tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13940277245826558732024-02-22T14:10:13.850+00:00matchbox rizla drawingsGail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.comBlogger349125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-79846686060337800602012-12-21T13:20:00.000+00:002012-12-21T13:24:44.273+00:00Blake and Ololon on Resonance FM<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today at 2.30pm 'Blake and Ololon', a sound piece by Marco and me, will be broadcast on 'Wavelength', <a href="http://www.williamenglish.com/" target="_blank">William English's programme</a> on <a href="http://resonancefm.com/listen" target="_blank">Resonance FM</a>. This is a new edit of the sound piece which accompanied our performance 'Blake and Ololon' on 26th November 2012. (Please see earlier posts for details of the performace and exhibition it was part of).<br />
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<br />Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-29232179687885072432012-12-21T12:46:00.002+00:002015-06-29T18:40:53.287+01:00Blake and Ololon performance<span style="font-size: large;">On Monday 26th November 2012 Marco and I did a performance called 'Blake and Ololon', accompanied by our Blake and Ololon sound piece, (a
shorter edit of which will be broadcast on Resonance FM on Friday 21st
December). The performance was part of the exhibition 'Illuminations', an exhibition of small illuminated works and performance inspired by William Blake and curated by Helen Elwes and Stephen Micalef, which took place in the Crypt of the Church of St George the Martyr (see previous posts for more details).</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">All photos by Joe Burton, except where indicated </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo (below) by Calum F. Kerr</span><br />
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<br />Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-15643163800407021932012-11-26T12:59:00.002+00:002012-11-28T22:35:48.522+00:00William Blake PerformanceMarco and I are doing a performance tonight, 'Blake and Ololon', as part of the performance party night of the William Blake 'Illuminations' Exhibition. The party begins at 5.30pm, and the performances will be from 7pm - 10pm, with Calum F. Kerr, Stephen Micalef and many other artists. This will be the last day of the exhibition of small illuminated works inspired by William Blake. The exhibition is in The Crypt of the Church of St. George the Martyr, opposite Borough tube station.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Click on invitation to view larger</span><br />
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Please see earlier blog post for more details and pictures from the exhibition.<br />
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<a href="http://williamblakecongregation.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">William Blake Congregation</a><br />
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<a href="http://mentalfightclub.com/" target="_blank">Mental Fight Club</a>Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-17206735642462360942012-11-11T18:31:00.004+00:002012-11-11T20:41:48.493+00:00Blake Illuminations Exhibition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Ololon's Cloud Dress</i>, watercolour on paper, 19 x 14cm</span><br />
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I am showing three drawings in the exhibition 'Illuminations', in the crypt of <a href="http://dragoncafe.co.uk/" target="_blank">St George the Martyr Church</a>, Borough. The exhibition is curated by <a href="http://williamblakecongregation.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Helen Elwes and Stephen Micalef</a>, who asked artists and poets to contribute drawings in response to William Blake's work, in the same size as Blake's book 'Milton'. My drawings are inspired by the story of Ololon.<br />
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The exhibition is open on Monday 5th, 12th, 19th and 26th of November 2012 from 10am to 10pm.<br />
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There will be a closing party with performances on the 26th, from 6pm to 10pm, including a performance by Marco and me.<br />
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The exhibition is in 'The Dragon Cafe', in the Crypt of St George the Martyr Church, opposite Borough tube station. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS4buf9YkqtpFwamcmre7hFv4CyWdD3rldtdkjxQmGRrtX41fZ2SyT62p1nGIP4Li-WN-E2pKtIVFK7fWHysLB4_Q9nRbHtX30Aat4ADJzb06j27mbiomaq2yuDaxDVU16r6XTe0bvXTL8/s1600/The+%27Os%27+of+Ololon+Falling+to+Earth+%281%29+Gail+Burton+William+Blake+Micalef+Helen.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS4buf9YkqtpFwamcmre7hFv4CyWdD3rldtdkjxQmGRrtX41fZ2SyT62p1nGIP4Li-WN-E2pKtIVFK7fWHysLB4_Q9nRbHtX30Aat4ADJzb06j27mbiomaq2yuDaxDVU16r6XTe0bvXTL8/s400/The+%27Os%27+of+Ololon+Falling+to+Earth+%281%29+Gail+Burton+William+Blake+Micalef+Helen.jpg" width="303" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The 'Os' of Ololon Falling to Earth (1)</i>, watercolour on paper, 19 x 14 cm</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_j3HI_ar-XTOtPgIyEwTA4iEzJFrAGMp4Rydx8mIXp7Dp7JyVZbvMkluisZLNivZFyBTVGLUkADyFODVcX_aFPaDnIUv1QC1vfyTdFikbFC6XNNv6f4ug3uSSOobMxc-n3KPY86IAuRrX/s1600/The+%27Os%27+of+Ololon+Falling+to+Earth+%282%29+William+Blake+Gail+Burton+Micalef+Helen.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_j3HI_ar-XTOtPgIyEwTA4iEzJFrAGMp4Rydx8mIXp7Dp7JyVZbvMkluisZLNivZFyBTVGLUkADyFODVcX_aFPaDnIUv1QC1vfyTdFikbFC6XNNv6f4ug3uSSOobMxc-n3KPY86IAuRrX/s400/The+%27Os%27+of+Ololon+Falling+to+Earth+%282%29+William+Blake+Gail+Burton+Micalef+Helen.jpg" width="306" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The 'Os' of Ololon Falling to Earth (<span style="font-size: x-small;">2</span>)</i>, watercolour and pen on paper, 19 x 14 cm</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTxnAON_Zz9Ges6QwgCLbzh4XpZ9VzXEToV53YJaJwVbjn9vYdF4mopbxBansNRWGqrrCbKoOfDQnHbTPTJZv46d8f8efTjzAn1WaRVwyU2u1JlQshoNHYpdV0fLu3eTJkynxP1oKnxUX0/s1600/Blake+Illuminations+invite+Helen+and+Micalef+Gail+Burton.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTxnAON_Zz9Ges6QwgCLbzh4XpZ9VzXEToV53YJaJwVbjn9vYdF4mopbxBansNRWGqrrCbKoOfDQnHbTPTJZv46d8f8efTjzAn1WaRVwyU2u1JlQshoNHYpdV0fLu3eTJkynxP1oKnxUX0/s400/Blake+Illuminations+invite+Helen+and+Micalef+Gail+Burton.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Click on image to view full text)</span><br />
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<a href="http://williamblakecongregation.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">William Blake Congregation</a><br />
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<a href="http://dragoncafe.co.uk/" target="_blank">The Dragon Cafe</a><br />
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<a href="http://mentalfightclub.com/" target="_blank">Mental Fight Club</a><br />
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Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-51697409009885036972012-11-03T14:15:00.001+00:002012-11-28T22:31:02.970+00:00Radio performance onlineThe radio performance I did with Marco on Resonance FM is available to listen to online. Please visit William English's website, where the programme is in the 2012 'Wavelength' archive:<br />
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<a href="http://williamenglish.com/index.php?year=2012" target="_blank">Gail and Marco on William English's radio programme</a><br />
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The performance was broadcast live from a tent in the Resonance FM studio on September 14th 2012. The performance lasted for 55 minutes and formed one full edition of William English's 'Wavelength' programme.<br />
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<br />Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-27507670144039528842012-09-15T13:32:00.001+01:002012-11-28T22:32:05.023+00:00Radio performance: repeat broadcastThe live radio performance that Marco and I did on Friday 14th September will be repeated at midnight this Sunday/Monday on <a href="http://resonancefm.com/listen" target="_blank">Resonance FM</a>.<br />
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'Wavelength (repeat), with <a href="http://williamenglish.com/index.php" target="_blank">William English</a>'<br />
Live performance by Gail and Marco <br />
Monday 17th September 00:00 - 01:00Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-50950736581513159812012-09-12T20:19:00.002+01:002012-11-28T22:33:30.476+00:00Live Radio Performance<style><!--
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Friday 14th September 2012</div>
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2.30pm to 3.30pm</div>
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<a href="http://resonancefm.com/" target="_blank">Resonance 104.4 FM</a></div>
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Gail Burton and Marc Vaulbert de Chantilly</div>
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Earls Court</div>
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11 </div>
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Hotel </div>
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Rushmore </div>
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Burroughs</div>
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Bridges</div>
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Borough</div>
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11 </div>
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Town Hall </div>
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Hotel Rushmore<br />
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Many thanks to Town Hall Hotel, Bethnal Green, for kind permission to record sounds there. </div>
Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-65774410745210262762012-07-23T11:00:00.017+01:002012-08-29T12:56:12.842+01:00Pins and Needles performance, part 1 and 2 - West and East <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTMpHGB907835-OK33hjxmo0wCiViMaxpRbcVbs2HncpY87tZKUdZ5eC_R6Ay1Gl5wSnP1By9LAh0CLtQZ12ikb-q6g9C06klZdfIq3a7cfimvvAZ8mUcMsMhtkAj6AbVeF2Q4NThCR9ro/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+11+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5776859570974863074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTMpHGB907835-OK33hjxmo0wCiViMaxpRbcVbs2HncpY87tZKUdZ5eC_R6Ay1Gl5wSnP1By9LAh0CLtQZ12ikb-q6g9C06klZdfIq3a7cfimvvAZ8mUcMsMhtkAj6AbVeF2Q4NThCR9ro/s400/Pins+and+Needles+11+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><b><i>Pins and Needles</i></b></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> was a performance in two parts that </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Marc Vaulbert de Chantilly and </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I did in October 2011 for the exhibition East Pop West / East Pop Red, which was a two-part two-venue exhibition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b><i>Pins and Needles, Part 1 – West</i></b></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> took place in West London, during the East Pop West exhibition; <b><i>Pins and Needles, Part 2 – East</i></b></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><b> </b></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">took place in East London, during the East Pop Red exhibition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We devised the performance in response to the context of the east-west theme of the exhibition.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEm5jhFq-w_xQEKGFrCLT73375iRzYaLCpjavKhVmfcKu7ETQdNxT-OXZxEZV5MSn17hOSGcwOhLFTpnd1F7XL2wJPvKn2Y_zA1sWdTV_J-KmSbVI1Ij9uZuSWM5bpyEWLMR6zxcE5Oobc/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+Arthur+Beale+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662219142177289970" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEm5jhFq-w_xQEKGFrCLT73375iRzYaLCpjavKhVmfcKu7ETQdNxT-OXZxEZV5MSn17hOSGcwOhLFTpnd1F7XL2wJPvKn2Y_zA1sWdTV_J-KmSbVI1Ij9uZuSWM5bpyEWLMR6zxcE5Oobc/s400/Pins+and+Needles+Arthur+Beale+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJszD6YVsABPkND2WSFO12_wS4Rk6pmBKlsOo-m4ffMjJ7rDWqJRH3yTmT5blPSg6nBy5SzcCGUM88jJX6DaW1R-ckyT0tPcEyg4oDi3WqKOdNUhs1HXxa3gLU6nhwrtyXHc_GCRePXtrr/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+William+Gee+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662219292801145442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJszD6YVsABPkND2WSFO12_wS4Rk6pmBKlsOo-m4ffMjJ7rDWqJRH3yTmT5blPSg6nBy5SzcCGUM88jJX6DaW1R-ckyT0tPcEyg4oDi3WqKOdNUhs1HXxa3gLU6nhwrtyXHc_GCRePXtrr/s400/Pins+and+Needles+William+Gee+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><br />In preparation for the performances, Marco bought two brass compasses from a shop in West London, the chandlers 'Arthur Beale'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He then bought two boxes of dressmaker's pins from a shop in East London, the haberdasher's 'William Gee'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The compasses would be used to locate the direction of east and west.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would each have a box of pins and take out one pin at a time, place it on the ground, with the sharp pointed end towards the direction indicated by our compass, and continue placing pins to form two lines, running between east and west.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We imagined our lines might meet in the middle and overlap, if our measurements were totally accurate; or perhaps our lines might cross or run parallel if our measurements were inaccurate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We expected each performance to take half an hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the first performance I would make a line east to west, Marco would make a line west to east. We would reverse the process for the east London performance – I would make a line of pins from west to east, Marco from east to west, and so complete the east-west cycle. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqg_L_v-fzCDq8UAFMnIxrTpK-KAyRQ9gKc2cejs2YRAGTvMl1BMv3ezSosx-0u1uklwHbyD7pvhJ5ZBn7AF5v-jhgUOt2djjzj7ydMKcRDrQv8iTCchsL-X9TiSdG8wMc-Fh2ppTAosTA/s1600/Needles+and+Pins+Gail+%252B+Marco+performance+East+Pop+West+x.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5776860562569804802" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqg_L_v-fzCDq8UAFMnIxrTpK-KAyRQ9gKc2cejs2YRAGTvMl1BMv3ezSosx-0u1uklwHbyD7pvhJ5ZBn7AF5v-jhgUOt2djjzj7ydMKcRDrQv8iTCchsL-X9TiSdG8wMc-Fh2ppTAosTA/s400/Needles+and+Pins+Gail+%252B+Marco+performance+East+Pop+West+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 180%;"><b>Pins and Needles, Part 1 - West</b></span></span><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Garamond; panose-1:0 2 2 4 4 3 3 1 1 8; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times-Roman; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:Garamond; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} h1 {mso-style-next:Normal; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; page-break-after:avoid; mso-outline-level:1; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-font-kerning:0pt; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} p.MsoBodyText, li.MsoBodyText, div.MsoBodyText {margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times-Roman; color:blue;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: black;">Saturday 1st October 2011, at 7.30pm approximately, at East Pop West exhibition opening.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: black;">Exhibition open from Friday 30th September to Sunday 2nd October 2011, 12 noon - 10pm.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: black;">Unit 1, Goldhawk Industrial Estate, Vinery Way (off Brackenbury Road), London, W6 0BE</span></span><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><b><i>Pins and Needles, Part 1 – West</i></b></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> took place on a green carpeted floor within the exhibition space, on the opening night of the exhibition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We began the performance without any announcement and the audience was whoever chose to watch or notice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Garamond; panose-1:0 2 2 4 4 3 3 1 1 8; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times-Roman; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:Garamond; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} h1 {mso-style-next:Normal; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; page-break-after:avoid; mso-outline-level:1; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-font-kerning:0pt; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} p.MsoBodyText, li.MsoBodyText, div.MsoBodyText {margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times-Roman; color:blue;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Marco and I each held a compass in the palm of our hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The compasses were brass, round and chunky, the flat kind used in sailing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We stood opposite each other at a distance of about fifteen feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marco used his compass to locate the direction of east, I located the direction of west.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the compass needles had settled we positioned ourselves so that we were exactly aligned with the east-west line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were facing each other along the line:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marco looked east, I looked to the west.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We knelt down, holding our compass in our hand or placing it on the floor. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The needle of my compass jumped around, taking a while to re-settle once I was kneeling on the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The small but chunky cardboard box of pins was positioned ready on the floor beside me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marco and I looked at each other, then began placing pins.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG4AHhf0jj8dud33EdTab3vPsVTfGsnpU909duIHamYIbDsFAgfvJ5E4FoqKgidhN0RgjbyxjKuoD_H4aMsZjgyqlA2WUy7Om4gHZnijg4eSccuFiDkc67B2ZARyhrfLvL8zU_O3wUAh5v/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+6+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662217968973568370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG4AHhf0jj8dud33EdTab3vPsVTfGsnpU909duIHamYIbDsFAgfvJ5E4FoqKgidhN0RgjbyxjKuoD_H4aMsZjgyqlA2WUy7Om4gHZnijg4eSccuFiDkc67B2ZARyhrfLvL8zU_O3wUAh5v/s400/Pins+and+Needles+6+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 225px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 85%;">Photo (above) by Anastasia Albertiné Sakoilska</span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR_OcJrGjEMLLObD86kqIItTBRvlceTxSKoSahPhumqzS5Wt4MAki81r7VNiDvwYVqp3v3RjXMakt-TL6NvGQui0EiUZYS92PKEyFPgI4YTY8n0QVhjR2mYB193DeEssCc_PBK_KK_l93f/s1600/marco+pins+west+start+x.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5776918777829170802" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR_OcJrGjEMLLObD86kqIItTBRvlceTxSKoSahPhumqzS5Wt4MAki81r7VNiDvwYVqp3v3RjXMakt-TL6NvGQui0EiUZYS92PKEyFPgI4YTY8n0QVhjR2mYB193DeEssCc_PBK_KK_l93f/s400/marco+pins+west+start+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 303px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7l_HWPnb0igqE7pblUGiWsbFAcCWV93olFFr6j_VPfLUN1-8kp0t5Xdjyn9l2DHl6OrqeS15Ceykqrrs3Z1F0NLDcOuisR7yIaeCegCuhBPN5T2sOn5PvZ0-mSUrfYIv8yzvyEYxtkMMB/s1600/Gail+Pins+West+start+x.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5776917645031815538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7l_HWPnb0igqE7pblUGiWsbFAcCWV93olFFr6j_VPfLUN1-8kp0t5Xdjyn9l2DHl6OrqeS15Ceykqrrs3Z1F0NLDcOuisR7yIaeCegCuhBPN5T2sOn5PvZ0-mSUrfYIv8yzvyEYxtkMMB/s400/Gail+Pins+West+start+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Two photos above by Agata Johnston</span><br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I picked up a pin and placed it pointed end towards the west.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pin felt fragile and hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took a few pins out of the box and put them on the floor, ready to use.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I continued placing pins along a line in the direction indicated, though I could see already that my line would not meet with the line that Marco had begun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pins jumped a little on the stiff bristles of the very synthetic carpet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pricked my finger sometimes as I laid them down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The progress of my line was slow, incremental, restricted by the length of the pins and the requirement to be neat and precise, laying them end to end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was very aware of time - the pins, the process, seemed to track or measure time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The line created afterwards would be a track of time. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRKax1_DXicCYOrsUiQGk-01tnr5HMfev_d0iusfODaqFyrCxRmMTKev-i3i7L-bo-DMR5XxWt_SYB2T5sjGkZ4ERlTOYe-Tzco4eSXFh_neYZzZ9AOLJBu50zpSwU9HNABrbca-w899si/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+9+Marco+Gail+BUrton+x.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662216563290555826" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRKax1_DXicCYOrsUiQGk-01tnr5HMfev_d0iusfODaqFyrCxRmMTKev-i3i7L-bo-DMR5XxWt_SYB2T5sjGkZ4ERlTOYe-Tzco4eSXFh_neYZzZ9AOLJBu50zpSwU9HNABrbca-w899si/s400/Pins+and+Needles+9+Marco+Gail+BUrton+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6KzkAwu-PWYYAs5oWNefpWMC5yj6RqfsQ8qbd8a6lGgdhu5QakC5xiYJofBW1-4ueZ2DbIKq4FUjwQqJlG3Dfl79iAHXuXecJmvoyvvZSQQX_DflU32Mm8RkplPRRvXDFnqeB7O2v2JgG/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+7+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662217124428493474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6KzkAwu-PWYYAs5oWNefpWMC5yj6RqfsQ8qbd8a6lGgdhu5QakC5xiYJofBW1-4ueZ2DbIKq4FUjwQqJlG3Dfl79iAHXuXecJmvoyvvZSQQX_DflU32Mm8RkplPRRvXDFnqeB7O2v2JgG/s400/Pins+and+Needles+7+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirjCfv0PVbxeZGyG2rAB-l4-ThY__C_NhECQdbIUMs4gh8rEp1UY1S_t3X87hNvyDa4xPPwTMTX7xq7DZBNyHUoBMqqbhPSWyb-YF8QAiTtSKenluIK28paKySUSpZCoCTil3dp0aRskl1/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+15+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662221991978099394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirjCfv0PVbxeZGyG2rAB-l4-ThY__C_NhECQdbIUMs4gh8rEp1UY1S_t3X87hNvyDa4xPPwTMTX7xq7DZBNyHUoBMqqbhPSWyb-YF8QAiTtSKenluIK28paKySUSpZCoCTil3dp0aRskl1/s400/Pins+and+Needles+15+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a></span><span style="color: black; 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<span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">My line veered off to the right at first, but then the compass reorientated itself and drew my line back towards the centre and Marco's line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the halfway point, Marco told me afterwards, his compass went haywire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was it the titanium in his wrist?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sent the second half of his line off in a different direction to the first half of mine, making a narrow 'fork'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had passed what would become the divergent point before Marco had put his pins there; he must have found my trail but not me when he reached it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found that I placed my pins more quickly than Marco, and at the end I had to wait ten minutes for him to finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the halfway point, my compass guided my line along exactly the same track as Marco's.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I began laying my pins closely alongside his.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw that my pins were less neat, more higgledy-piggledy, with slight gaps between some of them, or a pin jutting out, though the overall trajectory of the line was precise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had different styles of line, a different quality:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marco's were careful, neat, end-to-end pins, (though the line 'wobbled off' after half way); my pins were wonky-ish individually, with slightly jumbled jumpy 'pin marks'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pins on the ground came to feel like 'drawn' pencil-type marks. </span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"> <span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3TGCEkhPIK9IRFSf4ZkXqKGp-7qBU59CVg5EgJyyY9CIzpQSVm6afYvympLW1qIuKoEcd6YW4KEA-9z5SGf_YNJpq69TUoHlMJEa1gPum4_AKrBI1pr8S7u64DWmWiCCgiNv-S-9Zipem/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+8+Marco+Gail+BUrton+x.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662218672484863442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3TGCEkhPIK9IRFSf4ZkXqKGp-7qBU59CVg5EgJyyY9CIzpQSVm6afYvympLW1qIuKoEcd6YW4KEA-9z5SGf_YNJpq69TUoHlMJEa1gPum4_AKrBI1pr8S7u64DWmWiCCgiNv-S-9Zipem/s400/Pins+and+Needles+8+Marco+Gail+BUrton+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoLg9apeXKz0EL-5_J20rm6URlOYaRaONwsmICeqPO66YfqlIKaCTGYRtjWE2W1bLqoEiz69f-1djni_LV5It_AMVxda2zWjGa2_1qSJd5FiwK22K4K7pqbYhJVfawHPMA298B-J2QW0Cv/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+15+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662221788792236578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoLg9apeXKz0EL-5_J20rm6URlOYaRaONwsmICeqPO66YfqlIKaCTGYRtjWE2W1bLqoEiz69f-1djni_LV5It_AMVxda2zWjGa2_1qSJd5FiwK22K4K7pqbYhJVfawHPMA298B-J2QW0Cv/s400/Pins+and+Needles+15+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Garamond; panose-1:0 2 2 4 4 3 3 1 1 8; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times-Roman; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:Garamond; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} h1 {mso-style-next:Normal; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; page-break-after:avoid; mso-outline-level:1; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-font-kerning:0pt; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} p.MsoBodyText, li.MsoBodyText, div.MsoBodyText {margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times-Roman; color:blue;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I sat kneeling when I'd completed my line, looking to the west, waiting for Marco to finish his line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was reminded of the moment in our <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/wrapping-sun-and-moon-performance.html"><i><b>Sun and Moon/Wrapping</b></i></a> performance, when I paused, kneeling, at his feet, before I began to unwrap and then 'wake' him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt held by the moment of waiting, knowing a cycle was about to be completed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned to look over my shoulder periodically until I saw Marco had completed his line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We both rose to our feet and the performance was finished.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsjbA64itzXt2jstCbesp3CQsyGpOvTlji5JbCP7qxq_YUeZaluOF3SHwgin2yRdmn3ivTJZXOlOrKYUjroWH-aJCqrCaMAtNRcB636Jl5EE3MUNDWr_p5OsW1jTtijxYpR3JQLafOcrsW/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+5+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662218091374475794" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsjbA64itzXt2jstCbesp3CQsyGpOvTlji5JbCP7qxq_YUeZaluOF3SHwgin2yRdmn3ivTJZXOlOrKYUjroWH-aJCqrCaMAtNRcB636Jl5EE3MUNDWr_p5OsW1jTtijxYpR3JQLafOcrsW/s400/Pins+and+Needles+5+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 225px;" /></a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><span style="font-size: 85%;">Photo (above) by Anastasia Albertiné Sakoilska</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEPRTR2j9wBpDqvF-jJi6Lz80ifVZY9evcgw3aBuKo5K8kkL5QUAtFbJHh4WhSqkS6zTxSnC65bRvs4LaMaOCrwEhWdY3waSwYXAa20sEQgn-PGK5GiWH4J2kWDWvm34XDf62xj5RyH94a/s1600/marco+pins+west+end+x.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5776921257306965842" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEPRTR2j9wBpDqvF-jJi6Lz80ifVZY9evcgw3aBuKo5K8kkL5QUAtFbJHh4WhSqkS6zTxSnC65bRvs4LaMaOCrwEhWdY3waSwYXAa20sEQgn-PGK5GiWH4J2kWDWvm34XDf62xj5RyH94a/s400/marco+pins+west+end+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 309px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 85%;">Photo (above) by Agata Johnston</span><br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When completed, the two lines of pins appeared to have a 'fork in the road'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It gave the sense of a much greater scale – a long road viewed from above, across an expansive terrain, not just a fragile line of pins going nowhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The metal of the pins caught the light, glistening in places, and the slight meandering of the line was as if produced by an animal. The lines appeared like a snail trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The scale seemed to change, seemed ambiguous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The action itself felt at once limitless, endless, ongoing, and yet was also predetermined, finite, contained.</span><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdYO24dp8NI3ZEzHUDtzZ_Vo8FHXF3FO5oi3ftyneGyrGTNdgo1eWllqb6tK0Nw1LfeIs_tQQgVdaEVXuE2bVF_uYX3DuAUagMGK3ZLkRXVBKMUn1SmO-oAB5YBjEcj0zMXcWEx_s9tP3/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+3+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662217651592375074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdYO24dp8NI3ZEzHUDtzZ_Vo8FHXF3FO5oi3ftyneGyrGTNdgo1eWllqb6tK0Nw1LfeIs_tQQgVdaEVXuE2bVF_uYX3DuAUagMGK3ZLkRXVBKMUn1SmO-oAB5YBjEcj0zMXcWEx_s9tP3/s400/Pins+and+Needles+3+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFZVguffu1Gwp738r4ooZ0sw7Z2xSM0LnfhcWmBJIhEpjo92nQHoO08x85_tjdKSXEZpmGOC3zHz5MAEdJDWWnaeQBCBS9JilD7yrpSTb_YI9v-LQjwLMzbc1em0keEpVBnUBcuTPNs-u/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+12+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662215711908771346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFZVguffu1Gwp738r4ooZ0sw7Z2xSM0LnfhcWmBJIhEpjo92nQHoO08x85_tjdKSXEZpmGOC3zHz5MAEdJDWWnaeQBCBS9JilD7yrpSTb_YI9v-LQjwLMzbc1em0keEpVBnUBcuTPNs-u/s400/Pins+and+Needles+12+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Garamond; panose-1:0 2 2 4 4 3 3 1 1 8; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times-Roman; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:Garamond; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} h1 {mso-style-next:Normal; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; page-break-after:avoid; mso-outline-level:1; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-font-kerning:0pt; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} p.MsoBodyText, li.MsoBodyText, div.MsoBodyText {margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times-Roman; color:blue;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Though we had used a compass to take measurements, the appearance of the lines we produced related closely to our bodily actions, and did not have the precision or consistency of a scientific instrument.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The performance was a physical drawing, a drawing with the body, which mapped and manifested subtle movements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whilst attempting our task, moving in particular ways, a kind of dance emerged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The movements repeated, built and refined, rhythmically; our actions related to each other's, to the space and to our sense of time. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3IR0eAYwO4cczX9qGPd7Q-ZGVizcuOpB1MveTnmjC3HV4EiNvFXAi6w_wSDMNLRHYZMqJ_Yl6cZo4DUW1eYpqWJXbd_bweFvSp8KmP5nW-CLSAR4z8YhzZfUbTtvqhbQ3_5rCYYA89rDL/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+1+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662221352826223666" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3IR0eAYwO4cczX9qGPd7Q-ZGVizcuOpB1MveTnmjC3HV4EiNvFXAi6w_wSDMNLRHYZMqJ_Yl6cZo4DUW1eYpqWJXbd_bweFvSp8KmP5nW-CLSAR4z8YhzZfUbTtvqhbQ3_5rCYYA89rDL/s400/Pins+and+Needles+1+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRE02dARBBCEqvMB6RcYSKOC4wDvenkPun0rnsomkDLjscuCwpvkcXd_3aZI1WqT967felvDup76mj1all_IT_DS_8O9sFVTpA3ZZpJ-UwR7Dki_xhxALNtIpVBNrrmSEKiWQ7p1MZz5tK/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+16+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662215523516701634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRE02dARBBCEqvMB6RcYSKOC4wDvenkPun0rnsomkDLjscuCwpvkcXd_3aZI1WqT967felvDup76mj1all_IT_DS_8O9sFVTpA3ZZpJ-UwR7Dki_xhxALNtIpVBNrrmSEKiWQ7p1MZz5tK/s400/Pins+and+Needles+16+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Garamond; panose-1:0 2 2 4 4 3 3 1 1 8; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times-Roman; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:Garamond; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} h1 {mso-style-next:Normal; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; page-break-after:avoid; mso-outline-level:1; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-font-kerning:0pt; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} p.MsoBodyText, li.MsoBodyText, div.MsoBodyText {margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times-Roman; color:blue;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Marco and I have collaborated previously on another floor-based performance, <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/AISLE"><i><b>Aisle</b></i></a>, a crawling performance; I have also made two solo crawling performances, <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/Look%20Harder"><i><b>Crawl</b></i></a> and <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/dishclout"><i><b>Dishclout the Human Duster</b></i></a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i><b>Pins and Needles</b></i> was a performance of repetition, of patiently, silently repeating simple movements, as was our performance <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/bell"><i><b>Silent Bell Ringing</b></i></a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In our <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/wrapping-sun-and-moon-performance.html"><i><b>Wrapping:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sun and Moon</b></i></a> performance we evoked the cycle of sun and moon/day and night; reversal, ritual and opposites were central to <i><b>Pins and Needles</b></i> too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the first of our performances that intentionally produced an 'object' from the process, other than the traces of dirt, or wear or hurt that crawling or ringing created (and the large ball of crumpled tin foil produced by unwrapping Marco then tidying up the wrappings in <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/wrapping-sun-and-moon-performance.html"><i><b>Wrapping: Sun and Moon</b></i></a> – which has subsequently become the head of a sculpture by Micalef, made for the William Blake Show at Freedom Press, opening on Thursday 2nd August 2012).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather than making the performance more fixed or tangible the 'object' produced from it, the 'pin drawing', seemed to emphasize the ephemerality of the performance – the lightness and hard-to-see-ness of the pins suggested something almost or not quite there, easily kickable or missable, (though deadly to bare feet) – and pointed to something that had happened, though not exactly what, and reminded of whatever it was having finished or been and gone.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">'The repetition gave me an escape from the upset of seeing you upset', Marco said after the performance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(A minor-in-the-scheme-of-things upsetting event had occurred directly before our performance.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the performance he said 'I see your point now, I thought about it as I put the pins down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'd be livid if they did it to me.'</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The small, repetitive action of placing the pins, the following of a prescribed method, undertaking a task that could be endless, an action that could be a component in an endlessly repeated process, but which had an arbitrary end transforming it into a cycle, (the exchange of our start positions for our end positions), the sense of attaching to a bigger fact – east to west, of being a human embodiment of, allied to, a scientific tool (the compasses) and concept, created a meditative space, calm and soothing, a hiatus, a ritual:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>we were detached from ourselves yet focussedly, tangibly, present in our bodies and environment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The 'ritual' could be repeated, acting upon a space, our experience of time and place and our bodies.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The performance was an experiment - through fixed rules and repeated actions there was uncertainty and exploration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Would the lines meet?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would they cross?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How long would it take?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How would the pins look?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A woman asked 'Can you tell me what the game is?' during the performance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Is this the first time you've done it?' someone asked us afterwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We didn't rehearse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An experiment, I suppose...'</span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br />Afterwards, we picked up all the pins, one-by-one, counting them in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ground – astroturf – felt dirty – I hadn't noticed laying them out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lost count of the pins midway, when I got upset about something I was thinking over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got to 58 before I lost count.<br /></span><style><!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Garamond; panose-1:0 2 2 4 4 3 3 1 1 8; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times-Roman; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:Garamond; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} h1 {mso-style-next:Normal; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; page-break-after:avoid; mso-outline-level:1; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-font-kerning:0pt; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} p.MsoBodyText, li.MsoBodyText, div.MsoBodyText {margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times-Roman; color:blue;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Garamond; panose-1:0 2 2 4 4 3 3 1 1 8; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times-Roman; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:Garamond; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">'See a pin and let it lie, You'll want a pin before you die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See a pin and pick it up, All the day you'll have good luck.'</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><style><!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Garamond; panose-1:0 2 2 4 4 3 3 1 1 8; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times-Roman; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:Garamond; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">'Never should dropped pins be disregarded..."See a pin and let it lie, Before the evening you will cry." '</span><br /><br /><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Garamond; panose-1:0 2 2 4 4 3 3 1 1 8; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times-Roman; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:Garamond; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">'My husband's terrible. If he sees a pin he'll grovel in the gutter to pick it up. He'd go to any length rather than leave it lying.'</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span></div>
<style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Garamond; panose-1:0 2 2 4 4 3 3 1 1 8; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times-Roman; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:Garamond; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 100%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">'It is regarded unlucky to find a pin with the point turned towards you.'</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 180%;"><b>Pins and Needles, Part 2 - East</b></span><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Garamond; panose-1:0 2 2 4 4 3 3 1 1 8; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times-Roman; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:Garamond; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} h1 {mso-style-next:Normal; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; page-break-after:avoid; mso-outline-level:1; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-font-kerning:0pt; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} p.MsoBodyText, li.MsoBodyText, div.MsoBodyText {margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times-Roman; color:blue;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: black;">Thursday 13th October 2011, at 6pm approximately, at East Pop Red performance night.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: black;">East Pop Red exhibition:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>opening night on Tuesday 11th October 2011, from 6pm - 9pm;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>exhibition open from Wednesday 12th October to Tuesday 18th October 2011, from 11am to 8pm.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: black;">Red Gallery, 3 Rivington Street, London, EC2A 3DT</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><span style="font-size: 100%;"><i><b>Pins and Needles, Part 2 - East</b></i></span> <span style="color: black; font-weight: normal;">took place in Red Gallery, during the performance night of the exhibition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The performance began without announcement, amidst the comings-and-goings in the gallery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We r</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-weight: normalfont-family:Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">eversed the polarities – I started from the west, looking east, Marco from the east looking west.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would complete a cycle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought of circuits, a mirror, inversion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt excited, knowing the process, the ritual, and faced with the new surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was impatient to begin and be in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would lay the pins with confidence.</span> </span><style><!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Garamond; panose-1:0 2 2 4 4 3 3 1 1 8; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times-Roman; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:Garamond; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} h1 {mso-style-next:Normal; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; page-break-after:avoid; mso-outline-level:1; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-font-kerning:0pt; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} p.MsoBodyText, li.MsoBodyText, div.MsoBodyText {margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times-Roman; color:blue;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --></style></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As I laid the pins I was aware of the world up above and around us, much more so than in the west.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt like a child playing on the floor, crawling around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was much more aware of being low, beneath sound and movement, than in west London – maybe we were more vulnerable here, with the hard floor and the busier night. </span></span><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: black; font-weight: normal;">(The floor this time was smooth and hard, wood laminate, rather than the wiry tufts of astroturf.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I thought of sailing, and tacking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tacking ships.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And tacking garments – first the pinning, then going over the line, in between the pins, with the tacking stitches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A temporary line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A temporary join, seam.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">'Are you supposed to be silent?'<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Alex asked</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">. </span>He laid his i-phone compass on the floor next to mine – they agreed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Again, Marco was slower and neater – I waited at the end, kneeling, looking east, compass in hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought about waiting.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"> <span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Afterwards, Marco said 'At times I thought I was making trails of pins.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Earlier I'd thought we were making <i>lines</i> of pins, east to west.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Now it felt like a trail.'</span><span style="font-size: 100%; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Trailing.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Laying a trail.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Marco: </span> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">'Like ships that pass in the night, I said to someone. It seemed appropriate – I was pleased – the lines didn't cross – a random direction.'</span></span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><style><!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Garamond; panose-1:0 2 2 4 4 3 3 1 1 8; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Times-Roman; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:Garamond; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} h1 {mso-style-next:Normal; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; page-break-after:avoid; mso-outline-level:1; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Garamond; mso-font-kerning:0pt; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} p.MsoBodyText, li.MsoBodyText, div.MsoBodyText {margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times-Roman; color:blue;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Sectio</style></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">At the end of the performance there was a moment when the pins started to get scattered and I enjoyed the beginning of randomness and obliteration, letting go of control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But once we quickly began photographing the lines –<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>before they would be destroyed by more unseeing feet and by our own gathering-up and counting-in – I began to feel protective of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted the ephemeral marks to be indelible, to be mine, seen as me – I wanted to be seen, recorded, undoing the lines, before they were gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My urge contradicted the ephemerality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My protectiveness of the lines did not allow me to enjoy their obliteration and scattering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marco said 'I enjoyed watching people trample in them afterwards, I didn't mind', though he'd meticulously counted them in after the first performance.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRyerFvnWAVdHNX1chyphenhyphenjeCwHZL44dEsDvzFBS4fc5Rr8StINXXfLSHFGh4Wufa-nWUm0aowBh9ZoaNa9b2nhexvuCgjPJfLAPQJ_cKLDxZ3ywSM63lN1r1QExyb7PTAB_IZyZng3HynwS/s1600/Gail+Pins+and+Needles+East+Pop+Red+x.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5776878779995427298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRyerFvnWAVdHNX1chyphenhyphenjeCwHZL44dEsDvzFBS4fc5Rr8StINXXfLSHFGh4Wufa-nWUm0aowBh9ZoaNa9b2nhexvuCgjPJfLAPQJ_cKLDxZ3ywSM63lN1r1QExyb7PTAB_IZyZng3HynwS/s400/Gail+Pins+and+Needles+East+Pop+Red+x.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Marco told me 'After, when we were dancing in Alex's disco, I saw a stray pin on the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to pick it up; it was between two girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"A pin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We thought you were looking at our shoes." I'm really glad I found that rogue pin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lost, then found.'</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Pins were put into 'Witch's Bottles' to ward off witches, along with hair, nail clippings, or urine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pins were classified along with bodily cast-offs – inert/dead fragments but still potent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw one such bottle at the Pitt Rivers Museum, which had been mistakenly described as having a witch in it by the person from whom its donator had bought it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The witch was thought to be caught inside, so the bottle still offered protection against the witch, but giving it a different kind of power as an object, the potential to do harm if broken or opened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bottle that needs to be kept safe, not one that will keep you safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It rattled, I think, when shaken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The witch's bones?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or the pins?</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Times-Roman; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">'A large...apple tart, wrapped in a clean white napkin fastened with pins...was handed on board [and] I could see there was something amiss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One man held it, and the captain cautiously took out each pin, and with arm extended to the uttermost, carefully dropped them over the counter into the sea to drown...The captain then slowly, seriously, and solemnly assured me that pins were spiteful witches, and ought never to be brought on board a vessel.'</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFSUoYDLL2WtQs9V_mmLvH9htSsUcycTa10_twbk9HojpzRIVgPBmv9Q7pZkDI0-6PPeT8UQIY7Mo-61Ezz_bZMJubGlmnrf0EMdxKUjGGQ13SIPSy4GZaSOGHeKmKG3uAPFtBcRfMulZi/s1600/Marco%2527s+pins+east+to+west+xx.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5778782588015712386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFSUoYDLL2WtQs9V_mmLvH9htSsUcycTa10_twbk9HojpzRIVgPBmv9Q7pZkDI0-6PPeT8UQIY7Mo-61Ezz_bZMJubGlmnrf0EMdxKUjGGQ13SIPSy4GZaSOGHeKmKG3uAPFtBcRfMulZi/s400/Marco%2527s+pins+east+to+west+xx.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 284px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE-kbEq95Xs3kroOnMQHhoNWT1t8FHzPNjb2zmiGv6xy5OISX603mXs581MxYbkQkylKkPoE5C-a1DDcFkyHb6lXAz_nqfi6-bhhRALqZ29utUgIIcH_DJHB-UQ89azf02acIp6mpDLQtI/s1600/Gail%2527s+pins+west+to+east+xx.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5778782085582653778" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE-kbEq95Xs3kroOnMQHhoNWT1t8FHzPNjb2zmiGv6xy5OISX603mXs581MxYbkQkylKkPoE5C-a1DDcFkyHb6lXAz_nqfi6-bhhRALqZ29utUgIIcH_DJHB-UQ89azf02acIp6mpDLQtI/s400/Gail%2527s+pins+west+to+east+xx.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 280px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitxagShblT73m2DMc6CHY6WLt-Gy-Tc6ZkanjwABROSQw27uD0q3jONPB5VmPkKV_Mxm738q4HPMS7UaEzxIRYTMvURRxKpAUs4EqdHQPv_ehQrT8-nwC44vAjs-0n05gBPwtP_Nfgn05Q/s1600/bags+of+pins+Gail+and+Marco+xx.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5778781393427287506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitxagShblT73m2DMc6CHY6WLt-Gy-Tc6ZkanjwABROSQw27uD0q3jONPB5VmPkKV_Mxm738q4HPMS7UaEzxIRYTMvURRxKpAUs4EqdHQPv_ehQrT8-nwC44vAjs-0n05gBPwtP_Nfgn05Q/s400/bags+of+pins+Gail+and+Marco+xx.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 182px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-68143911750318062782011-10-11T11:42:00.025+01:002011-10-13T13:43:43.289+01:00EAST POP RED Exhibition and PerformanceI am showing two paintings in <span style="font-weight:bold;">EAST POP RED</span>, an exhibition at <a href="http://www.redgallerylondon.com/" target="_blank">Red Gallery</a>, following on from the <span style="font-weight:bold;">EAST POP WEST</span> exhibition. I will also be doing a performance with Marco, the second part of our '<span style="font-weight:bold;">Pins and Needles</span>' East-West performance, which began in West London. Details below.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWtxFTUkTCofDq1-32-PqL_-UECoA1RCaeV3pyfit2JOvHTePKeNmEyD_ly7fbDNWeNUDAjYD7k8zEqmNW8Pf4_EgL5or1C4TXMEWe-UyO24UJG0M78JX5kGtdjL8zSJ_D11apgblxtlZI/s1600/NOT+NO+UN+Gail+Burton+painting+Red+Gallery.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWtxFTUkTCofDq1-32-PqL_-UECoA1RCaeV3pyfit2JOvHTePKeNmEyD_ly7fbDNWeNUDAjYD7k8zEqmNW8Pf4_EgL5or1C4TXMEWe-UyO24UJG0M78JX5kGtdjL8zSJ_D11apgblxtlZI/s400/NOT+NO+UN+Gail+Burton+painting+Red+Gallery.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662226358308482434" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYVbLAAtTl3ieBmnTxLdgsdryN7DWR05bIM23cypzTRydRKiS4zt9_DI_GmmIzmFaigPE1hgp2Zw31zP88wOh7H4VHBnh4udMO8gJFs_P0b8_cxap6jBF-kS6CSCIWXiaCTMMRdL2XiuFM/s1600/SHE+IS+NOT+BEING+MOVED+Gail+Burton+painting+Red+Gallery+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYVbLAAtTl3ieBmnTxLdgsdryN7DWR05bIM23cypzTRydRKiS4zt9_DI_GmmIzmFaigPE1hgp2Zw31zP88wOh7H4VHBnh4udMO8gJFs_P0b8_cxap6jBF-kS6CSCIWXiaCTMMRdL2XiuFM/s400/SHE+IS+NOT+BEING+MOVED+Gail+Burton+painting+Red+Gallery+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662953526694872658" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Not No Un (She Is Not Being Moved)</span><br /><br />The opening night is on Tuesday 11th October 2011, from 6pm - 9pm.<br /><br />The exhibition is open from Wednesday 12th October to Tuesday 18th October, from 11am to 8pm.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">PINS AND NEEDLES, PART 2 - EAST</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTUEFxEs0IAlfq0yD_QNGUJK3og1m9Oxo8dLViLsFW0xnN6PZ8neOxwCrk9HxijnVqVurbmy4rUBFtmfaamTMmNhr1W8rGLj0vDOvdR85gLTCpYkmN8g4XvsnhI_fEtt4bzf8YIDAXTvRd/s1600/Pins+and+Needles+11+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTUEFxEs0IAlfq0yD_QNGUJK3og1m9Oxo8dLViLsFW0xnN6PZ8neOxwCrk9HxijnVqVurbmy4rUBFtmfaamTMmNhr1W8rGLj0vDOvdR85gLTCpYkmN8g4XvsnhI_fEtt4bzf8YIDAXTvRd/s400/Pins+and+Needles+11+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662223510038070850" /></a><br /><br />'Pins and Needles' performance will take place in the gallery from approximately 6pm on Thursday 13th October. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.redgallerylondon.com/" target="_blank">Red Gallery</a><br />3 Rivington Street<br />London<br />EC2A 3DT<br /><br />Nearest tube stations are Old Street and Shoreditch High Street.<br /><br />More information on the <a href="http://www.redgallerylondon.com/" target="_blank">Red Gallery</a> and <a href="http://eastpop.co.uk/about/" target="_blank">Eastpop</a> websites<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwXk9xNsGjagrNNDvFHVZo9bd7HuYHBK2a8C1voO29y2wOtrVaL5g_kt1UR2FiGQ3Py0qiCR8EIlLEyuYiC0xp-iBcAzbpyic_naFizxBI0Q1s8CPu1vbMmdj_q37etiySd86kvOjiGlS5/s1600/EAST+POP+RED+press+release.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwXk9xNsGjagrNNDvFHVZo9bd7HuYHBK2a8C1voO29y2wOtrVaL5g_kt1UR2FiGQ3Py0qiCR8EIlLEyuYiC0xp-iBcAzbpyic_naFizxBI0Q1s8CPu1vbMmdj_q37etiySd86kvOjiGlS5/s400/EAST+POP+RED+press+release.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662183648905958466" /></a><br /><br />Details of the previous exhibition, EAST POP WEST, and the first part of my and Marco's performance <span style="font-weight:bold;">Pins and Needles - West</span>, are in the posts below.Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-64216778562600665652011-10-01T12:57:00.012+01:002011-10-11T14:25:23.460+01:00East Pop West / Not No Un / Pins and Needles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilyh2thK7uyMsHEY8lYG5f9Vy3HDTi6M_ToWkf6nic4SEz41ONGw17NsI_9C-c2XhAfDhW6OV36u2U8_JQ-Tdu7cWCi-h_4N4GmzVUQ1iFZwjlrbbInNTpZIN49Aq-xrdZaWUtYGgRuNKe/s1600/Needles+and+Pins+performance+Marco+%252B+Gail+East+Pop+West+xx.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 307px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilyh2thK7uyMsHEY8lYG5f9Vy3HDTi6M_ToWkf6nic4SEz41ONGw17NsI_9C-c2XhAfDhW6OV36u2U8_JQ-Tdu7cWCi-h_4N4GmzVUQ1iFZwjlrbbInNTpZIN49Aq-xrdZaWUtYGgRuNKe/s400/Needles+and+Pins+performance+Marco+%252B+Gail+East+Pop+West+xx.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658492173689368498" /></a><br />I will be doing a performance with Marco at 7.30pm on Saturday 1st October 2011, as part of the <span style="font-weight:bold;">East Pop West</span> event. Our performance is called <span style="font-weight:bold;">Pins and Needles</span>. <br /><br />I am showing two new paintings in the exhibition; together they are called <span style="font-weight:bold;">Not No Un (She Is Not Being Moved)</span>.<br /><br />East Pop West is open from Friday 30th September to Sunday 2nd October, <br />12 noon - 10pm. <br /><br />Admission price £5 / £3 concessions<br /><br />East Pop West<br />Unit 1<br />Goldhawk Industrial Estate<br />Vinery Way (off Brackenbury Road)<br />London<br />W6 0BE<br /><br />Nearest Tube is Shepherd's Bush (Central Line). <br />Vinery Way is a 10 / 15 minute walk down Goldhawk Road (on the left).<br /><br />More information on the <a href="http://eastpop.co.uk/events/" target="_blank">East Pop West website</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpyWUQjkNzzeJSajzfcsQWfIa-RFbZuKORmTnGUPXlAB4cOHrC3zMRC8y33nCahj1B-KTB3LrOP178QojYu4vE-pPVkBMcplihB3dRb3vkxSYrLN43nQV9TYRVEFzYzruQvWAW_DGttJ7g/s1600/NOT+NO+UN+%2528NOT+BEING+MOVED%2529+Gail+Burton+East+Pop+West+paintings+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpyWUQjkNzzeJSajzfcsQWfIa-RFbZuKORmTnGUPXlAB4cOHrC3zMRC8y33nCahj1B-KTB3LrOP178QojYu4vE-pPVkBMcplihB3dRb3vkxSYrLN43nQV9TYRVEFzYzruQvWAW_DGttJ7g/s400/NOT+NO+UN+%2528NOT+BEING+MOVED%2529+Gail+Burton+East+Pop+West+paintings+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658492030047239026" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhehwCovavaUJpW1XiH-GVNLpyezC3R57uudPi36UvVr54iRl4PQt_Ue18Hll2KVR0EWyObuc211A_Y2Jh2lLt__9yhol-8XSd9seQ1gydOs6g0Mth3qad8ocEwT80PCxEopANhG-JqXoua/s1600/SHE+IS+NOT+BEING+MOVED+%2528East+Pop+West%2529+Gail+Burton+painting+xx.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhehwCovavaUJpW1XiH-GVNLpyezC3R57uudPi36UvVr54iRl4PQt_Ue18Hll2KVR0EWyObuc211A_Y2Jh2lLt__9yhol-8XSd9seQ1gydOs6g0Mth3qad8ocEwT80PCxEopANhG-JqXoua/s400/SHE+IS+NOT+BEING+MOVED+%2528East+Pop+West%2529+Gail+Burton+painting+xx.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658491913831674866" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizBieS6LY_zOvUBeVTGu2h56SzX2TWDc9YC9s0PjA91o1cbNnzQbxaeESQbrBkoe6Cm5sq_CIqXw_zNTYElV4HJSAQCThgqBzu74lru4eDfkA5Djs6-zmA33x-Siw694_igiH_NN0PGFhv/s1600/NOT+NO+UN+%2528East+Pop+West%2529+Gail+Burton+painting+xx.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 336px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizBieS6LY_zOvUBeVTGu2h56SzX2TWDc9YC9s0PjA91o1cbNnzQbxaeESQbrBkoe6Cm5sq_CIqXw_zNTYElV4HJSAQCThgqBzu74lru4eDfkA5Djs6-zmA33x-Siw694_igiH_NN0PGFhv/s400/NOT+NO+UN+%2528East+Pop+West%2529+Gail+Burton+painting+xx.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658491780457119138" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQDGHHn6G9SGlV7YKA0TliVk4MWg8N5LnAl0N0nvHHQzE5dnjdfVWfStqgQxIBmNJ6T0SEux6YHOuEPiFST8B1HFH6vSldgDPxWOWHSPSUjeWfqPNQuhItL4ZAcoU7jZ1W63FDmR3_j8_G/s1600/NOT+NO+UN+EAST+POP+WEST+Gail+Burton+installation+paintings+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQDGHHn6G9SGlV7YKA0TliVk4MWg8N5LnAl0N0nvHHQzE5dnjdfVWfStqgQxIBmNJ6T0SEux6YHOuEPiFST8B1HFH6vSldgDPxWOWHSPSUjeWfqPNQuhItL4ZAcoU7jZ1W63FDmR3_j8_G/s400/NOT+NO+UN+EAST+POP+WEST+Gail+Burton+installation+paintings+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662224822774951458" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfUONAo09pWvoWYdQzwB9FmeUybW_Ac8un7VcMtP5WjGWC4BMIys601WSiIL4yfuN0xgBbfY9Kl76FpKIAzWBIZc7N7XgP3eUV_WaLXR72xnQboc4njKZ8H6VEFx7bbfCgzxXaPx-8F6s0/s1600/EAST+POP+WEST+invite+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 282px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfUONAo09pWvoWYdQzwB9FmeUybW_Ac8un7VcMtP5WjGWC4BMIys601WSiIL4yfuN0xgBbfY9Kl76FpKIAzWBIZc7N7XgP3eUV_WaLXR72xnQboc4njKZ8H6VEFx7bbfCgzxXaPx-8F6s0/s400/EAST+POP+WEST+invite+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658491642163618546" /></a>Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-77570440213769663872011-09-20T21:52:00.032+01:002011-09-20T23:08:21.372+01:00NOT NO UN / SEXY100 PICTURES<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTXl2aPGMr6x44-kyBsOEx08Ec_8H-01X6w4O6qYsG9jTsW6E1UhV-aIcj2_GYgd2k7DB_ZEc8BtgPKRpZw0wH-YQ81XMgNmkh5wsgTkttRdlj0m86Nj9L0R24qNjNnbBq0p-0Hd61PSj/s1600/Gail+Burton+SEXY100+NOT+NO+UN+INSTALLATION+2+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTXl2aPGMr6x44-kyBsOEx08Ec_8H-01X6w4O6qYsG9jTsW6E1UhV-aIcj2_GYgd2k7DB_ZEc8BtgPKRpZw0wH-YQ81XMgNmkh5wsgTkttRdlj0m86Nj9L0R24qNjNnbBq0p-0Hd61PSj/s400/Gail+Burton+SEXY100+NOT+NO+UN+INSTALLATION+2+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654550186868418962" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">NOT NO UN</span>, my installation of nine paintings for the exhibition SEXY100. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">SEXY100</span> is a group exhibition of 100 artists at 'wall to wall', a temporary space in an old office block, that's usually a makeshift warehouse for a food re-distribution charity. As well as three open-plan floors, dingily-officey-carpeted, the building has many small cubicle-style rooms, with sliding doors, louvred blinds, dusty shelves and office detritus. I made my installation, NOT NO UN, in one of these small rooms, creating nine new paintings to fit in the space of three wall-mounted shelves (dust left in-tact). I also created a tenth, related, painting, 'SHE IS NOT BEING MOVED (RED)', which was hung on the top floor amongst work by other artists. Each painting is 10 X 12 inches, in acrylic paint.<br /><br />The exhibition is at:<br />'wall to wall', <br />8 - 9 Spring Place, <br />Kentish Town<br />London<br /><br />SEXY100 is open from 9th to 30th September 2011, daily by appointment. <br />Call 07587 454 613 or email stimulusltdworldtour.co.uk.<br /><br />More information about the exhibition and the curators, Stimulus Ltd, can be found at <a href="http://www.deal-big.biz/" target="_blank">BIG DEAL</a> and <a href="http://www.stimulusltdworldtour.org.uk/stimulusltdworldtour/Home.html" target="_blank">Stimulus Ltd</a> websites. The invitation and map are on my previous blog post, below.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDqvR6mmR8Av3ts7Mj71yf_0WtiDXjg4icm1KVut-cNgP9rrwYOzbERFLTcTH4qx76KBSn-oiYF5kOiBDotIAyF89ND7ATuz6YTErnVbtR1pWS9yuVKuNCn3jFD7E1NaHeoFN7sxA5oDQg/s1600/Gail+Burton+SEXY100+NOT+NO+UN+INSTALLATION+3+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDqvR6mmR8Av3ts7Mj71yf_0WtiDXjg4icm1KVut-cNgP9rrwYOzbERFLTcTH4qx76KBSn-oiYF5kOiBDotIAyF89ND7ATuz6YTErnVbtR1pWS9yuVKuNCn3jFD7E1NaHeoFN7sxA5oDQg/s400/Gail+Burton+SEXY100+NOT+NO+UN+INSTALLATION+3+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654550055170723858" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTOHPhjDYHJxNCaAiiAoFfc4rda8sRVQ1s8l_wdAiqOM5opaDXDazavBINFGyXLSvQ03CmaBu00eudigERpllto0i1WSLChQL4JmFB_XZKOX7jCTvEXx0353rh7BmMsgFKI_dDuU0Fv3d2/s1600/Gail+Burton+SEXY100+NOT+NO+UN+INSTALLATION+1+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 333px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt1Chs2Dsdi3EbPm4RwDONxZIwxW0CXNqZb5tbNuPia6f9TWAzWzZ5dwwf4WtgSVYAfOr0DK1UAKiFGMkhjRKU-qL1Xo-43sL44597CMl9d1utWRKnzP-UTRdkvEGHHD-GFP2vWyG74HAP/s400/ONE+BUCKET+PEAS+Gail+Burton+SEXY100+painting+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654548267230632546" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9sSx5cZ8AcDp1rAnchDjUVy2PJWl4U6CDuVPI40_5Idotb3-qXAfvE6riy1tyb2JMoFRhiQyHmmahIPUjgkkz3Fc7TsUmJWUqHgDlL-iSEPQjhIKwbskbhACcxlG_6VkjdVTmvnzps-bb/s1600/SHE+IS+NOT+BEING+MOVED+Gail+Burton+SEXY100+painting+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 331px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9sSx5cZ8AcDp1rAnchDjUVy2PJWl4U6CDuVPI40_5Idotb3-qXAfvE6riy1tyb2JMoFRhiQyHmmahIPUjgkkz3Fc7TsUmJWUqHgDlL-iSEPQjhIKwbskbhACcxlG_6VkjdVTmvnzps-bb/s400/SHE+IS+NOT+BEING+MOVED+Gail+Burton+SEXY100+painting+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654548085632869586" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCG1joW84F2gyI03_wLY5Xp1X4F3jKf6xc93iQHPObzn37U9WXRSxlAPDM3GobUhARyuqFGM7_9YuYrDw-T15GSilvgw6CPJj87KPjNCZJA2jcvBFwLYhjwSZz9BReLXfUCmhIgF65TmgU/s1600/DISAPPEAR+DOT+Gail+Burton+SEXY100+painting+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 331px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCG1joW84F2gyI03_wLY5Xp1X4F3jKf6xc93iQHPObzn37U9WXRSxlAPDM3GobUhARyuqFGM7_9YuYrDw-T15GSilvgw6CPJj87KPjNCZJA2jcvBFwLYhjwSZz9BReLXfUCmhIgF65TmgU/s400/DISAPPEAR+DOT+Gail+Burton+SEXY100+painting+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654547873954422098" /></a><br /><br />TASTE<br />BEGIN AGAIN<br />NOT NO UN<br />ALL THE TIME<br />ALL OVER<br />COUNT<br />ONE BUCKET PEAS<br />SHE IS NOT BEING MOVED<br />DISAPPEAR DOT<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTnNigQ0cEOkWN0lkNCMNtW8Nm4dUyTSyxOt1I0Ofo4595eYe2DLnCHIIDSF7zzhSCazIWKXRCctjWNUE42xK-n8AxBJ1Sn4hlLfHD_03zXKRSDHSXdKB8wa0tnvc6X3dcINndlkjX-9Bq/s1600/SHE+IS+NOT+BEING+MOVED+RED+Gail+Burton+SEXY100+painting+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 335px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTnNigQ0cEOkWN0lkNCMNtW8Nm4dUyTSyxOt1I0Ofo4595eYe2DLnCHIIDSF7zzhSCazIWKXRCctjWNUE42xK-n8AxBJ1Sn4hlLfHD_03zXKRSDHSXdKB8wa0tnvc6X3dcINndlkjX-9Bq/s400/SHE+IS+NOT+BEING+MOVED+RED+Gail+Burton+SEXY100+painting+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654556240896050210" /></a><br />SHE IS NOT BEING MOVED (RED)Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-32628529610712135232011-09-05T11:57:00.011+01:002011-09-05T16:18:14.833+01:00BIG DEAL SEXY100<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_b2zmHsuetnn4UI2gPratG9haG9jjP3GjqlSsBWFmwyAPeogI3XK55OnbRJ8mSp1VhpXmVueXoO05wCSlnRhAYLmwV1MxBNU5JSbHsIGgnEE09gZ5NxF3EuolclhSC4pVMKxyrk1t3bnN/s1600/NOT+NO+UN+Gail+Burton+SEXY100+painting+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 337px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_b2zmHsuetnn4UI2gPratG9haG9jjP3GjqlSsBWFmwyAPeogI3XK55OnbRJ8mSp1VhpXmVueXoO05wCSlnRhAYLmwV1MxBNU5JSbHsIGgnEE09gZ5NxF3EuolclhSC4pVMKxyrk1t3bnN/s400/NOT+NO+UN+Gail+Burton+SEXY100+painting+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5648876804912884706" /></a>
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<br />I am showing ten new paintings in the exhibition <span style="font-weight:bold;">BIG DEAL SEXY100</span>, curated by Stimulus Ltd. The private view is on Thursday 8th September 2011, from 5pm until 9pm, with performances and work by 100 artists. The exhibition is at <span style="font-weight:bold;">wall to wall</span>, 8-9 Spring Place, London N5. It's a ten minute walk from Kentish Town tube on the Northern Line.
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<br />Here are links to <a href="http://www.deal-big.biz/" target="_blank">BIG DEAL</a> and <a href="http://www.stimulusltdworldtour.org.uk/stimulusltdworldtour/Home.html" target="_blank">Stimulus Ltd</a> websites.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgisLw3PVPljSq72sS1QgSnyzZyhAdLX8LtyRv6VJfA0KA08MdBfo1PdLBW_mY8clwd1jViT3-YFMTWJHWBy_tL1VpW605hm6Ajy2NPcGrvptj7wQS_hHVMG_jFLkmGnAjpteqioGRuV9NI/s1600/Gail+Burton+design-sexy-100-invitation-stimulus-ltd.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgisLw3PVPljSq72sS1QgSnyzZyhAdLX8LtyRv6VJfA0KA08MdBfo1PdLBW_mY8clwd1jViT3-YFMTWJHWBy_tL1VpW605hm6Ajy2NPcGrvptj7wQS_hHVMG_jFLkmGnAjpteqioGRuV9NI/s400/Gail+Burton+design-sexy-100-invitation-stimulus-ltd.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5648828200596360658" /></a>
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlQHzPRJYqiQ-o1CPQjB02rGldg4ukxNujlBT_XFLUPyhX2yd_BrcArLPhIaFHRKruTFCZKHo25tm1kA4W356mL0ZJ0ZzNopdjamPIS3dovzU2xGO-18Sfr1aydFgStbklB5U_8bUdMwJV/s1600/Gail+Burton+design-sexy-100-invitation-stimulus-ltd-2-map.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlQHzPRJYqiQ-o1CPQjB02rGldg4ukxNujlBT_XFLUPyhX2yd_BrcArLPhIaFHRKruTFCZKHo25tm1kA4W356mL0ZJ0ZzNopdjamPIS3dovzU2xGO-18Sfr1aydFgStbklB5U_8bUdMwJV/s400/Gail+Burton+design-sexy-100-invitation-stimulus-ltd-2-map.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5648828120605537106" /></a>Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-58787173525279056122011-07-07T11:59:00.001+01:002011-07-07T13:42:22.054+01:00Wrapping: Sun and Moon Performance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk-SvvClE8c_jmPYGmggCX_8kMWNiIMAIRChhlq5EYqr1gv32B9HC4eMUnxIQOUAwamdrkgJrUKnIk7nuQovsNJJDdVoAUPOyIBLK8zyTpQmVOmpuSCYHPhAvCq9-gZT5hWH7Ch5IJpqS_/s1600/Foil+and+Flag+Sun+and+Moon+Performance+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+Micalef%2527s+Blake+poems.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk-SvvClE8c_jmPYGmggCX_8kMWNiIMAIRChhlq5EYqr1gv32B9HC4eMUnxIQOUAwamdrkgJrUKnIk7nuQovsNJJDdVoAUPOyIBLK8zyTpQmVOmpuSCYHPhAvCq9-gZT5hWH7Ch5IJpqS_/s400/Foil+and+Flag+Sun+and+Moon+Performance+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+Micalef%2527s+Blake+poems.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625904367284565938" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Tin foil and crumpled flag, after the performance</span></span><br /><br />On Saturday April 23rd 2011 I did a performance with Marc Vaulbert de Chantilly as <span style="font-weight:bold;">The Sun and Moon</span>. We were invited to perform by Micalef, for the final event of his exhibition <span style="font-weight:bold;">The Wine Presses of Luvah</span>. The event, at the <a href="http://www.freedompress.org.uk/news/bookshop/" target="_blank">Freedom Bookshop gallery</a>, Whitechapel, was the third during Micalef’s exhibition, where he read his new Blake poems, and hosted various performances, including <span style="font-weight:bold;">The Hoova of Luvah</span>. Micalef added new poems for each event, which were based on things that happened in the previous readings and performances.<br /><br />Micalef’s request/instructions/suggestions for our performance were only that Marco would be the Moon and I would be the Sun ('wear something diaphanous'), and that we 'do something about Blake's Albion'. Marco suggested we buy lots of tin foil – we decided on two large, wide rolls – and use two balls of grey wool; he suggested I wear yellow. We found nothing suitable and yellow in the charity shop, so Marco brought a yellow T-shirt of his own, with a mythological print on the front and back, for me to wear over my green dress. I wore my hair – which is long and yellow-ish – down. Marco brought a silver suit, trimmed with gold, for himself, and wore gold trainers with it. We changed into our costumes in the tiny toilet underneath the Freedom Bookshop gallery.<br /><br />It was unseasonably hot weather on the Easter weekend, weather for shorts and dresses. At the event both Calum and John had arrived in shorts and intense, bright yellow T-shirts. This was coincidental, and not part of the exhibition, but perhaps the same awareness of energy and heat had prompted their choice of clothing as informed ours in the performance.<br /><br />Micalef read a set of three Blake poems, after which we began our performance. There was already a large and worn Union Jack lying on the gallery floor. In a previous performance Marco had lain under it as Albion, with a horn held erect like a giant penis, sleeping and then rousing. This was referred to in one of Micalef’s subsequent poems. I began our performance by taking the flag and carefully folding it into a neat pile, placing it back on the floor. As I did this, the small but noisy audience paid little or no attention, continuing to talk and to encourage a dog to scamper around noisily on the wooden floor-boards right beside me. Marco felt afterwards that he liked the way people kept talking at the beginning, but also found it sexist – they talked as I folded, but when he arrived in the performance they began to watch and be quiet. Perhaps it appeared I was just tidying up for Marco. I felt the tension and ambiguity of performing, unnoticed, wondering ‘when will people realize we’ve begun?’, and the gradual focussing of attention on our activities. There was a juncture between being there ‘just doing’, and ‘performing’. I thought, as I folded the flag, of the women in the launderette folding sheets, and of times with my mother, folding sheets, ‘me to you and you to me’. The lack of attention - or respect? – for this part of the performance seems consistent with the quiet invisibility of such tasks. The folding was a preparation, a preparatory meditation, a clearing away before a beginning, and an allusion to bed-making (itself entwined with the cycles of day and night, sun and moon).<br /><br />When the flag was folded, Marco walked over to me, in his thick, wool, shiny silver suit, and I helped him to sit on the floor. He sat with his legs straight, outstretched, and his back vertical, forming a right angle, parallel to the wall. He sat extremely still. I took one of the rolls of tin foil, which I had been holding like a wand, and began to unwind it, wrapping it around Marco’s head. His head was recently shaved and so as I wrapped it in foil I could press the thin metal directly on to both his skull and face. As I did so I thought of the lampshades I make at home by wrapping my own head in foil to form a lampshade-like shape, and a residue of my facial features, which then hangs from the ceiling, shedding out light. I was careful to press gently but firmly onto the foil to capture Marco’s head without hurting him. I felt I was looking for his features, looking for and making the ‘Man in the Moon’. Marco said afterwards it felt very caring, as I pressed the foil to his face. <br /><br />I began to wrap the foil further down, towards Marco’s neck. I wrapped by circling him, moving my whole body around him, orbiting. As I wound myself and the foil around him, concealing his neck, and shoulders, I followed my progress by unwinding a ball of soft, grey wool, binding and tying it over the foil, holding the shape in place. Marco said this part of the process felt precarious at times, that the foil ‘case’ might slip off, or burst apart. It would have spoiled the effect if bits of the moon had broken off. Breaking the illusion – however nursery rhyme-like or absurd the illusion was – would undermine the potency of the performance, the ritual. The precariousness of the ‘encasing’ demanded my focussed attention and careful application of pressure, a certain amount of balance and quick dexterity to get the 'moon’ wrapped up. It was important to entirely encase Marco, to make a solid and complete shape of him – to transform him into a shape, an object, but an abstract entity too. I felt as I wound and bound him that I was making something precious that could be broken – the ‘object moon’ and the ‘idea moon’.<br /><br />It was such a hot evening that as I circled round Marco, bent over doing it, I began to feel light-headed and a little dizzy, over-heating slightly. Marco, I realized, inside a thick suit and an ever-growing tight foil casing, must be starting to sweat, heating up with the radiating, reflecting, intensification of the foil. His whole head was entombed, his mouth and nostrils covered. I hoped he could breathe ok.<br /><br />I encased Marco’s torso, with his arms strapped to his sides, with swathes of foil. I tied him up with more wool. Then I put one hand on his back, and one under his legs, stretched out on the floor still, and guided him backwards to lie on his back. As he tipped back he retained the ‘L’ shape, his legs rising up into the air, to form the inverse ‘L’, or almost-crescent shape. The movement was comical, absurd – a ‘tipping up’, as Marco said afterwards. The cartoon-ish-ness of this movement suited the foil ‘moon’ we were making. I began to complete the crescent, this time winding the foil from the top of Marco’s gold toes downwards to his belly. Part way through this process I heard a muffled sound from his foil-head which made me aware that he was overheating and struggling to breathe. I poked a hole through the foil, where I guessed his mouth was, for him to breathe better and steam to escape. <br /><br />Time was pressing, with the audience’s short attention span, the heat, and Marco starting to steam inside the foil and his legs becoming exhausted – ‘it was like being at the gym’, he commented about the legs-aloft posture afterwards. Marco was blind for the duration, his eyes enclosed in foil, his hearing similarly muffled, suffering a strange sensory deprivation combined with sensory-intensification, of the heat and posture. There was finite time to complete the moon wrapping. Timing was all important; duration was palpable, emphasized by the condition of heat and tiredness, energy manifested. I thought of the cycles of sun and moon, imagining the sun as having tasks, tasks to achieve before night, preparations to complete, routines that must be performed and punctual. The darkness dependant on the energy of the light. The formation of rituals by the intertwining of light and dark. Marco said afterwards that I was dancing round him like a maypole, as I wound him with foil. It had felt like an abstracted, dance-like ritual.<br /><br />Marco, his back flat to the ground, his legs outstretched, was now entirely encased in foil. His body became an object – a crescent, a silver-moon-crescent. An absurd toy, improvised moon. Man in the moon. I took hold of his legs and guided them to the floor, stretching him out flat, almost feeling like I was breaking him in half. No longer the moon crescent, now a body, a 'mummy', a light and heat emitting presence. John said it felt as if Marco was emitting radioactivity, that the audience should be protected from the energy – that the foil was to protect the audience from radioactivity, like a special suit. I was conscious of Marco and my heat, from the activity, the circling, the wrapping, the reflectivity. I had the impression of a piece of salmon or meat wrapped for baking. Geraldine commented that ‘You trussed him up like a kipper’.<br /><br />Once Marco was stretched out I took the folded flag and shook it out, like shaking a blanket or duvet. I laid it over him like a bed cover. I felt I was putting the moon to bed, completing a point in a cycle. The moon going in. I felt caring, patient, protective. I sat at his feet, crouched, like at the foot of a bed – watching, guarding, paused, waiting. Though the pause was brief – necessarily as Marco was too hot and the audience distractable – my moment crouched at the foot of the moon was a clear, weighted punctuation.<br /><br />I rose from my post and pulled the flag-cover from the sleeping moon and cast it aside. Then, I held up Marco’s legs back into a crescent and began quickly to unwrap them. I roughly unwound the wool binding, tangled, and tore off shards of foil, ripping and scattering them like sun-moon-light across the floor. I held his legs, revealed now to the innard of silver and gold suit and gold trainers, and pushed the legs down as I guided his body up to sitting, into the ‘L’ shape, his torso still wrapped. I continued the reverse process, of unwrapping, tearing the foil from his body, feeling the heat beating out. When I pulled the last pieces from around Marco’s head, his face emerged, red and streaming with sweat, having endured the intense reflective heat, basted inside the foil shell and in the thick wool suit. He was the heat emitting core. I squeezed and gently shook his shoulder to ‘wake’ the moon, a gesture of ‘time to get up’. He opened his eyes, and I helped him to his feet, the silver core now animate, amidst the scattered foil shards. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZcHhEwdJfBTPKEKz6-uPa_wwNjEwaXpE5TeVktcNvbRVjnL1gdqzTRlg8-VbGBrAMjyUEisY8ZXA7jDbP1oN-d1NYeNXYYHvXphpQKuLPDsqxb9RArO5SAyRm_1z5xP12-yOHXzSPFyss/s1600/Flag+and+Foil+after+Sun+and+Moon+Performance+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+Micalef%2527s+Blake+poems.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZcHhEwdJfBTPKEKz6-uPa_wwNjEwaXpE5TeVktcNvbRVjnL1gdqzTRlg8-VbGBrAMjyUEisY8ZXA7jDbP1oN-d1NYeNXYYHvXphpQKuLPDsqxb9RArO5SAyRm_1z5xP12-yOHXzSPFyss/s400/Flag+and+Foil+after+Sun+and+Moon+Performance+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+Micalef%2527s+Blake+poems.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625904480564513090" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">More crumpled foil and flag, after the performance<br /></span></span><br /><br />The performance ‘proper’ came to an end here, but after a minute or so I returned and began to gather the foil shards and compress them into a ball, in a gesture of tidying. Marco joined me, scavenging on the floor for foil, to create a huge sphere of foil, a ‘full moon’, from the remnants of the performance. The foil-moon-ball was later placed, by Marco, on top of one of Micalef’s sculptures, to become a final element in the sculpture, a full moon hovering above a <span style="font-style:italic;">Loovah-lampshade</span>.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv3cMxCOF_jjiVr-3zuRlT9ZPRV844JUwDlkDkuV8jE76tJgnYBY_TZCXc_POOH5wMlSVlZ08tejNd0-CaylPeUsarSk_5cSoJfNI1R5iji8Z1tgBWIEY_8orNn7ZGLXRDKnT43Z-aEYOB/s1600/Foil+ball+on+Micalef%2527s+Egg+Moon+Sculpture+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+Sun+and+Moon+performance.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv3cMxCOF_jjiVr-3zuRlT9ZPRV844JUwDlkDkuV8jE76tJgnYBY_TZCXc_POOH5wMlSVlZ08tejNd0-CaylPeUsarSk_5cSoJfNI1R5iji8Z1tgBWIEY_8orNn7ZGLXRDKnT43Z-aEYOB/s400/Foil+ball+on+Micalef%2527s+Egg+Moon+Sculpture+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+Sun+and+Moon+performance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625904859146014738" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">The foil-moon on top of Micalef's Loovah-Lampshade sculpture</span></span><br /><br />To read about other performances I've done, including more with Marc Vaulbert de Chantilly, please <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/search/label/performance" target="_blank">click here</a>.Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-37257934675246979432011-02-14T15:36:00.009+00:002011-07-05T17:34:32.041+01:00AISLE Performance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeWl4M2Y4-7migQHFXNI-U6FB1zvLP5LPiXdYgNpV45cl3AHRlbrAmfi_NUZQXowXR4CbqRa1OFUWM48m1kShoh4yK6FJSpb5g53j5_GeT3mp1oXN90VbaLZ7D0xYUZ6WyrikjM6UFq6Sz/s1600/AISLE+7+crawling+head+up+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeWl4M2Y4-7migQHFXNI-U6FB1zvLP5LPiXdYgNpV45cl3AHRlbrAmfi_NUZQXowXR4CbqRa1OFUWM48m1kShoh4yK6FJSpb5g53j5_GeT3mp1oXN90VbaLZ7D0xYUZ6WyrikjM6UFq6Sz/s400/AISLE+7+crawling+head+up+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573674952399971474" /></a><br /><br />As part of <span style="font-weight:bold;">GHost III</span>, an evening of performance and film in St. John's Church, Bethnal Green, Marc Vaulbert de Chantilly and I created <span style="font-weight:bold;">AISLE</span>, a ten minute performance resonating with ideas of penance, pilgrimage and ritual. Ghost III took place from 6pm to 10pm on Friday 17th December 2010, organized by Sarah Sparkes and Ricarda Vidal.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmqfTIr5pBAbFAptW5bowIpNMdtDd3mr9PXzhVWHoqaWndJvHgI56_FkGuylkT7wAUykK6KFVCzHHzyladwctsOg4dCbHlJ1fKKTvFiaMq-yNQsvWytuBZMq8CvzMhNsrULWw7i-0pz5Y7/s1600/AISLE+Gail+Burton+Marco+church+rehearsal+Matt+Rowe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmqfTIr5pBAbFAptW5bowIpNMdtDd3mr9PXzhVWHoqaWndJvHgI56_FkGuylkT7wAUykK6KFVCzHHzyladwctsOg4dCbHlJ1fKKTvFiaMq-yNQsvWytuBZMq8CvzMhNsrULWw7i-0pz5Y7/s400/AISLE+Gail+Burton+Marco+church+rehearsal+Matt+Rowe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572086811160339106" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">View inside St. John's Church, Bethnal Green, looking towards the altar end of the church. Taken during the rehearsal for AISLE - you can just see the blurred crawling figures near the white screen.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ZAT6akUFgdpKe8Dd2SbJ5znDrLa5YfSG-tVITyH9cGSQiniNAvgj8Fx7bvmX-OW9k1EZQDfgnhbOBs8ujm7g49HbFMKh9o0gjJFqstxiANd667lBqiNITQhMEiTycwO0KnAEuF0Is4el/s1600/AISLE+Gail+Burton+Marco+Dark+Pews+Matt+Rowe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ZAT6akUFgdpKe8Dd2SbJ5znDrLa5YfSG-tVITyH9cGSQiniNAvgj8Fx7bvmX-OW9k1EZQDfgnhbOBs8ujm7g49HbFMKh9o0gjJFqstxiANd667lBqiNITQhMEiTycwO0KnAEuF0Is4el/s400/AISLE+Gail+Burton+Marco+Dark+Pews+Matt+Rowe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572086906222774098" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The dark pews in the dimly lit church interior for the AISLE performance.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br />The lights in the church were low, the pews dim, so that their occupants were barely distinguishable. The aisle of the church was comparatively more illuminated, its flattened well-worn pink-red carpet singled out by the lighting as the one route through the church. As the audience mumbled and rustled, after the previous performance ended and whilst waiting for ours to begin, Marco and I made our separate ways from where we had been sitting to the top of the aisle. We knelt down and began to untie our shoe laces. We took off our shoes, and then our socks. Our naked feet indicated the beginning of a ritual, with a sense of awe or respect for the forthcoming actions; coupled with intimations of a dance; and suggestions of insanity and deprivation. Observing shoeless people I notice that they are perceived as the abject, the utterly vulnerable, the insane. On the occasions I’ve removed my shoes in public I’ve been met with concern and consternation. Perhaps looking comfortably hippy-ish or high-heeled exhausted mitigates against this – but as an otherwise-outwardly-normal person shoelessness is a breach of sanity and comprehensibility. In our performance we wanted to evoke the ritual and niceties of religious and other ceremonies where shoe removal is involved - outside a house or a temple, in a newly carpeted home – suggesting reverence, occasion, respect – but to destabilize these ideas during the performance. We wanted to unsettle readings of our rationale, to make interpretation awkward. Bare, naked feet felt liberating, comfortable, practical. It was a route into closeness with the ground and integration with our movements – and a nod to nakedness. Our bare-footedness was carefully planned, yet it went barely noticed at first.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggg9L4nFamqnoeEri380tjC7DVW8ilyrVDm-H74fESjfpRahvTGm72RQwUjexSsewFcWrUlvI9Z1bsQeEsB7-Y1mbo6wdgA6VoKr3YHGqwnhzeRfCSdgeBzvm7UTIdyKdv0QTQEjiPVqr3/s1600/AISLE+2+taking+shoes+off+detail+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 334px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggg9L4nFamqnoeEri380tjC7DVW8ilyrVDm-H74fESjfpRahvTGm72RQwUjexSsewFcWrUlvI9Z1bsQeEsB7-Y1mbo6wdgA6VoKr3YHGqwnhzeRfCSdgeBzvm7UTIdyKdv0QTQEjiPVqr3/s400/AISLE+2+taking+shoes+off+detail+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572088705319346626" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Kneeling to remove shoes at the start of the aisle.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBkvrvOarpyeBderCD14Oc2V7rRmlj0oxJhrQBv3YWOfM-QXwy0BGUQ19raBdd510J9WQG3Di3gpkQ6nV68ZLlI513CalXWAa4tlC-Wou8-xmnPlb-Z28-yuX1epGSb6aS7s5ny8hsyUpf/s1600/AISLE+ghost+blur+kneeling+at+start+Gail+and+Marco+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 152px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBkvrvOarpyeBderCD14Oc2V7rRmlj0oxJhrQBv3YWOfM-QXwy0BGUQ19raBdd510J9WQG3Di3gpkQ6nV68ZLlI513CalXWAa4tlC-Wou8-xmnPlb-Z28-yuX1epGSb6aS7s5ny8hsyUpf/s400/AISLE+ghost+blur+kneeling+at+start+Gail+and+Marco+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572096332969699842" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Ghost-blur kneeling to remove shoes.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnJk4AQDZK1ZpdAGsXJNC0e-rj23GDxsWtCPfVMFT1MgXrslH3YWe_hRZZK-wjpuQV6DV_6_ytBirF81SYbv3c0HhjPSkk6yb19-XDCyO9Vnr6bPK9bSPiRl0YQl3BNWDt3wgK3XeKuWzx/s1600/AISLE+4+starting+to+crawl+detail+Gail+Burton+Marco.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 278px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnJk4AQDZK1ZpdAGsXJNC0e-rj23GDxsWtCPfVMFT1MgXrslH3YWe_hRZZK-wjpuQV6DV_6_ytBirF81SYbv3c0HhjPSkk6yb19-XDCyO9Vnr6bPK9bSPiRl0YQl3BNWDt3wgK3XeKuWzx/s400/AISLE+4+starting+to+crawl+detail+Gail+Burton+Marco.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572090485080351314" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Starting to crawl.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />From our bare-foot-kneeling position we lowered our whole bodies onto the ground and stretched out our arms before us, prostrated. We began to slither-crawl forward. The moment of transition from not-crawling to crawling had the sensation of diving into a swimming pool; of being on a clear and significant threshold - a sensation which was familiar from previous crawl performances. We had done a practice crawl at my studio a few days earlier, where we used the hallway, at the end of a long corridor. The floor is stone, or concrete, and was freezing. We slid side by side on our bellies in the narrow space, negotiating our movements and interactions. The cold slammed into our stomachs, my top riding up so that my belly and midriff were directly in contact with the freezing surface. When we arrived at the church to rehearse on the day of the performance we saw that the aisle was carpeted, and I had a sense of almost-guilt, that the crawl would be so much more comfortable and warm than I had expected and intended. Yet, during that rehearsal we were responded to with the comment ‘You must have done something really awful to have to do that much penance!’ So the resonance of pain and suffering seemed still to be present. <br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjouwPCo3Cn4GiuZtrQsXkifWvtu7gXu4uDWJvRpmHeBFT3qo48hbwVibuDaxSq1F9T2b4YKTeufnAvuPAr1HMepGjWW8JPh6rsJ9golbU1jXefofeULDL3ZPOJuI-hs7-5OWX7Ln7-Avb4/s1600/AISLE+Carpet+and+boot+Gail+Burton+Marco.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjouwPCo3Cn4GiuZtrQsXkifWvtu7gXu4uDWJvRpmHeBFT3qo48hbwVibuDaxSq1F9T2b4YKTeufnAvuPAr1HMepGjWW8JPh6rsJ9golbU1jXefofeULDL3ZPOJuI-hs7-5OWX7Ln7-Avb4/s400/AISLE+Carpet+and+boot+Gail+Burton+Marco.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572090798140473922" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The carpet of the aisle, ant's-eye view. And ghost-blurred crawling figures.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrqknVk_H8BXlC-gP_QxZIRkavyPLeCs-MCAP8PEPV8gW_boM1lJDIgXnEbqCFxs6Hw715ECYvPvdYEZJfa7ayeLIQeMJKQCCS1G-EuQI0D3cbpOQKEQYrR3VleIpO6Zj-lSVrx-COXG-c/s1600/AISLE+Screen+and+carpet+Gail+Burton+Marco+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrqknVk_H8BXlC-gP_QxZIRkavyPLeCs-MCAP8PEPV8gW_boM1lJDIgXnEbqCFxs6Hw715ECYvPvdYEZJfa7ayeLIQeMJKQCCS1G-EuQI0D3cbpOQKEQYrR3VleIpO6Zj-lSVrx-COXG-c/s400/AISLE+Screen+and+carpet+Gail+Burton+Marco+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572092812451660322" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The screen at the end of the aisle, with two 'will o' the wisp' lights, which we are crawling towards. Crawlers'-eye-view.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwV6ob7dL3jdd5kT-4UYzoPRTU9D3Mg6kYj3W4CQyf0QgecZq5d2ZMh6ByXaWPPD2XIKX-L4Aj-ec_EjSZvCbfUaA09naNAI2y6H8CL8n6UzHOiBGdgVU-_IHMn3oA2hzri8FBf4IaIXqJ/s1600/AISLE+Marco+crawling+towards+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwV6ob7dL3jdd5kT-4UYzoPRTU9D3Mg6kYj3W4CQyf0QgecZq5d2ZMh6ByXaWPPD2XIKX-L4Aj-ec_EjSZvCbfUaA09naNAI2y6H8CL8n6UzHOiBGdgVU-_IHMn3oA2hzri8FBf4IaIXqJ/s400/AISLE+Marco+crawling+towards+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572110501103701906" /></a><br /><br />When we began our AISLE crawl, the audience, attuned perhaps to vertical or louder events, carried on chatting and drinking and glancing around for the first few moments where we silently, subtly moved. Our crawl was a belly-flat-to-the-floor type of crawl, dragging ourselves along with outstretched arms. We moved towards the altar, slowly, painfully, painstakingly. Whilst we crawled, from above our heads on the balcony, a choir began to sing a repeated refrain of ‘again and again and again and...’ As each phrase was fading out a solo voice emerged from the opposite balcony to respond with another refrain of ‘again and again and again...’ the single and multiple calls merging, overlapping and pulling each other onwards. The music was mantra-like, enigmatic, ambiguous, but insistent. It was gentle and soothing in the tone of the voices, yet its cyclical and unceasing nature carried an element of threat and desperation, of compulsion and castigation. ‘Again’, a word which was embodied in its performance - an ‘onomatopoeic’ singing. Again, a word which I have repeatedly painted and drawn, on tissues, rizlas, canvas, and which Marco has sung in the lyrics of Rex Nemo songs. A word we have both pondered, and returned to; repetition, repetition, repetition. Again: I think of compulsion, addiction, meditation, repetition, history, pattern, inscription. As the ‘again’ refrain began, eyes were drawn around the church, and to the lit aisle with our crawling bodies, and our presence dawned on the audience.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9nBOKHd6P7AIoThYNBqLUhkBkQNnyFOZ7ePHOpdJn0kf0DcdfFvIOqfks49lN6Y1eQTCwpKnnAxsOYCBPEoofxyQ8qNx34tXnU5ReSiAJTHjHA-onyTBt_ox944TmSwVTwRakvAAfp-5/s1600/AISLE+beginning+to+crawl+Gail+Burton+Marco+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 359px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9nBOKHd6P7AIoThYNBqLUhkBkQNnyFOZ7ePHOpdJn0kf0DcdfFvIOqfks49lN6Y1eQTCwpKnnAxsOYCBPEoofxyQ8qNx34tXnU5ReSiAJTHjHA-onyTBt_ox944TmSwVTwRakvAAfp-5/s400/AISLE+beginning+to+crawl+Gail+Burton+Marco+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572092149452260466" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Crawling.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvZWBCXC2UfQeHHWMXD2055aW4oj4as9-mmI27yYwwOROEafPzO25twN42ggNR1ulHVfSE48pmJQDXR3NtSc6VuIR26dwx_HB78p4GdGslQIlbKUn1AeVf_lXNP4HYSYqVc-zGKuuW9N8c/s1600/AISLE+6+crawling+heads+down+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvZWBCXC2UfQeHHWMXD2055aW4oj4as9-mmI27yYwwOROEafPzO25twN42ggNR1ulHVfSE48pmJQDXR3NtSc6VuIR26dwx_HB78p4GdGslQIlbKUn1AeVf_lXNP4HYSYqVc-zGKuuW9N8c/s400/AISLE+6+crawling+heads+down+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572115189711993826" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Crawling heads down.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcy9Qi4PV8rdOlNRuEy8v7XyTWtEtKMSROKyj804cp58Ua7FpZkvE7K4Ubd-7KoQUwmRZ0d0p7EGoo0FDSOajyNWDzLDfrFTIVfKqCqlTQfTDq7LG_7gL98AIIe8KBFNraIVUBPmCMZPE/s1600/AISLE+7+crawling+head+up+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcy9Qi4PV8rdOlNRuEy8v7XyTWtEtKMSROKyj804cp58Ua7FpZkvE7K4Ubd-7KoQUwmRZ0d0p7EGoo0FDSOajyNWDzLDfrFTIVfKqCqlTQfTDq7LG_7gL98AIIe8KBFNraIVUBPmCMZPE/s400/AISLE+7+crawling+head+up+Marco+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572115469097280306" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Crawling head up.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />There was silence from the audience as we dragged ourselves forward. Marco pulled himself forward with his fists clenched, his legs a dead weight; tiring, he sighed and groaned at the effort, communicated visually and audibly. His body clad in lighter-coloured clothes than mine, and his accompanying sounds, drew attention to his figure, dominating the dual-crawl. I wore dark clothes, contrasting to Marco’s in colour, but similarly normal everyday type of clothing, baggy trousers and jumper, so that our crawl appeared perhaps spontaneous, part of the everyday world. I crawled differently - silently, smoothly, stretching out my arms and fingers, clawing into the carpet, dragging myself, legs slightly bent to give a little propulsion. I felt lost and contained within the world of crawling, the slithering movement, the sensation of the floor against my stomach, tops of my feet and palms. The visual and stylistic contrast emphasized the difference between the two crawlers – unified in an activity, a purpose, but possibly in competition, or negotiation.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTMKph49HFHeh8Gm0y4UNECl-vqVYT0FtmSYbFHyMUP-aG6eVjIMffBHGsAOBrQmOxwd1IcG44ivne9tVlccv_bN0-PPkt1wduyz5qRea4Wt3sQVqyhW6FV-UjHvQe_KnvZ5y1duf-i8sI/s1600/AISLE+9+crawling+heads+down+detail+Gail+Marco+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 338px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTMKph49HFHeh8Gm0y4UNECl-vqVYT0FtmSYbFHyMUP-aG6eVjIMffBHGsAOBrQmOxwd1IcG44ivne9tVlccv_bN0-PPkt1wduyz5qRea4Wt3sQVqyhW6FV-UjHvQe_KnvZ5y1duf-i8sI/s400/AISLE+9+crawling+heads+down+detail+Gail+Marco+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572116244962773698" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Crawling down the aisle.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Our movements were low to the ground, an inversion or perversion of a conventional procession/perambulation down the aisle. I was aware of the history of processions along the aisle – the routine church services, communions, marriages and funerals that take place there - and of our laying our own ritual over these, our intervention in ritual. As a crawling couple perhaps we prompted thoughts of Adam and Eve, and the serpent, forever crawling and eating the dust – an image of conflated Christian mythology, contorting ideas of sin and shame and temptation into an ambiguous and malleable spectacle. Pilgrimages and penitent journeys which process hand and knee through villages and towns, streets and floors, to end in the church, echoed through the crawl – events of endurance and tradition in some places, but which are unfamiliar in Bethnal Green. Mexican and Polish friends pointed out these histories to me, after previous crawling performances, though the impulse to crawl, for me, came from somewhere internal and unorganized – perhaps informed, osmotically, by centuries of others’ crawls? Our crawl necessitated the audience to suppose their own idea of our purpose. Ahead of us, at the altar end of the aisle there was a large white screen on which two tiny ‘will o’ the wisp’ lights were roaming, flitting, searching. We moved towards these - drawn, beckoned, impelled, seeking, the lights giving a logic and object to our movements. ‘Never underestimate the power of ritual,’ Marco had said to me some time before we made the performance, words which continue to turn over in my mind.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXc213r0J38pYZCrx_sG6VXECVoRu0R_DEmZ7gBmRUpk7qAtJ6hcL00e1xJxzeNs_lb_emEKw92VPtHgGAHT0TCq8pq8dTBoWLb8crFp-mlPMAhXRpFduyorbOMuEtZyyxNGaoA4rVb5U_/s1600/AISLE+10+crawling+heads+up+Gail+Burton+Marco+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXc213r0J38pYZCrx_sG6VXECVoRu0R_DEmZ7gBmRUpk7qAtJ6hcL00e1xJxzeNs_lb_emEKw92VPtHgGAHT0TCq8pq8dTBoWLb8crFp-mlPMAhXRpFduyorbOMuEtZyyxNGaoA4rVb5U_/s400/AISLE+10+crawling+heads+up+Gail+Burton+Marco+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572116473302475378" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Crawling towards the table-obstacle.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Our crawl had been intended to be, at times, something of a 'battle' - we would verge across each other's path, tussle, barge. This battle would have its climax in our negotiation of an obstacle placed half way down the aisle – a table covered with a heavy velvet cloth, and a film projector mounted on it. The obstacle occupied half the width of the aisle and, we realized in rehearsal, that from our awkward horizontal positions it would be a case of under or around, one at a time. We decided to use the obstacle to further dramatize our struggle. When we were near to the obstacle Marco got ahead of me. I crawled faster and, there not being space for us both to pass through the gap side by side, I began to pull myself onto Marco’s back. I crawled and dragged myself up his legs, across his back, and slightly kicked in order to get over his head and beyond the obstructed bit of the aisle first. It became something of a race. I felt myself pushing my foot back into Marco’s hand or head, ruthlessly, attempting to ‘win’ - at the same time realizing the playful and sexual connotations of this over-body crawl, with its intimacy and familiarity and entwining. Marco’s passive acceptance of my over-crawl unsettled the gendered idea of competitiveness.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwh5OG8hAo-XT4etN0YmNG8ue0Zp9xFfejTaSJjTeq5EmEQUSgCnrnnvDeaJ3r908TdkpgPlcreSoChB-M6XiyId1twp-xrtvLp8fogVOKLSmyRA5yGEaVjK0ZHKe96yh-a65Az8ju-qi/s1600/AISLE+12+crawling+behind+table+detail+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+GHost+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 381px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwh5OG8hAo-XT4etN0YmNG8ue0Zp9xFfejTaSJjTeq5EmEQUSgCnrnnvDeaJ3r908TdkpgPlcreSoChB-M6XiyId1twp-xrtvLp8fogVOKLSmyRA5yGEaVjK0ZHKe96yh-a65Az8ju-qi/s400/AISLE+12+crawling+behind+table+detail+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+GHost+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572116754646806546" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Crawling around the obstacle.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi09oqS2nvJGQkNZU7p_pCoBlGVSE2dFOY7uR165Mixw0oAO2i8Bu0VVUT88nt6SXuIbdebj_ISR3oGkh7EYt-V2dBNcvj8bgllb-xGqfo-3u1FDNUJYeRa4YOLgqV34Ng_Yzu1HTDWj-QN/s1600/AISLE+13+Gail+crawling+outstretched+Gail+Burton+Marco+GHost+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi09oqS2nvJGQkNZU7p_pCoBlGVSE2dFOY7uR165Mixw0oAO2i8Bu0VVUT88nt6SXuIbdebj_ISR3oGkh7EYt-V2dBNcvj8bgllb-xGqfo-3u1FDNUJYeRa4YOLgqV34Ng_Yzu1HTDWj-QN/s400/AISLE+13+Gail+crawling+outstretched+Gail+Burton+Marco+GHost+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572117072732533666" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Gail crawling beyond the obstacle.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLCsJbvxlncWbW7urpdEwo-w15fAK5MYrkyC68VkLYB9qDqaFE492sun7UdToc97PvOZI7WcxoheIKyrl3gmQ_-4Act4AfXUY2eiAHpw7_cGPuPw57gWlwFUZJ0ScXmj0_gxOmMgUIbRyM/s1600/AISLE+14+Marco%2527s+head+hood+Gail+Burton+GHost+x+.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLCsJbvxlncWbW7urpdEwo-w15fAK5MYrkyC68VkLYB9qDqaFE492sun7UdToc97PvOZI7WcxoheIKyrl3gmQ_-4Act4AfXUY2eiAHpw7_cGPuPw57gWlwFUZJ0ScXmj0_gxOmMgUIbRyM/s400/AISLE+14+Marco%2527s+head+hood+Gail+Burton+GHost+x+.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572117351243028658" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Hood up.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4O539cesyEg6qN6zn73fJwd9SKLYwIKRcFgaHkO4wnZI8HMrphUJPTogCx36eWwd9rxPNWIC1PuW4r1XJ1NAfJQ5dMxSxiDjt3KsnfXNx7DES8zegGaYm-T13h32Z3KNCJS6Ng1eKBjac/s1600/AISLE+15+Gail%2527s+feet+Marco%2527s+Hood+GHost+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4O539cesyEg6qN6zn73fJwd9SKLYwIKRcFgaHkO4wnZI8HMrphUJPTogCx36eWwd9rxPNWIC1PuW4r1XJ1NAfJQ5dMxSxiDjt3KsnfXNx7DES8zegGaYm-T13h32Z3KNCJS6Ng1eKBjac/s400/AISLE+15+Gail%2527s+feet+Marco%2527s+Hood+GHost+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572117556641487826" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Gail crawls ahead of Marco.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />On the other side of the aisle obstacle Marco’s hood fell over his head, concealing his face, making him appear monk-like. We again crawled side by side, the pace increasing as we saw our destination of the altar nearing. The choir’s refrain had continued to repeat, the lights on the screen continued to flit, and our movement and Marco’s groaning continued too. The build up of repetition in movement and sound, its cycle, progress and yet getting-nowhere-ness, created both tension and meditativeness – a sense of expectation and waiting, and also of being lulled, held, suspended... <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3jT6-TzvzLhsxnl8g9tWGJHWdNzSRVtiKgv0VX1iHEHTa1Wdp_7WrAwarC7oT6qWUj8R98ultgUpL0BuB9f3v7o4tTopxhn4kk3PdoP7RhqxzLUcNnryRGhBPJ-_UXfbROo6fvkBljhT2/s1600/AISLE+16+Gail+outsretched+near+screen+GHost+Marco+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3jT6-TzvzLhsxnl8g9tWGJHWdNzSRVtiKgv0VX1iHEHTa1Wdp_7WrAwarC7oT6qWUj8R98ultgUpL0BuB9f3v7o4tTopxhn4kk3PdoP7RhqxzLUcNnryRGhBPJ-_UXfbROo6fvkBljhT2/s400/AISLE+16+Gail+outsretched+near+screen+GHost+Marco+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572121845987365234" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Arms outstretched.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjq-6LmOYQ_mnPkUdpOojDqmHacEpU070h0hu6iAhTQSY1FeysUiqNTccZbURs39uEKyeVL2o2gyT6iaZNWPChTQXx1fEitAsiQlAgcJc2C57iy3J-4d7tIktTD1RlIObsKFfJMi0OqWic/s1600/AISLE+17+Gail+nearing+screen+x+GHost.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjq-6LmOYQ_mnPkUdpOojDqmHacEpU070h0hu6iAhTQSY1FeysUiqNTccZbURs39uEKyeVL2o2gyT6iaZNWPChTQXx1fEitAsiQlAgcJc2C57iy3J-4d7tIktTD1RlIObsKFfJMi0OqWic/s400/AISLE+17+Gail+nearing+screen+x+GHost.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572122057979785090" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Crawling towards the light.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikBGkzNy327Y_Q3YVQICRrjuQmPZ9u6X-evtfGNkZNmOayFzY9yVq5pzrI88Cj-pCZb2grm0SBkYFpxjvXCcaEn3jJfGZ7RgfeWUla2IBwrp1arAspJbGomuhtp02yfi0Ac2ui9HVqP5cT/s1600/AISLE+18+Gail+and+Marco+nearing+screen+GHost+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikBGkzNy327Y_Q3YVQICRrjuQmPZ9u6X-evtfGNkZNmOayFzY9yVq5pzrI88Cj-pCZb2grm0SBkYFpxjvXCcaEn3jJfGZ7RgfeWUla2IBwrp1arAspJbGomuhtp02yfi0Ac2ui9HVqP5cT/s400/AISLE+18+Gail+and+Marco+nearing+screen+GHost+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572122331189314690" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Marco elbows Gail.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNu5MsboXWLVS9yk5cfMwV3u_E4b3SwW6dVCj-oM-1HK7QrvpN6VeqtdL7SjdlFJd_0OZV8B0r8VWHTIyd27goFS2AEl8lyMepxZ7BS6ZjYPn7358-Uim6c_XFrP3F5qbqzrtWwCNyo2mr/s1600/AISLE+19+Gail+and+Marco+nearing+screen+GHost+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNu5MsboXWLVS9yk5cfMwV3u_E4b3SwW6dVCj-oM-1HK7QrvpN6VeqtdL7SjdlFJd_0OZV8B0r8VWHTIyd27goFS2AEl8lyMepxZ7BS6ZjYPn7358-Uim6c_XFrP3F5qbqzrtWwCNyo2mr/s400/AISLE+19+Gail+and+Marco+nearing+screen+GHost+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572122591772679618" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Nearly at the altar and screen.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeFnDUYGBQn6Im05ZlKElR4Qr5W9b6Mj6QE_WHiJKQPhZnAXCqydGP49QmHu5TU72fzI57pQulIN0YyjAnfBbr2U4yHlyoICoMlBUja-UMGA4yt5pKCDZBaRYXqrdIbwT-OoET0sHkU1Nw/s1600/AISLE+20+Gail+and+Marco+at+screen+Gail+Burton+GHost+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeFnDUYGBQn6Im05ZlKElR4Qr5W9b6Mj6QE_WHiJKQPhZnAXCqydGP49QmHu5TU72fzI57pQulIN0YyjAnfBbr2U4yHlyoICoMlBUja-UMGA4yt5pKCDZBaRYXqrdIbwT-OoET0sHkU1Nw/s400/AISLE+20+Gail+and+Marco+at+screen+Gail+Burton+GHost+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572122857570833746" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">At the end of the aisle, by the altar, screen and lights.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYvAHwPl9IIlJ5XLumYIOULjJcFyx8mYgLCUjCTdM_KPAgNsv9BzC3W8U1agjrV9PooNwY3S_MX0hX3GtSRdQD4Kg-gEC76D2TgiieEywSRKMe7rJzvpnDcszmPfsoshtVvZWaMx8Pu6Xc/s1600/AISLE+21+Gail+and+Marco+at+screen+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYvAHwPl9IIlJ5XLumYIOULjJcFyx8mYgLCUjCTdM_KPAgNsv9BzC3W8U1agjrV9PooNwY3S_MX0hX3GtSRdQD4Kg-gEC76D2TgiieEywSRKMe7rJzvpnDcszmPfsoshtVvZWaMx8Pu6Xc/s320/AISLE+21+Gail+and+Marco+at+screen+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572125508732984018" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />...I arrived first by the altar, dragged myself onto it, still on my belly, and crawled off behind the screen. Marco followed, hauling himself up heavily, legs still unused. We concealed ourselves behind the screen, and listened as the choir’s refrain of ‘again and again …’ faded away. There was a pause, as, we presumed, the audience figured out that the performance had ended. Silence of the audience at the end, after their noise at the start. Then some kind applause, and a shout of ‘Again! Again!’ from someone in the audience. Later, we were asked of the time we spent behind the screen, ‘Were you shagging at the altar? I hoped so.’<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8HlcXjUkTh6eB-KuGSRxGwPx7kQiQcDb2k0mG5CN-xkdJr9JmrqPOd-6mi4bHsS8MPbWekmY8bDlEaKGp0RwtbWc3315DNFeyFa39r5T8DsAO_jk1JRUDMjVH3O0haRsVNKLQ97tOUBZM/s1600/AISLE+22+Gail+and+Marco+crawling+round+corner+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8HlcXjUkTh6eB-KuGSRxGwPx7kQiQcDb2k0mG5CN-xkdJr9JmrqPOd-6mi4bHsS8MPbWekmY8bDlEaKGp0RwtbWc3315DNFeyFa39r5T8DsAO_jk1JRUDMjVH3O0haRsVNKLQ97tOUBZM/s320/AISLE+22+Gail+and+Marco+crawling+round+corner+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572125727514095154" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Crawling round the corner...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7-nx3oCuT02MIKwBBLvEIjcQJTewPD-srzp0iODA2X10dteNDKfOw47jQCLLejAZRwrjSLf4EeqMgZkIZ9Go7_PU3Hb89tOMQaxqhSOYGWH6SU0uZf91-QKHcOfGBzanN6fshTaKRI4V1/s1600/AISLE+23+Marco+going+round+corner+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7-nx3oCuT02MIKwBBLvEIjcQJTewPD-srzp0iODA2X10dteNDKfOw47jQCLLejAZRwrjSLf4EeqMgZkIZ9Go7_PU3Hb89tOMQaxqhSOYGWH6SU0uZf91-QKHcOfGBzanN6fshTaKRI4V1/s320/AISLE+23+Marco+going+round+corner+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572126092315471426" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">...and onto the altar...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUTnKGv0cfb4F7NBAwgfz_p5rfwS3Tn0jSEvDSnrXU_lqhbTKz7tgJYh7Untb4R1brDUvGtkUiWuAHELMuShSgF7NcbXqgyfoHhIPnGE0IFKERRiz-Pr028_1RQVzogjyrc3rD14CrktgW/s1600/AISLE+24+Marco%2527s+feet+going+round+corner+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUTnKGv0cfb4F7NBAwgfz_p5rfwS3Tn0jSEvDSnrXU_lqhbTKz7tgJYh7Untb4R1brDUvGtkUiWuAHELMuShSgF7NcbXqgyfoHhIPnGE0IFKERRiz-Pr028_1RQVzogjyrc3rD14CrktgW/s320/AISLE+24+Marco%2527s+feet+going+round+corner+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572126413960875874" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">...Marco's feet disappearing...<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Music performed by members of the Hackney Secular Choir and Kate Kotcheff.<br /><br />‘Will o’the wisp’ lights by Sarah Sparkes and Ricarda Vidal.<br /><br />All photos by <a href="http://www.gogowhippet.com/" target="_blank">Matt Rowe</a>, except last two (below), by Sarah Sparkes.<br /><br />You can see a short <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_zUe-K6NXiY" target="_blank">film of AISLE</a> by Sarah Sparkes and Helen Bee on YouTube.<br /><br />There's more about GHost events on the <a href="http://www.host-a-ghost.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">GHost blog</a>...<br /><br />...and on the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=117301037117" target="_blank">GHost facebook page</a>.<br /><br />You can read about two previous performances I did involving crawling, <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/search/label/dishclout" target="_blank">'Dishclout: The Human Duster'</a> and <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/2010/06/crawl.html" target="_blank">Crawl</a> on these earlier posts...<br /><br />...and my first collaborative performance with Marc Vaulbert de Chantilly, <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/2010/11/silent-bell-ringing-remembrance.html" target="_blank">'Silent Bell Ringing'</a>.<br /><br />Here's a link to my <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/2010/10/east-end-promise-again.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-weight:bold;">AGAIN</span> painting</a> in the exhibition 'East End Promise'.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Rex Nemo & the Psychick Selfdefenders + Hackney Secular Singers</span> play <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8K-6ehXruVs&feature=related" target="_blank">Girls Division and Set Your Spirit Free</a> ...at Supernormal Festival, in this YouTube video.<br /><br />For <span style="font-weight:bold;">GHost II</span>, at St John's Church in 2009, I made <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/2009/12/crossbonesghost-ii.html" target="_blank">Crossbones</a>, a short film of the ephemeral memorials at the unconsecrated graveyard...<br /><br />...and for <span style="font-weight:bold;">GHost Hostings</span>, at Senate House in February 2010, the Reverand Marc Vaulbert de Chantilly gave a <span style="font-weight:bold;">sermon-performance</span> - you can see a short <a href="http://host-a-ghost.blogspot.com/p/films-of-performances.html" target="_blank">film of the sermon here</a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjG35KJDSALXm6wIG8M0p4lZ6YvOe3Ir-a8KK1BPu-OvtSL7sHNE5uJ0w5KaFeQqJtj4LB2XyQlHp5un9JegIRtvHdMyoTiq9mSqdvtKMB4HBp_16q7LWXhXZ4P_YSOUvskK2b1UbmKb8P/s1600/AISLE+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+Sarah+Sparkes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjG35KJDSALXm6wIG8M0p4lZ6YvOe3Ir-a8KK1BPu-OvtSL7sHNE5uJ0w5KaFeQqJtj4LB2XyQlHp5un9JegIRtvHdMyoTiq9mSqdvtKMB4HBp_16q7LWXhXZ4P_YSOUvskK2b1UbmKb8P/s400/AISLE+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+Sarah+Sparkes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573632112278242850" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh33uA0rCG4swy1-iu6kImQ6nEVCSfPXW4IuY5dUDTeQ1GaIwxhwxCMmVMUKyPR1hQqpNmEgW9a9ev91hqkdZOxyk9PVbFgw7Q5aT3X1vmoXVfoFa2pho3TZ7XXD8-l9lMKnOXBq6linPo/s1600/AISLE+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+Sarah+Sparkes+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh33uA0rCG4swy1-iu6kImQ6nEVCSfPXW4IuY5dUDTeQ1GaIwxhwxCMmVMUKyPR1hQqpNmEgW9a9ev91hqkdZOxyk9PVbFgw7Q5aT3X1vmoXVfoFa2pho3TZ7XXD8-l9lMKnOXBq6linPo/s400/AISLE+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+Sarah+Sparkes+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573632216286081858" /></a>Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-28995725555059823242010-12-10T17:50:00.013+00:002011-07-05T17:35:01.717+01:00GHost / AISLEOn Friday 17th December I will be doing a performance with Marc Vaulbert de Chantilly, as part of <span style="font-weight:bold;">GHost III</span>, an evening of performance and film in St. John's Church, Bethnal Green. <span style="font-weight:bold;">AISLE</span> will be a ten minute performance, resonating with ideas of penance, pilgrimage and ritual. <br /><br />GHost begins at 6pm - with performances from 8pm and films from 8.30pm - and ends at 10pm. More information about GHost and the other artists taking part can be found on the <a href="http://www.host-a-ghost.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">GHost blog</a>. GHost III is curated by Sarah Sparkes and Ricarda Vidal, and is part of an ongoing series of exhibitions and 'hostings.' <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPpHd_90SbPiG4AIw_PtAXGAYjdYMgmYuPaYL7PUVX-ud_DcNEOdbt7guUUvdZywJBe67B77VY4S1rrwQAMG2bRzWcFPOk0SO5SqNKEzG8okJjuMvnQ-OHtE1ONQhqgMVLTZ6mLLUJi2W/s1600/AGAIN+Gail+and+Marco+GHost.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPpHd_90SbPiG4AIw_PtAXGAYjdYMgmYuPaYL7PUVX-ud_DcNEOdbt7guUUvdZywJBe67B77VY4S1rrwQAMG2bRzWcFPOk0SO5SqNKEzG8okJjuMvnQ-OHtE1ONQhqgMVLTZ6mLLUJi2W/s400/AGAIN+Gail+and+Marco+GHost.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549113014420799378" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">GHost III</span><br />Friday 17th December, 6pm – 10pm<br />Performances at 8pm<br />St. John's Church on Bethnal Green<br />200 Cambridge Heath Road, E2 9PA - next to Bethnal Green tube.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif-8hVgfooyNVP8N2ZCJ45hYdw4SZfLBgQuh8r5GqxzCe1jaXRu3e_g8UB5Ld1DQUYNQGqJM6p8SARFmQtm79XVpa3cBLcwH-OobCLgZ3I4Po3hjI_omNh8U2FB-lcDdFOnLeunkzEJS3R/s1600/GHost+III.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 282px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif-8hVgfooyNVP8N2ZCJ45hYdw4SZfLBgQuh8r5GqxzCe1jaXRu3e_g8UB5Ld1DQUYNQGqJM6p8SARFmQtm79XVpa3cBLcwH-OobCLgZ3I4Po3hjI_omNh8U2FB-lcDdFOnLeunkzEJS3R/s400/GHost+III.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550204040228986770" /></a><br /><br />In 2009 I showed my film <span style="font-weight:bold;">Crossbones</span> as part of the <span style="font-weight:bold;">GHost II</span> evening. <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/2009/12/crossbonesghost-ii.html" target="_blank">Click here</a> to see more about itGail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-19787811374333618862010-11-20T21:43:00.019+00:002011-07-05T17:35:38.025+01:00Silent Bell Ringing: ‘Remembrance’ Performance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOMa4fZ6aN2hFG6MlFu1gDWEhnB66lX_oG4SnFiyoTQ4Yz6SHaNHyWsmjfBGI0mwYHpvbZrGSfI16D-L85ej9wRrtHqHTPoJTNTNn1t52foqZrFftejOHfMbMMhIVM-XxVQW_mlGCMkf4x/s1600/Silent+Bell+ringing+Bitchwedge+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+performance.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOMa4fZ6aN2hFG6MlFu1gDWEhnB66lX_oG4SnFiyoTQ4Yz6SHaNHyWsmjfBGI0mwYHpvbZrGSfI16D-L85ej9wRrtHqHTPoJTNTNn1t52foqZrFftejOHfMbMMhIVM-XxVQW_mlGCMkf4x/s400/Silent+Bell+ringing+Bitchwedge+Gail+Burton+Marc+Vaulbert+de+Chantilly+performance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541769859557664498" /></a><br />Silent Bell Ringing performance, Gail Burton and Marc Vaulbert de Chantilly. Photo by Geraldine Ryan.<br /><br />On Saturday 13th November I did a Silent Bell Ringing performance with Marc Vaulbert de Chantilly. The piece was devised for ‘Remembrance,’ a day of performance at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/BitchWedge-Gallery/143023852393302?v=info#!/pages/BitchWedge-Gallery/143023852393302" target="_blank">Bitchwedge Gallery</a> in response to Remembrance Sunday. Memory and loss are recurrent themes in my work, and in the days before the performance, which Marco had been invited to do, I had returned to a text I wrote after listening to the two minutes silence on Radio 3 last year. My writing observed my struggle to identify silence and to comprehend or accept the process of memory I was being presented with. When Marco asked me to collaborate with him on the Remembrance piece, knowing he had recently bought a bell – a beautiful, old, heavy, mottled metal bell – I suggested we perform a silent bell ringing. Marco added that we could muffle the bell’s clapper with a handkerchief, and we decided I would ‘ring’ the modified bell for two minutes, in a silent bell ringing, while he watched in stillness. <br /><br />Both my and Marco’s work is concerned, at times, with endurance and repetition, often through physical movement/non-movement, e.g. crawling, staring, sitting. This was our first collaboration, and it brought together some of these interests, along with ideas of memory, memorialization and loss. The elements of the performance emerged spontaneously and naturally, embedding the work in a space of personal resonance. On the morning of the performance we searched for a suitable handkerchief in my flat, finding only two unsuitable ones. A patterned silk one which I had bought at Brompton Cemetery, in a jumble sale, and a white cotton one I was intending to embroider for my grandmother, but on which I had so far only stitched the ‘G’, the rest of her name being written in pencil only. Both were too laden with particularity of association. We cycled to Marco’s flat to collect his studio keys, and on arriving there, I noticed a white cotton handkerchief hanging from the fence by the front door. I pointed to it, and Marco lifted it from its seemingly carefully placed position. We examined the monogram in one corner, discovering it to be a ‘G.’ We then cycled to Dalston, to Marco’s studio, to collect the bell and briefly rehearse our performance.<br /><br />It was now dark and we needed to hurry, to get to the gallery by ten to six, in order to do our performance at the last minute, before it closed at six. We cycled through Dalston, quick-ish, past the end of Ridley Road Market, with the bell hung from Marco’s bike. It rang intermittently, or rather he rang it, and sometimes it rang itself or bashed his leg, or overbalanced him, particularly on corners. The bell is weighty, loud, sonorous with a high pitch, which cut through the darkness. People on the streets turned to look at the sound. As I cycled behind Marco and the bell, listening and watching, I saw the journey as a procession. I felt like an envoy, a messenger, a ghost.<br /><br />We arrived outside Netil Market, a small, wall enclosed space at the south end of London Fields. I had never been before. We chained our bikes in the street and carried off the bell. Bitchwedge gallery is a market stall, amongst the other stalls, containing chairs and a heater. When we arrived, just before six, most stalls had packed up, or were in the process of doing so. There were few people around, it was dark and quiet, with a feeling of calm ending. After a few moments, Geraldine Ryan, whose gallery it is, announced our performance and we began.<br /><br />I held the bell, by a blue rope handle, in my right hand. I walked into the centre of the market place and stood still. It was dark, cold and quiet-ish. A few stalls and customers lingered nearby, with remnants of busy-ness. Marco walked towards me, stopped, and looked into my eyes. He drew from his pocket a white monogrammed handkerchief, knelt before me and began to tie it around the bell’s clapper. I grasped the bell in both hands, tilting it forwards and slightly upwards to expose the inside. I had a sense of physical intimacy through this gesture, of the bell as an almost organ-like or gynaecological space, connecting us in this ‘operation.’ As Marco delicately tied on the handkerchief – a process which I could not see – I thought of the dressing of wounds, and the (myth?) of tying a knot in one’s handkerchief in order to remember something, and of the white handkerchief of surrender. When Marco had finished binding the clapper he rose to his feet, again looked into my eyes, then stepped back and stood still.<br /><br />I began to swing the bell, making a long arc forward, then back, to move the weighty bell through the air. I articulated my whole body through the bell’s movement, bending my knee, pushing my hip, raising and extending my arm to lift the bell high, then letting its weight pull my arm down again, forcing it behind me in a long arc. I repeated this movement again and again rhythmically, forcefully. The bell did not ring. People in the market stopped to watch and listen to the non-sound. Occasionally a gasp of sound broke from the bell, as some less muffled chink of clapper struck at the bell’s body.<br /><br />As I swung the bell I felt it as a part of my body, both controlled by me and controlling me. I counted the strokes, impelled to the iteration. The bell dragged on my shoulder. I grew tired, and wondered how long I had been ‘ringing,’ when the two minutes would be up, or if Marco would abandon our plan of a ‘sign’ after two minutes, and hold me here longer, silently ringing till I could continue no more and was exhausted. I felt outside of time, like a cipher, a-historical. I was a clock that did not move forward.<br /><br />After seventy two strokes I glanced to Marco. He was standing motionless, erect, staring straight at me. He had stood this way throughout the silent ringing, a sentry, a guard. A witness to absence, to almost-silence. Watching stillness-in-motion – my arm’s pendulum movement, repeating, my feet rooted to the ground, the un-clanging-clapper flinging against the bell chamber, the market place of drifting, noise, activity, continuation of routine, ending. Marco stepped back, the sign that two minutes had passed, and I allowed my arm to relinquish the force of ‘ringing,’ and become still.<br /><br />With Geraldine Ryan, after the performance at Bitchwedge Gallery,in Netil Market, all packing up. More about <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/BitchWedge-Gallery/143023852393302?v=info#!/pages/BitchWedge-Gallery/143023852393302" target="_blank">Bitchwedge Gallery here.</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1mQ33N8MSySsi80GBg4yscao8YkTzffJ3Q8lA-7s3vP7MF2ROeY5K2leHV1xNwvvxgE2EvIbRhxNL31Ua7I3v5KNtEB-h6AQHbfqYyVN8g1NXHpdwVzcvg2ZuaegqnM3saPYKdwuFqqDG/s1600/Gail+and+Geraldine+Bitchwedge+Netil+Market.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1mQ33N8MSySsi80GBg4yscao8YkTzffJ3Q8lA-7s3vP7MF2ROeY5K2leHV1xNwvvxgE2EvIbRhxNL31Ua7I3v5KNtEB-h6AQHbfqYyVN8g1NXHpdwVzcvg2ZuaegqnM3saPYKdwuFqqDG/s400/Gail+and+Geraldine+Bitchwedge+Netil+Market.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541769705647849746" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsxxS5xQIep09jgLAil1o9ZTk7nzDdf5ZLG0G60QghW7DzR7fldyCzx4j9sedg3uPXsBQKP8E_nbc3gnCiH3QUAysLVKMyURwGLmyCTXWoalu75wPooc-BdJPtAxTEC3UFrspHCN06YTRt/s1600/Netil+market+Bitchwedge+Gail+Burton+Geraldine+Ryan1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsxxS5xQIep09jgLAil1o9ZTk7nzDdf5ZLG0G60QghW7DzR7fldyCzx4j9sedg3uPXsBQKP8E_nbc3gnCiH3QUAysLVKMyURwGLmyCTXWoalu75wPooc-BdJPtAxTEC3UFrspHCN06YTRt/s400/Netil+market+Bitchwedge+Gail+Burton+Geraldine+Ryan1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541769546474998930" /></a><br /><br />Here is the text which I had been pondering prior to the performance - it's an extract from my book 'Body':<br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-weight:bold;">Silence Sounds</span><br /><br />Last year I decided to listen to the two minutes silence broadcast on Remembrance Sunday on Radio Three. I heard the chimes of Big Ben at eleven am and then a kind of silence ensued – but it was silence with sounds; sounds like breathing, rustling, and faint echoes, as in the interior of a church where people are actively being silent. I assumed this was the silence. Once I had identified the moment of silence, the beginning of it, my experience was then of an ambiguity over what exactly to do; of how to conduct my silence. The radio announcer had stated that there would now be ‘two minutes silence in remembrance of all those who lost their lives in the first and second world war’…or was it in all conflicts..? Without further instructions I wondered should I try to remember, to recall, specific people, historical people and their actions? or a generalized idea of those people? Should I conjure loss, in an abstracted sense, or perhaps in a personalized way? Or should I imagine the times in which historical loss occurred, its scenes, the conflicts out of which it arose? Should I recall people I have known who fought in war, though they survived? Or should I experience the silence, the emptiness, the absence of sound, the pause of activity? is the intended idea that my two minutes of silence should be an awareness of emptiness, loss and absence?<br /> <br />After this silence – this mentally noisy silence, these few moments elongated by super-awareness of noise and movement and expectation - there were guns, then music. I felt then, at the arrival of these ritual noises, that the time had been so short it could not possibly have been two minutes; it must not have been the silence after all, but just a prelude in the programme; and the silence was still to come. So I listened on, waiting carefully for the real silence. Eventually the radio station resumed its music programme, leaving the Remembrance Service; it was clear then that I had indeed heard the silence as I thought originally. I had spent my silence wondering how to do it, what it was or was supposed to be. Silence sounds.<br /></blockquote><br /><br /><br />Kate Kotcheff made a wonderful Remembrance Balaclava for her performance at Bitchwedge Gallery. It reminded me of a couple of my 'Balaclava Women' Rizla Drawings. You can see more of my <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/search/label/balaclava" target="_blank">Balaclava Women drawings here, on some of my older posts.</a> <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLV6ErJf5P_too4nQ7pV-LjQL-Bq6jnoi538wQH6XZ95jKHIfeJ4ZZWTxJshBxjZZne1CgGhN5O0pXxrphF6MrI-fVM4LduYa5vN9dhSHT_5mvJIrr0sr-C13Q9lU3IEn9YqiThKh_8L5i/s1600/Remembrance+Balaclava+Kate+Kotcheff+Bitchwedge+Gail+Burton+x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 364px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLV6ErJf5P_too4nQ7pV-LjQL-Bq6jnoi538wQH6XZ95jKHIfeJ4ZZWTxJshBxjZZne1CgGhN5O0pXxrphF6MrI-fVM4LduYa5vN9dhSHT_5mvJIrr0sr-C13Q9lU3IEn9YqiThKh_8L5i/s400/Remembrance+Balaclava+Kate+Kotcheff+Bitchwedge+Gail+Burton+x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541766881197429522" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPa28kZmjQtf5OMCU_jCQUwSpLtJ3yT7pLVAFFlXswN4DYFduVngtensFENfQQxBpA0qXMry28tU-jECW2osbjP05Olme2n2lmbCKnt3Zy4uxHbtnLSxCU1_mm-3kCWpXn8ZqLgwuuL4pf/s1600/Remembrance+Balaclava+Kate+Kotcheff+2+Bitchwedge+Gail+Burton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 271px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPa28kZmjQtf5OMCU_jCQUwSpLtJ3yT7pLVAFFlXswN4DYFduVngtensFENfQQxBpA0qXMry28tU-jECW2osbjP05Olme2n2lmbCKnt3Zy4uxHbtnLSxCU1_mm-3kCWpXn8ZqLgwuuL4pf/s400/Remembrance+Balaclava+Kate+Kotcheff+2+Bitchwedge+Gail+Burton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541766749577894578" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1mPAl_ZnEGKOkerNZlt9fDmCizac-kfs7806L1OUoz7LKCD3WI8LHasK0oV_6S9GEiiNfQFrpjJyEpYMdroG2YeJ_AD3BTzQ_T03Vu2zQxr-KQAE51_tmz_2eGLyoXKJCIngjnKFdraGL/s1600/red+balaclava+woman+rizla+pencil+drawing+Gail+Burton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1mPAl_ZnEGKOkerNZlt9fDmCizac-kfs7806L1OUoz7LKCD3WI8LHasK0oV_6S9GEiiNfQFrpjJyEpYMdroG2YeJ_AD3BTzQ_T03Vu2zQxr-KQAE51_tmz_2eGLyoXKJCIngjnKFdraGL/s400/red+balaclava+woman+rizla+pencil+drawing+Gail+Burton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541767930022167970" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjyKV1KdC6zj6LYn7c65pZCTgKV6AFG8wQfpfYTpFX6HQbVf29Y36KULVelTdVNr2J3WHAd223PV4wMMWAGTdRFVBsEbQMbZyBFISKrANPeoBqz4JMeKpY1z7zYLVBq14t_7EN4fXEdDxy/s1600/red+hat+woman+rizla+pencil+drawing+Gail+Burton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjyKV1KdC6zj6LYn7c65pZCTgKV6AFG8wQfpfYTpFX6HQbVf29Y36KULVelTdVNr2J3WHAd223PV4wMMWAGTdRFVBsEbQMbZyBFISKrANPeoBqz4JMeKpY1z7zYLVBq14t_7EN4fXEdDxy/s400/red+hat+woman+rizla+pencil+drawing+Gail+Burton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541768086013981714" /></a>Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-39897248280644309112010-11-04T16:00:00.013+00:002011-07-05T17:36:10.076+01:00Dishclout, The Human Duster<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNa7Tj3fvSISvvGsVfFd_y39CeSity0Wlo30hxvOoK_jrQa2Td4gSOmHlFExTJwxRxxKwDSbhNVzPQaAUj_sod6IvcKQWEpkBKFbKSri7s6PDxKz1lVffjGN14OgYx4WPkAxFoC_kNaqe/s1600/Dishclout+Human+Duster+Gail+Burton+Mattew+Cowan.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNa7Tj3fvSISvvGsVfFd_y39CeSity0Wlo30hxvOoK_jrQa2Td4gSOmHlFExTJwxRxxKwDSbhNVzPQaAUj_sod6IvcKQWEpkBKFbKSri7s6PDxKz1lVffjGN14OgYx4WPkAxFoC_kNaqe/s400/Dishclout+Human+Duster+Gail+Burton+Mattew+Cowan.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542366851433523906" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEift90k6q7aUfSQ7PtDHW7ihNtwhgGBoAHIi6ZeHKhsKPGSK6fq13xHgGtAyDvaTPf7-xHqko1z5cBNrLVqTqagEMUOrRujhQuRWHj6fXGmYOJA3fMRWja5v_4l7C6Nu_EFszyqTdU9yICI/s1600/Dishclout+after+mud.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 288px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEift90k6q7aUfSQ7PtDHW7ihNtwhgGBoAHIi6ZeHKhsKPGSK6fq13xHgGtAyDvaTPf7-xHqko1z5cBNrLVqTqagEMUOrRujhQuRWHj6fXGmYOJA3fMRWja5v_4l7C6Nu_EFszyqTdU9yICI/s400/Dishclout+after+mud.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535726107020030626" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVP9ivWAmKk0S0piHQbfgYeq6-LL_GjmgulANZMpgKynVLOnK16fVu73qPBBE36hakwf3_JD-sY9vRkBHADgWIWZhp1LHDg3BH25Qd5xAkJcdwi9o6TPBAtPOkv8PS939K2jVPsOFf_BM/s1600/Dishclout+The+Human+Duster+Gail+Burton+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVP9ivWAmKk0S0piHQbfgYeq6-LL_GjmgulANZMpgKynVLOnK16fVu73qPBBE36hakwf3_JD-sY9vRkBHADgWIWZhp1LHDg3BH25Qd5xAkJcdwi9o6TPBAtPOkv8PS939K2jVPsOFf_BM/s400/Dishclout+The+Human+Duster+Gail+Burton+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535748979722543026" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVlarmQTQq7aonXCBWsLgSlrpVAkF-L-5rGxEGbx6tCKBk_AqG0qT5XgyFmYrBvrU2ghw1rm_DaV4Zd4PBVjRnSVIgM0SxGdpwfr2p1QLenoQDQTAbpgVqxYT0kPHYK43x-fFl0Vxk5dJh/s1600/Dishclout+after+mud+3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 233px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVlarmQTQq7aonXCBWsLgSlrpVAkF-L-5rGxEGbx6tCKBk_AqG0qT5XgyFmYrBvrU2ghw1rm_DaV4Zd4PBVjRnSVIgM0SxGdpwfr2p1QLenoQDQTAbpgVqxYT0kPHYK43x-fFl0Vxk5dJh/s400/Dishclout+after+mud+3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535725435192394066" /></a><br />My 'Dishclout' costume, before and after the performance on Primrose Hill. Photos by Matthew Cowan. And more photos of the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/matmatmat/sets/72157625185347371/with/5145775326/" target="_blank">procession</a>, by Mat Webber, can be seen on Flickr.<br /><br />On Hallowe’en, Sunday 31st October 2010, I took part in ‘The Second Annual Disguised Procession.’ It consisted of a group of disguised and costumed artists, musicians and dancers led by Matthew Cowan. The procession began from the top of Primrose Hill at 4.15 pm, moving through the park and nearby streets to end at Cecil Sharp House and the Hallowe’en Music Fair. <br /><br />I created my costume for the procession entirely from dusters, dish cloths and dirty rags. I processed, and later performed, as 'Dishclout, The Human Duster'. My garment was inspired by my collected pile of old cleaning cloths, and also by the people I’ve seen on the streets dressed in clothing they’ve cobbled together from scraps, rags, plastic bags and other found remnants. These people can be seen on the streets of London, and elsewhere, often ignored, invisible, detoured around – or moved on. They are a locus for our fears of dirt and the abject. Their clothing is an abhorrent and dejected vestment, which manifests and is expressive and absorbent of the deprivations, resources and particularity of the wearer. These ‘dirty people’ make the fissures of society tangible; they and their clothing live in the cracks: for which they are deplored or ignored. I created a persona and costume which took on the role of ‘the dirty,’ in which I literally took on the dirt – confronted it, absorbed it, carried it – I was a vessel for the absorption of dust, filth and distress. My intention was to ‘be the dirty’, but reveal the dirty as the cleanser, as the necessary or inevitable counterpoint to the clean. I appropriated the name ‘Dishclout,’ an old insult for a female servant, as a character who performed a function, a ritual, of accepting dirt, of taking it, revelling in it, of bearing its burden – and of cleansing – a function on behalf of ‘the clean,’ however separate or incomprehensible they might see me as.<br /><br />I stitched together dozens of yellow dusters, blue jay cloths, white dish cloths and thick white floor cloths to create a dress-come-coat-come-cloak, of draped, striated, folded and layered pieces. Each stitch was a cross, like a suture, a crossing-out, a kiss, or the most basic element in the sewing-mending-making repertoire. I added a head dress, of the same draped cloths, flowing into my shoulders, hanging about my face like a semi-religous or antique costume. A dust mask across my face completed the disguise and held the head dress in place. The garment had arms like wings, wide and flowing, with feathery ends. It was soft, warm and comforting. I thought of the homeless people I’ve seen in their creations, and the rationale of their construction, the living that caused and allowed such garments to come into being, and wondered how the people thought and felt about wearing their clothing.<br /><br />The procession-proper did not begin until all the disguised participants reached the top of Primrose Hill. But to reach that point we walked from Cecil Sharp House, through the streets and park to the waiting audience. This was an opportunity to inhabit the clean, soft, flowing garment. I walked in time to the ringing of ‘The Bell Man,’ my arm-wings swooshing beside me as I stepped slowly, and enjoyed the anonymity of my entirely concealing costume. I had already been asked ‘Are you a cleaning monster?’ replying ‘No. I am a human duster.’ The procession included a man dressed in a suit covered in bells, even his face; a woman dressed in dead flowers; a trio of female Morris dancers with a gallows held aloft, upon which several Goth-Barbie Dolls were hung; a Knight/Butcher; and a couple in stately Victorian attire with a platter of Black Pudding carried before them...amongst others.<br /><br />At the top of Primrose Hill is a small round, flat, summit, tarmacced, and edged with muddy puddles and strips of mud, after the recent rain, before the grass begins again and rolls away down the hill. The view looks over all of London, spectacularly laid out before you, with a sense of air and separateness from the city; a perfect place for the Hallowe’en procession to begin. After a couple of performances by other participants of the procession, I began my performance. I walked to the edge of the tarmacced summit and found the first puddle. I dropped to my knees and crawled straight into it. I crawled through it and out the other side. My knees and hands were immediately wet and dirty. I felt the wetness of the dusters and dish cloths as they began to absorb water and dirt, and cling to my body. I noticed the change in temperature as I was exposed to the substances of dirt, the substances close to the ground. Immediately that I began my performance, as I was told later, all the dogs stopped moving and stared at me, then all the people too - wondering what was going on, what was wrong. I crawled a little along the grass, following the circular edge of the summit, and found the next, and deeper, murkier puddle. I realised before plunging in my hands that the dark colour of this puddle would disguise any shit or sharp objects within it; and surely with all these dogs and people there could be all manner of vile content? I placed my hands in, dragged my legs and the wettening costume with me, and squirmed onto my belly, full front into the dirty water. I dragged myself out of the other side, pulling with my hands. <br /><br />Moving across the grass, I reached an open area of mud, where I dug in my nails and dragged the heavy weight of myself and the soiled costume through the dirt. A man’s boot protruded near my face, and his voice said ‘Lick my filthy boot, you slime.’ I continued. I saw the hill dropping away, and realised the city vista was now to my right. I continued in my circle, glimpsing only feet and catching scraps of sound. I was isolated from the group of the procession and its audience, not knowing if I was watched, unwanted, unseen, ignored or rejected. I was below the level of eyes and engagement, in my own world. <br /><br />Half way through my performance I began to feel a sense of the weight of dirt, of my dirt, of others’ dirt. The garment was fulfilling its role; it was mopping up, rubbing down, gathering the dust and dirt. And it hurt me, I felt tired and heavy and drained. Yet I also felt a sense of indulgence, of a kind of filth laden ecstasy. I revelled in the freedom to be dirty, to soak it all up. I rolled over, from my front onto my back and onto my front again. I began to enjoy, or if not enjoy, to accept the dirt. My costume flapped and slapped and dragged and clung to me. It was being transformed by the performing process. Its wearing was fulfilling the Dishclout role. I wondered, who am I? What am I underneath? Am I abject? I paused to adjust the head dress, to brush hair and mud from my eye. It was still a dress, and dirty as I was I wanted to look my best. A pair of feet arrived suddenly in view, handing me a small object and saying ‘You dropped this’: my asthma inhaler, secreted in the waistband of my undergarment I had thought. With that gesture I realised – I am a person, not just a garment. <br /><br />I continued slithering, then more crawling, and found myself at eye level with a crouching photographer. I was aware of the cameras around me, pointing, looking, capturing, and assumed a level of interest and focus upon my actions. It reinforced my sense of separateness: inside the face-covering garment, the layer of grime and weight of wetness, I was hidden, absent perhaps – only the external, the dirt absorbing dress, was present to the world. I completed a circuit of the muddy perimeter of the top of Primrose Hill, inhabiting every movement of the crawl, drag, slither, flap, tangle, dust and clean. I rose to my feet, the garment soiled and heavy with it, draped and clinging to my body, and walked back into the assembled crowd.<br /><br />The procession then began from Primrose Hill, downwards to Cecil Sharp House. I wanted to whirl and twirl like a dervish, a dusting machine, in my newly transformed dirt-laden-duster-dress. I restrained myself and walked and swished to the clanging of The Bell Man, stepping slowly with the rest of the procession. I wanted also to walk all the way home in my garment, through the city, unknown and unrecognizable, to see how I was seen or unseen. But the wet, cold and weight of the garment drew me to stay at the procession’s destination, Cecil Sharp House, for warmth, hot water and comfort. When I washed I found mud all over the front of my body, right through to my belly, face and finger nails, despite the covering of the costume. I was loath to relinquish the freedom of ‘Dishclout,’ my anonymity and permission to be in the dirt – but felt too the tiredness and strain of bearing the weight of the dirt, and a strong impulse to be clean.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXwAwdudbwJsudGwxpzvbHL92Pv1shKeTh1nEcJnGJU2qGySL9C2_90QijkYdejwzGaxuNwjoxDrk-HlngFiCwW5ZviSnhvofN2AT8A1ZI67RIYrMEe845jlU5YB1WGin-cyhBpcHAxk6j/s1600/Dishclout+Crawl+Gail+Burton+Mat+Webber.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXwAwdudbwJsudGwxpzvbHL92Pv1shKeTh1nEcJnGJU2qGySL9C2_90QijkYdejwzGaxuNwjoxDrk-HlngFiCwW5ZviSnhvofN2AT8A1ZI67RIYrMEe845jlU5YB1WGin-cyhBpcHAxk6j/s400/Dishclout+Crawl+Gail+Burton+Mat+Webber.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542368214557540290" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEIrn7YH0u8uYD0U_ivYam23jg-fV2iuntyqydg4ksmgy-KnUnUXd99yn57ZoPDoBJqwlf6ff3w-rcTxoBVUIFGEMxxH5yTZoxOoi-gJ95OcwVrg_tc066fm3bU56jrNpMMrB6t9863R-X/s1600/Dishclout+Crawl+Gail+Burton+Mat+Webber+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEIrn7YH0u8uYD0U_ivYam23jg-fV2iuntyqydg4ksmgy-KnUnUXd99yn57ZoPDoBJqwlf6ff3w-rcTxoBVUIFGEMxxH5yTZoxOoi-gJ95OcwVrg_tc066fm3bU56jrNpMMrB6t9863R-X/s400/Dishclout+Crawl+Gail+Burton+Mat+Webber+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542367971488228882" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnV9tlUweYlqBO7wbWsTj-_To-6O26eymsr_dGlzSn6-EerCYYtk5XQvyNp0Wb_ztn6sXgBaGjEUjaMbTCN_ZZfGQjzu402dmUQYvsRXWkdix_ZfPee219O4602knnbA2fZzHDPBPjShZG/s1600/Dishclout+Crawl+Gail+Burton+Mat+Webber+3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnV9tlUweYlqBO7wbWsTj-_To-6O26eymsr_dGlzSn6-EerCYYtk5XQvyNp0Wb_ztn6sXgBaGjEUjaMbTCN_ZZfGQjzu402dmUQYvsRXWkdix_ZfPee219O4602knnbA2fZzHDPBPjShZG/s400/Dishclout+Crawl+Gail+Burton+Mat+Webber+3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542368552973088082" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Dishclout, The Human Duster</span> crawled on her hands and knees before slithering on her belly in the puddles and mud around the top of Primrose Hill.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3FVro6VUq1ZrVjehozIV9PX3PuDXd32PpQb3wKcxG9WsVKW2c1Awh7OTPPoylcXtRQWdQ2xIjUpd9RBe77WYlwb5t3-7G6B3ObUyUdVjpHsifH8rM_F0hauMCYWidv8lgFk9igZ6x4Dxx/s1600/Bell+Man+Performance+Primrose+Hill+Mattew+Cowan+Mat+Webber.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3FVro6VUq1ZrVjehozIV9PX3PuDXd32PpQb3wKcxG9WsVKW2c1Awh7OTPPoylcXtRQWdQ2xIjUpd9RBe77WYlwb5t3-7G6B3ObUyUdVjpHsifH8rM_F0hauMCYWidv8lgFk9igZ6x4Dxx/s400/Bell+Man+Performance+Primrose+Hill+Mattew+Cowan+Mat+Webber.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542370446192542690" /></a><br />The Bell Man, a performance by Matthew Cowan, took place at the top of Primrose Hill. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5k6Rg7yVt3KvuPRIIOUiVfd8-TWdC15-qecfZtUcGXaPB8SBfNLOPHdD1B3AJDeikQgTDq8CIu3Gxb5Y5V1yz_80G0Xgc4kRgaMl5N7O1u1cJ03S4UeJWwQd7jtAMJ1rJEm0fvPY8ijKP/s1600/Hallowe%2527en+Procession+Primrose+Hill+Gail+Burton+Mat+Webber.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5k6Rg7yVt3KvuPRIIOUiVfd8-TWdC15-qecfZtUcGXaPB8SBfNLOPHdD1B3AJDeikQgTDq8CIu3Gxb5Y5V1yz_80G0Xgc4kRgaMl5N7O1u1cJ03S4UeJWwQd7jtAMJ1rJEm0fvPY8ijKP/s400/Hallowe%2527en+Procession+Primrose+Hill+Gail+Burton+Mat+Webber.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542372609014462370" /></a> <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIMOaQc6TzOzdSntMnOAveF1EsPUpWYqu_j0fGzLrQRNglgK8DqjbCxWFfTvIVtAmW8Q7u9t07Dvy-9FT2ZfqHBZC2SyqMMDkEIq3jtyZnq_XuHlCMgvqsTXCdCOVQFNI-O6QKxp-RMXAx/s1600/Hallowe%2527en+Performance+Primrose+Hill.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIMOaQc6TzOzdSntMnOAveF1EsPUpWYqu_j0fGzLrQRNglgK8DqjbCxWFfTvIVtAmW8Q7u9t07Dvy-9FT2ZfqHBZC2SyqMMDkEIq3jtyZnq_XuHlCMgvqsTXCdCOVQFNI-O6QKxp-RMXAx/s400/Hallowe%2527en+Performance+Primrose+Hill.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542371435515600146" /></a><br /><br />The disguised processioners circuited the summit of Primrose Hill, then walked off down the hill in single file.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGhEl9SefGwwYrJmlig9ErWqQn2-eCRO7tSmlSpiDpaT4dSogMX6_vBSfoSZMnMgu9r7CeHce03a_wlI1ZgrU3QBEVCtO8xiGnBSkqet_OjuHSm5PHA-l4cgjKz7GHoKerUmCTCr_UIxt3/s1600/Hallowe%2527en+Procession+Primrose+Hill+Gail+Burton+Mat+Webber+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGhEl9SefGwwYrJmlig9ErWqQn2-eCRO7tSmlSpiDpaT4dSogMX6_vBSfoSZMnMgu9r7CeHce03a_wlI1ZgrU3QBEVCtO8xiGnBSkqet_OjuHSm5PHA-l4cgjKz7GHoKerUmCTCr_UIxt3/s400/Hallowe%2527en+Procession+Primrose+Hill+Gail+Burton+Mat+Webber+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542372147178360306" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbBT-tQFiWFZJXX_qqkQoAVcwtrqrosGUz1WKVV0smiYKxaIiYyrUR7eot6TCFb49mNgVuJ2uCVFUhn32sEuHc21Ua6R_yjK5-0S9RQUXWjEnu4bosYrgI7XlSVur3DBTU2Uq_nYHgSDP/s1600/Hallowe%2527en+Procession+Cecil+Sharp+House+Gail+Burton+Mat+Webber.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 258px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbBT-tQFiWFZJXX_qqkQoAVcwtrqrosGUz1WKVV0smiYKxaIiYyrUR7eot6TCFb49mNgVuJ2uCVFUhn32sEuHc21Ua6R_yjK5-0S9RQUXWjEnu4bosYrgI7XlSVur3DBTU2Uq_nYHgSDP/s400/Hallowe%2527en+Procession+Cecil+Sharp+House+Gail+Burton+Mat+Webber.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542373682253532210" /></a><br />Photos by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/matmatmat/sets/72157625185347371/with/5145775326/" target="_blank">Mat Webber</a>Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-77945989469478472442010-10-28T11:04:00.010+01:002011-07-06T16:00:43.299+01:00Hallowe'en Disguised ProcessionOn Sunday 31st October I will be taking part in <span style="font-weight:bold;">'The Second Annual Disguised Hallowe'en Procession,'</span> beginning from the top of Primrose Hill at 4.15 pm and ending at Cecil Sharp House. The procession will consist of a group of disguised and costumed artists, musicians and dancers led by <a href="http://www.matthewcowan.net/Matthew_Cowan/__Matthew_Cowan__.html" target="_blank">Matthew Cowan</a>, and will lead to the Hallowe'en Music Fair at Cecil Sharp House. <br /><br />I will be processing as <span style="font-weight:bold;">'Dishclout, The Human Duster'</span>. I will be wearing a garment made entirely of dusters, dish cloths and dirty rags. The garment is inspired by my collected pile of old cleaning cloths and by the cobbled together clothing of the people who dress in plastic bags, rags and remnants, the dirtiest people who take on the dirt and fall through the cracks.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I will soak up the dirt<br />Rub it off, wipe it down<br />I will carry the dust<br />Dish the must<br />Miss the dust<br />Dish the must</span><br /><br />Please feel free to come and join the beginning of the procession, in costume if you feel inclined, at 4.15pm (it's the first sunset after the clocks go back).<br /><br />The procession is free and open to the public. To gain access to the music fair at Cecil Sharp House, you will need a ticket, available via the following websites:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.wheelwheelwheel.co.uk/" target="_blank">The Wheel: Hallowe'en Music Fair</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.ica.org.uk/?lid=26113" target="_blank">The ICA</a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Dishclout*</span><br />Over a period of several days I heard and read various reports about an incident where a Member of the European Parliament, Nigel Farage, insulted the President of the European Council. The reports converged on their facts, and did not generally go into great detail or analysis, merely reiterating the same basic points. The reports detailed that Mr Farage was the former leader of the UK Independance Party, and the man he insulted, Herman Van Rompuy, was formerly the Belgian Prime Minister; his nationality being a fact which featured in the specific attacks Mr Farage made. The incident occurred in the Chamber of the European Council on the occasion of the new, and first ever, Permanent President's inaugural appearance. Mr Farage made a speech in the Chamber to the assembled European Council members during which he directly addressed the President and made a series of personal and political attacks upon him. This event has been reported as 'an attention grabbing outburst' and an attempt by Mr Farage to get thrown out of the European Parliament, thereby martyring himself and garnering press coverage to raise his profile before standing as an MP in the forthcoming UK general election. Whether or not this is true is unclear, but it was reported that previously Mr Farage had made other outrageous comments in his speaches, which did attract extensive press coverage. Snippets of the speach were replayed on the radio, internet and television, and transcribed in the newspapers. The portion of his speach which particularly caught my attention was the opening tirade, which prefaced a slew of more general and perhaps predictable personal insults and criticisms around Mr Van Rompuy's alleged lack of identity or substance. The insults began thus: 'I don't want to be rude, but really, you have the charisma of a damp rag and the appearance of a low grade bank clerk. And the question that I want to ask, the question that we're all going to ask, is, who are you?' <br /> A BBC radio correspondent, Jonny Dymond, reported that at this point in the speach there was an audible pause as the numerous interpreters at the council attempted to translate the word 'damp dish rag' into the twenty or so official languages spoken there. Being an unexpected and unorthodox word in that context, and one which did not necessarily have a direct equivalent in every language, this translation took some moments. Having listened carefully, however, to that section of the speach, I cannot hear the phrase 'damp dish rag', nor the pause for translation; what I do hear is the words 'damp rag' and some muffled background noises of possible dissaproval and confusion. I presume that the journalist deliberately creatively mis-reported the phrase and its reception in order to better facilitate his story. The correspondent used the occurrence as a basis for a lighthearted and mildly humourous investigation of various translations of the phrase - into French, Spanish and Dutch, (taking the opportunity to insult the Dutch language along the way for its unpleasing sound.) His translations, and their lack of complete fit to the English, revealed how the particular cleaning ritual and purpose of a cloth in a particular country frames the word for it - thus in Dutch the translation he offered, and the closest he could find, was for an all purpose cleaning cloth, which would encompass cleaning of the floors. Of course in English no one would use the same cloth - a dish cloth - for cleaning both dishes and floors. And I presume nor would they in the Netherlands; so here is a problem with how to translate the word, or, of how dirt and cleaning is demarcated by language. <br /> I looked up the translation of dish rag in German, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, French, Swedish and Dutch; or rather of dish cloth as that was the less exaggerated version of the word, and was the one Mr Dymond seemed to be talking about - and I discovered there are variants of the translations within many languages. These variations are consistent with the slippery idea of what a dish cloth is that the correspondent had highlighted; even in English the meaning of the phrase is open to shifts and misplacement. Interpreting the phrase revealed concepts about the performance of various domestic tasks, how a cloth may be used, whether that equipment merits a name of its own, and which practices have the overtone or common usage of an insult. When I had first listened to the correspondent's story a damp rag had meant a 'dish cloth' to me, but one which, by the subtle alteration of its name, had been made more sullied and limp for the purpose of an insult. I had in mind an ordinary dish cloth, of the kind with which one would 'do the dishes', (somewhat anachonystically, as these days people tend to ‘do the washing up' and use a sponge or a brush of some kind - only the older generation use a dish cloth); I thought too that the word might also, mistakenly, refer to a tea towel for drying the dishes, with which a dish cloth could be confused. I had been led by the story to interpret damp rag as damp dish rag. Without this prompting I would have understood damp rag as literally a damp rag, and meaning something more along the lines of any cloth used for the purposes of cleaning the kitchen or bathroom, a cloth that is greyed and worn with use, possibly having been cut from a piece of old clothing in the first place, and which is used primarily for cleaning the floors, though also for any other eclectic household need, but not for the jobs that require a more hygienic finish, such as cleaning dishes or eating surfaces. Such a cloth is likely to be found in a cupboard under the kitchen sink, and to be left there in a dampened state. Plain damp rag, it seems to me, is a far more insulting insult to be levied at the President than damp dish rag, or dish cloth; it is a dirtier and more limpid cloth, used for ill-defined and fouler tasks. The correspondent’s interpretation and flight of whimsy, constructing the rag as more of a genteel article for doing the washing up, at least in English, had perhaps lessened the impact of Nigel Farage’s attack. Either way, damp, dirty, or less so, the correspondent’s interpretation of the rag had led to the meaning of Mr Farage's specific insult being filtered, skewed and altered.<br /> Lavette; torchon (French)<br /> Bayeta (Spanish)<br /> Keukenhannoek; vaatdoek; droogdoek; theedoek (Dutch)<br /> Geschirrtuch (German)<br /> Strofinaccio (Italian)<br /> Pano de prato (Portugeuse)<br /> Disktrasa (Swedish)<br />*NB. Dishclout: a derogatory name for servant girls in the eighteenth century.Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-11478571131134254092010-10-28T10:41:00.007+01:002010-10-28T11:03:59.513+01:00East End Promise: AGAIN<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV1ypEp6brEUfRF-2jfTez6aTvVwe_PNhS19HPBqTpBC9W4JmzEJkRzBcUIQfupmXJVSu29YgEQ4O7u86JOe9AKNmgni6g863Qpv8biWmaFonuhuefxM5JD5pFzKrPNTeYOci_rBtVEYn7/s1600/AGAIN+East+End+Gail+Burton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 324px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV1ypEp6brEUfRF-2jfTez6aTvVwe_PNhS19HPBqTpBC9W4JmzEJkRzBcUIQfupmXJVSu29YgEQ4O7u86JOe9AKNmgni6g863Qpv8biWmaFonuhuefxM5JD5pFzKrPNTeYOci_rBtVEYn7/s400/AGAIN+East+End+Gail+Burton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533031475220505378" /></a><br /><br />My painting 'AGAIN' was recently exhibited in the exhibition 'East End Promise: A Story of Cultural Migrants,' a huge collection of work made in and about the East End from 1985 to 2000. The exhibition was curated by Paul Sakoilsky and Ernesto Leal, and took place in LondonNewcastle Project Space, Redchurch Street, from 9th to 24th October 2010. A limited edition catalogue was produced, which included a new text by me.<br /><br />More information about <a href="http://www.eastendpromise.com/" target="_blank">East End Promise</a> here<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1THUGfYiBS-WHEzaYuqp7kvKg2WOsmACiJqlCBBARbrtgS8H8RfkHpXHfn5CIWPpMV3HWYkqRhjtpVZDF-xfjWT6vSWn1fjGnQoUPg5NcFJJBW8ZqNhc0XYHlvRRy01V-_TuaKWRNHSY/s1600/East+End+Promise.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1THUGfYiBS-WHEzaYuqp7kvKg2WOsmACiJqlCBBARbrtgS8H8RfkHpXHfn5CIWPpMV3HWYkqRhjtpVZDF-xfjWT6vSWn1fjGnQoUPg5NcFJJBW8ZqNhc0XYHlvRRy01V-_TuaKWRNHSY/s400/East+End+Promise.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533030892626938674" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnT9szzkKHr7uMrjc0GNP5ERMqzGlPsq3Rqb5dg-sQGRoEh2VgSTe0P5kxFBk9bTSSCcBHcjd1F_tr39PDpODJLWYkzTAdk_P42lcWv0aVNx38fR2WkZYdgbPKP-lo4y3aVwQZ9sFhnu5/s1600/East+End+Again+inst.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnT9szzkKHr7uMrjc0GNP5ERMqzGlPsq3Rqb5dg-sQGRoEh2VgSTe0P5kxFBk9bTSSCcBHcjd1F_tr39PDpODJLWYkzTAdk_P42lcWv0aVNx38fR2WkZYdgbPKP-lo4y3aVwQZ9sFhnu5/s400/East+End+Again+inst.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533030705189678546" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZUin7Cy3ltG6L7Nvdvwxi5t8zzf5T7ndQCa2t0z5UKB9PjgNaoegLfH2v534C3EBL5YMeYZTubuGUIc0h9kXG9s89cxPcvVS5a2qHJEamQD2RFDMDRiyYbCKZ-wRvh4iKMaASyV_iQrLb/s1600/East+End+installation.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZUin7Cy3ltG6L7Nvdvwxi5t8zzf5T7ndQCa2t0z5UKB9PjgNaoegLfH2v534C3EBL5YMeYZTubuGUIc0h9kXG9s89cxPcvVS5a2qHJEamQD2RFDMDRiyYbCKZ-wRvh4iKMaASyV_iQrLb/s400/East+End+installation.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533030168344810194" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgsGPpEq33gQccQkC_hDqZZVhFXoYgM3mIE0rw7RDPW4xKGkCjZ3h9WJXv-HOGkrtC18IB9h548lL9yjEJ7nAj1qC32KM2gLoHjsH7L8Ub8SkLMncUSROdjT_vQAndPvWJXtL0j9eoVaUX/s1600/East+End+SHit+Hole+Douglas.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgsGPpEq33gQccQkC_hDqZZVhFXoYgM3mIE0rw7RDPW4xKGkCjZ3h9WJXv-HOGkrtC18IB9h548lL9yjEJ7nAj1qC32KM2gLoHjsH7L8Ub8SkLMncUSROdjT_vQAndPvWJXtL0j9eoVaUX/s400/East+End+SHit+Hole+Douglas.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533035078630173570" /></a><br />Douglas Park performed one of his texts, in front of 'East End Shit Hole,' by Marco Vaulbert de Chantilly.<br /><br />Photos by Marco.Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-11644684220570837062010-09-24T10:44:00.030+01:002011-07-05T17:36:39.673+01:00Digging PerformanceOn Saturday 11th September 2010 I performed a ritual of <span style="font-weight:bold;">reading, digging and burying</span>. The performance took place in Queen’s Wood, London, as part of ‘Cut Back,’ an exhibition of site specific and performance art.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBVzAKcXVEszU6Q_2jwFrn4nraSSNOjIOAHPge0gSgj1gA_jAPRPybathVxbHxRgi7gg_R8UH9aXacW66-QTlCb7aOXObzH9mQPEqQQ3frDXwCBQ9DK7YH_kTFPvL4I8jGZtlpU-MvnDxx/s1600/digging+performance+Gail+Burton+13.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBVzAKcXVEszU6Q_2jwFrn4nraSSNOjIOAHPge0gSgj1gA_jAPRPybathVxbHxRgi7gg_R8UH9aXacW66-QTlCb7aOXObzH9mQPEqQQ3frDXwCBQ9DK7YH_kTFPvL4I8jGZtlpU-MvnDxx/s400/digging+performance+Gail+Burton+13.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520431714070078530" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLDDGtlyLpF69xe0BxTqr6lxOooNOiALHa46BxZPoL02ewMHJASWQ4BTs6LNZ6b8FyKbi1zmn8OdvMRD9MxsqEKC_DUuu1OvGjp6u5cNY0Gm41fywp_xfN8AKwIjzG_upmbF8Lxg4Gnz9/s1600/digging+performance+15.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLDDGtlyLpF69xe0BxTqr6lxOooNOiALHa46BxZPoL02ewMHJASWQ4BTs6LNZ6b8FyKbi1zmn8OdvMRD9MxsqEKC_DUuu1OvGjp6u5cNY0Gm41fywp_xfN8AKwIjzG_upmbF8Lxg4Gnz9/s320/digging+performance+15.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520471601477182066" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh12SEt8au3CJiH5gwry0VMqDjfaRm7nLplqtKHFCweBZbH3IJm0M1_jYe4NlsehZkCqqFPWfCX0xIcrBxQJd6EgOIRIPiLyzew8TI-JK297Yd1p8TsHEFRoL9rck00AE8Aa47hUZk2Y4QY/s1600/digging+performance+17.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh12SEt8au3CJiH5gwry0VMqDjfaRm7nLplqtKHFCweBZbH3IJm0M1_jYe4NlsehZkCqqFPWfCX0xIcrBxQJd6EgOIRIPiLyzew8TI-JK297Yd1p8TsHEFRoL9rck00AE8Aa47hUZk2Y4QY/s320/digging+performance+17.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520471844965412962" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMbluF_ngWwd6GjE6gsG8YUhe6RaXz_oUzjOGlKGpZM4YR6-8vfTEHUMdU9gwH5KNMiTQ1CaojUarCp5mpk7r2U_zrnYwr0udyxua-MQrypq7J-1nAU3luiPwKiv7zK1ZnDzoZ34vawvQL/s1600/digging+performance+16.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMbluF_ngWwd6GjE6gsG8YUhe6RaXz_oUzjOGlKGpZM4YR6-8vfTEHUMdU9gwH5KNMiTQ1CaojUarCp5mpk7r2U_zrnYwr0udyxua-MQrypq7J-1nAU3luiPwKiv7zK1ZnDzoZ34vawvQL/s320/digging+performance+16.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520472071396204386" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW42eFIrcvcsHdqDzkpBmd53SXU9Y8-46dV3uBirIgERwbzEBSvkTv_VwoYEOhMhtiOVZrmpJhH-6vgkaqvZWfe03F-OJyQXengbEuXkmPImKb6YvqKpQ7K6s0Y1-64uvddg-hfzLcBB-b/s1600/digging+18.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW42eFIrcvcsHdqDzkpBmd53SXU9Y8-46dV3uBirIgERwbzEBSvkTv_VwoYEOhMhtiOVZrmpJhH-6vgkaqvZWfe03F-OJyQXengbEuXkmPImKb6YvqKpQ7K6s0Y1-64uvddg-hfzLcBB-b/s320/digging+18.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520477499343828530" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHYRg4ez5rQxFDrOCzbn9j2Hy_uaI80J_Z97PAzsV65WeAqnCxlOcgxqO09n83mbfo66RlzPmx_wYLrLsTbR6NsgerXp0JzHFoO0UQEblobFxFC-LiSKsHdM-ieMnmcMUu0QCb81mO3Sbe/s1600/digging+19.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHYRg4ez5rQxFDrOCzbn9j2Hy_uaI80J_Z97PAzsV65WeAqnCxlOcgxqO09n83mbfo66RlzPmx_wYLrLsTbR6NsgerXp0JzHFoO0UQEblobFxFC-LiSKsHdM-ieMnmcMUu0QCb81mO3Sbe/s320/digging+19.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520477932284420386" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKaFMfSDZZ5CI9eAW6TehLUSqfb5F1Cu_AEzKcTV-GGxkxlLXKy3baHI4OUwj7CSx0HnYZsEWjlP-CiEkulm8ZFmrBI1JughSG1d6On5YFZmnnu7hIlfHlklnQ7Xww8jjJ83fRHZnes1vo/s1600/dark+digging+performance+Gail+Burton+1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKaFMfSDZZ5CI9eAW6TehLUSqfb5F1Cu_AEzKcTV-GGxkxlLXKy3baHI4OUwj7CSx0HnYZsEWjlP-CiEkulm8ZFmrBI1JughSG1d6On5YFZmnnu7hIlfHlklnQ7Xww8jjJ83fRHZnes1vo/s400/dark+digging+performance+Gail+Burton+1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520436278153158754" /></a><br /><br />At 5pm I began the ritual, starting in the main clearing of the wood. I walked out of the clearing followed by a small group of people. I walked slowly but purposefully to discover the first site where I would dig. I took with me a pamphlet which I had made - <span style="font-style:italic;">A pamphlet of extracts from ‘Body’ A Book about the Traces and Manifestations of Time, Memory and Loss</span>. It contained a selection of texts from my book, Body, which I had chosen specially for the digging performance.<br /><br />Queen’s Wood is covered by a thick spread of tall, mature trees, as well as shorter scrubbier bushes and foliage. The ground is therefore mostly plant-less soil, topped with tree debris or sprinkles of grass. It has denser more impenetrable areas of shrubbery and trees, as well as more stately or preened areas. It is criss-crossed with managed tarmacced paths, as well as foot worn paths made by human traversal. <br /><br />I chose a spot of ground beneath a canopy of large trees. The ground at this first spot had a light surface covering of shards of bark – I tested it with my toe to see how hard the surface was. I read aloud from the first page of my pamphlet – the passages were <span style="font-style:italic;">Re-Use, The Other Jonah and the Real Marion, Eveline Wesson</span>, and <span style="font-style:italic;">A Solid Piece of Geography</span>. I read volubly, looking at the page, and only occasionally glancing to catch a glimpse of whether anyone was listening or standing nearby. I had the sense of being watched. A small group of people stood close to me, quietly listening and watching. At the end of the passage of text I bent down to the ground, crouching, then kneeling, and began to dig with my bare hands. I scraped into the soil, which was cool and moist. After a few scrapings the black soil was pushed deep under the plates of my nails. I continued digging until I had created a shallow hole. Then, I tore off the first page of the pamphlet, from which I had just read; I folded it twice and placed it in the hole. I then covered over the hole and formed a small mound on the site with the loose earth. Excavated earth never exactly fits back into the hole from which it came; it always has a slightly larger volume. Thus I was able to create a marking mound on the site of the buried page of text, to which I added a few leaves and a small stick, stuck upright on the top, to mark the spot. On leaving the place, the mound became almost invisible amongst the wood’s floor.<br /><br /><br />Reading and digging at the first site...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYqGTyXC2NDmSQwyYDb8MRREV6sa8dO-QosbuPsccVdc8m6NoMSfvNFz-kNkv-QvyXaJyVR12y4RZKwVayeiY1RlDg1fmbCVEx30RqV7lN0WBBTYi3njqAXXoGp7boHjU1ZP4OoGNF_y6N/s1600/digging+performance+Gail+Burton+site+1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 89px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYqGTyXC2NDmSQwyYDb8MRREV6sa8dO-QosbuPsccVdc8m6NoMSfvNFz-kNkv-QvyXaJyVR12y4RZKwVayeiY1RlDg1fmbCVEx30RqV7lN0WBBTYi3njqAXXoGp7boHjU1ZP4OoGNF_y6N/s400/digging+performance+Gail+Burton+site+1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520413728758392594" /></a><br /><br />From the first site I progressed further along a path, then veered off into a copse covered by a lighter canopy of trees, an area less walked through, and requiring deliberate action to access. Again, I stopped. I had found a place next to a large stone slab laid flat in the ground. It was like an oversized and industrial gravestone, but blank faced. I read passages from the next page – <span style="font-style:italic;">Boab’s Nutrients, Geologies, I Am, Chips And Ham, Punishment, Dust Tea, A Sign, The Dust Destructor, O, Portents</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Coming</span>. I stooped, crouched and dug. The soil pushed hard under my nails. Every site had a slightly different texture, and at this one I encountered tendrils of tree roots, which ripped pleasingly as I scraped downwards. The group of people watched silently as I found my way through the soil, noticing as I picked out small obstacles, such as a shard of broken pottery, and a still wriggling worm. My knees were now muddy, though imperceptibly so as I was wearing brown corduroy trousers. The remaining pages of the pamphlet were smeared with soil.<br /><br /><br />...and at the second site...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0NeMUMCJAFvfAoQAsJdDAas3Nx8g-xkHRyFQPTty5IJTWNSvEWA8qKxSqrZbgB9JKePTDiO02k4R3Nh4wqjXuHyTdTUjeURKD4JoxmjOGtpXkxPZDXd2LOzV5jzj96so9NCon6lbZVf0t/s1600/digging+performance+site+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 107px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0NeMUMCJAFvfAoQAsJdDAas3Nx8g-xkHRyFQPTty5IJTWNSvEWA8qKxSqrZbgB9JKePTDiO02k4R3Nh4wqjXuHyTdTUjeURKD4JoxmjOGtpXkxPZDXd2LOzV5jzj96so9NCon6lbZVf0t/s400/digging+performance+site+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520418664077734482" /></a><br /><br />I continued through this off-the path part of the wood, leading the group through a scrubby bit which had the sense of being behind the paths which circled the clumps of woodland. The wood is hilly in all directions, with continual ups and downs. We now went up the hillside and I struggled to find a suitable next location. I wondered who might be following me, and what the threshold of their interest or boredom might be. I caught glimpses of their figures and faces. They followed at a slight distance, catching glimpses of me amongst and between and behind bushes and groups of trees. Ahead were traces of other artists’ site specific work – sheets of paper hung from trees with names, glowing white in the near-evening wood-gloom; a washing line of grey ‘smalls’, and the strain of George Formby. These slightly absurd additions to the context drew me to cross a path and over into a densely darkly wooded area with a musty smell, where the music could be just heard. The next text, about my Grandmother, felt it could sit easily with these oddities. I crouched facing downhill where the group were standing. They had listened attentively as I spoke of my Grandmother and her ‘Penelopes.’ I scraped away with increasing frenzy at the somewhat hard ground, trying to reach a deeper layer. I was a small and furtive figure, intent and labouring. Passersby who did not know of the performance, but were simply encountering us upon their walk, paused on hearing fragments of declamatory text, carried on the wind; or at the sight of a small group of stock-still watchers in a section of wood away from the path, their eyes then drawn to a crouching scrabbling figure.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQD_8LfPYbsyYY08rA5YFUsrIZW_Mk-pXumOgsiywAj8MF0bWNGuY5ut_4uyTrXcBcNxLJB74gFwV3uj6mMDMdrdLsa7BVUAarh6Hv1wtU9V23chSe7ERU3gMa-F0x4D4mrbCA2jsgCGy6/s1600/into+the+woods+Gail+Burton+1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQD_8LfPYbsyYY08rA5YFUsrIZW_Mk-pXumOgsiywAj8MF0bWNGuY5ut_4uyTrXcBcNxLJB74gFwV3uj6mMDMdrdLsa7BVUAarh6Hv1wtU9V23chSe7ERU3gMa-F0x4D4mrbCA2jsgCGy6/s400/into+the+woods+Gail+Burton+1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520466721487820994" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS7CmtfK7eOZR6cBxzD1XtUp0uJTl0kuV5fgzR9az3IXDaMTu3k1KEZEpfcQxx5-WrUGu7P2P7wdQGGhG9aOvQB9E6lhqH0aOMJwMEcIxuVREkj7jXZQEFPW6zQ2xD5BWnyniwdzP6GU5I/s1600/through+the+woods+digging+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS7CmtfK7eOZR6cBxzD1XtUp0uJTl0kuV5fgzR9az3IXDaMTu3k1KEZEpfcQxx5-WrUGu7P2P7wdQGGhG9aOvQB9E6lhqH0aOMJwMEcIxuVREkj7jXZQEFPW6zQ2xD5BWnyniwdzP6GU5I/s400/through+the+woods+digging+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520467092461007234" /></a><br /><br />As the number of digging sites increased the pages of the pamphlet diminished, until its pages were held together only by by a loosened thread of white cotton - the spine’s stitching - now coming free like a crochet edging, leaving the book like fragile dry leaves, or fancy lace doilies. But smeared with dirt. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwDQlRmcA2e9I5mNclhvhxvl109qZES70qkfbu__8X9zUUWDojz0-peFawzdnumw2-wGsqwVwKRocBYTktHCyAE9_MEyVuIxMJsJIqeIS1r2qtAqm1AC66IUqdi7-ul7RGZq6Fvpu0hy30/s1600/digging+performance+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwDQlRmcA2e9I5mNclhvhxvl109qZES70qkfbu__8X9zUUWDojz0-peFawzdnumw2-wGsqwVwKRocBYTktHCyAE9_MEyVuIxMJsJIqeIS1r2qtAqm1AC66IUqdi7-ul7RGZq6Fvpu0hy30/s320/digging+performance+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520474436280078482" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6QwsZTrB2tJ2EUtl9dTLcsZypbkolysd-DXNEaF_g_U7fsN4n-PW4lMBGsWtXyOJ-3ZP9ti5Yo0tH1jTJrrEMjSKnZ1tSWh9rXrJRujdko8zkt5BWzH5pXFDCX78x-gHpc7pWk5M-7Wla/s1600/digging+performance+3+Gail+Burton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6QwsZTrB2tJ2EUtl9dTLcsZypbkolysd-DXNEaF_g_U7fsN4n-PW4lMBGsWtXyOJ-3ZP9ti5Yo0tH1jTJrrEMjSKnZ1tSWh9rXrJRujdko8zkt5BWzH5pXFDCX78x-gHpc7pWk5M-7Wla/s320/digging+performance+3+Gail+Burton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520474632543853154" /></a><br /><br />I continued, repeating this process of walking and searching, moving through the woods, looking for suitable digging and burial sites, with the small trail of people following me at a slight distance. We were glimpsed by others, and glimpsed each other through branches, foliage and tree trunks; part obscured by these objects and by the shifting patches of sparkling evening light, and encroaching darkness. Though the evening grew darker, it remained warm; and the digging made me warmer. After the first couple of diggings I had removed my jacket, down to a sleeveless top, and as I dug in the crepuscular light my flesh could be seen to glow white, contrasting with the darkness of the tree branches and earth; a busy spectral creature. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ioUagjQFhJZcMNWcDyio5N6Phdf8u_CmPag93yf4JNDjX2fQqB-oTImxldJsg5dQqAxroq9amMmCdNjxwU1qWYzDWTvyMY8Is1C23i64G6YbgVUUSQ78d8gEPGguIgt7uacyGeed9itw/s1600/reading+in+the+wood.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ioUagjQFhJZcMNWcDyio5N6Phdf8u_CmPag93yf4JNDjX2fQqB-oTImxldJsg5dQqAxroq9amMmCdNjxwU1qWYzDWTvyMY8Is1C23i64G6YbgVUUSQ78d8gEPGguIgt7uacyGeed9itw/s400/reading+in+the+wood.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520473746507096450" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcS71DxxsDcZw64odGPOoN5GZ8tkidZcMV1gjcaZ28uT2YZPR9NXvzTU0H0nL0DwCH0T4cXrOew16UKh2DWX_iEuuj1nc93Db79SttS9YJiZ7BTtqHD-A4KJzN2yrO8nwI5Q9j6Od-NPP3/s1600/digging+performance+Gail+Burton+x+9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcS71DxxsDcZw64odGPOoN5GZ8tkidZcMV1gjcaZ28uT2YZPR9NXvzTU0H0nL0DwCH0T4cXrOew16UKh2DWX_iEuuj1nc93Db79SttS9YJiZ7BTtqHD-A4KJzN2yrO8nwI5Q9j6Od-NPP3/s320/digging+performance+Gail+Burton+x+9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520475635813375794" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJXbXmrUgNUODZExcBubrBtNn8hfJuxaSOrm4gA5EVrl4vY1IJVe5s1gl9SUp9tbsbINNzWVsnWBMbvutayHzi_IfikB-9OrddWdMdXB7Mk6E-NCpIHeuVRXUPYtpg4Gdw6vpGRhqQextc/s1600/digging+performance+11.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJXbXmrUgNUODZExcBubrBtNn8hfJuxaSOrm4gA5EVrl4vY1IJVe5s1gl9SUp9tbsbINNzWVsnWBMbvutayHzi_IfikB-9OrddWdMdXB7Mk6E-NCpIHeuVRXUPYtpg4Gdw6vpGRhqQextc/s320/digging+performance+11.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520475866346832626" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio11Y5hqOR5hXlp_DkRiJak2-ysNjriIqhKMdfMpmtk02kyGDkSaQSPVYI5lTBnujA1YySPoN55emBdFTyUDbxznAwjNbS3Iw_Do7GbCSm2R4r9oxQeydBAi0jf-j_NjS8-YEpZb9aZyis/s1600/digging+performance+12.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio11Y5hqOR5hXlp_DkRiJak2-ysNjriIqhKMdfMpmtk02kyGDkSaQSPVYI5lTBnujA1YySPoN55emBdFTyUDbxznAwjNbS3Iw_Do7GbCSm2R4r9oxQeydBAi0jf-j_NjS8-YEpZb9aZyis/s320/digging+performance+12.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520476072858096018" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8YhtjVR6-jltRW0eaZWFw3upZ0-QAfh30wgNvntj17VmGa2Qi7oAKyXgHvSTrOAKUDVpLvORHC0yJCND_yX6aO5Sri95i42iVToEABsbibZDR0Qk-DLO0rcmiTdxuMqqcUqNCeaYK-H2H/s1600/digging+performance+14.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8YhtjVR6-jltRW0eaZWFw3upZ0-QAfh30wgNvntj17VmGa2Qi7oAKyXgHvSTrOAKUDVpLvORHC0yJCND_yX6aO5Sri95i42iVToEABsbibZDR0Qk-DLO0rcmiTdxuMqqcUqNCeaYK-H2H/s320/digging+performance+14.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520476363215544834" /></a><br /><br />Finally, after seven sites of reading, digging and burying, taking an hour, the entire pamphlet was committed to the soil, covered over and the performance ended.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5GbQO8MMX5KlMZ4nlhdpsx4U8gIiaCrjZEzr4pAyEZHE2Eka_oo41eeWTUtxL5sRG5IXK92YeX01Zkljj1kS9vbWbh58PZ4aBMVe6NY8TWW040rz6BBMWaV9PO0uAS-AkBT5iSqQ-_Unh/s1600/watchin+dig.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5GbQO8MMX5KlMZ4nlhdpsx4U8gIiaCrjZEzr4pAyEZHE2Eka_oo41eeWTUtxL5sRG5IXK92YeX01Zkljj1kS9vbWbh58PZ4aBMVe6NY8TWW040rz6BBMWaV9PO0uAS-AkBT5iSqQ-_Unh/s320/watchin+dig.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520482329457493746" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUdbkOcV1WJKTbNDcZZmIcH8oHwRqA15kZ_TK8vEephiZi36-NiMWpFUY5eWrBljs3HifmsK-0mNH3eNXe81l5OwR5-50Xy7DQii_uu9rVfZUo1wnJBL4d6sdX3zF0NOmrQAha2UN-dIgZ/s1600/watching+digging.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUdbkOcV1WJKTbNDcZZmIcH8oHwRqA15kZ_TK8vEephiZi36-NiMWpFUY5eWrBljs3HifmsK-0mNH3eNXe81l5OwR5-50Xy7DQii_uu9rVfZUo1wnJBL4d6sdX3zF0NOmrQAha2UN-dIgZ/s320/watching+digging.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520482499836130162" /></a><br /><br />My readings spoke of incidents with my Grandmother and her dementia, thoughts of my mother summoned by dust in an old library book, histories of dirt, waste and power generation, idiosyncrasies of funerary practices and architectural embodiments of time. Each page of fragments was staged in its own dell or copse or canopied segment of wood, with particular acoustics, fragrances and phenomena of light. The woods had a mushroomy smell, clearly perceptible on passing fungussy growths. The trees provided privacy and cover; the meandering walk into the woods and away from the fixed paths converged privacy with intimacy and potential uneasiness and resonances of danger – further from safety and known pathways, uncertain routes, obscured visibility. The audience placed trust in the ritual, tramping into unknown and muddy, obscure sections of the wood. The text mingled with these places and processes, resonating and finding anchor points. An unfixed, de-limited environment within which to speak and listen, for words to be heard, or missed. Thoughts of ‘the trace,’ ‘the fragment,’ memory, uncertainty, repetition, revision, the obscure (of vision and recall), loss and remains were manifested in the treatment of the text – torn, buried, dirtied, read – and the procession through the woods. Subjecting words to a physical process – of burial, of looking, walking, staging – imparted something of the physicality and experiential history from which they were inspired. The intimacy and absurdity of the repeated digging, the physical effort at something so small, feral, and odd, its furtive quality witnessed through tree branches in half-light, conjured ideas of the darkness and desperation of memory, its struggles and uncertainties, its losses or lacunae. And, more simply, was a set of actions: private, imperative, obscure, using the body as a tool, in direct connection with dirt, in the subversive act of engaging with soil, rooting, rummaging, picking over, secreting. Even in this natural and rarified dirt, environment of animal foraging, traces of the human were ever present – shards of broken glass mixed with soil reminded me that people <span style="font-style:italic;">were</span> here – remembering the performance my mind turns to thoughts of the Victorian dust heap and its coterie of workers, sorting, searching, categorising its contents; and their modern day descendants, rustling, scraping, seeking in the night through the bins and skips of the East End.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-1zri9WYtlyfD2ImjOx4LePWK0jkOxuOnbBT46dwE99v_rUwW_7keZQN-lvo3DrKjR6x2biY6HUDtMWKa1Hu8H9tFMOtzOSyqSFB4ICPqziZSNpPBeVhdAGFLUY6aZ3hOyuYCr47ERWk/s1600/digging+20.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-1zri9WYtlyfD2ImjOx4LePWK0jkOxuOnbBT46dwE99v_rUwW_7keZQN-lvo3DrKjR6x2biY6HUDtMWKa1Hu8H9tFMOtzOSyqSFB4ICPqziZSNpPBeVhdAGFLUY6aZ3hOyuYCr47ERWk/s320/digging+20.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520482655096426850" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqMGkSjTDBdH0XKAWUSGhbzHxRu8vC0CEmmIfEzSgwoPGrQCmZ5210OQ4OwklJyCoU8WVB4UXRnRq1yqh5Ghy7qI5XtQk9Zr4ssO5LIrjKhQiwE907f6z16L36OugiXlT3Q17AnKGqGsm7/s1600/digging+25.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqMGkSjTDBdH0XKAWUSGhbzHxRu8vC0CEmmIfEzSgwoPGrQCmZ5210OQ4OwklJyCoU8WVB4UXRnRq1yqh5Ghy7qI5XtQk9Zr4ssO5LIrjKhQiwE907f6z16L36OugiXlT3Q17AnKGqGsm7/s320/digging+25.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520483416514801170" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV0S1MJp29tfKWePTmKZrMLazFA0QQXbayj9cqkxjkp_dbJpknMCx_wZ8FYkjt22mMiPOAVomruZ7v1vTfnOcc2tjkyc-3Np2fZkzcSq67-xGZCI-EOWpyW0daKaQiQ9uIdntrQe-v1guD/s1600/digging+22.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV0S1MJp29tfKWePTmKZrMLazFA0QQXbayj9cqkxjkp_dbJpknMCx_wZ8FYkjt22mMiPOAVomruZ7v1vTfnOcc2tjkyc-3Np2fZkzcSq67-xGZCI-EOWpyW0daKaQiQ9uIdntrQe-v1guD/s400/digging+22.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520482998333553906" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7jZdzCMhAuMZP4V1trhdV8-Vh_diDGZqBRQXTJKpQYSF9Enza9oMdp3qkvuRxaCRD09ajA5NmYCwcNJs9J7iTmFpdiPrx_gSyceCvbIq4di_pIbuclER8zUzCW1ILsLR7Gx90DyWEw7bq/s1600/digging+26.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7jZdzCMhAuMZP4V1trhdV8-Vh_diDGZqBRQXTJKpQYSF9Enza9oMdp3qkvuRxaCRD09ajA5NmYCwcNJs9J7iTmFpdiPrx_gSyceCvbIq4di_pIbuclER8zUzCW1ILsLR7Gx90DyWEw7bq/s400/digging+26.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520485894211591330" /></a>Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-66365432094371488782010-08-23T11:22:00.011+01:002015-06-29T18:45:29.771+01:00Reading, Digging and Burying - Queen's Wood ExhibitionOn Saturday 11th September I will be performing a ritual of <span style="font-weight: bold;">reading, digging and burying</span> in Queen's Wood, London. I will be reading from my writing on time, memory and loss - and using my bare hands to dig with.<br />
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Please join me at 5pm in the main clearing of Queen's Wood, from where the performance will begin.<br />
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A special pamphlet of texts, taken from my book 'Body' and used in my performance, will be available from an Honesty Box in the woods after the performance and also on Sunday 12th September.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8p07q6UAfJUDRPVYDJ4LAkfNgaVjWTw073-tQjD6N9sDVwZzFi20V4y4VQanPDl4oWZX3g8PrBr2BhPujRDfW1ao4r0iY_5UiYnlLDCcH33Atm1FfzKKrXTqhyphenhyphenpC7eIacLKWX845odgjU/s1600/Gail+Burton+Body+Pamphlet+centre+.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513426572540006370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8p07q6UAfJUDRPVYDJ4LAkfNgaVjWTw073-tQjD6N9sDVwZzFi20V4y4VQanPDl4oWZX3g8PrBr2BhPujRDfW1ao4r0iY_5UiYnlLDCcH33Atm1FfzKKrXTqhyphenhyphenpC7eIacLKWX845odgjU/s400/Gail+Burton+Body+Pamphlet+centre+.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 288px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
(Click on image to view text at readable size)<br />
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My <span style="font-weight: bold;">Reading, Digging and Burying</span> performance is part of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Cut Back</span>, an exhibition of site specific and performance art, taking place in Queen's Wood on the weekend of 11th and 12th September, organized by <a href="http://www.rekindlepublicarts.org/" target="_blank">Rekindle Arts</a>. It features work by many different artists, which will be installed throughout the woods, come rain or shine!<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Cut Back</span> is open from noon til dusk on Saturday 11th September, and from 10am to dusk on Sunday 12th September. The private view is on Saturday from 4pm to Dusk. <br />
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Queen's Wood<br />
London<br />
N10<br />
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Nearest tube: Highgate on the Northern Line.<br />
Then a ten minute walk down Wood Lane, which becomes Queen's Wood Road and takes you alongside the wood. The exhibition is in the portion of the wood on your left hand side. Take any path into the wood and make your way to the main clearing for more information about the exhibition, and the start of my performance. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1WUD5vs36qRVnioytiz9ADlL8Tc_WASIgPwci_3WlsT20gF5s58zwA2rw5iPNnxlRfOtlCai9WdELRpAEgmPaQzpULQHlZvtlhGG6ARuOYzYS0HJq8Y14hyNH5STACn7iAQAadMJxl6fQ/s1600/Body+Pamphlet.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513428410129411570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1WUD5vs36qRVnioytiz9ADlL8Tc_WASIgPwci_3WlsT20gF5s58zwA2rw5iPNnxlRfOtlCai9WdELRpAEgmPaQzpULQHlZvtlhGG6ARuOYzYS0HJq8Y14hyNH5STACn7iAQAadMJxl6fQ/s400/Body+Pamphlet.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 284px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCq_mXY48CJSW4uO7VPlJ_JB5ix8IsqrwIrjt8snCic-FzRMVBo3EM_Mva97jmETmK6uRDzfpC4lBXJ9DCZYgCbzqIzjk3FyC_nG8YsZpGiDo-le0Px_7uuaYgMCoXaHnE_ftLhWVLIGD/s1600/Cut+Back+invite.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508548936698070194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCq_mXY48CJSW4uO7VPlJ_JB5ix8IsqrwIrjt8snCic-FzRMVBo3EM_Mva97jmETmK6uRDzfpC4lBXJ9DCZYgCbzqIzjk3FyC_nG8YsZpGiDo-le0Px_7uuaYgMCoXaHnE_ftLhWVLIGD/s400/Cut+Back+invite.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 283px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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You can see the work I made for the 2008 Queen's Wood exhibition, <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/search/label/Walk%20in%20the%20Park" target="_blank">'Take a Walk in the Park' here</a>. There are many pictures, in reverse chronology, of the Exercise Rizlas and the Pie Napkins in their pristine pre-wood condition, in their increasingly weathered and soggy state, and after having been dried out. Keep clicking through the pages to older posts - there's also a couple of short films of the napkins wafting in the breeze, caught on a bush...Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-91373620402798001222010-08-23T10:00:00.000+01:002010-08-23T12:12:15.490+01:00'Dust' at Eastside Bookshop<span style="font-weight:bold;">'Dust'</span> pamphlet (2nd edition 2010) is now being stocked by Eastside Bookshop on Brick Lane, London. Eastside specialise in local history, fiction and non fiction, amongst other things, and have an interesting range of London focussed books. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.eastsidebooks.co.uk/" target="_blank">Eastside Bookshop</a><br />166 Brick Lane<br />London<br />E1 6RU<br />Phone: 020 7247 0216<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6PqxsSyGxfEvvEKYtS2es0Nf0yDYpMdrGwdclYIqAUcxzWNqjP2SybbSrkyN17EVlKXJhboBLmFMQwecWC9HCNBVwjOSNuI8gZYSqUGTqp58wutZ2yDEHKvPZ3WBoBXyPZUg49ulzibpv/s1600/Dust+Pamphlet+2nd+edition+pages+Gail+Burton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 330px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6PqxsSyGxfEvvEKYtS2es0Nf0yDYpMdrGwdclYIqAUcxzWNqjP2SybbSrkyN17EVlKXJhboBLmFMQwecWC9HCNBVwjOSNuI8gZYSqUGTqp58wutZ2yDEHKvPZ3WBoBXyPZUg49ulzibpv/s400/Dust+Pamphlet+2nd+edition+pages+Gail+Burton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508560323567347474" /></a><br /><br />'Dust' can still also be found at Housmans Bookshop and bookartbookshop: more information about <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/2010/06/dust-for-sale.html" target="_blank">'Dust' and where to find it here.</a>Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-44464021469330220012010-07-11T19:44:00.008+01:002011-07-06T16:01:40.377+01:00Hands and Knees after Crawl<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4QXXdpgKmkGlWSgWoPsuDRyGRAeeX4UINDhDPihWCocUDaE2IBLif0DwBBxtRnzzgVvkMf2NE4DniC_wNwkxWMovF3Djog8SbpZLDVyarlPum8d8bi3XZND6GFzSXaf_BefXbqGEqKsvt/s1600/Hands+and+knees+after+Crawl+Gail+Burton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4QXXdpgKmkGlWSgWoPsuDRyGRAeeX4UINDhDPihWCocUDaE2IBLif0DwBBxtRnzzgVvkMf2NE4DniC_wNwkxWMovF3Djog8SbpZLDVyarlPum8d8bi3XZND6GFzSXaf_BefXbqGEqKsvt/s400/Hands+and+knees+after+Crawl+Gail+Burton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492721957090527282" /></a><br /><br />I performed <span style="font-weight:bold;">'Crawl'</span> on Saturday 29th May 2010. I crawled on my hands and knees around the lake of Alexandra Palace Park, which took one hour. It had been raining and the ground was cool and wet. At the end my palms were pink and chafed; my knees were also pink and studded with indentations where small stones had pressed through my worn-thin corduroy trousers into my flesh, some remaining embedded for a time. The dirt and detritus collected on my palms was washed away by the wetness of the clean smooth surface near the end of my crawl. My hands and knees returned to normal later that evening; a patch of eczema which appeared several weeks later on my knees has now disappeared. The clothes which I wore and muddied I have now cleaned. <br /><br />You can read more about <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/2010/06/crawl.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-weight:bold;">'Crawl'</span> here.</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKAQQKnli8leVkCCBfHUE_xDfQa6hc4WxrHMvll77lJtmm2X3t9-MDHNj6Cs8QXgKEt3Q7nD-SuhhdHBe65JrUb1x13P4VcxjEU4iQB_Om1bXuMq2wxh3dCeas9pWkzGxt6WT_aX-_BFq_/s1600/Hands+after+crawl+Gail+Burton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKAQQKnli8leVkCCBfHUE_xDfQa6hc4WxrHMvll77lJtmm2X3t9-MDHNj6Cs8QXgKEt3Q7nD-SuhhdHBe65JrUb1x13P4VcxjEU4iQB_Om1bXuMq2wxh3dCeas9pWkzGxt6WT_aX-_BFq_/s400/Hands+after+crawl+Gail+Burton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492721861002500850" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv80l4h2K_URjKfA_sWhqbrjINFYbK2qxZIS1YvTXyUYVR5Q0EPBxo14OnOKlwdrPKn7KbnDFqkYR4wTgfxevtbew4gXC_SBfOnGgXSEjGfkszYKUe8qmQ7e7q4PaYmsLaFIGIuBMR4l7r/s1600/knees+after+Crawl+Gail+Burton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv80l4h2K_URjKfA_sWhqbrjINFYbK2qxZIS1YvTXyUYVR5Q0EPBxo14OnOKlwdrPKn7KbnDFqkYR4wTgfxevtbew4gXC_SBfOnGgXSEjGfkszYKUe8qmQ7e7q4PaYmsLaFIGIuBMR4l7r/s400/knees+after+Crawl+Gail+Burton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492721744909028322" /></a><br /><br />Photos by Tim F.Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-85659397193951200602010-06-28T15:16:00.001+01:002011-03-09T14:18:49.002+00:00Crawl<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEUc25sMR_-ZqKbOyfzsR6VlsdB0Zmo8rNyi1oCPPCRPT0a7ATVsRZJMscHG8RD5wT8_GcPpBYYkIcRvlcJTrWakgdTi1-7-zwDVwjLWRyByA_pQdQvFXDeb6IXffMKXOH_xi5FYqKhOn6/s1600/+11+crawling+past+boats+at+a+distance+Gail+Burton+Crawl+Alexandra+Palace.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEUc25sMR_-ZqKbOyfzsR6VlsdB0Zmo8rNyi1oCPPCRPT0a7ATVsRZJMscHG8RD5wT8_GcPpBYYkIcRvlcJTrWakgdTi1-7-zwDVwjLWRyByA_pQdQvFXDeb6IXffMKXOH_xi5FYqKhOn6/s400/+11+crawling+past+boats+at+a+distance+Gail+Burton+Crawl+Alexandra+Palace.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483754440834470082" /></a><br />On Saturday 29th May 2010 I performed 'Crawl' as part of 'Look Harder,' an exhibition of site specific and performance art at Alexandra Palace Park. ‘Look Harder’ was organised and curated by Tony Peakall and Judith Brocklehurst of Rekindle Arts, and included art work by Judith Brocklehurst, Tim Flitcroft, Calum F. Kerr, Miyuki Kasahara, Marco, Tony Peakall and Sarah Sparkes, amongst others. Art works and performance were situated in the vicinity of the lake in Alexandra Palace Park. (Click on <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/2010/05/crawl-performance.html" target="_blank">Look Harder exhibition</a> for more details of the exhibition). This was the second year that the exhibition had taken place; I also participated in the first exhibition, when I created a banner and performed three solo marches carrying it. (Click on <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/search/label/over" target="_blank">over</a>, <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/search/label/banner" target="_blank">banner</a>, <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/search/label/march" target="_blank">march</a>, <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/search/label/Alexandra%20Palace" target="_blank">Alexandra Palace</a>, <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/search/label/protestation" target="_blank">protestation</a> or tags in the sidebar for posts about the banner march and the first exhibition.)<br /><br />Crawl was proposed as a counterpoint to a march; its antithesis. It was intended to embody a private world of defeat. I envisaged a temporary escape to a different world; different to our usual sensory experiences, to our ordinary measures of temporality, to notions of patience and endurance: <br /><br />'I will crawl on my hands and knees, my face and fingers in the dust and dirt. Crawling, I will exit the biped world, relinquishing verticality and the customary plane of society. I will move slowly, perhaps painfully, aware of my body’s awkwardness. Conscious of the detail, detritus and texture of my passage, the aromas and acoustics of movement close to the ground, I will crawl a complete circuit of the lake of Alexandra Palace Park. The antithesis of a march, the crawl will embody the private, the broken, the beaten, the small and the slow.'<br /><br />The invitation to watch my crawl was also extended to visitors to the park who might wish to perform their own crawl; letters suggesting and inviting a crawl, addressed to ‘Dear Visitor,’ were left in the Lakeside Café. (View or download a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdzgB3l8CNMk7H5PKFaBcGZqf8RG3pIJyE9RNGTf0I20o4H5-kEuXhiNys37JU2j_HkNhTz7DIZMeEd6qEdqM8hbL9G0nkr6Hjmjf7hkTfiI1piX1P4cmkRGGxjuX1QJWKiYEnW6Tvx2Mt/s1600/Gail+Burton+Crawl+Letter+Alexandra+Palace.jpg" target="_blank">Crawl letter here</a><br /><br />Ruminating on my task to come, I made a short 'manifesto' style note to myself:<br /><br />Crawl<br />Not a march<br />Antithesis/counterpoint to March<br />I cannot protest<br />I have nothing to protest about<br />I have no power, no agency<br />I have lost<br />I am beaten<br />But I must go on<br /><br />The prospect of a long crawl – my intended route around the lake had taken me approximately ten or fifteen minutes at marching pace – required some preparation; I did not want to fail at my task, and it felt like a journey into unknown territory, however simple a proposition it might also seem. So after crawling around at home for several nights, learning about the new mode of mobility (or, rather, the very old mode) I decided to undertake a practice crawl in the outdoors. On Friday 28th May 2010 I went to Victoria Park, where I crawled for twelve minutes, from 2.12pm to 2.24pm, starting at the path on the left hand side of the Dogs of Alcibiades statue. I chose the path, which winds through the trees and grass and is surfaced with tarmac, to simulate the conditions in Alexandra Palace Park. On this occasion I was alone, without an audience or an exhibition context, simply a person, crawling. I noted the moment of transition from standing and walking into crawling, the decision to 'enter' the crawl, and felt it as a rupture. The first thing I noticed when I got down on my hands and knees was the temperature of the ground; it was warm to the touch, (though it would become cold later in the crawl.) There were ants and other 'busy-ness' happening on the ground. I was aware that I could not see people immediately around me or approaching close to me, my vision was obscured and altered at this low perspective. As I crawled I repeated to myself that it expresses the defeated, abject, beaten, irrelevant, ignored self. I was therefore particularly surprised that my actions actually garnered immediate and multiple notice, concern and intervention.<br /><br /> A man with a gold tooth approached from behind, where I had not noticed him until he was close, and called out:<br />'Excuse me, are you alright? Can I help?' <br />'It's ok,' I replied, 'I'm practicing for a performance.'<br />'Oh, I thought you might have lost something, thought you were looking for something.'<br />To him I had appeared to be searching; and a cause for concern.<br /><br />A young man, amongst a group of other youths, shouted from a distance:<br />'Are you alright love?'<br />'Yes, thanks.'<br /><br />A man in his forties, with a tiny dog, was suddenly visible. He veered from his path and walked over to me. <br />' 'Scuse me, are you alright mate? Is anything wrong?'<br />'No, I'm, practicing for a performance.'<br />'Ohhh...' (he laughed nervously.) 'I thought something was wrong...I thought I might have to call for an ambulance.'<br />'Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you, sorry.'<br />'No, no, as long as you're alright mate. Well, I hope you get...what...you're getting for it! You deserve it!'<br />'Thanks!'<br /><br />These people had obviously been watching for a while, unbeknownst to me. <br /><br />Before the Crawl performance at Alexandra Palace I described my practice session to a friend. I mentioned my surprise at the concern that had been expressed about my behaviour, given the widely held idea that a person can lie dead in the street in London and people will simply step around them. My friend connected peoples' response to the particular history of Victoria Park, where in recent years a young woman out jogging had been murdered - perhaps that event has left people sensitive to perceived vulnerability, and willing to intervene. I thought too that my appearance, as a 'normally dressed' and not obviously mad, inebriated or unusual person, perhaps made my behaviour less classifiable or dismissable, and therefore I was both more approachable and more concerning. <br /><br />The following is an account of my performance Crawl.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA9bf5-x-yhbI-2sYVXvKKQPZ0f5pT7rh_1M6YZpCI1UpVA5f8gpBFIrJhzE19TBEGIKaWTmSBP_K5qzz-QrjG_7bUYxtBz4XBzdQIH52oALyb1hbhaPQJBXSCy6DRdYKPxxWJ1KCjWsXd/s1600/1+beginning+crawl+alexandra+palace+Gail+Burton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA9bf5-x-yhbI-2sYVXvKKQPZ0f5pT7rh_1M6YZpCI1UpVA5f8gpBFIrJhzE19TBEGIKaWTmSBP_K5qzz-QrjG_7bUYxtBz4XBzdQIH52oALyb1hbhaPQJBXSCy6DRdYKPxxWJ1KCjWsXd/s400/1+beginning+crawl+alexandra+palace+Gail+Burton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482912448007134050" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Beginning the Crawl; Alexandra Palace in the background<br /></span><br /><br />At 7pm I left the Lakeside Café, after a preparatory and fortifying cup of tea, and walked out towards the lake and the path which circles it. I turned to my right, dropped to the floor, and began to crawl on my hands and knees. I did not wear gloves or knee pads, and was clad in my everyday clothing, including my bag, the only concession to my new mode of movement being the old pair of trousers I wore, to preserve the knees of my better trousers which might be worse for wear if they underwent the journey. Unfortunately the fly zip of the old trousers was broken and coming loose, and the waist band a little tight, which made me self-conscious and awkward already. There had been rain on and off all day, and immediately before my performance, though it had ceased by the time I began. The ground was wet and cool to the touch. I noticed immediately that my hands became wet from the surface of the path, and the moisture then picked up small pieces of grit, twig, leaf and blossom, which pressed into my palms as I crawled and stuck there. I paused periodically to brush off the debris from my hands.<br /><br />Voice and sound came from above, at a distance, disembodied. I was at the level of a small child, or a goose. At the early stages of my crawl I was accompanied by a flotilla of small children; I realised later from photographs that they were variously on foot, skateboard and scooter. At the time their voices and presence was vague. One small girl persistently questioned me in the first stretch of the path, crouching to interrogate: 'What are you? What animal are you?' I replied 'I'm a human being.' Dissatisfied with this answer she continued 'But what are you?' Then decided 'You're a tortoise, a slow tortoise.' I disengaged from the conversation and focussed on my crawl.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7P70at6U5Ie4qKielLjnda2XYYrkBgvClN95NNLW0teKtaBy88aRGHHWQ1YInIcQLgNKm2e1PNIBYO3nwMsRmp0IdewMhAdTA-QizmoIWoKb7y9lXOcm6NoHjxYPOpbpjvCy1zKeP3QSC/s1600/Girl+looks+at+crawler+Gail+Burton+Crawl+Alexandra+Palace.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7P70at6U5Ie4qKielLjnda2XYYrkBgvClN95NNLW0teKtaBy88aRGHHWQ1YInIcQLgNKm2e1PNIBYO3nwMsRmp0IdewMhAdTA-QizmoIWoKb7y9lXOcm6NoHjxYPOpbpjvCy1zKeP3QSC/s400/Girl+looks+at+crawler+Gail+Burton+Crawl+Alexandra+Palace.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482905809446901074" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Girl questioning crawler</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPLOPNGrm3r0rLRyrL2w8JeeKNaqeMOjtRqKRqTbJ-UfyUd6PVUFn1HnLM5OtX03fkEkGZPqtjj0pLTd2sbRdWFfY7oVDZB0Ab7KprEwx4deGCQ8AmdUt6i4HIFRv1RNSETxWvfEEeQXFV/s1600/4+crawling+past+boats+Gail+Burton+Crawl+performance.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPLOPNGrm3r0rLRyrL2w8JeeKNaqeMOjtRqKRqTbJ-UfyUd6PVUFn1HnLM5OtX03fkEkGZPqtjj0pLTd2sbRdWFfY7oVDZB0Ab7KprEwx4deGCQ8AmdUt6i4HIFRv1RNSETxWvfEEeQXFV/s400/4+crawling+past+boats+Gail+Burton+Crawl+performance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482907674227500386" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Crawling past boats</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglN_IL6Cd8hS_yeulf7kAU4aRuXn95EWMUHnU5sWjuhee0d_DXUYimWDoYqoYX286eEu6BqQMj6LMv1OBsxfPuJSe32IvbzX8XECXZ1xK0cmZck5bqsYiuZMYIxBdLkQ3gRfU2yowW5DzO/s1600/6+Girl+crouches+at+crawler+Gail+Burton+Crawl+performance+Alexandra+Palace.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglN_IL6Cd8hS_yeulf7kAU4aRuXn95EWMUHnU5sWjuhee0d_DXUYimWDoYqoYX286eEu6BqQMj6LMv1OBsxfPuJSe32IvbzX8XECXZ1xK0cmZck5bqsYiuZMYIxBdLkQ3gRfU2yowW5DzO/s400/6+Girl+crouches+at+crawler+Gail+Burton+Crawl+performance+Alexandra+Palace.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482908048152565554" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Girl crouches at crawler</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz3BHHVSlqhlgPgZBYkdrUg333qpsP_0HFqrnEGj1NcGqIC9Cpyjb1Nldq_B-yQLpRBov7kZIKkZLGn7GHx5AIeYdqng7EmJP9v3Abii4VHxXrp2uD6PLUJzKswrfcJ4QcJhve90OXNYg8/s1600/12+skateboarder+and+crawler+Gail+Burton+Crawl+performance+Alexandra+Palace.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz3BHHVSlqhlgPgZBYkdrUg333qpsP_0HFqrnEGj1NcGqIC9Cpyjb1Nldq_B-yQLpRBov7kZIKkZLGn7GHx5AIeYdqng7EmJP9v3Abii4VHxXrp2uD6PLUJzKswrfcJ4QcJhve90OXNYg8/s400/12+skateboarder+and+crawler+Gail+Burton+Crawl+performance+Alexandra+Palace.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482911124463881378" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Skateboarder and crawler</span><br /><br />On the ground I saw mainly soggy blossoms, and molten green goose shit, in rivulets and clumps. I avoided this, placing my hands carefully, at first, though later I was too tired to do so. There were tiny twigs and specks of gravel, and other more unusual items of nature's detritus - blossoms like dragon's heads and miniature spheres, like little hard, green beads. I wanted to, and did, stop to move aside some of these items, handle them, or pause with them. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDCMGsQwvbsyoN-TJdS6o40Rh3CpUQAlAu3gcFPKgpGppWu-WWKaWxBZFF0qsupBZ24ZyuUCO7mAOousTCwGIC0OMeBHyHb-Fo9zQHlUiUviJlkLfvRxkzdS4OkEHkpCM3WS_Kn5wPE8aM/s1600/9+hands+off+ground+crawling+Gail+Burton+Crawl+performance.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDCMGsQwvbsyoN-TJdS6o40Rh3CpUQAlAu3gcFPKgpGppWu-WWKaWxBZFF0qsupBZ24ZyuUCO7mAOousTCwGIC0OMeBHyHb-Fo9zQHlUiUviJlkLfvRxkzdS4OkEHkpCM3WS_Kn5wPE8aM/s400/9+hands+off+ground+crawling+Gail+Burton+Crawl+performance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482910296873218066" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Hand hovering over the ground</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiULNlU7y0Boy11BSCdjCoQ08XFU-iU5PzA24Tsrcz2R2ns0KGEqpNz3XWrTQ6Jfe6Fu21Bjd6H9ZLJLdFywlSfIJyzvtGrHFQbYtMsyZbF0H946wEIO6sL_UcT_lZ1RH2hN5B6_hL6CLR9/s1600/16+cafe+at+distance+looking+at+ground+Gail+Burton+crawl+performance.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiULNlU7y0Boy11BSCdjCoQ08XFU-iU5PzA24Tsrcz2R2ns0KGEqpNz3XWrTQ6Jfe6Fu21Bjd6H9ZLJLdFywlSfIJyzvtGrHFQbYtMsyZbF0H946wEIO6sL_UcT_lZ1RH2hN5B6_hL6CLR9/s400/16+cafe+at+distance+looking+at+ground+Gail+Burton+crawl+performance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482920604434496402" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Looking at twigs; brushing them aside<br /></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeDxdY2hzjHRdtxbDDCVoQ8R5SNA8ArUmvWgITJMgczynH3s4giEq8F5LHfnJuSOX7_FNZOd0r_FAFhWO3WOD-9hj6GPs03nn_BExjxdvbfL0AtqEFW5boabq4733yDH39w0-fc_lttwv3/s1600/10+picking+bits+off+hands+Gail+Burton+Crawl+performance.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeDxdY2hzjHRdtxbDDCVoQ8R5SNA8ArUmvWgITJMgczynH3s4giEq8F5LHfnJuSOX7_FNZOd0r_FAFhWO3WOD-9hj6GPs03nn_BExjxdvbfL0AtqEFW5boabq4733yDH39w0-fc_lttwv3/s400/10+picking+bits+off+hands+Gail+Burton+Crawl+performance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482910584807501202" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Picking bits of detritus from my palms</span><br /><br />I had asked a friend to photograph the crawl. As I proceeded I was aware, at times, of his presence, by sound and peripheral vision. I had not wanted a photographer's presence to be obtrusive to viewers, to detract from the solitary act. But the quiet rustle and click of his presence was reassuring to me; I was glad of the companionship, of a kind, as in crawl position I was vulnerable and aware of my vulnerability. I could not see people behind me, nor easily turn round. And though I knew I was in the benign environs of a park, enveloped in an art private view, the longer I crawled, and the further from my start, the more I really entered into another realm of being. The loss of my usual auditory and visual clues for others' presence, the disruption to my customary visual plane and spatial relationship to the world, and its replacement with a new one (the assumption of slowness, discomfort, dirt, fragmentary vision, uncertainty, nearness of ground, downward vision, exclusion…), rendered me progressively more distant and alienated from my sense of my public everyday self, created a kind of disorientation and re-orientation. This re-placement of myself was not purely physical or spatial. Crawling took me further back, further away, absented me from normality; it connected me with something usually hidden as a biped, took me somewhere else in myself.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLM6yXKrU7cYOupR8bet8PF5k_JAMDIEWGenG5Ec1-IZaiKLLBKcNNqlerKEh2qpBONYX0UEjIQyKrzC9zllXs9U7T7VzNi_HcItBnmBUrjwchnm1OaR7_1E_LgESDVnWq9mz89tVTE23/s1600/19+crawler+being+watched+by+people+beside+tree+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLM6yXKrU7cYOupR8bet8PF5k_JAMDIEWGenG5Ec1-IZaiKLLBKcNNqlerKEh2qpBONYX0UEjIQyKrzC9zllXs9U7T7VzNi_HcItBnmBUrjwchnm1OaR7_1E_LgESDVnWq9mz89tVTE23/s400/19+crawler+being+watched+by+people+beside+tree+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482966440934445282" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Being watched by group of people beside a tree<br /></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF58oK5ZARHCFUuWhh8pEgH1gzoHciPs2pP4Aymkkfnfu2GB6VWX53ur2SBjHeEKp8BVFV55gVYx65VJYpfeSAsGA9G2dCix9_Q7gV60mCypcok7vLBaxIQKx0V6grdssL5KidxAGjGLUI/s1600/crawling+alone+and+pigeon+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 178px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF58oK5ZARHCFUuWhh8pEgH1gzoHciPs2pP4Aymkkfnfu2GB6VWX53ur2SBjHeEKp8BVFV55gVYx65VJYpfeSAsGA9G2dCix9_Q7gV60mCypcok7vLBaxIQKx0V6grdssL5KidxAGjGLUI/s400/crawling+alone+and+pigeon+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482962470047509954" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Crawling alone and with pigeon</span><br /><br />My knees felt cold, wet, then numb. My trouser legs became damper, eventually flapping wetly against my ankles. The pressure was in the wrists, and not primarily upon the knees as I had expected. My shoulders, neck and arms ached. I tried various techniques to relieve the uncustomary points of pressure - modifying the short, careful crawl-steps into elongated ones by stretching my arms out further at each 'step' and allowing my knees to go further ahead with each movement, covering more ground; I tried just taking it slowly; at times I stretched my legs back to ease the stiffness; and towards the end I flexed my toes with each step to ease the cramps. But generally I just crawled slowly and carefully, taking as long as it took. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx9wdiIYogr6qSSz0vn7grPB6wbocoPw6J41AFriTnKG7w1gqACNj4ljVBCnBWWAXqA2eT2UrdcG7LPcJo1ZX47r5Ahtz_tXNdl7F3LWNM757uYqcAgFo0e0shFCsd95wLLzaf-uJvAWUv/s1600/29+pausing+kneeling+looking+ahead+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx9wdiIYogr6qSSz0vn7grPB6wbocoPw6J41AFriTnKG7w1gqACNj4ljVBCnBWWAXqA2eT2UrdcG7LPcJo1ZX47r5Ahtz_tXNdl7F3LWNM757uYqcAgFo0e0shFCsd95wLLzaf-uJvAWUv/s400/29+pausing+kneeling+looking+ahead+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482964011841668034" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Pausing, kneeling, looking<br /></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmF1_zzpB0I8-_ylGBHlvPVsp26ko4_CyxDVMPzPQDNWAS-Ue1KL2iq7U_GRco2iMhS-nKFbAGQ6O8p-99hbA5ohLlie8mGCzHHJULkRENChvps-xeYeIxKz8KLFXsr71lzKQjtURSiIKa/s1600/Tipping+Crawling+sequence+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 106px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmF1_zzpB0I8-_ylGBHlvPVsp26ko4_CyxDVMPzPQDNWAS-Ue1KL2iq7U_GRco2iMhS-nKFbAGQ6O8p-99hbA5ohLlie8mGCzHHJULkRENChvps-xeYeIxKz8KLFXsr71lzKQjtURSiIKa/s400/Tipping+Crawling+sequence+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482969476446604898" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Tipping whilst crawling</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXyxCHNpAOWYyoPPvIFAp8Q4LHJzyn4KQijqLQO2cLHA4-uOP5z-viUucBax0A9Rkmv7Td3HEktBcF0izuyQlcuBdKnvlGgDap-bQt0YNkb-JzNNUIINnMOL2yhZCz7fzC4GYRMSJ5Wlo/s1600/Crawling+on+fingertips+sequence+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXyxCHNpAOWYyoPPvIFAp8Q4LHJzyn4KQijqLQO2cLHA4-uOP5z-viUucBax0A9Rkmv7Td3HEktBcF0izuyQlcuBdKnvlGgDap-bQt0YNkb-JzNNUIINnMOL2yhZCz7fzC4GYRMSJ5Wlo/s400/Crawling+on+fingertips+sequence+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482975495515619586" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Crawling on fingertips</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLQGGrFNpmEHH52Bai7A80mXbs86r5P221vjzBPkF1WlI_GDL8POeogfFZFNmKmGbNg2VZVD1sDMbFJG-P02P2tlX0jZWe8ApZS1h90BD9soyeSF727GrURhbAl1J5MzkJAUizidbRTLV-/s1600/48+crawler+being+photographed+Gail+Burton+Alexandra+Palace.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLQGGrFNpmEHH52Bai7A80mXbs86r5P221vjzBPkF1WlI_GDL8POeogfFZFNmKmGbNg2VZVD1sDMbFJG-P02P2tlX0jZWe8ApZS1h90BD9soyeSF727GrURhbAl1J5MzkJAUizidbRTLV-/s400/48+crawler+being+photographed+Gail+Burton+Alexandra+Palace.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483725321021409186" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Crawler being photographed<br /></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF94NeQcpPfZH9ZUgXaYZpEQ4wPxhU5A3LmTdR2n9Zy4owxtu-rFxhAtuY6ynogjIGQRQt9LP-T1j_KarWni8EKBY6BUsw7QrsPai8TBGQI2E-5fOEGxIdby1He2d39DE2Ka2DEuO3i9BV/s1600/Crawl+sequence+-+small+people+and+group+Gail+Burton+Alexandra+Palace.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 355px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF94NeQcpPfZH9ZUgXaYZpEQ4wPxhU5A3LmTdR2n9Zy4owxtu-rFxhAtuY6ynogjIGQRQt9LP-T1j_KarWni8EKBY6BUsw7QrsPai8TBGQI2E-5fOEGxIdby1He2d39DE2Ka2DEuO3i9BV/s400/Crawl+sequence+-+small+people+and+group+Gail+Burton+Alexandra+Palace.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483718896782702690" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Crawling amongst people</span><br /><br />I noticed my breathing, which became slow and rhythmical, like yoga breathing. My breath felt like an assistance to the pain, and a source of energy. But also became simply part of a more basic kind of existence; just moving and breathing.<br /><br />Part way round I started to crawl blind, crawling with my eyes closed. As I crawled I thought about why I was doing this, repeating almost mantra like 'the antithesis of a march, defined against it, embodying the small, private, broken, beaten...' I repeated these thoughts to myself, my stated intentions in the performance. And I inhabited the impulses that had led to its conception: my sense of the abject, the beaten, the broken, the defeated - in myself, in the world. I continued to crawl with eyes closed and a blankness of thought, with a sense of having given in to the crawl. I felt overwhelmed and found myself sobbing, crying, tears on my face escaping from closed eyes. I continued. I reflected that I was carrying on, I was continuing, no matter how hard or slow or painful, and I could continue, at my own pace too. I could no longer hear the clicking of the camera, but I thought my friend must still be there. When I opened my eyes I was alone. I thought my tears were unwitnessed, and wondered did this matter? I felt an uncertainty and ambiguity of where spectacle, performance, witness and my own experience overlapped and interrelated, uncertainty of what was necessary or present, and how. When I discussed the performance afterwards someone said it reminded him of yoga, of meditation, through which one can reach something higher. I thought maybe I reached something lower - something that in me is often close to the surface, but just held back; now it was present and embodied, but transfigured. In that moment of sobbing I realised the broken and beaten in me was also the strength and propulsion and freedom. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAH1HMkMQ00wFll1_VfieZYKhnAgOvXzl57Pt8bskRR89jbP4t1KH_PaI6SiSxJ1yH3uHDgrJ6l6Md_PBPyVNKE3a7AeZF-HGbchO7WAoLTVGZKTUAFPt_-iIIdoy6BDV9khlEacu1uCHR/s1600/54+looking+over+lake+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAH1HMkMQ00wFll1_VfieZYKhnAgOvXzl57Pt8bskRR89jbP4t1KH_PaI6SiSxJ1yH3uHDgrJ6l6Md_PBPyVNKE3a7AeZF-HGbchO7WAoLTVGZKTUAFPt_-iIIdoy6BDV9khlEacu1uCHR/s400/54+looking+over+lake+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483722673628987522" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixj6wIlqBOE1R281LlYMhiDntM8H-lfaOoECNIc5ZeAlrKFY59ChUGhd8ZVBDYHd4v1C1zjbJEWakDb_C-KR5V9IW4Gwf69hXmRfc17F3-yNsHK_No4HDkVgJPwc96YXSDxXmDIqEcXXWR/s1600/53.2+half%3F+way+round+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixj6wIlqBOE1R281LlYMhiDntM8H-lfaOoECNIc5ZeAlrKFY59ChUGhd8ZVBDYHd4v1C1zjbJEWakDb_C-KR5V9IW4Gwf69hXmRfc17F3-yNsHK_No4HDkVgJPwc96YXSDxXmDIqEcXXWR/s400/53.2+half%3F+way+round+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483722512600166514" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-9_eDILDortniwS-YZwTCB5CXK36gJCNGyUsPLOimDqrvp8Be3BxTNbn5G9FHJXdIf_60EF-kjpjACBWFHH_lF791ah94wGAA1ZyP07zpqgFFwXw0jgynRZjZywsiZ7h5-SWPAF9gesmw/s1600/55+going+past+bushes+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-9_eDILDortniwS-YZwTCB5CXK36gJCNGyUsPLOimDqrvp8Be3BxTNbn5G9FHJXdIf_60EF-kjpjACBWFHH_lF791ah94wGAA1ZyP07zpqgFFwXw0jgynRZjZywsiZ7h5-SWPAF9gesmw/s400/55+going+past+bushes+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483722855077508914" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz06WcG6vC0gMQ4JfrE8gLzrVMI3Ax78bOvlK9CYlyZGC0ItkEIIKyDfYRo5I8xnabV5IUA3iZNVLs3K3h9zOTwWrVwhydGjN-R7-I1wWtD-J19mEXO178cBDPuBgM8xEcwMeUOiIjoEeF/s1600/57+head+down+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz06WcG6vC0gMQ4JfrE8gLzrVMI3Ax78bOvlK9CYlyZGC0ItkEIIKyDfYRo5I8xnabV5IUA3iZNVLs3K3h9zOTwWrVwhydGjN-R7-I1wWtD-J19mEXO178cBDPuBgM8xEcwMeUOiIjoEeF/s400/57+head+down+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483723324903776994" /></a> <span style="font-style:italic;">Crawling through the area with bushes I felt most alone and defeated, and also relinquished to the crawl</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkYVZOUc0re1nnWR6VzsCLF_aLqWynaN_wd8ksEvBYelkHhU0UaphbcS6a9lMiL5uMSFc4CtTRNlUJbh7hqCLESGv9bB8oZP39ej5nzEB1PoB3B8GGwoy0xyF0TiDygJE_rX7yqEDIMHT7/s1600/60+past+bushes+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkYVZOUc0re1nnWR6VzsCLF_aLqWynaN_wd8ksEvBYelkHhU0UaphbcS6a9lMiL5uMSFc4CtTRNlUJbh7hqCLESGv9bB8oZP39ej5nzEB1PoB3B8GGwoy0xyF0TiDygJE_rX7yqEDIMHT7/s400/60+past+bushes+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483723484996997410" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7J4FXpPLAQ3SQe-kgaWlMYFvFsHz6MWeMtglGZtKNN6Vz-n4TZF5E7N41_HnALzz-QCV4T10VhinrTPpAz04JCsBF_rbpvxyRRDERBhEyQLzNkJztI7uX-QGApLWmR4KuMDPPC50vgvC/s1600/61+head+down+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7J4FXpPLAQ3SQe-kgaWlMYFvFsHz6MWeMtglGZtKNN6Vz-n4TZF5E7N41_HnALzz-QCV4T10VhinrTPpAz04JCsBF_rbpvxyRRDERBhEyQLzNkJztI7uX-QGApLWmR4KuMDPPC50vgvC/s400/61+head+down+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483723803336400930" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I crawled with my head down and eyes closed for some of the time<br /><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCu6Ap_82RUgVMYVTfkb6aBLrJB7JAroljOEGpf3rp4c_7FGCF_iBWDA8o9Nl7d0HENNqo5SgmU7oiK7qdAadINiOSN6qJQj9hX9nTvizuGOKRUPCfl-oJmd5uvsdRCaYT1RaAH1M_xJKO/s1600/63+chloe+walks+past+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCu6Ap_82RUgVMYVTfkb6aBLrJB7JAroljOEGpf3rp4c_7FGCF_iBWDA8o9Nl7d0HENNqo5SgmU7oiK7qdAadINiOSN6qJQj9hX9nTvizuGOKRUPCfl-oJmd5uvsdRCaYT1RaAH1M_xJKO/s400/63+chloe+walks+past+Gail+Burton+Crawl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483733131964298802" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I was unaware, or only partially aware, of the people around me.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaeEH6G925i2la_Wk00nt-egJ-46M7I9xVIAQUDHynhdn6OGkzUcOGpv_YLwGAV4NOd6UUs72qj6e6DhLPZ4HW3fUrhV0KDgb02pD7S04kXUGoIYgK_pTxk1G3BhBxgs73uT_oD7IVvtFv/s1600/+56+boys+walk+past+Gail+Burton+Crawl+Alexandra+Palace+Look+Harder.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaeEH6G925i2la_Wk00nt-egJ-46M7I9xVIAQUDHynhdn6OGkzUcOGpv_YLwGAV4NOd6UUs72qj6e6DhLPZ4HW3fUrhV0KDgb02pD7S04kXUGoIYgK_pTxk1G3BhBxgs73uT_oD7IVvtFv/s400/+56+boys+walk+past+Gail+Burton+Crawl+Alexandra+Palace+Look+Harder.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483754989380375122" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I did not see these boys, who veered away to avoid me<br /></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnA7754gq7UK6msOo7bOc9VcLQy3haXdJpL0di4mD1kR-cx8ugyL13G6WUIjxQpyfjKKDz8pSJTkv0UPJ1Jx71nLzt93_whXxlNJ2tPROHVo-P3Utzm276pCouRQpcBQyWmy18bHiZbr34/s1600/67+in+woods+by+log+Gail+Burton+Crawl+Alexandra+Palace.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnA7754gq7UK6msOo7bOc9VcLQy3haXdJpL0di4mD1kR-cx8ugyL13G6WUIjxQpyfjKKDz8pSJTkv0UPJ1Jx71nLzt93_whXxlNJ2tPROHVo-P3Utzm276pCouRQpcBQyWmy18bHiZbr34/s400/67+in+woods+by+log+Gail+Burton+Crawl+Alexandra+Palace.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483733808262668066" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I crawled through the wooded area<br /></span><br /><br />When I had been crawling for some time I heard the voice of a woman walking beside me who said 'Does it hurt? More than it looks?' I replied 'Mmmm, yes' as best I could. 'You're nearly there, you're doing really well, ' she said. I continued, now thoroughly having had enough of it, and longing for the end point, at the completion of the circuit of the lake, back at the beginning. Suddenly I was eye level with a goose, and afraid of it. I detoured to avoid it, and others, but at this stage I was tired and slow and wimpering slightly at the soreness of my knees. <br /><br />After one hour I arrived at the end, and rose to my feet. <br /><br />Someone said to me afterwards that 'it makes you stronger, it takes strength.' I reflected that the pain of it felt like a release, escape, expression - expresion in the sense of letting out. A proof of endurance, of what one can take. Not to exaggerate: it was uncomfortable and painful certainly, but bearable, and with no lasting damage - a large red indentation in each knee, and red chafed palms were the only visible imprint - but something of the slowness and strangeness of the journey - the extreme slowness - perhaps took me on a journey beyond the parameters of the lake and the actual discomfort. <br /><br />As I performed the crawl it felt such an internal, isolated and private experience that I thought its visual aspect might not convey how it felt being in it. The responses of some of the spectators, however, conveyed that the performance had, for them, tallied with my own experience. In the preparation crawl in Victoria Park, the men’s recognition and expressed concern of my being outside the norm, the wrongness and vulnerability of my actions pointed to the severing I felt with the normal world. And after the actual performance in Alexandra Palace one person described it as 'a spectacle of suffering', catching the state I had entered into in executing the crawl, but also the difficulty of watching such a performance. I assumed that being expected to watch/enjoy the ‘spectacle’ passively, and not to intervene, was perhaps compromising. Other people told me that in Mexico and France people undertake something similar, as a kind of prayer, or to obtain something they need. I felt no such sense of a system of redemption or beneficent power that my crawl could activate, but it seems there are many ways to crawl and meanings thereof.<br /><br />*Note. About three weeks after the crawl I found I had itchy knees and acquired a small red patch of eczema on each knee cap. Perhaps a manifest memory or memento of the Crawl.<br /><br />All Photos are by Marco.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgem5PHAYHQzyFT5KSsQLFziDLGiSPmywRIqhXA5y7_fivGZNcf4GNI01Ydmn8BsdJfCJo3gQebPHqonPG6af5AhnkbIZZq-02SGZJ-9DO2HTB1mOncA5LAmMBn8PXBSajPcVicEjdptizD/s1600/Hornsey+Journal+Review+Alexandra++Palace+Art+Show+2010.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgem5PHAYHQzyFT5KSsQLFziDLGiSPmywRIqhXA5y7_fivGZNcf4GNI01Ydmn8BsdJfCJo3gQebPHqonPG6af5AhnkbIZZq-02SGZJ-9DO2HTB1mOncA5LAmMBn8PXBSajPcVicEjdptizD/s400/Hornsey+Journal+Review+Alexandra++Palace+Art+Show+2010.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483739181709585698" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Review of Look Harder in the Hornsey Journal<br /></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie35acewJaMyJQPr-m_K_1_UAIv0XqroZb5V7H48ZYf4Aoor6J8bFdrlAKUGNmJCmP2HiU0x50hEx9cukJBRwuj_37-H1CXck6toAh3bkWAJ3OEl8bqwFCGbiEbePDoHFAaXdeUaBxOhOw/s1600/Ham+and+High+Review+Alexandra+Palace+Art+show+2010.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie35acewJaMyJQPr-m_K_1_UAIv0XqroZb5V7H48ZYf4Aoor6J8bFdrlAKUGNmJCmP2HiU0x50hEx9cukJBRwuj_37-H1CXck6toAh3bkWAJ3OEl8bqwFCGbiEbePDoHFAaXdeUaBxOhOw/s400/Ham+and+High+Review+Alexandra+Palace+Art+show+2010.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483739529292605986" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Review in Ham and High</span>Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1394027724582655873.post-34446594418522867552010-05-12T12:57:00.009+01:002010-05-19T19:51:10.503+01:00Crawl Performance / Look Harder ExhibitionI will be performing <span style="font-weight:bold;">‘Crawl’</span> on Saturday 29th May 2010 as part of ‘Look Harder,’ an exhibition of site specific and performance art at Alexandra Palace Park, curated by <a href="http://www.rekindlepublicarts.org/" target="_blank">Rekindle Public Arts</a>. The exhibition ‘Look Harder’ runs from Saturday 29th May to Sunday 6th June, open daily from 10am to 5.30pm, with many other artists participating. The private view is on Saturday 29th May from 5pm to 8pm.<br /><br />I will crawl on my hands and knees, my face and fingers in the dust and dirt. Crawling, I will exit the biped world, relinquishing verticality and the customary plane of society. I will move slowly, perhaps painfully, aware of my body’s awkwardness. Conscious of the detail, detritus and texture of my passage, the aromas and acoustics of movement close to the ground, I will crawl a complete circuit of the lake of Alexandra Palace Park. <br /><br />My crawl will be the antithesis of a march. One year ago I <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/2009/05/over-banner-march.html" target="_blank">marched</a> around the same lake’s circumference – bold, public, declamatory, protesting. My crawl will embody the private, the broken, the beaten, the small and the slow.<br /><br />During the exhibition visitors are invited to perform their own crawl. A letter of invitation will be available in the Park Café, or download a copy here.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdzgB3l8CNMk7H5PKFaBcGZqf8RG3pIJyE9RNGTf0I20o4H5-kEuXhiNys37JU2j_HkNhTz7DIZMeEd6qEdqM8hbL9G0nkr6Hjmjf7hkTfiI1piX1P4cmkRGGxjuX1QJWKiYEnW6Tvx2Mt/s1600/Gail+Burton+Crawl+Letter+Alexandra+Palace.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdzgB3l8CNMk7H5PKFaBcGZqf8RG3pIJyE9RNGTf0I20o4H5-kEuXhiNys37JU2j_HkNhTz7DIZMeEd6qEdqM8hbL9G0nkr6Hjmjf7hkTfiI1piX1P4cmkRGGxjuX1QJWKiYEnW6Tvx2Mt/s400/Gail+Burton+Crawl+Letter+Alexandra+Palace.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472298978958989266" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTX7fsrsH7CISJMhGG-vfDLhQNg9vtreYM5B9b7gRvddnc8RV7D-3tbmVndFXCmM2iMsb2QKdhuQy-WrEyowXsxEKYZwIX3uYu4jGX9_CRE6vjpI41LEhPK39O60ZRpOcE_bVOzG_yO_J/s1600/Look+Harder+Poster+invite+Alexandra+Palace+Rekindle+Arts+Gail+Burton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTX7fsrsH7CISJMhGG-vfDLhQNg9vtreYM5B9b7gRvddnc8RV7D-3tbmVndFXCmM2iMsb2QKdhuQy-WrEyowXsxEKYZwIX3uYu4jGX9_CRE6vjpI41LEhPK39O60ZRpOcE_bVOzG_yO_J/s400/Look+Harder+Poster+invite+Alexandra+Palace+Rekindle+Arts+Gail+Burton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472628779361438722" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-yDNxHj91EJpeaDeuDXYV7E0piNsHHkqz76XjD-fQ1q3910G3d1hes_gPXCA7UQNarcpMtprg18ddLNGv8cPzc3grhq4wkuByIqTaEYM-auAVMnlbMAeH6zqnSAuVDJf365SQFgMQINZm/s1600/Look+Harder+Alexandra+Palace+Rekindle+Arts+Gail+Burton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-yDNxHj91EJpeaDeuDXYV7E0piNsHHkqz76XjD-fQ1q3910G3d1hes_gPXCA7UQNarcpMtprg18ddLNGv8cPzc3grhq4wkuByIqTaEYM-auAVMnlbMAeH6zqnSAuVDJf365SQFgMQINZm/s400/Look+Harder+Alexandra+Palace+Rekindle+Arts+Gail+Burton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472628558247724306" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">You can view posts here about my <a href="http://matchboxrizla.blogspot.com/search/label/banner" target="_blank">Banner March</a></span><span style="font-style:italic;">, which was performed in 2009 as part of 'Good News', in Alexandra Palace Park.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">‘Look Harder’</span> will be open from Saturday 29th May to Sunday 6th June, in and around Lakeside Cafe and the lake in Alexandra Palace Park.<br />The private view is on Saturday 29th May from 5pm to 8pm.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">‘Crawl’</span> will take place on Saturday 29th May 2010 at 7pm, around the lake at Alexandra Palace Park.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Transport to Alexandra Palace Park:</span> <br />Overground Train to Alexandra Palace (e.g. from Kings Cross or Old Street station), or the tube to Wood Green.<br />Then take the W3 bus towards Finsbury Park and get off at Alexandra Palace Ice Rink. <br />The lake and Lakeside Cafe is 5 minute’s walk from there.Gail Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06550663341854564553noreply@blogger.com0