Dishclout, The Human Duster

My 'Dishclout' costume, before and after the performance on Primrose Hill. Photos by Matthew Cowan. And more photos of the procession, by Mat Webber, can be seen on Flickr.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.




Dishclout, The Human Duster crawled on her hands and knees before slithering on her belly in the puddles and mud around the top of Primrose Hill.


The Bell Man, a performance by Matthew Cowan, took place at the top of Primrose Hill.





The disguised processioners circuited the summit of Primrose Hill, then walked off down the hill in single file.



Photos by Mat Webber

Hallowe'en Disguised Procession

On Sunday 31st October I will be taking part in 'The Second Annual Disguised Hallowe'en Procession,' 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 Matthew Cowan, and will lead to the Hallowe'en Music Fair at Cecil Sharp House.

I will be processing as 'Dishclout, The Human Duster'. 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.

I will soak up the dirt
Rub it off, wipe it down
I will carry the dust
Dish the must
Miss the dust
Dish the must

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).

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:

The Wheel: Hallowe'en Music Fair

The ICA

Dishclout*
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?'  
    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. 
    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.
    Lavette; torchon (French)
    Bayeta (Spanish)
    Keukenhannoek; vaatdoek; droogdoek; theedoek (Dutch)
    Geschirrtuch (German)
    Strofinaccio (Italian)
    Pano de prato (Portugeuse)
    Disktrasa (Swedish)
*NB. Dishclout: a derogatory name for servant girls in the eighteenth century.

Malcolm McLaren Only Died Once

I heard on the radio in the morning on the 22nd of April that it was Malcolm McLaren's funeral later that afternoon, and that the public were invited to attend his funeral procession. I looked on the internet to confirm the route - the funeral cortege would pass through Camden at 1.15 and then continue up Chalk Farm road and wend its way to Highgate Cemetery. The given route didn't exactly make sense in its detail when I followed it on my A to Z, and I thought maybe that uncertainty was a deliberate anarchic action. Perhaps the funeral procession would not take this route at all? However, in the miserable mood I had been in recently I decided that a day out to Malcolm McLaren's funeral would be just what I needed. The weather was sunny, and after some procrastination about whether my bike would be a hindrance once I arrived in Camden, I decided to go, via cycle.

My interest in the event came partly from my enduring love of punk, the history of which McLaren is indelibly written into. But his financial exploitation of The Sex Pistols gave me reservations. Perhaps because of rather than despite this ambiguity I was drawn to the event - to witness McLaren's ambiguous role as arch-manipulator/exploiter/creator in his final action. I was intrigued to see how his Situationist and punk ideas would manifest, how his media manipulations and constructions would operate even in death. On the morning of the funeral I began to think about his Situationist inspirations, and the proposition of a funereal derive inserted into my bleak-looking day became appealing. This impetus overlapped with my fascination for Victorian commemorative tissues, many of which document funeral processions, or other ritual public processions. Through reading the text on those mementos I have learned the intricate and long forgotten details of itineries and routes of distant public events. These commemorations inscribed memory and mourning on the streets of London, in ephemeral passages through the streets, remembered today only on fragmentary tissue prints. Malcolm McLaren's funeral procession seemed to me an incarnartion of this Victoriana, and of a piece with his Dickensian posturing. A final intervention in the lives of the public/audience/media and representation of himself.

I cycled to Camden, and arrived at one pm. As it neared two pm, and the streets were thick with mourners, I wondered whether it was a final hoax or scam - the funeral was somewhere else; he wasn't actually dead. Yet I also felt sadness, knowing that he was dead, and a horrible and relatively early death. I was glad that there was a decent turn out to mark his passing. At about two-twenty cheers began and the first vehicle of the funeral procession came into sight. Several long black cars, followed by one whose windows were filled with a floral tribute, a blue flower background with white flower text proclaiming CASH FROM CHAOS. Next a traditional horse drawn hearse, with two black plumed beasts, and clearly visible in the carriage McLaren's coffin, its side spray-painted with 'Too fast to live too young to die'. Finally, I could see the source of the noise I had been hearing, which till now had been muffled by the crowd. A dark green Routemaster bus hung with a giant poster in lurid pink and yellow with 'MM' initials brought up the tail of the procession. Blaring from the bus was music associated with McLaren, mainly the Sex Pistols. The bus passengers/mourners were hanging out of the windows, posturing punkishly and joyfully. T-shirts emblazoned with 'Cash From Chaos' were hung in the bus windows, price £45, and the bus passengers were flinging flyers from the roof - a final gesture of merchandising and exploitation.





The long-time static and mournful crowd were suddenly animated and elated by the bus's arrival, and there was a tremendous scrum of press photographers and mourners all of whom were simultaneously leaping after it. I watched for a while. Then I thought, 'I came to follow the procession'; so I mounted my bike and pushed into the crowd, keeping sight of the back of the bus. I felt vindicated in my right to jostle - I had come to attend the funeral procession, it wasn't my fault if I knocked into people who were only there to report it; it was necessary to follow the bus. I had thought the bike would be a hindrance but now I saw it was an asset, amongst the thick of the crowd, giving me a vantage point and defence. The bus began to speed up and three or four rent-a punks (like those on London postcards) raced after it 'Take me with you!' one begged. They jumped on the back bumper and clung on as the bus gained speed, leaving Camden High Street behind. Were they paid actors, or just out of time?





I was right behind the bus now and thought I'd just keep going. The photographers had thinned out; just a few stragglers running along remained, and as the bus accelerated those last few fell away. One of the punks vomitted profusely as we turned a corner; was it fake vomit? It projectiled so smoothly. A fleck caught my shoulder. The music from the bus created a mobile party and I joined in the ridiculous spectacle - three fake punks, three bearded men on Harley Davidsons, one old-punk on a bicycle, one puffing photographer on a bike, and me. Apart from the photographer cyclist we all semi-danced, cheered and sang as we pedalled furiously after the bus. The bus passengers looked on, dancing and singing and punk-gesticulating. The repertoire had progressed from 'C'mon Everybody' and 'Anarchy in the UK' on Camden High Street to 'Pretty Vacant' on Kentish Town Road, and 'Something Else' by the time of what was possibly Highgate Road, though my eyes being transfixed on the bus I had no real idea where I was. The distance seemed much further than I had thought it would be to Highgate Cemetery, perhaps because of a route I didn't know, or because of my focus on the bus. My lungs were filled with the fumes of the motorbikes and bus combined, and I was aware of my proximity to these much larger and heavier vehicles, which might potentially crush me, as we alternately stopped, weaved and sped.


I had not expected when I set out that morning to follow the procession all the way to the cemetery; I had envisaged watching it pass, and perhaps walking alongside a little way, wheeling my bike - I was not prepared for this whirlwind madcap journey through North London. Yet I could not understand why there remained just this handful of mourners following the procession - surely committed fans would have made more effort or preparation to follow the procession? Why had they not all come on bicycle? It seemed to me an opportunity not to be missed - Malcolm McLaren was only going to die once. I felt I had to see it through to the end, a commitment to the route and the journey, however ludicrous and lured I felt or appeared. We arrived at the top of the hill and the leafy edge of Highgate cemetery. The bus stopped. I parked my bike on the ground and sat on a bench. The bus passengers must have disembarked and entered the cemetery for the funeral, but I didn't notice. I sat on the bench and reflected on the surprise and suddenness of my journey. Then I figured out my route back and cycled off down the hill. I passed by the empty horse-drawn hearse, waiting at another entrance/exit to the cemetery. I wondered what it was waiting for, as presumably the coffin had been buried.

OVER: Protestation Banner at Showflat Annuale

OVER: Protestation Banner installed for Showflat 7 - The Annuale (details of the exhibition can be found below, in previous post).

For details of the Banner March, performed with the banner in May 2009, please scroll down to earlier posts from May/June 2009, e.g. OVER Banner March/26th May













This is a work in the Showflat 7 exhibition by one of the other artists, Marlene Harring.

Showflat 7 - The Annuale

I am taking part in the first group show of the Showflat artists - 'Showflat 7, The Annuale', which marks a year of Showflat exhibitions. The exhibition runs from Saturday 25th July to Sunday 2nd August 2009, daily from 10am to 6pm, in a house in Mile End, London. The opening Flat Party is on Friday 24th July from 7pm to 12am. Please contact me at gailburton2@hotmail.com for more details, or visit Showflat

‘Showflat 7 - The Annuale’ is the first group show with all of the Showflat artists, who have had individual Showflat exhibitions over the last year. Whereas each of those exhibitions took place in the artist’s own flat, 'The Annuale' will take place in the house of Nathaniel Clark, the Showflat curator (Showflat is conceived and created by Mario Borza, who will also be exhibiting).

For my piece in the exhibition I am installing OVER: Protestation Banner. The banner has endured ten days in the outdoors and three marching performances; I hope that coming to rest for a week during The Annuale it can exist as a relic of its role and uses so far. The banner will be hung in the style of a ‘church banner’ in the high space of the stairwell. You are invited to process up the fifty stairs to the top of the house – up the five flights to the fifth floor – to witness the ‘OVER: Protestation Banner’. Relic of Three Banner Marches, created to reflect on the role of protest - in the light of the death of Ian Tomlinson, the Global Financial Crisis, and more personal resonances – the banner now resides at the top of the stairs. Endure the five-flights’ procession to view the banner and interpret its ambiguous message in the context of Showflat 7: The Annuale.