Catherine Barraghy - Simon Keogh - Joseph Carr
performance text photos
The Notation of a Live Performance - ‘she is at the back with the timber pallets’
I arrive at the space of my performer. There are several small timber pallets dispersed in a loose circular pattern, one occupied by the performer. She sits on her pallet facing outwards towards the other pallets which were only half filled with participants. Everyone is attempting to cover their heads and faces with hoods on their jackets or scarves. One of the pallets sits upright and a single spotlight highlights instructions roughly scraped into the timber planks.
She stares at me
She stares at me with one eye
Feels like I am intruding
She had a hoodie on…it is not fair
I cannot get that eye out of my head
I really can’t get that eye out
I struggle furiously to comply with the instructions…
I can’t cover my face
It is too difficult
I am flustering and ‘foostering’
My pen is flying off. I am making a noise. This is ridiculous. I can’t cover my face. My bags are in the way. I feel helpless and hopeless. I have to move. I fumble again. I stop. I get up
I move back away from the pallets and sit directly in front of her.
She is barefooted
Liz is there. She gets up from her pallet and puts her bag over her shoulder.
That single eye – it's unnerving
A girl comes and taps the shoulder of another girl as if to say it is time to go…ha, and I thought she was a performer! She gets up quickly to depart. There is no one left. The crowd obscure my vision.
My back is cold and sore. It took me one hour twenty minutes to drive here from Irishtown – what did I miss. Three more people come and cover their faces quickly.
I have no timer so I decide to use a ‘space – timer’ and so I'll sit facing her, then to the left, then to the right and then behind – that way I will get four different views. I’ll get up when I feel ready. I am glad I brought my cushion.
The energy in the room is ecstatic. I cannot see the performer. I need to move closer.
A man with glasses comes to the space
There are five faces all covered
A wheelchair passes by
I need to move closer.
I move behind the performer.
Other people’s performances are distracting. I wish they would dissolve.
A woman stands further away with an exhibition programme in her hands held close to her lips. This is spatial. The next woman covers her face with her programme. She covers her face and her eyes. There is constant swarm of people. Some sit. I am a certain distance away from her ‘presence’. Maybe I need to move. The architecture is imposing. Incarceration.
With so many performers it feels like a circus – I don’t like that. Incarceration…uuummm… so a single stairs for all to view the incarcerated or the soon to be liberated.
I arrive at the space of my performer. There are several small timber pallets dispersed in a loose circular pattern, one occupied by the performer. She sits on her pallet facing outwards towards the other pallets which were only half filled with participants. Everyone is attempting to cover their heads and faces with hoods on their jackets or scarves. One of the pallets sits upright and a single spotlight highlights instructions roughly scraped into the timber planks.
She stares at me
She stares at me with one eye
Feels like I am intruding
She had a hoodie on…it is not fair
I cannot get that eye out of my head
I really can’t get that eye out
I struggle furiously to comply with the instructions…
I can’t cover my face
It is too difficult
I am flustering and ‘foostering’
My pen is flying off. I am making a noise. This is ridiculous. I can’t cover my face. My bags are in the way. I feel helpless and hopeless. I have to move. I fumble again. I stop. I get up
I move back away from the pallets and sit directly in front of her.
She is barefooted
Liz is there. She gets up from her pallet and puts her bag over her shoulder.
That single eye – it's unnerving
A girl comes and taps the shoulder of another girl as if to say it is time to go…ha, and I thought she was a performer! She gets up quickly to depart. There is no one left. The crowd obscure my vision.
My back is cold and sore. It took me one hour twenty minutes to drive here from Irishtown – what did I miss. Three more people come and cover their faces quickly.
I have no timer so I decide to use a ‘space – timer’ and so I'll sit facing her, then to the left, then to the right and then behind – that way I will get four different views. I’ll get up when I feel ready. I am glad I brought my cushion.
The energy in the room is ecstatic. I cannot see the performer. I need to move closer.
A man with glasses comes to the space
There are five faces all covered
A wheelchair passes by
I need to move closer.
I move behind the performer.
Other people’s performances are distracting. I wish they would dissolve.
A woman stands further away with an exhibition programme in her hands held close to her lips. This is spatial. The next woman covers her face with her programme. She covers her face and her eyes. There is constant swarm of people. Some sit. I am a certain distance away from her ‘presence’. Maybe I need to move. The architecture is imposing. Incarceration.
With so many performers it feels like a circus – I don’t like that. Incarceration…uuummm… so a single stairs for all to view the incarcerated or the soon to be liberated.
...
Hey, what are the headings again. The audience as log book and my senses as field notes. So I should be observing the audience not the performer.
Incarcerated or… (what are the options)
People stare from outside. There is constant movement. The skipper has changed his rope – a different rhythm. Four people have their faces covered. I am happy as the participants to the left of the performer are sitting between me and the lights so the glare doesn’t affect me
There is a woman opposite with bright red tight on. Amanda is covered in feathers just like Lucky Luke
My performer positions her head to the side. She is positioned to see all her audience in front of her and throughout the space –her participants – all of them. I am cut off from her presence. I am going to move soon. I am not controlled by her. I am not in front of her. I am free to see others as I am not under her gaze
There is quietness now. Only two pallets are empty. Those who are not sitting but standing close by are free to talk. They feel the freedom to talk. Oh shit, the presentation is tomorrow. The essay submission. But Paul will submit it for me. Phew. I was late coming here. It was raining and jammed. Take the bike next time you idiot
Someone finally sits in the middle
The hoodies are a clothing statement. It is loaded. Ask Molly Scott Cato. ‘Baudrillard sees the obligation to obtain identity through consumption in modern society as oppressive.’1 Another performer comes in with her branch and creates enclosure. She departs smoothly, respectfully and quickly. A man bends down outside the circle to read the instructions. I have not stopped writing. My hand is sore. Fuck, it is not Amanda after all. It is the sixth performer in Yellow Reperformed. I need to get my eyes tested. Hey where did she go.
I try to move but I stay for longer behind her. Her back faces me
It is about the audience after all. Is there a relationship being established. Audience interaction. Extraneous influences. There are many people with many different cameras. Snapping here and there...as if it is some tourist attraction. Some one is behind me. She sits still on her pallet. Her back is facing me. The light shines on it.
Everyone is sitting still – in the quiet revolution. Those who stay will be rewarded – they don’t know it yet. One woman wonders about with her finger up to her mouth as if to say quiet please...
How can I see her actions when I am behind her. Audience interactions. Extraneous influences. I should have been prepared instead of imposing my own set of rules. A woman sits but her eyes wonder. More cameras – it is a camera fest. This is ridiculous and consumptive.
I move and sit to the left of the performer
I am the audience after all. A man walks in front of me with his hands in his pockets. These participants are in their own thoughts. One man is sitting with his hands open, palms facing up, thumb and forefinger close together on both hands...in a meditative position. More clicking from cameras. Jesus, will they leave us alone! She sits resolutely. Her feet are muddy. I wonder how she did that. She looks to the left. The man with open palms rests his them on his thighs. The photographers step in low to get that perfect shot. Yawn. I am in front of a political space again. This is hopeless...I am tired.
A man takes notes as if he has seen something and I haven’t. All the punters comply with the notice. The dress is the bond. I still can’t see her actions. Her eyes move from side to side – as if connecting with the audience. The notice says cover your face and there are only two people who have completely complied. Up to now I notice that people are only attempting to cover their faces and really only in the end cover half.
I see Rachel. We offer smiles to each other. After sometime she comes over and squeezes my shoulder lightly
I leave for a while because I want to see everything else.
I mean it is an opportunity not to be missed. The energy is bountiful, high, ecstatic… I want to be part of it. To see them all.
I come back and sit down again.
A boy is playing with her. The boy wants more attention (You see… I go away and I miss what is to be seen). She moves her hands towards him, her hand unfolds slowly…very slowly towards him … the boy wants more interaction. He continues to want her but his grandparents move him away. He tries to kiss her. He tries to touch her. He wants to be her inner presence. This is tender. This is happening right now, in the moment. The grandmother finds a ball or something on the floor to give him. He pulls down her scarf from her face. Another moment occurs. She gestures towards him to move away. Her fingers unfolding outstretching in slow motion gesturing him to move away. What poetry. He is gone.
The woman in the green coat is back again. She has shifted her right hand onto her right knee. She folds her arms – bringing them closer together. There is a space of individual reflection. There is no one now. No one is sitting. She sits alone with her pallets, her crates…all nine of them empty.
Incarcerated or… (what are the options)
People stare from outside. There is constant movement. The skipper has changed his rope – a different rhythm. Four people have their faces covered. I am happy as the participants to the left of the performer are sitting between me and the lights so the glare doesn’t affect me
There is a woman opposite with bright red tight on. Amanda is covered in feathers just like Lucky Luke
My performer positions her head to the side. She is positioned to see all her audience in front of her and throughout the space –her participants – all of them. I am cut off from her presence. I am going to move soon. I am not controlled by her. I am not in front of her. I am free to see others as I am not under her gaze
There is quietness now. Only two pallets are empty. Those who are not sitting but standing close by are free to talk. They feel the freedom to talk. Oh shit, the presentation is tomorrow. The essay submission. But Paul will submit it for me. Phew. I was late coming here. It was raining and jammed. Take the bike next time you idiot
Someone finally sits in the middle
The hoodies are a clothing statement. It is loaded. Ask Molly Scott Cato. ‘Baudrillard sees the obligation to obtain identity through consumption in modern society as oppressive.’1 Another performer comes in with her branch and creates enclosure. She departs smoothly, respectfully and quickly. A man bends down outside the circle to read the instructions. I have not stopped writing. My hand is sore. Fuck, it is not Amanda after all. It is the sixth performer in Yellow Reperformed. I need to get my eyes tested. Hey where did she go.
I try to move but I stay for longer behind her. Her back faces me
It is about the audience after all. Is there a relationship being established. Audience interaction. Extraneous influences. There are many people with many different cameras. Snapping here and there...as if it is some tourist attraction. Some one is behind me. She sits still on her pallet. Her back is facing me. The light shines on it.
Everyone is sitting still – in the quiet revolution. Those who stay will be rewarded – they don’t know it yet. One woman wonders about with her finger up to her mouth as if to say quiet please...
How can I see her actions when I am behind her. Audience interactions. Extraneous influences. I should have been prepared instead of imposing my own set of rules. A woman sits but her eyes wonder. More cameras – it is a camera fest. This is ridiculous and consumptive.
I move and sit to the left of the performer
I am the audience after all. A man walks in front of me with his hands in his pockets. These participants are in their own thoughts. One man is sitting with his hands open, palms facing up, thumb and forefinger close together on both hands...in a meditative position. More clicking from cameras. Jesus, will they leave us alone! She sits resolutely. Her feet are muddy. I wonder how she did that. She looks to the left. The man with open palms rests his them on his thighs. The photographers step in low to get that perfect shot. Yawn. I am in front of a political space again. This is hopeless...I am tired.
A man takes notes as if he has seen something and I haven’t. All the punters comply with the notice. The dress is the bond. I still can’t see her actions. Her eyes move from side to side – as if connecting with the audience. The notice says cover your face and there are only two people who have completely complied. Up to now I notice that people are only attempting to cover their faces and really only in the end cover half.
I see Rachel. We offer smiles to each other. After sometime she comes over and squeezes my shoulder lightly
I leave for a while because I want to see everything else.
I mean it is an opportunity not to be missed. The energy is bountiful, high, ecstatic… I want to be part of it. To see them all.
I come back and sit down again.
A boy is playing with her. The boy wants more attention (You see… I go away and I miss what is to be seen). She moves her hands towards him, her hand unfolds slowly…very slowly towards him … the boy wants more interaction. He continues to want her but his grandparents move him away. He tries to kiss her. He tries to touch her. He wants to be her inner presence. This is tender. This is happening right now, in the moment. The grandmother finds a ball or something on the floor to give him. He pulls down her scarf from her face. Another moment occurs. She gestures towards him to move away. Her fingers unfolding outstretching in slow motion gesturing him to move away. What poetry. He is gone.
The woman in the green coat is back again. She has shifted her right hand onto her right knee. She folds her arms – bringing them closer together. There is a space of individual reflection. There is no one now. No one is sitting. She sits alone with her pallets, her crates…all nine of them empty.
There is a shift
One more person arrives to sit. One man comes but not to sit on the pallets, he just goes down on his honkers for a short while. Restless.
She blinks.
For the first time a man walks straight across the space delineated by the pallets. Straight through the nine pallets and up to the notice, bends down and reads it. He departs. I want to depart but the last time I did I missed seeing the interaction of the boy and the performer. A child coughs as if a feather is stuck in his throat.
When people come, they cover their faces and often bury their heads. A small boy in a green jacket sits on the pallet next to her. His arms are crossed and he bows his head – then he leaves abruptly.
I only feel comfortable if I am outside as an observer looking in at it – the democratic space demarcated by the pallets. The woman in the green jacket leaves again – the boy comes back! Her kid comes back and she opens her arms to take him on her lap.
Beautiful.
A man asks me “Are you a poet – just I see you writing down stuff”. ‘”Everything I see” I say. “Oh” he replies and edges off slowly.
The boy doesn’t want to go. He needs her too. He goes with granny. Granny lifts him away. There is a loss of sorts from this genuine act.
The pallets are empty again save for the woman in the green coat. What is she doing here again and again.
There is a man in the galley with a big long beard. There is shouting in the galley. There are two performers calling each other. I see the man in sheep’s clothing walking the galley. He is the respondent. Another call. He responds.
The pallets fill up again after the calling. The little boy in the green jacket keeps coming back again to the same spot
There are now four sitting and all are diligent
She shifts her head slightly to the right
I decide to join in again and sit on a pallet
I cover my face with my hood and lift my collar up so my face is almost completely covered. However I can see out just to the front. I see out from the gap between my hood and the collar of my jacket which is pulled up around my face. I can see the pallets and some body parts of others in the collective. I am now forced to look at the notice which I read fully for the first time. It reads.
THIS IS A POLITICS OF PRESENCE. PLEASE SIT WITH ME SILENTLY AWARE OF THE KNOWLEDGE BETWEEN US. COVER YOUR FACE
A woman from a distance appears to explain to another but older woman the rules of engagement – they depart and do not engage further with the work.
There are seven protesters now – sharing their knowledge.
There is a photographer with a very long lens only five metres away – what can this guy not see. I cannot see her
I move to her right.
I still cannot see her.
The bottles are gangling.
The water is dripping.
It is a piece of metal.
She comes closer.
But the metal comes first.
In and out of the crowd.
People are dispersing.
Avoiding any confrontation or contact.
It comes near to me.
They sit quietly amongst the noise.
I cannot see her, though my back is taking comfort from the support offered by the wall of the prison…damp as it is.
I move again this time standing moving and noting
By accident I am close by a new friend Pat. We talk of arranging lunch. I maintain that the initial invitation still stands for Sunday 5th December for a group of us to meet at a south Indian restaurant in Mary’s Street but he extends another invitation that we come over to his place on the same day. Is he including all the others whom we have invited.
Back I go to observing.
The place is a promenade.
Everyone sits facing in.
Towards the message.
It is a group.
It is a circle.
She looks at her community.
Not many breaks with tradition.
Everyone behaves.
Her eyes gaze at her audience.
Her participants .
Her right toe lifts.
A man walks through the space.
Her right toes completely lift off the ground.
I notice now there is always a pallet that is free.
And it is in the middle.
Finally two people share one pallet
The anticipation of what is to come – this is the greatest attribute. This is the draw. I cannot leave because of this.
She stares out relentlessly – one eye wide open – one eye shielded by her hair
There is one man who sits and crosses his legs. He is also diligently respectful
A flap is lifted to the cell door and it resonates in the immediate area. Is this the toll of incarceration
I overhear a man talking with two women “Do you find when you come in here you become more irreverent?”
Her toes are down
People are thinking…
Post Observation Notes on ‘The Notation of a Live Performance – she is at the back with the timber pallets’
In the beginning I am immersed in the work – just to see what is happening in the moment. However I am also drawn to see what is going on around me – what are the other performers doing? Eventually I succumb to consuming other performances and I go and seek out the other works – I run around exhilarated to see others but only half taking them in before I return gladly to my work and enjoy the time it takes to observe and record the minute. The time it takes to see what is happening and what is going to happen. I am not distracted anymore. I do not want to leave but to stay with this performer in her space of performance. At most I keep one eye on her and another on what is going on around. One informs the other.
I find what happens immediately around me (photographers lens, clicking, people talking) initially irritating – it is distracting me from the presence of my experience. After a while they merge with the work and I can notice them with ease and contentment that they are in fact part of the work. The same is for the noises in the whole space especially from the other performers. At first they are distracting from my individual space of private consumption and then as I am absorbed in anticipating the moment to moment experience of my performance they too become part of the work – I welcome their work.
The quietness of the work catapults it back into the whole exhibition. Everything became noticeable – the skipping, the beautiful red dress surrounded with fluffy brilliant white feathers, the endless obsession of the cameras and the long single person staircase to the upper cells. The quietness of the work catapults the space back into itself so that the performers’ actions become louder. The smaller they were the louder they became. All her five toes to her right foot lifted off the ground after three hours. This was the communication at a physical level. Her eyes stared out from behind her hood. This was communication at a visual level.
What was I expecting the audience to do? Some came. Some went. Some lingered. Some crossed over in front of others. Some walked though the space of exhibition (as if using it as a short cut). Some returned (as if to support the performer – the lady in the green coat, the boy in the green jacket and her child). Some looked, gazing in from outside the immediate space – onlookers not wanting to participate but happy to look in – to be observers and not participants. Those who came in, who sat and covered they faces did so diligently but then who would not under the constant gaze of the chief protagonist.
I became an object that was touched, that was spoken to, that was walked around and that was talked of…
I also listened to private conversations…
Simon Keogh , Precariat Notator, November, 2010
1. Molly Scott Cato, “Butcher, Baker, and Candlestick-Maker - Lifeworlds and Work Identities”, http://www.greenaudit.org/identity and work.htm (accessed 23/11/2010).
She blinks.
For the first time a man walks straight across the space delineated by the pallets. Straight through the nine pallets and up to the notice, bends down and reads it. He departs. I want to depart but the last time I did I missed seeing the interaction of the boy and the performer. A child coughs as if a feather is stuck in his throat.
When people come, they cover their faces and often bury their heads. A small boy in a green jacket sits on the pallet next to her. His arms are crossed and he bows his head – then he leaves abruptly.
I only feel comfortable if I am outside as an observer looking in at it – the democratic space demarcated by the pallets. The woman in the green jacket leaves again – the boy comes back! Her kid comes back and she opens her arms to take him on her lap.
Beautiful.
A man asks me “Are you a poet – just I see you writing down stuff”. ‘”Everything I see” I say. “Oh” he replies and edges off slowly.
The boy doesn’t want to go. He needs her too. He goes with granny. Granny lifts him away. There is a loss of sorts from this genuine act.
The pallets are empty again save for the woman in the green coat. What is she doing here again and again.
There is a man in the galley with a big long beard. There is shouting in the galley. There are two performers calling each other. I see the man in sheep’s clothing walking the galley. He is the respondent. Another call. He responds.
The pallets fill up again after the calling. The little boy in the green jacket keeps coming back again to the same spot
There are now four sitting and all are diligent
She shifts her head slightly to the right
I decide to join in again and sit on a pallet
I cover my face with my hood and lift my collar up so my face is almost completely covered. However I can see out just to the front. I see out from the gap between my hood and the collar of my jacket which is pulled up around my face. I can see the pallets and some body parts of others in the collective. I am now forced to look at the notice which I read fully for the first time. It reads.
THIS IS A POLITICS OF PRESENCE. PLEASE SIT WITH ME SILENTLY AWARE OF THE KNOWLEDGE BETWEEN US. COVER YOUR FACE
A woman from a distance appears to explain to another but older woman the rules of engagement – they depart and do not engage further with the work.
There are seven protesters now – sharing their knowledge.
There is a photographer with a very long lens only five metres away – what can this guy not see. I cannot see her
I move to her right.
I still cannot see her.
The bottles are gangling.
The water is dripping.
It is a piece of metal.
She comes closer.
But the metal comes first.
In and out of the crowd.
People are dispersing.
Avoiding any confrontation or contact.
It comes near to me.
They sit quietly amongst the noise.
I cannot see her, though my back is taking comfort from the support offered by the wall of the prison…damp as it is.
I move again this time standing moving and noting
By accident I am close by a new friend Pat. We talk of arranging lunch. I maintain that the initial invitation still stands for Sunday 5th December for a group of us to meet at a south Indian restaurant in Mary’s Street but he extends another invitation that we come over to his place on the same day. Is he including all the others whom we have invited.
Back I go to observing.
The place is a promenade.
Everyone sits facing in.
Towards the message.
It is a group.
It is a circle.
She looks at her community.
Not many breaks with tradition.
Everyone behaves.
Her eyes gaze at her audience.
Her participants .
Her right toe lifts.
A man walks through the space.
Her right toes completely lift off the ground.
I notice now there is always a pallet that is free.
And it is in the middle.
Finally two people share one pallet
The anticipation of what is to come – this is the greatest attribute. This is the draw. I cannot leave because of this.
She stares out relentlessly – one eye wide open – one eye shielded by her hair
There is one man who sits and crosses his legs. He is also diligently respectful
A flap is lifted to the cell door and it resonates in the immediate area. Is this the toll of incarceration
I overhear a man talking with two women “Do you find when you come in here you become more irreverent?”
Her toes are down
People are thinking…
Post Observation Notes on ‘The Notation of a Live Performance – she is at the back with the timber pallets’
In the beginning I am immersed in the work – just to see what is happening in the moment. However I am also drawn to see what is going on around me – what are the other performers doing? Eventually I succumb to consuming other performances and I go and seek out the other works – I run around exhilarated to see others but only half taking them in before I return gladly to my work and enjoy the time it takes to observe and record the minute. The time it takes to see what is happening and what is going to happen. I am not distracted anymore. I do not want to leave but to stay with this performer in her space of performance. At most I keep one eye on her and another on what is going on around. One informs the other.
I find what happens immediately around me (photographers lens, clicking, people talking) initially irritating – it is distracting me from the presence of my experience. After a while they merge with the work and I can notice them with ease and contentment that they are in fact part of the work. The same is for the noises in the whole space especially from the other performers. At first they are distracting from my individual space of private consumption and then as I am absorbed in anticipating the moment to moment experience of my performance they too become part of the work – I welcome their work.
The quietness of the work catapults it back into the whole exhibition. Everything became noticeable – the skipping, the beautiful red dress surrounded with fluffy brilliant white feathers, the endless obsession of the cameras and the long single person staircase to the upper cells. The quietness of the work catapults the space back into itself so that the performers’ actions become louder. The smaller they were the louder they became. All her five toes to her right foot lifted off the ground after three hours. This was the communication at a physical level. Her eyes stared out from behind her hood. This was communication at a visual level.
What was I expecting the audience to do? Some came. Some went. Some lingered. Some crossed over in front of others. Some walked though the space of exhibition (as if using it as a short cut). Some returned (as if to support the performer – the lady in the green coat, the boy in the green jacket and her child). Some looked, gazing in from outside the immediate space – onlookers not wanting to participate but happy to look in – to be observers and not participants. Those who came in, who sat and covered they faces did so diligently but then who would not under the constant gaze of the chief protagonist.
I became an object that was touched, that was spoken to, that was walked around and that was talked of…
I also listened to private conversations…
Simon Keogh , Precariat Notator, November, 2010
1. Molly Scott Cato, “Butcher, Baker, and Candlestick-Maker - Lifeworlds and Work Identities”, http://www.greenaudit.org/identity and work.htm (accessed 23/11/2010).