Opening night at 7a*11d featured a "bonus" performance. Could there be more unscheduled performances in the works? This enigmatic announcement started appearing on the wire services on Friday...
Just out of her woodblock print CEO at the Gladstone
Wednesday, Oct. 29, ’08, after eight.
Bored with fashion week? Crying over crashing stocks? Addicted to Spankwire? CEO is one of four sex fantasy suits of the superhero and prostitute, Superwoman. Cunty Cowboy CEO says, “Look out Motherfucker, I’ll shoot you in the pants.” She is your dream and hers - in the elevator or stairwell, at the end of the hallway, over the boardroom table... until she’s had it... then she is just a jiggly secretary, bowing and bobbing, and curling up under the strain. CEO is a wannabe porn star who can’t get past the coffee table. Come and watch her go down at Toronto’s oldest and artiest boarding house, The Gladstone Hotel.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Scheduling Update - Sakiko Yamaoka
Sakiko Yamaoko will be performing Best Place to Sleep on Tuesday October 28, starting at 1:00pm at XPACE. The artist asks for your participation in the making of this simple and beautiful group action.
Please meet at the gallery at 1:00pm; the performance will take place at a nearby outdoor location.
Please meet at the gallery at 1:00pm; the performance will take place at a nearby outdoor location.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Day 3: Saturday October 25 (AJP)
Photos of Alejandra Herrera (above) and Norbert Klassen (below) by Henry Chan.
Andrew James Paterson
Upon arriving at Xpace tonight there was a different installation in the street window. A row of wine glasses, a row of lettered glasses spelling out LA SANGRA TIRA, and a third bottom row of empty glasses. A performer - Alejandra Herrera - struck a pose in the centre frame. She was commencing a durational performance in the gallery window, one that an audience would return and return to and one that might well have been curious to other pedestrians.
A note on the gallery door directed people to a lot behind the nearly-adjacent Queen West Storage building. In the lot, artist Mahan Javadi has assembled an assembly of personal artefacts, canvasses, and significant belongings. His Project Zero: Space addressed efficiency and control. In an attempt to radically get rid of useless excess and bad memories and more, the artist intended to destroy fifty percent of the pile and scatter the remaining half to the winds or whatever. He had some good art books and other interesting objects among his garbage.
Photo of Mahan Javadi by Henry Chan:
As Alejandra Herrera drank more wine and began to lower her body in the window, a performance by Norbert Klassen commenced. Klassen had very successfully entertained me on the previous evening; so what would he do tonight? Would he attempt to top his most recent achievement? Since he had sold artefacts of his detritus and then burned the money in an outrageous fuck you note to art market etiquette and protocol, would be adding further insult to the polite surfaces of art and performer/audience exchange systems?
Well, yes and no. Tonight Norbert Klassen set up a simple kitchen table, hosting a fruit bowl containing an orange, a twelve-crate of eggs, and a pair of hammers. The performer entered back to audience and threw an egg against the white wall, creating yellow Pollock drips that remained on the wall for the entire evening. Then he sat down and played with two hammers - hitting one against the other. He did this in a military four four rhythm - Hep two three four for quite some time until he stopped on the two beat and held the pose. Then it was time to eat the orange.
Norbert ate the orange in something beyond real time - chewing for ages between bites. He kept attention here as a good performer can and should. Although he has (and does) worked in theatre, this was not so much good acting as simply great presence and purpose. Good performers can convince audiences that there is something happening beyond the everyday while simultaneously paying extreme attention to the everyday. Self-conscious and intelligent humans are also perfectly aware that eating is an action, a ritual, a performance.
The performer finished the orange, stared, and then barked out a series of declamatory commanding sounds. He pushed a crate around the table, making horrible industrial sounds alternating with scraping. He took a bottle of water from the red crate and peed with it. Then, after three more egg-related actions, he began painting on the oranges. First white, then black. Then the finished art works into the fruit bowl, which resembled a what’s wrong with this picture variation of a classical still-life.
Then the performer began to speak. He read from a series of cue-cards. What he read were directions for creating acceptable due to clichéd precedent performance pieces. “Explain Fluxus in five minutes or less, using simple props”, and so on. He read through several such instructions, and they were funny because the were accurate. They also bore considerable resemblance to his series of actions during the last at least half hour.
But then… more food. A vegetable this time - a lettuce. And why a lettuce? Because it is the most explosive of foods. One firecracker and a big bang. Thank you, Norbert.
As Norbert’s set and mess were struck, it was time to go outside and see Alejandra Herrera who now had wine dripping down from her mouth past her chin and onto her wardrobe and more. The Blood Pulls, The Blood Drips, The Blood. More blood and more wine.
It was now time for another downstairs performance, as there has been one every night. (Why not, as it’s a great space for those with spatial talent and vision.) Tonight’s basement performer was Jozsef R. Juhasz of the Slovak Republic, and his piece was titled A Possible Past. He awaited the audience in nothing more than a black jockstrap - he looked like a man who could mix business and pleasure. He had a pile of flour on a checkerboard table - something was up. Flour has, during this 7a*11d Festival, become some sort of trouble signifier.
And something was up. The performer cordially announced that he would be combining sound and pictures. Two film projections were involved, both from the same studio in the early days of magical moving pictures - the late nineteenth century. The first film was the durable proto-beefcake movie by Thomas Edison (the madcap inventor himself) - Sandow the Strongman. In tandem with Edison’s rather breathtaking voiceover, Juhasz semi-mimicked the film’s choreography, wearing nothing lese but the jockey shorts. Then he put on black clothing and another film- an early silent called The Kiss which featured the first man/woman kiss in celluloid history. A loop of the actress Sarah Bernhard sounded hilariously incongruous with the extended smooch.
Above photo of Jozsef R. Juhasz by Henry Chan.
The next performance was by John G. Boehme of Victoria B.C. He walked over to an ironing board and began ironing a yellow dress shirt; He did this in at least real time. He produced a tie from his clothes basket but didn’t put it on yet. His outfit was business conservative. He wore suit pants. He was on a mission - to be a leading man, a player or a candidate? He was about to put the tie on, but no. He produced two ribbons and attached them to his lower chest, causing his rather large body to expand further. He was about to put the tie on, then he stopped.
Photo of John G. Boehme by Henry Chan:
The man didn’t smell right. He spritzed cologne (colgnizing himself?) not only in the usual places but all over his entire top body and on his very shirt. He spritzed underneath his appallingly goofy under shorts. He smelled fresh enough for at least a week’s excursion to Lord Knows Where. His intention was to mark territory. Then he tied the tie and donned the full suit. He was ready to make the rounds, to work the room.
Which he did. Armed with a roll of name tags, Boehme approached a man seated apart from the rest of the audience and asked the man if he could carry him. The man consented, they traversed the circle of the gallery, and then they exchanged names and agreed to be friends, parting company after the performer or candidate provided a mint. Then Boehme made a smiling approach to another audience member, this time a woman. Again around the circle and the same exchange process/system. It quickly became apparent that he was going to do this with everybody in the room, for the duration of the duration. He was going to carry the entire audience - the entire “community”.
Audience members became restless. Many didn’t want to be carried away, but they consented anyway. One or two didn’t. The performer did not challenge these naysayers. He was too smart a performer - too smart a politician - to make mountains out of molehills. For John G. Boehme did indeed resemble an insecure Republican senator (courtesy of my blogging colleague Elaine Wong) with an unbearable need to be loved. And he did make himself rather lovable, despite the suit and despite the overbearing colognization of the environment. After working the entire room, Boehme rolled out the roll of unused name tags, changed his shirt and shoes, and left smiling. He earned a big round of applause, a big round of applause for a big man indeed.
At the end of the evening, I was informed that Mahan Javadi’s performance had been stopped by the Fire Department and The Police. A neighbour had complained about the fire resulting from the burning paper and other garbage. The authorities, to their credit, quickly realized that they had been summoned to a performance. How could this not be a performance? After all, something was burning.
Day 3: Saturday October 25 (EW)
October 25 2008
The third day of the festival was characterized by performances that transformed a range of spaces.
Simla Civelek created within the back space of the Free Gallery a tiny world unto herself -- a small wooden box draped in black cloth. Civelek prefaced her performance with a placard stating "I am a Muslim woman. It is my choice to enter the black box. You are welcome to come in and know me."
One of the box's walls bears a small slit at eye-level, an image that immediately conjures up the metaphor of a burqa, but also reminds me of the mail slot on a door, an observation made more potent as pieces of paper are slipped through the slot and flutter to the floor in small, persistent attempts to communicate to the outside world.
Issues (and perhaps the fallacy) of choice are highlighted. Onto the walls of the box are projected a poem that highlights Civelek's lack of choice -- "language has left me" and "long gone are the days i picked every sound word voice." Yet those who enter the box are given a Test, asked to choose from multiple interactions in different languages that will structure the action to happen. Who then is in control?
A little bit of guilt filled me as I circled my choice -- I am one of the people who are limiting her, choosing for her "what emotion, what idea, what address" she should use. She recited for me her poem in Turkish, eyes closed, mouth shaping the words, but clearly uneasy.
Civelek shared with me an interesting piece of information: at first the box was a familiar thing to her. It was her box, her life. But after the six hours spent inside its warm confines, it became somewhat alien, oppressive -- she could not think, she could not react. By the time I had entered her box, she was no longer in control. She told me that entering the box was her choice, but what happens afterwards, once she lets people in, is a third entity that exists outside both the bodies within the box. That which she controlled in turn begins to controls her.
And yet, in contrast all this, was the interaction of a small child who knew Civelek (her Auntie) was in the box. The box was irrelevant, the concealing cloth was a simple barrier, the social and cultural implications were meaningless; the identity of the woman inside the box was immutable to the child. Upon waving goodbye, the child's mother murmured "look, Auntie is smiling with her eyes" -- the only parts of Civelek that could be seen from outside the box. That statement alone is more poignant that anything I could write.
In the parking lot behind Queen Self-Storage, Mahan Javadi had assembled a large portion of his worldly possessions with the intent to destroy. Part of the series Project Zero, 'Space' is the culmination of a three-month process to reduce and streamline Javadi's life.
In the dark and dirt, lit by floodlamps, he took to destruction calmly, contemplatively, achieving an almost zen-like peace as he ripped the pages from books and smashed miscellania to pieces with a sledgehammer. But what took the most amount of time in the performance was the sorting process, going through each item individually and deciding what to do with it. As he went through, there was an inescapable feeling of something akin to mourning -- it was clear that as he went through his physical possessions, he was also going through his memories as well. The act of destroying textbooks and artwork from his college years read as a filtering of the past, a destruction of the baggage of previous selves in order to be free to move on into future identities. Unironically, he unearthed a magic 8 ball and asked it a question, musingly, before putting it too to the sledgehammer. I guess you can't predict the future, just prepare for it.
Although his original intention had been to destroy it all, Javadi admits that as he was going through and sorting the objects, there were some things he just couldn't destroy -- his childhood teddy bear, for one. He was hesitant at first about the authenticity of donating, unsure of whether it was an idea stemming from societal compulsion rather than a real decision coming from within him, but in the end it did become a genuine option for him. He hopes that the emotions of this performance will stand as encouragement to collect less content and simplify his life.
Even XPACE was given a change of pace as Alejandra Herrera performed '51 Starts in Reinohelen' in the gallery window, making herself into an image to be watched either from the other side of the glass, or obliquely from the inside.
On a series of shelves set up behind her were numerous glass jars, filled with red wine and adorned with a single red star apiece. On the middle shelf, the jars spelled out the phrase 'La Sangre Tira', which she later translated as 'Blood is thicker than water' in lipstick on the glass. On the floor of the tiny cubby were vases of white roses and Herrera, clad in a sheer white bodysuit with tape over her eyes, was forced to negotiate the physical confinements of the space blindly. Throughout the night, she carefully fumbled for each jar, pouring the contents into her mouth and letting it overflow and spill down her body. By the end of the night she was soaked and kneeling in a pool of blood-wine amongst the flowers, before finally chewing the petals off a rose and placing the crushed petals into a jar.
...Forgive me if I hesitate to post my understanding of this piece.
The idea of 'Blood is thicker than water' -- that bonds of family are stronger than bonds with others -- is a positive one, but to me Herrera presented herself as a sacrifice to this idea, drowning in blood. The roses were a funerary white that became speckled with wine like spray from a wound. Trapped and blinded, asked to endure for the sake of an ideal, Herrera embodied the irony of faltering with confidence, slowly bringing herself to the end.
~Elaine
The third day of the festival was characterized by performances that transformed a range of spaces.
Simla Civelek created within the back space of the Free Gallery a tiny world unto herself -- a small wooden box draped in black cloth. Civelek prefaced her performance with a placard stating "I am a Muslim woman. It is my choice to enter the black box. You are welcome to come in and know me."
One of the box's walls bears a small slit at eye-level, an image that immediately conjures up the metaphor of a burqa, but also reminds me of the mail slot on a door, an observation made more potent as pieces of paper are slipped through the slot and flutter to the floor in small, persistent attempts to communicate to the outside world.
Issues (and perhaps the fallacy) of choice are highlighted. Onto the walls of the box are projected a poem that highlights Civelek's lack of choice -- "language has left me" and "long gone are the days i picked every sound word voice." Yet those who enter the box are given a Test, asked to choose from multiple interactions in different languages that will structure the action to happen. Who then is in control?
A little bit of guilt filled me as I circled my choice -- I am one of the people who are limiting her, choosing for her "what emotion, what idea, what address" she should use. She recited for me her poem in Turkish, eyes closed, mouth shaping the words, but clearly uneasy.
Civelek shared with me an interesting piece of information: at first the box was a familiar thing to her. It was her box, her life. But after the six hours spent inside its warm confines, it became somewhat alien, oppressive -- she could not think, she could not react. By the time I had entered her box, she was no longer in control. She told me that entering the box was her choice, but what happens afterwards, once she lets people in, is a third entity that exists outside both the bodies within the box. That which she controlled in turn begins to controls her.
And yet, in contrast all this, was the interaction of a small child who knew Civelek (her Auntie) was in the box. The box was irrelevant, the concealing cloth was a simple barrier, the social and cultural implications were meaningless; the identity of the woman inside the box was immutable to the child. Upon waving goodbye, the child's mother murmured "look, Auntie is smiling with her eyes" -- the only parts of Civelek that could be seen from outside the box. That statement alone is more poignant that anything I could write.
In the parking lot behind Queen Self-Storage, Mahan Javadi had assembled a large portion of his worldly possessions with the intent to destroy. Part of the series Project Zero, 'Space' is the culmination of a three-month process to reduce and streamline Javadi's life.
In the dark and dirt, lit by floodlamps, he took to destruction calmly, contemplatively, achieving an almost zen-like peace as he ripped the pages from books and smashed miscellania to pieces with a sledgehammer. But what took the most amount of time in the performance was the sorting process, going through each item individually and deciding what to do with it. As he went through, there was an inescapable feeling of something akin to mourning -- it was clear that as he went through his physical possessions, he was also going through his memories as well. The act of destroying textbooks and artwork from his college years read as a filtering of the past, a destruction of the baggage of previous selves in order to be free to move on into future identities. Unironically, he unearthed a magic 8 ball and asked it a question, musingly, before putting it too to the sledgehammer. I guess you can't predict the future, just prepare for it.
Although his original intention had been to destroy it all, Javadi admits that as he was going through and sorting the objects, there were some things he just couldn't destroy -- his childhood teddy bear, for one. He was hesitant at first about the authenticity of donating, unsure of whether it was an idea stemming from societal compulsion rather than a real decision coming from within him, but in the end it did become a genuine option for him. He hopes that the emotions of this performance will stand as encouragement to collect less content and simplify his life.
Even XPACE was given a change of pace as Alejandra Herrera performed '51 Starts in Reinohelen' in the gallery window, making herself into an image to be watched either from the other side of the glass, or obliquely from the inside.
On a series of shelves set up behind her were numerous glass jars, filled with red wine and adorned with a single red star apiece. On the middle shelf, the jars spelled out the phrase 'La Sangre Tira', which she later translated as 'Blood is thicker than water' in lipstick on the glass. On the floor of the tiny cubby were vases of white roses and Herrera, clad in a sheer white bodysuit with tape over her eyes, was forced to negotiate the physical confinements of the space blindly. Throughout the night, she carefully fumbled for each jar, pouring the contents into her mouth and letting it overflow and spill down her body. By the end of the night she was soaked and kneeling in a pool of blood-wine amongst the flowers, before finally chewing the petals off a rose and placing the crushed petals into a jar.
...Forgive me if I hesitate to post my understanding of this piece.
The idea of 'Blood is thicker than water' -- that bonds of family are stronger than bonds with others -- is a positive one, but to me Herrera presented herself as a sacrifice to this idea, drowning in blood. The roses were a funerary white that became speckled with wine like spray from a wound. Trapped and blinded, asked to endure for the sake of an ideal, Herrera embodied the irony of faltering with confidence, slowly bringing herself to the end.
~Elaine
Creative Resident Profile: Chaw Ei Thein - Part 1 (EW)
October 24th 2008
The first thing you will notice in the Toronto Free Gallery is a large expanse of canvas pinned to the wall -- on which the growing mural of creative resident Chaw Ei Thein's 'Quiet River' is spreading.
The mural is bordered with heads and grasping hands that reach into its central images: a procession of monks that references the Saffron Revolution, a series of protests in late 2007 that were led by Buddhist monks, as well as a scene of Myanmar's rapid deforestation. But the mural and its contents maintain a degree of flexibility, continuing to expand as Thein is influenced by the conversations she has with guests to the gallery.
Thein wishes not only to express to her audience what it is like to be living with such political and military unrest, but also to encourage input from her audience in the hopes of finding answers and support. Respectful and admiring of the human condition that allows people to survive/endure/overcome hardships, she asks her audience for tales of their own lives and their own difficulties. Inquiring about rights and freedoms, what constitutes rights and freedoms, and even how individuals would respond to a dictatorship here in Canada, Thein hopes to spark a solution through human interaction and conversation.
She will be resuming work on the mural on Tuesday the 28th, continuing daily. The mural will be part of Thein's final performance in the Free Gallery on Saturday November 1st.
~Elaine
The first thing you will notice in the Toronto Free Gallery is a large expanse of canvas pinned to the wall -- on which the growing mural of creative resident Chaw Ei Thein's 'Quiet River' is spreading.
The mural is bordered with heads and grasping hands that reach into its central images: a procession of monks that references the Saffron Revolution, a series of protests in late 2007 that were led by Buddhist monks, as well as a scene of Myanmar's rapid deforestation. But the mural and its contents maintain a degree of flexibility, continuing to expand as Thein is influenced by the conversations she has with guests to the gallery.
Thein wishes not only to express to her audience what it is like to be living with such political and military unrest, but also to encourage input from her audience in the hopes of finding answers and support. Respectful and admiring of the human condition that allows people to survive/endure/overcome hardships, she asks her audience for tales of their own lives and their own difficulties. Inquiring about rights and freedoms, what constitutes rights and freedoms, and even how individuals would respond to a dictatorship here in Canada, Thein hopes to spark a solution through human interaction and conversation.
She will be resuming work on the mural on Tuesday the 28th, continuing daily. The mural will be part of Thein's final performance in the Free Gallery on Saturday November 1st.
~Elaine
Scheduling update - Gustavo Alvarez Lugo (Musgus)
On Sunday, October 26 at 1 pm, beginning at the corner of Queen St. W. and Ossington St., Mexican artist Gustavo Alvarez Lugo (aka Musgus) will present the first of two Introspective actions planned for the first part of his Creative Residency at the 7a*11d International Festival of Performance Art in Toronto. They will be followed by two Reflective Actions, culminating in his November 1 performance at XPACE. For full details about the artist, check the daily event schedule on the festival website at 7a-11d.ca.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Day 2: Friday October 24 (EW)
Above photo of Sylvette Babin by Henry Chan.
Photos of Pia Lindy by Henry Chan.
In juxtaposing statements like "Trust me, I am the prime minister" with "Trust me, I am not the prime minister"; "Trust me, I am a man" with "Trust me, I am a woman"; and "Trust me, I am your mother" with "Trust me, I know what you want," Lindy was a figure of simultaneity. She was both still and in motion, both AM and AM-NOT. By acknowledging the impossibility (and yet the constant presence) of these dualities within us, she harnessed the power and presence of the am-not just as readily as others harness the power of the am.
Below photo of Pia Lindy by Henry Chan:
Lindy framed our perspective through an emphasis on the durationality and the effort of movement rather than the end result -- the goal -- of the movements themselves, making visible that which is not normally seen. The act of choosing one motion is also the act of not-choosing an infinite number of other motions. And while usually these not-chosen possibilities are not seen, not recognized as valid expressions, Lindy offered up these not-motions as stepping point for us to recognize the dichotomies in our own lives and identities. Dichotomies that do not allow any grey space, that force us into either/or, that terrify and isolate us without us even realizing it. Our identities are just as much made up by our not-choices as our choices. Even more so, in fact, as culture shapes identity through things that we cannot choose, cannot change. Through still motions and active not-motions, Lindy allows us to realize just how stifling the dichotomies have become.
Above photo of Sylvette Babin by Henry Chan.
Once ready, Babin stood upon the edge of her platform, and presented us with a traditional song of New France, A la Claire Fontaine, a morale-raising song used by troops of revolution. When the clear notes had fallen silent, she turned to the wall and began pummeling it with her cabbage gloves. At the same time, she pushed her body into song. As she progressed, battered blue cabbage-blood stains spread across the wall, and the smell of bruised cabbage mingled in the air with Babin's voice as it strained to push past physical exertion. The chorus, Il y a longtemps que je t'aime // Jamais je ne t'oublierai (So long I've been loving you // I will never forget you) was underscored by the thudding of the cabbages and the panting of caught breath.
Above photos of Sylvette Babin by Henry Chan.
We look forward to seeing you today at the Free Gallery for Chaw Ei Thein's ongoing performance 'Quiet River', as well as for Simia Civelek's 'Black box'.
Tonight at XPACE, Mahan Javadi is heading up performances at 6PM, and John G. Boehme, Alejandra Herrera, József R. Juhász and Norbert Klassen will continue at 8.
~Elaine
Day 2: Friday October 24 (AJP)
Photos (above) of Norbert Klassen by Henry Chan.
As an audience begins to enter the gallery itself after registering the window display, the previous evening’s all-purpose platform or podium is now set up at the far end of the gallery, the end furthest from the window and the entrance. There is a table on the raised surface, and there is a Polaroid camera and various other paraphernalia on that table. There is in fact a theatrical set, waiting for the performer.
The performer’s name is Norbert Klassen, who makes himself comfortable and then dons a black mask covering all but his eyes. He then proceeds to stick acupuncture needles through the mask - talking a self-Polaroid for each needle. He creates quite a mask by inserting at least several needles. Then he pulls off the mask and begins inserting smaller needles into the sides of his face. He retrieves the needles and collects them into a relatively small plastic container.
Above photo of Norbert Klassen by Henry Chan.
But then he begins to talk directly to his audience. He asks what might art be, and cites Warhol’s definition as the only credible definition. Warhol of course defined art as what sells. So Norbert puts art-objects up for sale. Like many performance artists, there is a delightful ambiguity as to whether it is the performer‘s residue or the performer his/herself which/who is the commodity. Norbert Klassen, for his part, played auctioneer, placing not one but three boxed editions of his instruments and their by-products up on the market. Despite their instant sales for very low prices indeed, I could easily imagine Damien Hirst himself smiling approvingly, as well as Warhol. Bypassing the dealers and selling directly to “the public” is both anarchic and hyper-capitalist.
Above photo of Norbert Klassen by Henry Chan.
The festival’s second night offered another downstairs performance, down in that eternally ripe basement. Risa Kusumoto presented a half-hour performance titled Forget Me Not. Her performance was indeed unforgettable - it was visually striking well before she herself entered the frame. Kusumoto had designed a haunting set with extremely thin strings hanging from the ceiling and surrounding what appeared to be a furnace-like structure covered with gaffer tape. There was also a telephone at the right (audience left) down stage.
Below photos of Risa Kusumoto by Henry Chan.
Audio was introduced prior to the performer’s entrance - steadily falling rain with occasional rumbles of thunder. Rain and thunder are horror movie commonplaces - pattering rain nags the mind while thunder can provide a jolt. But this performer‘s thunder was more subtle. Kusumoto entered, wearing what appeared to be black shading makeup on her face, walked through the set, and then proceeded to record the names of every audience member. She would write their names down on white paper slips. This of course took a while, but she needed to do it. Then she scattered the slips onto the floor before retrieving a vacuum cleaner placed behind the column. She vacuumed the floor, seemingly oblivious to the fact that vacuum cleaners tend to reject paper and similar scraps. While vacuuming, she attempted to match faces with names, and to remember the names. Her voice was wavering or quavering or quivering - it was precarious and disturbing.The column was beginning to shrink, and it became clear that it was a construction of green plastic garbage bags. The size of the bag sculpture shrank as its tangible contents also shrank. What initially seemed there really wasn’t there. But the bag swelled up again. Memories are memories because they come and go and then return.
Below photo of Risa Kusumoto by Henry Chan.
And the phone did get used, just like it gets used in all good horror and suspense movies. The phone call was made by the artist to her grandmother, and a conversation did take place. Then the performer left the set, although several audience members felt the need to walk through that very same set. Ghostliness will eternally be attractive and also seductive.Glenn Lewis' A Sweeping Statement: Part 1 (EW)
October 24th 2008
Today festival Éminence Gris Glenn Lewis performed the first portion of 'A Sweeping Statement' down the streets of Toronto. Clad in a green jumpsuit with 'HOPE Engineering' cheerfully printed on the back, and armed with a dustbin, broom and his bright orange cap, Lewis walked amicably down the sidewalk, his garbage can bumping and rattling behind him. Pausing often to sweep up or grab trash castaways that caught his eye, he walked along Dundas and Queen Streets, weaving between pedestrians, cyclists and baby prams; reaching through fences; reflecting in storefronts and even momentarily passing under the gaze of stone angels outside a Catholic Church.
A bit surprising was the lack of garbage on the street -- in fact, there were two others cleaning up the streets (a city worker and a community environmentalist) that we encountered on a walk that lasted less than two hours. I guess this is how Toronto is managing to keep clean!
Lewis harkens this work to a previous action of his on the streets of Vancouver in 1969, marking out city blocks with blue surveyor's tape. This appeal of negotiating urban spaces also exists in 'A Sweeping Statement'. He admits that observing others on the street acts as a secret pleasure, finding it enjoyable when others are able to find ways around obstacles, around the powers that be, by "creating little areas of freedom within everyday life; little free gestures."
Today's documentation will be paired with its twin, to be gathered on Monday, and the two will be projected side-by-side as part of Lewis' final presentation: an Abyssinian sanctuary inspired by 'Scoop', a short story by Evelyn Waug. To be constructed at the Toronto Free Gallery, Lewis' structure will be a lifelike model that reflects the sanctuary's fascinating geometric architecture, and incorporating the trash that he has reappropriated/salvaged.
As a note, Lewis' second walk will be held at 12PM Monday October 27th, moved due to unfavourable weather conditions. It will begin at Queen East and Dalhousie.
~Elaine
Today festival Éminence Gris Glenn Lewis performed the first portion of 'A Sweeping Statement' down the streets of Toronto. Clad in a green jumpsuit with 'HOPE Engineering' cheerfully printed on the back, and armed with a dustbin, broom and his bright orange cap, Lewis walked amicably down the sidewalk, his garbage can bumping and rattling behind him. Pausing often to sweep up or grab trash castaways that caught his eye, he walked along Dundas and Queen Streets, weaving between pedestrians, cyclists and baby prams; reaching through fences; reflecting in storefronts and even momentarily passing under the gaze of stone angels outside a Catholic Church.
A bit surprising was the lack of garbage on the street -- in fact, there were two others cleaning up the streets (a city worker and a community environmentalist) that we encountered on a walk that lasted less than two hours. I guess this is how Toronto is managing to keep clean!
Lewis harkens this work to a previous action of his on the streets of Vancouver in 1969, marking out city blocks with blue surveyor's tape. This appeal of negotiating urban spaces also exists in 'A Sweeping Statement'. He admits that observing others on the street acts as a secret pleasure, finding it enjoyable when others are able to find ways around obstacles, around the powers that be, by "creating little areas of freedom within everyday life; little free gestures."
Today's documentation will be paired with its twin, to be gathered on Monday, and the two will be projected side-by-side as part of Lewis' final presentation: an Abyssinian sanctuary inspired by 'Scoop', a short story by Evelyn Waug. To be constructed at the Toronto Free Gallery, Lewis' structure will be a lifelike model that reflects the sanctuary's fascinating geometric architecture, and incorporating the trash that he has reappropriated/salvaged.
As a note, Lewis' second walk will be held at 12PM Monday October 27th, moved due to unfavourable weather conditions. It will begin at Queen East and Dalhousie.
~Elaine
Friday, October 24, 2008
Day 1: Opening Night (first post by Andrew J. Paterson)
(above) Stacey Sproule and Randy Gagne: Photo by Henry Chan(below) Christian Messier: Photo by Henry Chan
7a*11d Opening Night - Oct.23, 2008
When I arrive at Xpace, there are already a lot of people there and there will be a great many more. Nearly 200 people in that somewhat small gallery - that gallery plus its classical basement. How is this opening night going to proceed, and how will it be (stage) managed?
Almost seamlessly, it transpired. I knew that Warren Arcand’s Nosferanook was intended for the basement, so who would go first? And there was a buzz about another performer - an addition to the programme. Well, surely he or she wouldn’t be the first act. So I look around the gallery. I see a platform with an overheard mike hanging, and I see two chairs a body’s length apart from one another. And then there is this blue cushion with a body positioning itself between the two chairs, with arms and legs reaching and even kicking out? Well, no it’s not a cushion. But the body inside the capsule attempts to do things but it’s stymied due to confinement. The audience watches the arms and the legs attempting to rise up, but this is not even a teaser. Tho audience chat among themselves.
The audience is in instructed to arrange itself in favour of two performers who are now on the platform. It’s a girl and a boy - Stacey Sproule and Randy Gagne. They lie down and put a foot in the other’s mouth - literally. The mike hangs overhead as they sing excerpts of familiar pop love songs. I recognize I Think We’re Alone Now and Total Eclipse of the Heart. Real schmaltz tunes. Randy’s closer to the tunes than Stacey, but they both have the other’s foot in their mouth so there we go. Sonny and Cher for the 21st century. Then they stand, they smooch, and both sing How Deep is Your Love by the Bee Gees. Very deep indeed, it seems. As the song peters out, the vocalizing becomes abstract, almost sound poetry. I like this, since love is abstract and not verbal.
After Stacey and Randy conclude their serenading, the blue capsule is now on the platform and it contains Will Kwan as Dr.V. And the V is short for…Viagra! And Dr.V. is now going to make like Istvan Kantor/Monty Cantsin and the Machine Sex Group and hump these filing cabinets. Well, I mean Viagra combined with inanimate objects - you can go forever with that combination. Dr.V sticks it in from every angle, just like in a good porno movie. He stops because he is satisfied, not because he is exhausted. The audience has recognized the parody/homage/piss take and there are great gusts of laughter. This performance was in fact titled Dr.V does the classics.
Now it is time for Nosferanook, but the crowd has to be divided in to three for capacity etcetera reasons. I get to be part of the second instalment. The basement is danky with minimal lighting, a halfway path is cleared and a big ghostly owl enters. The owl makes an extended entrance - perhaps he has been losing blood? The owl carries an axe or knife or a weapon - he eventually stands before the wall and begins swinging. The blunt instrument leaves marks in the wall and some chips fall out, but only chips. He keeps swinging and swinging, marking territory but not making headway. It becomes evident that he is going to do this for duration, and audience members are advised that they can leave whenever they wish to. Many audience members stay. Maybe there is more, maybe the image and the performance has established its own space and time and not everybody is in a rush to leave. In conversation about his working process during his residency, Warren Arcand mentioned the owl and the underworld netherworld of the warring gods and also a Rolling Stones song - Can’t You Hear Me Knocking - as threads he was working with, intending to stitch them into a tightly composed performance, along with the owl’s costume he was sewing and which he wore to striking effect. And these strands were all present in Arcand‘s performance; they became condensed and stripped down. Yes, the owl was knock knock knocking, on a door which no one was answering and on a long-standing barrier or wall. And it would take forever and forever to knock the wall down, but still one must keep on knocking, even when one can’t come in.
Back upstairs, what looked like a red mat or carpet had been laid out more or less where the platform had been. The Dutch artist Joost Nieuwenburg walked around this carpet or rug for a while until he sparked a brief flare below his feet. Then another flare, and another and another as he kept walking. Soon the flares had become a fire, and there was both smoke and singeing. When he walked off the carpet in his stylish black dress shoes, I moved closer and saw the matches placed vertically and evenly over the entire red playing field. The matches did stick up like nails, and I was indeed reminded of Gina Pane’s seminal performance Bed of Nails. Mattress of Nails? Nieuwenburg’s performance was titled Two surfaces in contact, and so they were. The shoes struck the matches and therefore combustion. The burning or singeing had formed what could have been a map of something, a ghost image. A ghost of a ghost. Dr.V. was not the only performer revisiting the classics.
It was time for the added performer - the mysterious guest. He was Christian Messier from Quebec. He stood tall on a campsite of sorts, with an at least half-consumed bottle of red wine and some sort of brick or log for company. He wore a white shirt that had already been slightly bloodied. He took the shirt off and put it back on. He repeated this tease many times. His pants looked like they might fall down, but they didn’t. He stretched out a lot. He had a nice body to stretch out with. After taking the shirt off yet again, he stretched it down on the floor or ground and inserted some tacks into the shirt. More nails. Then he put the shirt on again. He lay down and dropped the heavy object onto his chest, just missing his chin. He did this many times. He lit matches over his body and let them burn to their end. He poured white flour over his head and onto the ground. He exhaled the flour like a fire-breather, and then he drew blood from his chest and onto the floor. The floor was now a site of blood and flour. Considering the blood and flour in combination with the red wine, I thought I was watching a Robert Bly adaptation of Marina Abromovic’s Lips of St.Thomas.
But…Messier stood tall, shook off the flour, and some swirling strings became audible. It was a French Abba cover, and as the tempo accelerated, the performer started dancing and he sprinkled confetti, which baptized the front audience members. Xpace became a disco, with only the Disco God Ball missing. It was almost transcendent and it was beyond cornball. It was an unexpected cliché that really did work.
- Andrew
Day 1: Opening Night (first post by Elaine Wong)
(above) Photos of Will Kwan by Henry Chan(below) Photo of Joost Nieuwenburg by Henry Chan
With throngs of people packed into the XPACE cultural centre, things were tight on 7a*11d's opening night -- a tightness of community and space that was mirrored throughout the night's performances, which both relied on and parodied intimacy and immediacy.
To begin the proceedings, we were introduced to the large, pale blue, foam rhombus of Will Kwan's 'Dr. V Does the Classics'. For those in the audience who didn't quite catch on right away (myself included), Kwan's first act remained puzzling. Arms taut with tension and sneakers straining with effort, Dr V struggled on the floor, consistently "failing to levitate," as festival-leader Johanna Householder explained to the crowd.
The audience was eager to support Dr. V, oohing and cheering whenever his legs made it off the ground, and letting out disappointed ohhhs when he invariably settled back down. However, we were able to claim our satisfaction in Kwan's second act, coming together to share a collective chuckle as Dr. V's meaning became much clearer. All he needed was a little bit of time to start taking effect. Once he got going, the strength of the infamous Little Blue Pill was readily apparent as he proceeded to thoroughly ravish an unassuming filing cabinet (both drawers!).
(above) photo of Randy Gagne and Stacey Sproule by Henry Chan
The first movement was a physical and auditory sculpture where the two were seated, each with their partner's foot in their mouth, belting away muffled love songs. Undercutting the familiar, cliched lyrics was the impression of love as a duality, a precarious structure built equally on support and suppression. Both artists visibly struggled to maintain their difficult balance, physically holding each other up, yet at the same time creating an atmosphere of competition that was emphasized by their overlapping voices and the microphone, reminiscent of those used by wrestling match announcers, suspended above them.
Their second movement further highlighted the amorphous shape of love as the pair sang into each other, seemingly vibrating each other's vocal chords in a piece somewhere between duet, asphyxiation and whale song.
(above) photos of Warren Arcand by Henry ChanTo encounter Warren Arcand, presenting his piece 'Nosferanook', we then descended into the darkness of the basement, a space carved out of raw brick and concrete whose low ceiling and draped fabric evoked the atmosphere of a cave embedded in history. Emerging from the shadows in white furs, Nosferanook possessed a goblin's face and a man's machete, and it was a single light that pulled him across the room to a bare wall where he began to strike at the concrete. The clanging of metal on stone continued unceasingly as powder and chips began to build up at his feet.
He chipped away slowly at the foundation, at the wall behind the wall; at the social and physical barriers that we find already in place, that appear immobile and immutable. Although it may seem that this act is more symbolic than concrete (no pun intended), Nosferanook's labour leaves behind a visible pattern of contact, a physical trace of where his blade carved into the stone a complicated glyph to mark his passage.
The performance of Joost Nieuwenburg is another that urged us to lean in close. 'Two surfaces in contact' was comprised of two halves: the passive potential of thousands of matches embedded into red plastic, and the kinetic/active energy of Nieuwenburg himself. Just by walking atop his match-riddled platforms, he pushed the balance of energy from one side to the other, wavering in lines of tension.
As he made his rounds along the boards, he scuffed the match heads occasionally, igniting trails of flame, smoke and frissons of danger with his heels. The audience gasped and oohed accordingly At first there was no overtly visible difference between those that had been struck and those that hadn't; all four boards were hypersaturated with the potential that each match carried. In addition to the actual flames, the mind rushed to imagine the chain reactions that could occur and the possible sight of every square inch of plastic up flames.
Yet as he walked faster and stuck his heels more deliberately, Nieuwenburg's channeled and directed energy was funneled into flames that spread in a tight pattern, melting the red plastic into a dull grey stain that crept across the boards like that of a water-damaged ceiling tile. And we were satisfied with the matches left unburnt, recognizing that they preserved the fine balance upon which Nieuwenburg was walking.
He chipped away slowly at the foundation, at the wall behind the wall; at the social and physical barriers that we find already in place, that appear immobile and immutable. Although it may seem that this act is more symbolic than concrete (no pun intended), Nosferanook's labour leaves behind a visible pattern of contact, a physical trace of where his blade carved into the stone a complicated glyph to mark his passage.
The performance of Joost Nieuwenburg is another that urged us to lean in close. 'Two surfaces in contact' was comprised of two halves: the passive potential of thousands of matches embedded into red plastic, and the kinetic/active energy of Nieuwenburg himself. Just by walking atop his match-riddled platforms, he pushed the balance of energy from one side to the other, wavering in lines of tension.
As he made his rounds along the boards, he scuffed the match heads occasionally, igniting trails of flame, smoke and frissons of danger with his heels. The audience gasped and oohed accordingly At first there was no overtly visible difference between those that had been struck and those that hadn't; all four boards were hypersaturated with the potential that each match carried. In addition to the actual flames, the mind rushed to imagine the chain reactions that could occur and the possible sight of every square inch of plastic up flames.
Yet as he walked faster and stuck his heels more deliberately, Nieuwenburg's channeled and directed energy was funneled into flames that spread in a tight pattern, melting the red plastic into a dull grey stain that crept across the boards like that of a water-damaged ceiling tile. And we were satisfied with the matches left unburnt, recognizing that they preserved the fine balance upon which Nieuwenburg was walking.
(above) photo of Christian Messier by Henry Chan
Special guest Christian Messier wrapped up the festival's first night with a endurance performance that exposed the body's rituals of undoing. Using wine, tacks, flour and matches, Messier offered himself to the audience in a series of physical images drawing on Christ-like imagery.
He posed, he revealed, he endured. But every act was coupled with its un-act: wine drunk was spit up; shirts worn were undone; matches lit were extinguished; pain endured was transformed into not-pain. The pain endured was simultaneously emphasized as present by his bodily reaction, but also was rendered absent as his mental will denied it and made it into not-pain. The very acts of endurance that relied on highlighting the physicality of the body served to counteract, suppress and unravel the body's defining characteristic of being sensory.
He posed, he revealed, he endured. But every act was coupled with its un-act: wine drunk was spit up; shirts worn were undone; matches lit were extinguished; pain endured was transformed into not-pain. The pain endured was simultaneously emphasized as present by his bodily reaction, but also was rendered absent as his mental will denied it and made it into not-pain. The very acts of endurance that relied on highlighting the physicality of the body served to counteract, suppress and unravel the body's defining characteristic of being sensory.
(below) photo of Christian Messier by Henry Chan
Undoing the seriousness of the sacrifice he had given us, Messier ended on a positive note, dancing along to ABBA and throwing confetti to remind the audience that there is more to life than enduring the physical -- and that there is always time to sing and dance.There are many exciting performances lined up for tomorrow! Look forward to creative resident Sylvette Babin's, Norbert Klassen's, Risa Kusumoto's and Pia Lindy's performances at XPACE in the evening. And don't forget that Chaw Ei Thein will be continuing her mobile mural in the Toronto Free Gallery from 12 to 7PM, and that Glenn Lewis will be performing the first portion of 'A Sweeping Statement' at 12PM starting at Shaw and Dundas West.
~Elaine
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Creative Resident Profile: Warren Arcand "Nosferanook" (AJP)
Warren Arcand is one of 7a*11d’s 2008 Creative Residents, a seasoned performance artist who can be expected to use this opportunity to gather, sew, develop, design, and score. On the festival’s opening night, Thursday October 23rd at XPACE, Arcan will be presenting Nosferanook This new work has already been in serious development, but it will develop further in front of an audience. Arcand sees audiences as his co-celebrants.
Nosferanook is a cross-fertilization. Nosferatu meets Nanook of the North. The perfectly legitimate love child of F.W. Murnau and Robert Flaherty. Nosferatu is a veteran at concealment or disguises. Murnau circumvented Bram Stoker and the Copyright Police by declaring a bat to be a rat. And Arcand will have the blood-sucker wearing the cloak of an owl, a rather unique animal indeed. Picasso’s final self-portrait was that of an owl’s face. Owls are predators without sense of smell. Talk about sustenance and survival.
“Nanook and Nosferatu; they strain against their frames - being impossible beings - untenable in many ways, yet persistent.” (from the festival catalogue) Are the dynamite duo and therefore their child allergic to systems? Well, they are both survivors and sustainers - it’s more like systems can’t tolerate or accommodate them. Arcand personally distinguishes between methods and systems - methods are intrinsic, they are in the self and in relationships between self and others and also objects. Systems are externally imposed - they must be navigated and negotiated, outwitted by stealth and wit. Systems are labyrinths and underworlds - a complex network of deities such as Demeter and Hades and Zeus, and not just those battling gods and humans but also Nature. Summer needs to reclaim time and space from the Eternal Winter and its consequent freezing..
Arcand is a performance artist with a serious theatrical background. Theatre when it’s visually interesting involves disguise. Performance often involves persona which may not be disguise but which is not a fixed essential self or a singular voice. Arcand plays with voice(s) - he plays with parallels and tensions between what is oral and what is written and what is musical. Music time is not unlike object time - it is sculptural and not always calculable. Performers and audiences share time and space when everything the performer has set in process is working, when the performer and performance are creating a structure without a rigid pre-determination. There is a trust involved here - a trust outside of the performer’s self. God and The Lover make for good structures, The Self makes for a bad structure, or formlessness with limited content.
In conversation, I am impressed by Arcand’s comprehension of body . He is always thinking, which is a bodily act. He is a good talker but he knows that language doesn’t always complement thinking and moving. Such is characteristic of a performing performance artist. Warren Arcand has been a man of many voices, faces, wigs, and costumes. With Nosferanook he will be stripping everything down. One wig and one costume. But they will be certainly grand.
Andrew James Paterson
Glenn Lewis (scheduling update)
As part of his performance A Sweeping Statement, Glenn Lewis will be sweeping the streets of Toronto and picking up materials as he goes for use in the installation that will be featured in his closing performance.
Here is the schedule to follow Glenn as he sweeps his way to Toronto:
Friday, October 24, Noon - 2 pm:
Starting at corner of Shaw and Queen St W, going north on Shaw to Dundas, continuing east on Dundas to Spadina, turning south on Spadina to Queen St, and then returning along Queen back to Shaw
Sunday, October 26, Noon - 2 pm:
Starting at the corner of Queen St E and Dalhousie (one block E of Church), heading north on Dalhousie, turning west on Dundas, continuing south on Spadina, and then traveling east on Queen back to Dalhousie.
7a*11d
Here is the schedule to follow Glenn as he sweeps his way to Toronto:
Friday, October 24, Noon - 2 pm:
Starting at corner of Shaw and Queen St W, going north on Shaw to Dundas, continuing east on Dundas to Spadina, turning south on Spadina to Queen St, and then returning along Queen back to Shaw
Sunday, October 26, Noon - 2 pm:
Starting at the corner of Queen St E and Dalhousie (one block E of Church), heading north on Dalhousie, turning west on Dundas, continuing south on Spadina, and then traveling east on Queen back to Dalhousie.
7a*11d
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Cheryl L'Hirondelle (AJP)
Photo by Henry Chan
It is the second half of October in an even-numbered year, and therefore the bi-annual 7a*11d Performance Festival is almost upon us again in Toronto. In fact, co-sponsored events involving the performance festival and other umbrellas have already commenced.
On Thursday October 16th, FADO Performance Art Centre, a long-time associate of 7a*11d, teamed up with the 2008 imagineNATIVE festival to present êkâya-pâhkaci (don’t freeze up) by renowned artist Cheryl L’Hirondelle, at Toronto Free Gallery’s new location on Bloor Street West just east of Lansdowne. After a sizable crowd entered the gallery space and were encouraged to socialize among themselves, a performer’s shadow figure became visible behind a white tent or a screen. Mantric voices intoned ee-guy-uh-puck-a-chee, creating a ritualistic hypnotic drone which accompanied the performer’s skilful use of ghostly shadow motifs. L’Hirondelle played on audience expectations - that she would reveal something whether or not outside of her confinement - in a manner not unlike that of a seasoned burlesque performer. After all, burlesque artists are surely not-so-distant cousins of tricksters.
This was and was not a performance about barriers - performer/audience and more. Language might have initially seemed a barrier of sorts to those not in the know. I thought I was hearing German for more than a moment, but then surely not. (Actually, I was for a moment) But L’Hirondelle would enunciate language clearly so the audience could repeat language after her, and have fun doing so. An invitation was made to join the camp where her tent was pitched, so to speak. And she did quite nimbly clear a path for herself through the crowd, as a tall and proud dancer. Don’t freeze up in the face of an unknown, take a few deep breaths and inhale deeply.
The location was also quite interesting, if occasionally annoying. The audience had consented to be quite and listen, and storefront galleries are of course prone to street ambiences of varied dynamics. But this of course goes with the territory. 7a*11d will be deploying The Toronto Free Gallery and XPACE at 58 Ossington as prime locations. There will also be discreetly select outdoor activities. The 2008 edition of 7a*11d will include Creative Residencies by seven quite wildly varied Canadian and international artists. Let the games begin.
Andrew James Paterson
FADO Performance Art Centre
www.performanceart.ca
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