Francis Fay - Nicola Kennedy - Sebastian Dooris
performance text photos
Marking Time - A Love Letter
There is tenderness here in these harsh surroundings....emotive of Oscar Wilde’s own words:
“It is that deep spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect...It is in this century misunderstood, so much misunderstood that it may be described as “The love that dares not speak its name,” and on that account of it I am placed where I am now”1
As he presses his pink-smothered lips to the cold prison wall I feel a certain sadness...is this empathy? Pity? Why? He remains faithful to the task...oblivious to everything outside of this ritual of his. How do the onlookers feel, or appear to feel? Is this silent respect or confusion? We invade this private moment, his private ritual. This is a statement that he makes only to himself, a silent protest in a bid only to convince himself of mental freedom.......I should not be witness to this moment.
A prayer stance as he kneels, but still moves....maybe just a necessary part of this process...although still there is a definite feeling of ritual, of sacrifice, of devotion. He kneels on hessian, so does not make contact with the cold, hard ground of his imprisonment...he does not touch his boundaries.
What happens when the lipstick’s all gone....loss of psychological freedom? Or loss of individuality....without this tool he has no means to (literally) make his own mark. This calls to mind reports from the Nazi death camp Bergen-Belsen, where upon its liberation the female internees were given scarlet red lipstick, a small yet significant symbol of their liberation and thus their return to humanity, a token that marked the return of their identity......so by marking this wall, this generic prison wall, he reclaims this space for his own; he will not conform, but makes this place conform to him.
An audio piece plays, an older woman’s voice: ‘all the beauty in nature is him.....rocks are his written word...his strong heart stirs the ever beating sea...’ He is still for the duration of the audio, head hanging. No audience is present for the duration: does it even matter?
I want to hug him, or applaud....do something to recognize his efforts at silent rebellion....his subtle movement and the quiet sweet tenderness of his actions undermine, almost ridicule, the force of this place and the sometimes unjustifiable justice system that holds him here.
I sway between being entranced, and then uncomfortable, as though my presence disturbs the act, am I an intruder? Yet I don’t feel unwelcome.
Does he tire? This matters to me, and I don’t want to make a sound for fear I might wake him from this trance, forcing him to suddenly feel the physical strain such repetition for so long must cause.
Re-apply, re-apply, re-apply......every kiss oozes reason, compassion, but passion, really? This act echoes the purity that Wilde speaks of, something beyond passion.
7:15 PM
Slowing down now, is this fatigue or a higher intensity? He appears to become more enveloped in the act; with more power, more consideration and yet more tenderness. I can feel an intense sort of homage, a respect in his actions.
Is this kissing forgiveness...forgive the walls, forgive the institution, kiss it all better, or lay it to rest?
I take a break for a few minutes....there is an intensity in durational performance that I have never experienced before...This process demands far more than a short glance. Something changes in you over a period of time in this situation that cannot be conveyed within moments. It's like when you sit in silence for so long that sound sounds odd once you hear it again. But this invokes feelings that an empty silence cannot....this space, this elongated moment, forces you to feel rather than think.
I return to the cell.....the act seems more beautiful now, returning from the ordinary arbitrariness of tea and fluorescent lighting. I feel at home now, yet not overly familiar.....does that even make sense? Sense doesn’t matter here, I think the only language now is feelings.
He stands now, more than halfway, I am wondering how he will cover the entire wall above his head - will props disturb the performance? The audio piece plays again, and someone walks in...now two people.
‘His tears fall from the skies....I see his face in every flower, the thunder and the singing of the birds are but his voice...’ a godly figure? Is it he whom the speaker alludes to, or maybe Wilde, or God, or none of these....or all of these - the boundaries are becoming blurred.
8:00 PM
The space becomes crowded, changing the atmosphere......I now feel like a voyeur in the crowd - but voyeurism...is that not the point; a shared experience with the audience. Yet his back is turned to us, we don’t witness the full happening, something is left between only him and the wall - we are onlookers, not participants.
8:30 PM
Calm from the storm. There is noise; shouting from the top floor and reciprocated by cries and roars on the ground below, whilst inside this cell he carries on in his own solidarity, locked in his own act. He is either oblivious or consciously ignoring anything that is happening outside of his own space. I think he is oblivious.
Beautiful and delicate (but are these my feelings, or what I feel I should say? Maybe I have gone beyond a point where I can articulate). I do feel sadness, pity, admiration, alliance to the cause. He has won me over. I can’t see his face, do I need to? Faceless yet familiar. Its more the space, the place and the act that I have become acquainted with. Does the way I feel describe universal feelings this piece invokes, or are these my own as someone who has remained for the duration?
I move to stand and my legs are numb, but I didn’t notice. Time has become irrelevant here.
8:45 PM
He takes a ladder to complete the top of the wall, it didn’t interfere as I thought it might, but I did see his face. I didn’t want to, it is not necessary for me to recognize him, its the performance that I feel I know. A noise outside distracts the four other people in the room - two leave to investigate, the rest of us remain. I think the silence here is partly what draws me - us - here. He makes no kissing sounds, the act is not theatrical, but feels meaningful and real.
Is this kissing forgiveness...forgive the walls, forgive the institution, kiss it all better, or lay it to rest?
I take a break for a few minutes....there is an intensity in durational performance that I have never experienced before...This process demands far more than a short glance. Something changes in you over a period of time in this situation that cannot be conveyed within moments. It's like when you sit in silence for so long that sound sounds odd once you hear it again. But this invokes feelings that an empty silence cannot....this space, this elongated moment, forces you to feel rather than think.
I return to the cell.....the act seems more beautiful now, returning from the ordinary arbitrariness of tea and fluorescent lighting. I feel at home now, yet not overly familiar.....does that even make sense? Sense doesn’t matter here, I think the only language now is feelings.
He stands now, more than halfway, I am wondering how he will cover the entire wall above his head - will props disturb the performance? The audio piece plays again, and someone walks in...now two people.
‘His tears fall from the skies....I see his face in every flower, the thunder and the singing of the birds are but his voice...’ a godly figure? Is it he whom the speaker alludes to, or maybe Wilde, or God, or none of these....or all of these - the boundaries are becoming blurred.
8:00 PM
The space becomes crowded, changing the atmosphere......I now feel like a voyeur in the crowd - but voyeurism...is that not the point; a shared experience with the audience. Yet his back is turned to us, we don’t witness the full happening, something is left between only him and the wall - we are onlookers, not participants.
8:30 PM
Calm from the storm. There is noise; shouting from the top floor and reciprocated by cries and roars on the ground below, whilst inside this cell he carries on in his own solidarity, locked in his own act. He is either oblivious or consciously ignoring anything that is happening outside of his own space. I think he is oblivious.
Beautiful and delicate (but are these my feelings, or what I feel I should say? Maybe I have gone beyond a point where I can articulate). I do feel sadness, pity, admiration, alliance to the cause. He has won me over. I can’t see his face, do I need to? Faceless yet familiar. Its more the space, the place and the act that I have become acquainted with. Does the way I feel describe universal feelings this piece invokes, or are these my own as someone who has remained for the duration?
I move to stand and my legs are numb, but I didn’t notice. Time has become irrelevant here.
8:45 PM
He takes a ladder to complete the top of the wall, it didn’t interfere as I thought it might, but I did see his face. I didn’t want to, it is not necessary for me to recognize him, its the performance that I feel I know. A noise outside distracts the four other people in the room - two leave to investigate, the rest of us remain. I think the silence here is partly what draws me - us - here. He makes no kissing sounds, the act is not theatrical, but feels meaningful and real.
9:20 PM
I leave again for a while. The feeling in the Gaol is getting very intense, as I said before, something changes after a time, and its difficult for me to comprehend, let alone describe. I just feel it. I am emotional, almost tearful. I am cold, tired, entranced.
9:50 PM
He must be exhausted, but still as intense as the first kiss. There is a big crowd now, some find it amusing, I think it is fatigue.
He checks every kiss before continuing to the next one. I feel impatient for him to finish now its nearing the end. I am aware of the time as the crowds are ushered out of the Gaol. He is not affected by the commotion, though his kisses must be harder now as the lipstick leaves a darker mark on the wall.
The barren, whitewashed prison cell wall is now completely covered in his bright pink kisses, but does the wall alone now mean anything? Will it be scrubbed?
The performance, and the memory of it, or more the memory of the feeling of it, is what I’ll take with me.
This picture of a lipstick wall cannot convey what happened here tonight.
Nicola Kennedy, December 2010
[1] a portion of Oscar Wilde’s reply at his second trial in the Old Bailey in April 1895.
9:50 PM
He must be exhausted, but still as intense as the first kiss. There is a big crowd now, some find it amusing, I think it is fatigue.
He checks every kiss before continuing to the next one. I feel impatient for him to finish now its nearing the end. I am aware of the time as the crowds are ushered out of the Gaol. He is not affected by the commotion, though his kisses must be harder now as the lipstick leaves a darker mark on the wall.
The barren, whitewashed prison cell wall is now completely covered in his bright pink kisses, but does the wall alone now mean anything? Will it be scrubbed?
The performance, and the memory of it, or more the memory of the feeling of it, is what I’ll take with me.
This picture of a lipstick wall cannot convey what happened here tonight.
Nicola Kennedy, December 2010
[1] a portion of Oscar Wilde’s reply at his second trial in the Old Bailey in April 1895.