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David Weber-Krebs, This performance |
A female voice intrudes into the solemn silence, informing us that this performance is about to begin. The voice is pitched low, enunciating slowly and with clarity. There is a pause to allow us to absorb the information.
The voice has the mechanical quality of an answerphone message. It continues: announcement after announcement falls deliberately into the space around us, the space between our ears. How lucky we are to receive guidance as to the nature of what we will experience. The stage is dark, empty, stark.
“This performance is about to create a context.”
“This performance is about to ask questions.”
“This performance is about to/about to/about to…”
Each statement falls deliberately into the space as the stage gradually brightens. It’s possible to understand a progression—or not. From the bureaucrat-speak of arts funding applications, the statements move into wilder territory:
“This statement is about to eliminate toxins/have a master/create a legend.”
A low, throbbing beat rises in intensity as the statements become messianic and bellicose. A grinding noise supplements the background rhythm. There is talk of borders and defence, evolving into statements of conciliation. The urgent sound desists, leaving a throbbing hum. The light is fading as the statements begin to concern themselves with apocalyptic desperation.
“This statement is about to fall from grace.”
“This statement is about to praise redemption.”
The voice quietens, and the stage is dark. A spotlight briefly illuminates one empty corner before we’re delivered back into darkness.
When the lights come on again, we see shallow puddles on the floor of the stage. A woman enters from the back. She looks to be in her 60s, dressed in casual clothing with a mop of grey hair. She walks to the front of the stage and stares ahead, her eyes fixed slightly above us. She is completely still, staring, frowning slightly. Is she our audience?
Minutes later, she paces the stage with deliberate precision. She turns a corner sharply and stands still. Her back is turned towards us—perhaps she is still staring into the distance? We can see the rise and fall of her breathing. Minutes pass.
Do we need a performance? She will perform for us. She makes her way centrestage and jigs about on the spot, dancing, wobbling and flailing. Like a vaudeville caricature, she seems excruciatingly exposed. She falls flat on her back in the puddle, twitching. She gets up again to continue her dance, slapping herself, moving erratically. Her face slackens, she stares at us again, and stalks off to the back of the stage. As the light fades, she is inching along the back wall, insinuating herself into its structural features. She creeps behind a pillar, and now the only illumination is a spotlight in another empty corner. The woman pulls her sweater inside out and over her head in the dark; the fabric is black, so she melts into the background. This Performance ends as the light finally fades.
This Performance, David Weber-Krebs, performer, Jennifer Minetti, Whickam Theatre, Feb 2
Osunwunmi is an artist/facilitator working out of Bristol.
© Osunwunmi ; for permission to reproduce apply to [email protected]
