Durational performance, performed publicly as part of the 'Art of Noises' (Modern Art Oxford, May 2023) and 'Spilt Milk' (Fusion Arts, Feb 2023)
Notes from a Gallery Visit, 2023
Text reads:
I’d convinced myself, once, that we were friends, but returning to the gallery now, years later, I was met with the same ambivalence I’d come to expect. In my years of working there, I’d asked about it a number of times. What’d started as a summer job invigilating turned into a decade-long career, but still I was never met with a satisfactory answer.
When I first started, I’d assumed it was part of whatever exhibition was on at the time, but, when it remained long after the show had ended and the next had been installed, I began to ask questions. To most, its existence seemed as much a mystery as it was to me, although an elderly member of the hospitality team claimed it was a relic left from a student show, years ago, which had never been collected. Later, this was the story I’d share with other curious newbies interested in the thing’s origin, but it always reminded me of the old, senile dog we found in my grandma’s backyard, who refused to move out.
The room itself was only sometimes used for exhibitions, so for much of the year it was empty, aside from its permanent resident. Occasionally, a member of staff would pop by, or a visitor would happen upon it by chance, but, in general, it received little attention. Even when the room had been used for an event and was packed full of guests, the thing would continue, apparently oblivious to its audience. Regardless of who or what occupied the room, it seemed to exist in a vast wasteland, tumbling – I’m convinced – for miles each day. As if driven by an unwavering desire that had long been forgotten – a joke that refuses to land.
Over the years, I developed a strange affinity with the creature, even if it wasn’t reciprocated, and I often spent my lunch break in the room it occupied. Watching it now, as I always used to, I feel the connection again. My muscles tense – and relax – in sympathy to its fluid convulsions, and I imagine myself a boneless mass, almost liquid. I might transform into any shape I pleased, if only the intention was there. I’d wondered if I would notice some change – some sign of ageing, a subtle weariness maybe. But on seeing it again I realise that, of course, it would always be exactly the same.
