Theatre in the Mill

2011-07-15T04:36:00.000-07:00

"I was sick of hearing its morning in America...its f*cking midnight man!...normal people did not listen to Hardcore, and we liked it that way..."

"If you want me to be your friend, I will be your friend. If you want me to be your Father, I will be your Father. If you want me to be your God, I will be your God."

Audiences are invited to observe, participate and feedback on a new ensemble piece from artists Nick Kilby, Alex Herod and Carrieanne Carr Vivianette. Rage Actions (Hour Zero) will take place on the 23rd July, 7.30pm at Bradford's Theatre in the Mill, and is the culmination of a four day intensive devising process, supported by the Mill and presented as part of the Open Space Residency Program.

The event is free and has restricted access; it forms part of Theatre in the Mill’s Open Space programme where artists explore their practice and methodologies. Please contact 01274 235495 theatre@bradford.ac.uk to book or for further information. The action investigates the inculcation of rage within fringe movements, both religious and secular, with particular invocations being made towards the Peoples Temple and the hardcore punk movement prolific within the early 80s of the United States.

The piece meditates on the contemporary theory of mimetic viral infection, Reich's theory of trauma resting within soft tissue and the necessity for theatrics within religious ritual.

The performance will be immediately followed by a question and answer session and feedback, chaired by the Theatre in the Mill's artistic director Iain Bloomfield.

A working notebook of images, audio cut ups, writing and automatically generated text is currently online at http://rageactions.blogspot.com/

Contributions and Cuts: Notebook Entries

2011-07-10T09:40:00.000-07:00

Cuts seem to be the in thing these days. A cut is a deliberate wound or abrasion, deeper than a scratch but less problematic than a gash or tear. A cut can be done in a clean, controlled fashion- things can be trimmed, cancers can be removed, both physical and social.

Round One: I asked the favour and she sat on top of me delivering blow after blow to my face and torso.

Round Two: She sits on top of me and paints me with lipstick, I am getting pounded by the other. A knuckle ends up in my eye, I hear a squelch so I tap out.

There is a fundamental problem with the governments methods of quashing insurrection and subversion within the arts; artists will make work regardless of receiving funding, working a day job to buy materials or claiming benefits because making work is a job, paid or unpaid that has worth (a quote shamelessy lifted from Michael Mayhew). It is an occupation, both physical and psychological.

Post Modern Bourgeois Cluster Fuck.

It has been announced that Samantha Cameron and various members of David's harem (including mass liar and wanton sociopath Nicholas Clegg) are to 'curate' works at Whitechapel Gallery from the government collection. At this point the idea of George Osborne painting himself white, tapping veins and walking up and down Tate Modern's Turbine Hall seems like a disgusting inevitability.

News of the World is Fucking Dead.

It came as no suprise that the weeks events involving the criminal activities of various trash tabloids and the proprietary members of government fed into the work being made. A frustration was found at the unrelenting whitewashing and the inevitable apologising, promising of new ways and justice being brought to the table.

We make our homes in your shit.

A physical reaction of dismissing and processing what is essentially fecal matter had to take place; an overwhelming need to deconstruct the lies and create something more tangible, even if it was only a piss soaked ball of grey. The desolate landscape of current politics had to be presented and strung up like the greasy, crippled animal that it was.

Rage Actions Blog Launched.

2011-05-18T00:38:00.000-07:00

Please be aware that the Rage Actions blog has been launched and we would very much like your involvement to spiral forward with this work.

The blog is http://rageactions.blogspot.com/

You can add your voice to this blog by emailing into us your submission at rageactions@gmail.com

Open Space Workshop and Development Session

2011-03-30T13:59:00.000-07:00

Theatre in the Mills' Open Space:

Rage Actions

led by Nick Kilby

Wednesday 20^th-Saturday 23^rd July 2011

Theatre in the Mill, Bradford

If the essential theater is like the plague, it is not because it is contagious, but because like the plague it is the revelation, the bringing forth, the exteriorization of a depth of latent cruelty by means of which all the perverse possibilities of the mind, whether of an individual or a people, are localized.

-Antonin Artaud.

Every muscular contraction contains the history and meaning of its origin.

-Wilhelm Reich

We just came back from Walt Disney World.

-Rev. Jim Jones

Artists and members of the public are invited to casually attend a four day development process and showing of a new ensemble piece, led by West Yorkshire based performance artist Nick Kilby. The piece will look to study and invoke the inculcation of rage within fringe movements, when an exit point is lost to members of sects, tribes and subcultures and how an inversion will inevitably lead to an explosion.

The workshops will look to study movement based practices such as contact improvisation, American style moshing, stress positioning and deprivation techniques with a contrasting element of autobiological storytelling, immediate generation of text and an open dialogue between associated artists and members of the public acting as a barometer. Open showings and discussions will take place on a daily basis on wide and varied related subjects, from the eroticised and contradictory aesthetics of the skinhead movement to the politic of theatre in contemporary ritual.

The three day intensive will culminate in an hour long showing of work on the 23^rd July, followed by a feedback session and Q & A.

Please note: Applications are currently being accepted to be part of the associate artists involved within the performance, for details please contact n.kilby9932@gmail.com.

Image Copyright Adam Clark Young

Links: Theatre in the Mill

Invoking Jonestown

2011-03-29T14:35:00.000-07:00

Dream One Part 2

2011-02-13T16:19:00.000-08:00

I'm back in this house. The electricity has been cut, the heatings off and outside is silent. Void silent which shouldn't be the case as there gale force winds throwing itself around the home. I'm stood in the doorway to the kitchen which is small and poky.

She died there on the floor. I say died on the floor but the doctors say she passed away in the moment between her standing up and laying down. Her head I am estimating would have possibly been at counter height when she closed her eyes. I can't remember if she had her eyes open or not but for the sake of this argument lets say she did. The thing I am attempting to comprehend in some fashion is if there was a point between the standing and the falling what would the last thing that she saw or would see? I hope it wasn't the ceiling. Grey. Dull.

The rains now hitting the window like its trying to break it, still void quiet.We know from her phone records the last living person she spoke to was her boyfriend at the time. I never bothered to check what they were discussing, never really bothered me to know. What we do know is that afterwards, she rang the automated horoscope line and spent four minutes listening to predictions on her future. I don't know what was said by the machine that night but if it was expelling truths somehow I don't think 'you are going to die in the small hours of the morning from a pulmonary embolism and there is nothing you can do about it.' takes that long. I hold this book and know its wrong, the series of zeros and ones are lying and the warmth it once gave out has evaporated. The windows blow out and that's when the noise starts. We can assume the last living thing that she spoke to was her pet dog and possibly the last human voice came from Eva Cassidy or a local radio station. The glass crashes around and cuts my face and arms. Then I wake up.

Auto-Generating Text: The Boxer is Dead

2011-02-13T11:14:00.000-08:00

I'm cutting the hand wraps up and know that this can only be a good thing. The boxer died two nights ago and I say died rather than killed because there was no intent behind the decision to stop working with the alter ego, the aesthetic just simply ran out of steam. I never wanted to be in the process of flogging a dead horse or holding a comfort blanket and never supposed that would have been the last performance I did with the gear on but it felt right when constructing the piece and playing with what I had that it felt like this was an endgame to a two year R and D project...the last thing I would ever want would have been to think about the goodbye being this grand sacrifice done as a pure spectacle to create a mausoleum for the series and at the same time I wanted to miss working with the nature of the performance, things had become easy and the performances bled into one another, the work needed putting to rest before it got tired.

The process on stage had become clear and I felt the piece click together smoothly so I knew it was two years well spent. I will miss the discipline for the purpose of that performance and the justification to rage so unapologetically which I suppose what the entire journey could be construed as...the rage for me has now become a very secondary, impulsive thing as opposed to a direct assault...it can be something that I feel may be masked in the future...maybe not even present at all but the need to be so directly violent in terms of blunt force trauma is no longer there.

For Sale: Archived Remnants limited to 32 pieces

2011-02-12T13:50:00.000-08:00

The final boxing performance took place last night, at the Dogstar in Brixton. I have carried out approximately 10 actions in a two year period and have always used the same hand wraps. One of the hand wraps has already been given away as a gift but the other will be cut up into 32 pieces and will be sold for 5.00 GBP (excluding P & P) to raise funds for this years Glorious Trauma. My gloves will also be up for sale, as a pair and will go to the highest offer received within 14 days.

Included with the fragment will be an essay that will not be published on the web or offered to anyone else to review for a year on the rationale, want and need to perform the way that I have for the past two years and why I have chosen to move forward.

To enquire how to purchase these items please contact n.kilby9932@gmail.com or direct message on twitter or Facebook.

Auto-Generating Text: Him to the Underground (2)

2010-12-16T16:36:00.000-08:00

There is a breaking point to everything and at this point I know my spine has a lower breaking point than the pressure upon it. Tap. Touch gloves. The kimura is a spectacular embrace that pulls the arm and shoulder in a contradictory direction; down and backwards. The reflex action is to arch the spine backwards from the floor, but it is a futile exercise. The temptation to roll into the grip can be achieved if the opponent is in half guard but this pushes you onto your front which opens you up to the risk of the rear mount with the inevitable flurry of jabs to the side of the face and ears or a rear choke hold.

Auto-Generating Text: Him to the Underground (1)

2010-12-14T13:47:00.000-08:00

As I lay on my back I feel the sweat drip from your face onto my torso and the need to breathe is profound. Lungs are shot and there's nothing I can do but tap the top of your arm and hope that the impulse reaches your brain before I pass out. Getting body slammed hurts more than it looks but getting elbowed in the head is managable. I keep wondering why I didn't pay attention in physical education and when I think back all I see is static. Biology was an important one and the way the cows lung we dissected hung lifelessly after nailing it to the door with drawing pins pulls me back into the situation at hand. A release comes and a staggered rush of air falls into my chest cavity. Pain is one thing but the suffocation of a choke hold is absolute.

Performance Rights: Oliver Bray's Villa (Draft)

2010-12-10T14:18:00.000-08:00

The following is a transcript, expansion and polishing of a notebook extract written in July. I feel compelled to share this now due to the fact that key devices from the performance in question were ripped off and used badly in a performance I saw at the start of November. Whilst I understand there are always cannibalisitic elements to performance the recent piece (no, I won't tell) had the feeling of watching a five year old attempting the same stunt on a push bike that he had just watched on a Hollywood blockbuster; ill conceived, immature and running the risk of head injuries to participant and audience. Take heed makers, audiences do view work more than once a year:

Its the morning after the closing night of the Emerge festival and in my hungover state am trying to remember what happened past about 10.30. There were two performances, graduate theatre Milk's physical retelling of the merchant of Venice and Until Thursday's Oliver Bray performing his solo effort Villa.

The latter is what I would describe as a strange mixture of third person storytelling and analysis of what it means to be an audience member. The premise is built upon a previously well examined but curious study on the act of writing and the inner discourse that the writer feeds off to craft a narrative. The story is deliberately obscured using unnesseccarily esoteric terminology; where a simple yes or no would suffice between exchanging dialogue we find paragraph long sentences that say the same thing. This works as a hilarious examination of some writers' wanton need to inhabit and find a sophistication where there is non. The dialogue is interrupted and discarded by this chimeric narrator (can you play half character?) who again reinforces the ideas and satirical paradox of fictional fiction.

To understand Villa its complex humour needs to be unravelled and placed within the context of the wider performance sphere. The piece could be described as a tribute or demonstration of how to use contemporary devices to good effect and a quiet mocking of the indulgent way in which they have been previously used. Addressing and questioning of the audience and the way three bodies are implicated within the space are not new forms, but the ease in which this is executed and the lack of awkwardness when playing this sort of roulette with the viewer shows the extent of the methodology behind the piece. On too many occasions you can point to examples in both live art and contemporary theatre where the audience have at best been awkwardly managed and at worst abused either with a physical invasion or a mental assault. Bray's piece is one of the gems that sit within a special niche that manages the balancing act and has the mystique of gaining the audiences permission to subvert themselves with their own participation.

This permission is one of complete mystery when leaving a piece of this nature (how did they get us to do that? Why did we tolerate being treated like puppets?) and cannot be placed as an infinite resource. Not everyone can make work of this kind, the quality needed being ultimately inbuilt in the individual and not something that can be transferred through rehearsal and/or training; a reminder of the rare, shamanistic qualities that contemporary theatre can hold

Thoughts on Luci Fiction's Submerged

2010-11-11T12:42:00.000-08:00

Luci Fiction's Submerged was the final performance of the first Glorious Trauma festival held at the Seven Arts venue in Chapel Allerton. To say the performance was haunting may sound sentimental but in a fashion burnt its way into my random thought processes. This may have something to do with the fact that it was the final memory of a long, exhausting, highly rewarding week but I feel that if it had been shown at any point in the lineup I would probably still be writing this now. Putting it in the frankest terms I normally find performances that approach the type of stimulus difficult to relate to and I suppose the fusion of hypnosis and unapologetically personal source material is what has caused me to make comment about the piece.

The audience are initially greeted by a long strip of soil, buried underneath a mound a static body. Little is happening in the way of bombastic movement which does away with the arguments of sensory overload when it comes to the use of video in performance whilst action occurs live. The performance utilises a device similar to Beckett's Crapp's Last tape, allowing the sound design to drive the performance and deliver the narrative.

The piece constantly throws up the question of phenomenology and its relevance to death. The archived performance on the projection, the present, struggling and conflicted body and the audio track in which two voices discuss a personal tragedy throw up questions of the past self being lost and the idea of survival through heritage of memory. The underpinning refrain of a dying individual shedding a final tear of regret is the linking part that allows the three performances exist within the space without causing it to be cluttered.

The constant feeling of claustrophobia is present in the performance, the grave although being shallow is a profound one and gives weight to the process of breathing as a necessity if we are to survive. The minutiae of the performance is volumised by the performers present body and the performers archived body both being submerged in soil and water respectively. We witness the slow heavy movement of the soil and the slowly escaping are bubbles of the video and we are reminded that not only does the performer have a limited amount of air within the space that this works as a general metaphor for mortality. The performance plays out its end game with the emergence of Luci Fiction from the soil and an explosion of liquid from her mouth; the archived performance finding substantiation within the present self.

The message in the piece is clean and efficient, unlike many of the performances also witnessed at Glorious Trauma it is clearly choreographed; watching performers fall through their performance seems to be the current mode in many of the current works. This is not to say that this is a wearying method to witness but in this case for the piece to have the beauty and clarity that it does then the economic of the performance results in a perfect execution of the message.

Post Traumatic Stress: Dealing With a Monumental Curatorial Hangover

2010-10-28T01:45:00.000-07:00

To say that the past four days have been difficult would be an understatement and to say I have been difficult would be a monumental understatement. The process of curating the Glorious Trauma Festival and to see it come and go is one of the most difficult things I have ever done. There is I suppose a period of adjustment in watching something grow, flourish and then simply end; the sudden silence and lack of activity being profoundly painful. Returning to the day job is hard; returning to something you don't want to be doing with people you don't want to be with. This entry serves as a kind of verbal exorcism of working out exactly what happened and why it did work.

Lessons were learned on the first venture. A lack of interpretive literature, get in times, working with a new venue that has a limited understanding of the working processes and negotiating with artists to bring the pieces together, all things one would come to expect when taking on a curatorial role. I constantly feel that if it was easy then its not worth doing and the same could be said of this festival. Audiences are difficult to read and it is only hearing the positive feedback several days after that I know we did the right thing and that this kind of festival matters, in what I used to view as a fairly provincial town.

I used to think that this kind of work was more important for the city than the artists that we dragged up from the South, it is more reciprocal than many of the situations I have seen in recent times. Again, listening to the feedback from the artists I know that they enjoyed performing and actioning to a new audience and found something refreshing about performing to a slightly anticipatory crowd.

At all too many of the artist-to-artist events you will find an air of subversion to the crowds reaction- they've seen the piece a thousand times before and are second guessing the performers motives, in some cases disrupting it for the purposes of upmanship. Breaking new ground may not be easy but there is a chance the live art mafia aren't going to trash your performance. Glorious Trauma will hopefully (Osborne depending) become a regular event and stay fresh and new keeping the timbre of audience and inviting further attendance.

An open letter to George Osborne

2010-10-24T07:27:00.001-07:00

Dear George Osborne,

It is with a heavy regret that I write to protest your recent decision to cut the funding for the arts by an unthinkable 29.6 per cent. As you can imagine, we as a community of artists, most of which voted against you are less than happy.

As I write this open letter talks of mobilisation against the decision are already underway with protests and actions being planned as you made the announcement. One can only imagine the financial strain of increased security and police presence in the capital, should a major protest go ahead. I propose a different solution to this; a wager between two people.

If you would agree to step into the ring and engage in a twelve round boxing match, with the 30 per cent of the funding that you have deprived the arts as a stake, I would agree to work everyday of my life in a mundane office job donating my disposable income to the performing arts. This clearly is a no brainer for yourself, the legacy of politicians gambling with tax payers money being a long and worn road to go down. This would make you a demigod amongst your peers, a man who has the resolve to stand by his actions and is literally willing to fight for them.

I have watched how you move on television and seen your strong mental ability to deflect question after question from your chicken legged opposition. You would make a worthy opponent indeed.

This is an open letter as I feel the public should know what a great fight this would make. I reckon Don King would be more than happy to promote the fight and the buying rights to air it would be monumental. Should you choose not to proceed I can perfectly understand, the midnight beatings at boarding school and casual torture from the prefects clearly have left a lasting impression. If that is the case I urge you to reconsider, the glorious nature of hand to hand combat mediated by the hallowed and sacred rules set down by the Earl of Queensbury, in a set time and place with yourself would be very special.

I look forward to your reply.

Regards,

Nick Kilby

Dream Two

2010-08-19T01:16:00.000-07:00

I've had this one rolling round in my head for some time now, it keeps coming and going but its more or less the same. We are out in the desert, the sun is setting and we've built a fire. There is no food in sight but we have had a banquet and are settling down for the night, going through some kind of lazy discourse and smoking the last of the cigarettes.
I'm not sure if its a trick of the light or what has manifested in my head but as the sun reaches its thinnest point on the horizon and twilight sets in the desert starts to boil. Steam begins to rise from the sand like dry ice in opaque plumes and the ground begins to move beneath us. This steam doesn't burn instead freezes and I'm looking at you and her and theirs icicles hanging from your locks and frosting on your clothes. I'm about to say we should get back to the car when it stops and all that is is a cold desert night, the fire barely lit but still here.
In the dark I can see the ground moving still but this time its creatures swarming towards the fire for warmth; snakes, lizards, coyotes, rats and beetles. All cold, all coming towards the fire, we don't feel threatened. Then things get vague and I can't remember.

Getting Close

2010-07-22T02:24:00.000-07:00

My arms shouldn't bend that way. I'm pinning a professional Mixed Martial Arts fighter to the ground, training as part of a "roll around". There is no way he can move, my arms are locked and he's not going anywhere, then he takes my forearms and with the slightest pressure pushes my forearms into the lock. Pain jolts up the outside of my elbows and I tap out.

Rethink, regroup. Touch gloves. Again.

I go on the defense this time, the guard position on my back as I wrap my legs around his torso, lock my feet together and start to bring my knees together, squeezing the diaphragm and attempting to stop his breathing. He doesn't flinch instead he reaches down pushes my head below into his armpit and using my own arm pushes down on my trachea. Don't tap out, don't tap out. Tap out.

Rethink, regroup. Touch gloves. Again.

I've been in this class for the last eighty minutes and there are a few key things that I have come to discover in my first MMA training session. Firstly is the use of pain as a learning tool. I could not comprehend or work out the fundamentals of a guard or grapple until it was demonstrated on myself. Working out how to position your arm precisely to cause an almost total disruption to the opponents windpipe is difficult to comprehend till a coach shows you that the difference of half an inch is enough to turn something uncomfortable into a submission inducing strangle.

The intimacy of this sport is profound and deceptive. I had never met the coach or members of the class before, yet became more physically intimate in the space of an hour and a half than I have done with my closest friends. The key is to stay as close to your opponent as possible. You lessen the blows that are thrown and leave little room to negotiate arms or legs. When engaged in the grapple position you can taste your opponent literally, the sweat from their arms, legs and hands dripping onto your face and inevitably onto your lips. What appears to be a maternal cradling of the body is inevitably part of a manouvere coupled with the legs and arms to stretch the opponent, and if one is of an active imagination to seperate the head and neck from the abdomen.

I attempt a Kimura, a basic grapple move done from the guard position. Its aim is to push the arm and elbow in a contradictory position to the way it should. Both hands go on one, my right pinning and pulling, my left feeding up and round creating a brace to push against. Two on one and you know your in trouble. I'm pushing down hard and its working. My opponents hand comes up and pushes my head backwards, the legs tightening. We are reaching a stalemate that will break. I'm going to cause a submission, his legs tighten further and I can't breathe. My head goes down to his and I change position but its not going any further. His legs get tighter and I can't breathe.

Tap out. Lesson one is over.

Dream One

2010-07-21T07:05:00.000-07:00

I have no idea what this means. There is an abandoned factory or school, clearly built in the sixties or seventies in which we've made a home. We have a bedroom in the west part of the building with old matresses stacked and cut offs of carpet laid out as best as we can. Some parts of the factory never see light, we don't use the entire building, just what we need. It never gets cold here, the numbers cause the air to stay warm even on the harshest days. We have visitors and we have residents, the rest of the world being an unknown and unwelcome prospect. Some people go back, most stay.

The numbers swell and the building is too small, limbs branch off the building as makeshift shelters are erected, always touching. This one room remains ours. A book is kept, the contents of which I do not know but I know to be special. One day everyone leaves but the warmth remains and we stay in our room, the book is the warmth and not the people.

Unforeseen Choreography (Draft)

2010-07-10T06:30:00.000-07:00

There's a lot to be said for not rehearsing a piece and the interesting fallouts that can occur as a result of this. For a piece who's core value is to test its subjects endurance I tend not to rehearse, if for nothing more than to share alongside the audience an element of discovery. Rehearsing a piece of such nature is also problematic for me in that it is an excellent way of talking myself out of ever carrying out the action again; the endorphins not having the same impact as when accompanied with the adrenalin from being viewed, the pains and aches remaining sharp and not carrying the sense of gratifying release.

A process of preparation is found in its place, with volumes of time being taken up with research, the sourcing and testing of physical materials and endless amounts of time spent at the gym. For the first in an extended series of boxing performances, Rematch which was performed as part of the Fresh Air Platform at Queen Mary's this was no exception. the preparation for the piece involved spending most of my time scouring the internet and text books for tips on technique, stance, movement and training whilst thinking little about the actual actions involved.

In much the same way that a risk assessment was written out to deal with the health and safety aspects of performance, a mental risk assessment was also carried out to deal with potentially performance stopping incidents that would detract from the piece. The key problems were discussed and solved in the early parts of preparation to ensure that the rhythm, as far as we could foresee could not be broken.

What was not discussed was the minutiae of the action, as much for the levels of practicality as anything else. I was aware that because I had never seen the space the piece may be subject to change and find it is best to keep things as general as possible, keeping things fluid and avoiding the risk of disappointment.

Two hours in and everything was going according to plan, the dynamic and interaction of the piece being everything we had hoped for and banked on. My body was suitably compressed and wound, up randomly choosing to spasm within the final rounds of the second hour and the taste of the gum shield causing me to wretch uncontrollably. I was on the home straight, the final hour being a static image of a boxer falling against the ropes, achieved by ropes being held into my sides with four cannulae. As I stepped into the image I knew that I couldn't hold it. Compared to this section the first tw had been a walk in the park.

Because of the way I had chosen to position myself all of the pressure went straight down onto my knee caps which began to burn furiously within about two minutes of moving into the image. This sensation also worked its way into the left upper part of my abdomen which was stretched out and gradually worked its way up and into my forearm. The image had to be broken at least seven times in the final hour to reposition my knees and give my arm a reprieve.

The constant movement and the pulling of the tissue eventually worked the needles on my right hand side out and left me with a healthy amount of blood flowing down my side. Two things happened in the final hour which I hadn't been expected but in some ways had been accounted for. At first my opinion of the final hour was that it had failed and in some ways it was inevitable that it would; two hours of endurance and blunt force trauma is an ill conceived way to prepare for an hour of stillness after all.

Looking back at the proposal that I put forward for the piece, what I wanted to achieve was enhanced by the unforeseen choreographies that took place within it. The exploration of the meaning of bloodsports and the broken glamour that comes with boxing that I set out to portray could be seen as an allegory for failure in athletics in general. The idea of showing the sculpted body in a state of violence is a paradox and conflict of the interest between the disciplined and untrained. By failing within the action (sweating, shortness of breath, wretching and becoming uncoordinated through fatigue) this element was already present. What is interesting as a performer would be to see if the unique events that were present in the first showing are present when the piece is performed in redux and if they are not what implications that has on the performance and how it is viewed.

Automatic Writing Exercise 3: Workplace

2010-04-05T01:26:00.000-07:00

Someone once described the call centre as the black satanic mills of the 21st century and I am in a position of violent agreement. The idea that human contact can be reduced into a list of facts and figures, the noises that we make as language converted into a series of zeros and ones and then thrown down a fibre optic cable conjures imagery of a man vomiting in the gutter. What in Gods name have we come to when our lives are governed by a contract that states we do not receive over time pay on bank holiday and have been hired to merely plug a hole in a system of adherence and key point indicators? Arson seems like a viable career move. That as well as casual prescription drug misuse. Never in my life did I think I would be in such cold surroundings as a telecoms collections department. Women call through screaming. Men get angry and start swearing, we release the calls. We don't hang up, we release. Every action is vetted and goes on a database to ensure that we are doing what we are supposed to be doing. The system reminds me of a shitty B-movie, the type where some one is stuck inside a computer and at the end confronts an unfeasibly large back projection of a giant face, who starts screaming and the little servant starts screaming back but nothing ever happen because we live in a world where file notes, verbal written warnings, constructive dismissal and fixed term contracts make you hold your tongue.

Fascism happens when good people do nothing.

Call centres are what happen when post graduate artists can't get funding.

Automatic Writing Exercise 2: Being Haunted

2010-04-04T05:25:00.000-07:00

I've got these images rolling round and round my head and they aren't going away, something like coming back from a war perhaps. Things mingle and interplay and the image of a mans arse covered in glitter splits into a naked woman crouching on the floor contemplating whether or not she needed to take a piss. I can still hear the beautiful boys heartbeat ringing in my ears and the sound of a Beach Boys song distorts and warps. I didn't like scotch until I drank it with a double espresso and think I'm developing a taste for Japanese food off the back of the excellent restaurant we dined together in. The base of my feet still burn with the touch of knowing hands and the rope that ran from my head to my scrotum is still sitting in my bag waiting for its next use. My spine is stretched and continues to be streched from the yoga and my diaphragm and ribcage expand every day as i pull my rib cage open in discomforting, rewarding exercises. The ideas shared still burn bright and the emails still fly, I miss you all and wake up expecting to be in a fourteen man dorm, the smell of sweat and testosterone all at once making me want to gag yet being of an addictive quality. The walk along the grid system of the city and the bright sunshine, the cracked widescreen near the kitchen and the crowds of Phillipino tourists cooking rancid looking rice still stay. It never ends. This is my year zero. How I rebuild is the moving part.

Automatic Writing Exercise 1: Ethical Dilemma

2010-03-28T01:09:00.000-07:00

Theres a performance artist, you will know her well. One of the first, she did a performance once in which she sacrificed herself for art and audience, allowing them to do what they wanted to her with a set of given apparatus. One of the tools was a loaded gun. We have talked about this on numerous occasions, what if someone shot her? Second scenario. Two people attend the event, one becomes agitated and angry, it flies in the face of everything they believe about art. He starts to shout. Another person disagrees with them. The artist does not move. Words are exchanged, shoving ensues, someone grabs a gun and shoots. An audience member lies dying in a pool of blood. The artist does not move. I think about who would be responsible in this situation. The artist? The shooter? The victim? The state for allowing such lax gun laws as to allow free and easy access to fire arms? If you own a gun surely don't you expect it to be used at some point?

Invitation (Draft)

2010-03-28T00:57:00.001-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen,

you were cordially invited to attend, and you did. Rita Marcalo's Involuntary Dances set the performance art and contemporary dance world firmly in the sights of the arch traditionalists and mainstream media. The piece drew clear lines between those who had seen, researched, practice and have a passion for body performance and those who think that Brecht is still groundbreaking.

The premise of the performance was simple; Rita would place herself in a cage for twenty four hours and attempt to induce an epileptic fit. Marcalo's use of performance as a vehicle to expose her own disability is a common concern of many body practitoners, who use art to expose their weaknesses in the hope of finding a metaphysical transcendance and redemption. Call girl turned performer Annie Sprinkle, HIV positive bleeding artist Ron Athey, stunted performance artist Raymond Hoghe, polio traumatised pop poet Ian Dury; all have used art to frame and present their difficulties to an audience. The performances often challenge the viewer in its social status as voyeur and amplify the turning heads, preconceived fears and morbid fascination they encounter.
It is in this that Marcalo finds a geneological connection, her performance a direct reaction to a dark niche of videos available online of people having epileptic seizures in public, the videos filmed without permission and carrying an unhealthy weigh of sadistic intrigue. This performance could have been her attempt at taking ownership of a condition, to wrestle back some of the negative mythology that comes with the ignorance of medicine and illness, but as soon as it was announced that it was going to take place it became something much bigger.

As with many of the performers that have come under fire from superficial shock caused by the media, the weight of the attack did not rest with the performance in and of itself but the fact that it was being funded in part by the arts council of Great Britain. The usual tabloid papers were quick to jump on the bandwagon, as well as local press who whipped up a storm, both in ill educated articles and letters pages which did nothing to dispel the false perception of the Bradford locals small town mentality. It was the talk of the town, everyone seeming to have an opinion on the piece, whether in total favour or total disgust.

Some reprieve from the negative criticism did come in the form of an article published in The Guardian, whilst artist and venue were flooded with written support from members of the live art community and those that had at least read into the artists intent and understood the motives. It did not however compensate for the barrage of threats and abuse at both venue and artist which caused tight security measures to be put in place to ensure that there was no disruption to the event.

The day of the event came and went with little in the way of trouble but with one major absence; a lack of eplieptic seizure. The negotiations that had been put in place such as being exposed to strobe light, drinking caffeine and alcohol had failed to have an affect. The performance did not suffer for this, the event being much more about the relationship of endurance and cohesion between the performer and the artist, sharing a ritualistic exercise to invoke and take ownership of an illness than a single, short bombastic spectacle. The piece could essentially have been a symposium with twenty four hours of performance, music and video installation playing alongside the main event, which was updated every three hours or so when an announcement was made as to what phase Rita was moving into. Possibly the most difficult of these to observe was when she was exposed to strobe lighting, when it appeared that she may have induced the seizure. The sense of community was extremely profound and the only indication at some points that we could potentially bear witness to an involuntary performance from marcalo was the fact that she was in a cage, albeit in a light and upbeat mood, leaving only for comfort breaks.

What was continually overlooked by the media was the fact that the piece was the first in a trilogy of work and with any series of work it is easy to take a single piece and fail to place it into the correct context. What makes the piece interesting is its placement within the trilogy; a performance as stirring and emotive normally being preceded rather than being used as a springboard in to the later pieces. Whether or not the next two pieces will garner nearly as much attention from the mainstream media is highly questionable, but the interest that has been stirred within the live art community will remain and with enough time the piece may be critiqued within the context of a trilogy as it was intended.

Photo's by Andy Wood and Lucy Barker, reproduced with kind permission from Rita Marcalo.