Annabel van Baren

With an enthralling Glaswegian twang, Martin Creed invites us for a 70-minute tour into his work of make-believe, projected erect penises, budding nipples and a small dog and a big one, humour, repetition (with difference, nod-nod-wink-wink, Deleuze and Guattari), music, absurdity, and most of all: joie de vivre. Work No.1020 Ballet is, first and foremost, a feel good experience, and one with which Creed ventures into as of yet unexplored territory: choreography.

An acclaimed and award-winning artist, Creed generally encapsulates movement and repetition into his works by means other than dance; for instance, he won the Turner Prize in 2001 with the lights going on and off every five seconds in an empty exhibition space (The Lights Going On and Off, Work No. 227). Another striking example of meticulous repetition coupled with speed arrived in 2008, when Creed sent athletes dashing along an 86-meter stretch across Tate Britain’s neo-classical sculpture galleries, every 30 seconds, all day long, for four months (Work No. 850). Visitors were strongly advised to look both ways before crossing the hall.

Now he turns his attention to the five core positions of classical ballet, connecting them to a set of tones. With his band consisting of Anouchka Grose, Keiko Owada, Benjamin Kane and Fiona Hymns, he connects these balletic movements with rhythm, with a funky beat and hilarious lyrics, such as: “What’s the point of it” and remarks like: “I didn’t know much about ballet – I only knew that it’s like the army.” Time, speed and duration are examined, not in a stylised and artificial way, but with such humour, grotesqueness and frivolity that Creed could virtually convince anyone of anything. One could say that he could sell sausages to the Germans, frogs to the French, and pizza to the Italians.

Speaking of Italians: Martin Creed may be a multi-talent, yet there’s one thing he’s quite bad at: Italian. I wonder how his Italian friends and colleagues in Alicudi, Italy, deal with that. Most likely with a smirk and a nudge-nudge, wink-wink.

Imagine a body whose organs are so light that they let sound flow through them. Imagine skin so porous that sounds reverberate and change its molecular structure. Imagine sound so embodied that the bodies performing them become them. The performance Violet by Meg Stuart | Damaged Goods tests the limits of auditory comfort while ensuring a spectacular experience.

It’s apparently officially required that theatres hand out free earplugs when spectators are exposed to sounds louder than 96 decibel. Since my ears are quite sensitive (as are all of my sensory organs for that matter) I willingly popped them in before the start of the performance. It’s the first time I’ve used earplugs while attending a performance; interestingly, the plugs not only protected my easily over-stimulated auditory system but also induced an additional sensation while witnessing the piece. Namely, I became more acutely aware of my heartbeat and breathing as those yellow buds blocked out most of the external sounds; not most, to be precise, some.  In this way the earplugs functioned as a sort of passageway between my internal and external reality, whose distinct spheres are separated by skin.

The five performers pulse, twist, reverberate. They become sound rather than performing to sound which Brendan Dougherty provides live so expertly. Sensing the sine waves and patterns of sound, the performers act as resounding boards. They amplify, spur on, heighten the already feverishly dense atmosphere on stage. Yes, we are all on stage together, seated on hard chairs rather than the soft, comfortable seats in the theatre. Twisting and turning, the performers embark on a an exhaustingly intense 80 minute journey through sound and silence. Meg Stuart has a way with movements: her vocabulary speaks of dialects and tongues I am unfamiliar with, even though I’m an avid follower of her work. Never the same, always challenging, she takes the audience on a rocky tour, one that left me shaken, impressed, drained, refuelled, all at the same time.

Later on I met one of the performers as I was unlocking my bike, just 15 minutes after the show. He affirmed my question of whether I had indeed just seen him on stage, and told me that he was off to see a very good friend perform in Martin Creed’s piece Work No.1020 Ballet. “But you must be exhausted!” I asked incredulously, and he simply said: “nothing that can’t be dealt with later.” Such a powerfully simple answer and one that will continue to reverberate for days to come, sounding and resounding.

Heine Avdal & Yukiko Shinozaki’s “Field Works-Office”. Seen on 25 April 2012.

It takes a lot to have me smiling, beaming even, when it’s raining cats and dogs and I’m to cycle through all that wetness: Heine Avdal & Yukiko Shinozaki’s site-specific and location-based performance “Field Works-Office” did exactly that. It already started upon entering the offices of the Central Museum where I was ‘greeted’ (inaudibly and most likely also unintentionally) by a giant brass-coloured statue of a lion, which turned out to be heated. Yes, the lion radiated waves of warmth. I was met there by a Springdance volunteer and the other guest who had signed up for the same timeslot as me. “Field Works-Office” allows two people to enter every ten minutes and the show/piece/performance/experience (how would one call something like this?) lasts about 30 minutes.

Before we set out on our adventure we were asked to fill in a short questionnaire bearing questions enquiring about our personal details but also our favourite performance of all times. I quickly found out that the other guest’s name is Francesca. It was Googled right in front of our eyes as we sat in front of a laptop, remotely controlled by a performer somewhere else in the spacious office. Surrounded by ‘real’ working people I even shrieked – uncharacteristically – when my name was Googled. There’s something about the piece that just makes you want to giggle: a playfulness and a lightness. Taka Shamoto asked us to follow her by placing a card saying ‘please follow me’ on the keyboard of the laptop (indeed, not a work is spoken throughout the piece). Through the labyrinthine passages of the museum’s offices we went until she shut us out of the toilet (understandably so) and re-emerged only after having screamed with hair-raising volume. Onto yet another office space where we were asked to sit down. For the first time we were asked (with words and not flashcards) by Yukiko Shinozaki whether we’d like something to drink. Our “tea, please. Thank you!” was met with a stylised and graphically accurate drawing of a steamy teacup. The aroma almost filled the air. Then a rapid sequence of sheets of paper followed as Brynjar Åbel Bandlien handed them to us from behind his raised newspaper. What? A fire? Oh, because of the kettle. Of course! That’s why Shinozaki’s running around with a fire extinguisher. The world of make-believe is extended when Bandlien climbs up on a swivel chair and spins around, softly, while reaching to the ceiling with one hand. Heine Avdal lets us in on what may be happening through another stream of images: perhaps he’s changing a light bulb, or, he could also be preparing to hang himself. As Bandlien continues to spin ‘round on the chair I read him differently with each image, even though his movements remain unchanged.

“Field Works-Office” is not only a feast because of its playful character, it also does something important, maybe even the most important thing there is: it makes the participant feel regarded, accepted, included. Perhaps that’s why I smiled, cycling through the rain. Or maybe it was because of the final gift we received, just before we left: Brynjar Åbel Bandlien handed us some handouts and pointed excitedly at the middle of the page, saying: “look, look! That’s you!”

I wish spending time at the office time was always such a field-trip.

Seen 22 April 2012, Centraal Museum, Utrecht.

On this suddenly sunny Sunday afternoon I encounter remnants of what seems a Greek salad, a half eaten loaf of bread. Wine in crystal glasses upon a long table lined with a white cloth. When my legs get sore from standing I sit at that table, on one of the chairs, given that the two performers (Ria Higler and Diego Agulló) are now lying on one of the two sofas, their backs turned to each other. The strong smell of the fish (is it mackerel? I can never tell with fish) on the table wakes me up: I’m feeling so comfortable here that it’s hard to not doze off.

Why do I feel so comfortable in this space littered with ornaments, chairs, sofas, framed pictures (some of them portraying Ria in earlier stages of her life), not to mention bales of hay and nests of feathers? How I can I feel at home while surrounded by two naked performers?

Not much really happens though it seems so. The pace is slow, the movements weighted, contemplative even. When I enter the space of the Central Museum Studio in Utrecht the durational performance (5 hours straight) has been going on for three hours already. The naked bodies are warmed by gigantic standing lamps and the only clothed part – the feet – rest toastily inside a pair of slippers. Ria and Diego have just started to move around again after having slowly nodded their heads for who knows how long. They were at it when I entered. I feel compelled to stay, convinced that more things will happen, things I don’t want to miss. I don’t remember who it was who said that if you allow people to leave and come back they almost always do.

Obviously, I’m not the only one who’s reluctant to leave: Quraishi tells me that some people stayed for the entire 5 hours yesterday. He felt obliged to give them tea. The first performance of “Wild Life Take Away Station,” which has been in development for a number of years, was commissioned by Ann Demeester, who was the curator of the Baltic Triennial in Vilnius (2010) at the time. Quraishi constructed the set in the abandoned building of the former Hungarian embassy in Vilnius. The performance then lasted 24 hours without intermission, during which the man and the woman changed tasks every hour. The audience was allowed to walk in at any time, as is the case at the Central Museum Studio. And also then, Quraishi informs me, some people stayed for the full duration, so 24 hours long, They gave them breakfast.

Even though I feel warm and cosy in this large space I don’t feel included in the events that unravel. At one point I suddenly jump up when Ria seems to want to sit where I’m sitting. The performative veil that demarcates performer and audience, seer and seen, observer and observed remains firmly in place. Is this why I feel comfortable because there’s no fear of me being talked to, asked to do or say something? The performers’ movements are carefully scripted, Quraishi tells me, and a result of a three-months intensive rehearsal process, in which the two performers took control of the space, their space, to connect with the objects, their objects. All of them are Dutch, he says, and belong to him and his partner. Quraishi finds it important that even the smallest of details are right, that everything is in place. He wants to be able to account for every figurine, every speck of dust almost.

I wonder what relation Ria and Diego have, performatively speaking. The soundscape that frames their mute toing and froing smacks of strife, subtle yet rife. Are they mother and son? No, they can’t be – how could they be: would a grown up ‘son’ feel comfortable to lie on a rug in front of his ‘mother’ and start to masturbate?

With these and many other questions I leave the building and set out into the street filled with sun-seeking people. Their movements seem too sudden, their voices shrill.

I miss the calmness of Ria and Diego, the salty smell of the mackerel. So simple but not easy.

Ivo Dimchev: I-on. Seen: 20 April, 2012, Theater Kikker.

Ceci n’est pas une pipe. Ceci aussi n’est pas une hélicoptère, ou un vibrateur, ou un casque [okay, switching to English – pardon my French]… The objects that Dimchev manipulates on stage, namely so-called ‘adaptives’ by Austrian sculptor Franz West are odd-looking structures: blobs of ordinary everyday objects encased in plaster. One of them looked like a long, coiled up snake; the other resembled more of a squashed sign for infinity (∞). Whatever these objects resemble (if anything at all), their ‘resemblance’ shape-shifts under Dimchev’s performative pressure, through the movements of his body, his amplified and looped vocals, the relative distance or proximity of the objects to the floor, and – quite importantly – through the audience’s roaring laughter. Yes, it should be mentioned that I-on is at times hilarious, at times touching, at times puzzling, at times shocking, and always absurd.

This is not an ordinary performance. Those who are familiar with Ivo Dimchev’s work won’t be surprised when I say that he’s simply a genius. And those who haven’t yet had the pleasure of experiencing his work: you should, ASAP. The only downside to having experienced the geniality of Dimchev’s brilliant solo-performance I-on and having to review it is that it’s impossible to capture, either in words, images, through sound or video recording, or any other means. Or actually, it may be possible, perhaps through one of these multiple ways:

1) Being succinct: “It’s C R A Z Y. Go see it.”

2) Providing a detailed discussion of the theoretical and political ramifications of presenting prostheses (in the shape of West’s objects) in a performative context and how it problematises and critically disrupts the notions of what a body is. Here one could consider referring to Deleuze and Guattari’s notion of “the body without organs,” as Dimchev’s body reveals not only its complex ‘real’ state but also its ‘virtual’ dimension.

3) Providing a detailed overview of the objects on stage and their subsequent manipulations. Most likely this point would benefit from any number of graphic representations: a pie-chart, a graph with an x and y axis, in which x represents time and y represents multiplication of the object through its usage. One may also consider quoting some text, such as the lyrics: “I can’t meet you tonight / I’m in my studio, working with the sculptures / I’m not very satisfied / I’m not very happy, so I’m staying home tonight / working with the structures.” This vocal highpoint (bursts of even more roaring laughter) was completed with an angelic chorus: “Byeeeee… byeeee.”

Right. Since I couldn’t choose which one of these three methods to follow I rolled a die and guess what: it said 6. That point isn’t listed, so I’ll have to leave you hanging.

My advice: follow number 1).