Journey is the destination...

Ithaka

As you set out for Ithaka hope the voyage is a long one, full of adventure, full of discovery. Laistrygonians and Cyclops, angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them: you’ll never find things like that on your way as long as you keep your thoughts raised high, as long as a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body. Laistrygonians and Cyclops, wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them unless you bring them along inside your soul, unless your soul sets them up in front of you. Hope the voyage is a long one. May there be many a summer morning when, with what pleasure, what joy, you come into harbors seen for the first time; may you stop at Phoenician trading stations to buy fine things, mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony, sensual perfume of every kind— as many sensual perfumes as you can; and may you visit many Egyptian cities to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars. Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Arriving there is what you are destined for. But do not hurry the journey at all. Better if it lasts for years, so you are old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you have gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich. Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey. Without her you would not have set out. She has nothing left to give you now. And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you. Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean. C.P. Cavafy

Washington Heights in London

Been pushed into a deep well of nostalgia this past week for my formidable years growing up in Washington Heights, up on the tail end of the rodent-shaped island Manhattan, not only uptown but uphill, the city on a slant from North to South.

Two topical launches have hit London celebrating my old hood, Linda Mannheim's Above Sugar Hill, a series of short stories based in the neighbourhood, cutting across time, race, gender and class... something in itself distinctly American. The second is In The Heights, premiering in London for the first time, a musical that takes on the stories of struggle and survival in the ga-heh/toe.

For the first time since moving to London I sat and wondered what it would be like if I had never left the Heights.... I wasn't even living there when I left NY anyway, having ended up in Loisaida, another colourful place featured in the musical Rent.

Washington Heights was an incredible place, full of solid pre-war buildings with sunken living rooms, big parks, river views, hills, nestled comfortably between the FDR and the West Side Highway, with two bolts sticking out of its neck like Frankenstein, GWB (George Washington Bridge) on one side and Alexander Hamilton bridge right across the other. This meant this perpetual buzzing of traffic all around the area, non stop 24 hours a day, windows always covered in fine brake dust... And inside the Heights a cocoon of people mixing together, Boricua's & Quisqueyana's (The native names of Puerto Rico and Dominican Republic), Hasidic jews, left over Irish who hadn't yet moved up to the Bronx, and random other NYers like us the Chilean family taking refuge from Queens.

I remember being really proud because Dr. Ruth, the TV pop sex therapist lived in the hood! The area was rough no doubt but you knew which streets to go to and which not to. I really remember it as one giant playground, running along the river, cutting class and drinking 40's in the playground of Bennett park, the giant games of manhunt in Fort Tryon park, walking around with an MC jacket and a knife I would never really use. All part of the NY trade I guess...

I highly recommend both the book and the musical, I found both totally entertaining, especially for a London audience... of course, I'm a willing subject. What Mannheim achieves is to honour the other in her stories, the child, the mother, the awkward teen, the outcast. It's a relief for the main characters to not be populated by the standard fare. The language, the politics and the social struggle all made me feel serious empathy and reminded me of my own long road walked. The stories made me remember my first girlfriend who lived above me on the 5th floor with her coke-head father, sharing a bunk bed in a 1-bedroom, who said 'ated' instead of 'eaten', and thought going to the movie theater where your feet stuck to the floor was a step up from her usual dates to the park... This is the joy of reading Above Sugar Hill, the retelling of the stories that don't often get told, the desperation to 'get out' but the attachments that keep us where we are. If I didn't like Influx Press enough after reading Marshland, I'm now feeling pretty much represented in their choices of books to publish.

In The Heights, touched upon some of the same positive points as well. In full American razzmatazz force the cast sing, jump and sweat across the floor and in front of your face. Their energy is visceral, powerful, contagious and at times cheesy, but hell its an American musical, just go with it. I will fully admit I came into the Southwark Playhouse with pretty low expectations but instead left elated and proud of seeing my old hood on stage to a British public. Of course there are flaws in trying to be something you're not, recreating the Heights would be impossible, but I really didn't care, I still think they did a stellar job. Except for the soy milk prop in the bodega (deli), okay that made me chuckle! Course I was the insider often laughing by myself at things they said and no one really got. The Abuelita character reminded me of an old Cuban woman who lived in an apartment by the lobby entrance to my building. She never let go of missing Cuba, she feared the area and the other Latinos, always worried she would get clobbered in the head while walking the streets. And after 50 years of living in the Heights, never assimilating and never learning English she died as she feared but in that way can only happen in the Big City: the ceiling above her bed fell on her in her sleep and crushed her to death... Another story lost in the echo of a million voices in the urban jungle....

So get a full dose of some real New York grit in your teeth. Read the book and see the show, you'll be in for a treat, and then lets grab a pint and I'll tell you where the best pizza in the hood really is... If its still there.

Letter to NYC about London

Part of a writing exercise workshop, thinking back 9 years ago to when I first moved to London and writing back to a friend in NYC about my thoughts and observations about the change:

Dear Sara:

So here I am after the whirlwind of NYC for so many years, landed in a place that is somehow so similar yet polar opposite. The pace of life here is so much slower, and takes some getting used to. But slowing down feels good. I can hear myself and somehow be more the me than I was able to be before. What frustrated me about New York was everyone was always in your face all the time and I felt a lack of emotional space. Here everyone is so guarded and inside themselves. I think it must be the weather! 

The grey skies wrap you like a blanket and you feel comfortable and quiet, calming your emotions. Getting around these streets is so intense! Ive always prided myself of being an avid traveller, but my first week alone I got lost at least 10 x. There is no compass grid system to work with, you swear youre going North and suddenly its South! And with a white sky you cannot see the sun for direction. I realise now how rigid the grid system is, almost violent to our nature as organic beings. The medieval footprint here means you have to meander slowly to get anywhere, instead of pushing though a system of squares and rectangles, there are much more triangles and circles (in this case roundabouts). 

I also realise the who I am has changed by sheer context! There are few Latinos, some Americans, almost no real New Yorkers, and I have become much more an exotic of species, shorter and darker by comparison, with too sharp a tongue and too fast a pace. Need to exorcise the New York demon out of me…

One of my favourite things about London is how local it is. A big city that really is a collection of villages, people love and respect the local in a beautiful way. There is pride in the history and stories and Londoners are happy to share it with foreigners and immigrants, so I feel I am able to settle in and become one of many. Its funny only the English from outside of London tend to ask me where I am from, Londoners take it for granted that everyone is from somewhere and may instead ask what I do, or chat about the weather. Actually talking about the weather seems crucial as an ice-breaker. And you’ll never guess, everyone complains its rainy!! How funny is that? I guess it’s a social bonding method to moan and agree about the weather. Note to self, tone down the cheery attitude… 

Okay running out of space, love you and more soon! 

RMX

NYC Ghosts and Flowers

I never really understand what happens when I get to New York. An invisible energy goes into me and I buzz through my time there at a million miles an hour without a moment to contemplate all the images, memories, people, senses, and emotions that boil together in the soup of experience that is walking those frenetic streets.

My brother said to me 'you make it hectic'

Maybe thats true, but there is also an energy there that's palpable. New York is also a muddled palimpsest of memories for me, every neighbourhood, subway line, and flavour of bagel has something to associate it with and makes each movement a surge of thoughts that mix up with the present and confuse the past.

I remember reading that the local Native Americans considered Manhattan a sacred island, formed of bedrock, sticking out into the bay and hugged by two rivers as it sat there like a steady glacier. A large rock formation that held underneath it the rest of the planet and on top of it a crown of buildings with golden lights flickering at night and sneezing jewelled bridges across to other pieces of land.

New York is like one of those lovers you can't help be obsessed with even though you know they are really unhealthy for you emotionally, but the electric charge of being together is worth the burn out when you are apart and you realise that it could never really be long-term.

The city is a walking theatre, a waking psychotic episode, each person manages to be a huge personality and they all somehow fit into the rush hour subway car while competing mariachi bands and break-dancers clear space for some change.

Random conversations with strangers about my tree tattoo, the presidential election, parking regulations, the best coffee. Union Square with public chess playing, Hare Krishnas,  political slogans in chalk, kids on skateboards and hippies with guitars. Times Square with hoards of tourists, dressed up cartoon characters aggressively requesting photos for money (I was told Elmo had been arrested on a number of occasions in full costume), police side by side with them as a tourist attraction... I cant even see the ads, all I see is a blur of light, was the New Years ball always that tiny?

I stayed at my brother's in Sugar Hill, Harlem. History and future rolled into one, amazing brownstones, gentrification, the local bodega that carried every item I brought back from Colombia as gifts.... oh well.

At night the white noise... It never really gets quiet. The white noise always buzzes... It never really gets dark, the sky a golden orange... I saw some stars though. I did.

How many things can you do in one day in New York? More than you can cram in most cities, the place is built for movement and efficiency... Its truly exhausting. And exhilarating. Every one should live there for a while, work its flow, walk its streets, meets its people and see what cosmopolitan truly is. But as Kurt Vonnegut said: 'Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard.'

I guess thats why I did....

I love you New York...

You drive me crazy...


Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

Notes on Colombia learned from taxi drivers and circus teachers

In some ways every time I travel I have a tendency to fall in love with where I am. Maybe it’s my innate connection to place and people, or ability to have an open ear, endless curiosity, nomadic nature, good disposition. Wait, no its not just disposition, learning about a place is a skill I have picked up along the route of life, as I’ve worked here and lived there and been always a welcome outsider. And here I am again, flying across the ether in a metal tube, wondering about the magical place I just left as I zoom into the familiar of yet another place I call home: from Colombia to New York...

I miss Colombia already… I started missing it before I even left. I’m not quite certain I’ve made this many friends in such a short time, and I don’t mean just meeting people, but a genuine feeling of kinship. Colombians are incredibly open and good-natured, proud of their country in a way that doesn’t feel patriotic or xenophobic but welcoming. And why shouldn’t they be, an incredibly diverse land, from Caribbean beaches to the densest jungle in the world, bustling metropolises, to snow-capped mountains, Colombia offers almost every possible geographic location in one geopolitical state. All encompassed in an interesting sense of time I remember experiencing in Ghana… Being 3 degrees away from the equator means that the sun runs like clockwork year-round, up at 6 down at 6, never a variation. After years living in London where each day is slightly but noticeably different to the last, this mechanism becomes incredibly apparent. It keeps the rhythm and flow of the day consistent somehow. And because you can always count on fertile land and constant sunshine its no wonder that the agribusiness in Colombia is intense and productive. The country is a lush producer and you can be blessed with any assortment of amazing fresh fruit juices just about anywhere in the country (even I may add the airport in Bogota).

Colombia is also very racially mixed, which is reflected in its musical traditions and dance. The Museo de la Independencia had this incredible chart that had a list of every possible ethnic group in the country and the name for every one of their combinations. For example you could lift the tab that stated Español (Spaniard) and Indígena (Indigenous) you would get Mestizo written underneath. The chart had over 30 variations… I couldn’t tell if this was derogatory or not, but nevertheless it reflected a regional mix of peoples that adds to the spice of life in this land.

Now combine this with working in the city of Cali and in a circus school. Cali is a hot and humid working-class city where salsa music was born. Almost half the population of the city lives in a district called Aguablanca, where certain areas are no go zones even for the police. This reminded me of the Brasilian favela’s before the Pacification of the Favelas. And like my experience residing in Naples or Beirut I find myself surrounded by passionate generous people with fervour for life and love. It was lovely to walk through a city where strangers were polite to each other and asking for directions might mean a new friend and definitely an extended conversation. No exchange would begin without the usual exchange of pleasantries and a walk from my flat to the school in the morning meant saying good morning to a variety of dog walkers, maids sweeping pavements, security guards standing on corners and street vendors. Then again I am prone to people-watch and smile when caught, plus sporting a tree tattoo down my right arm does attract some attention… Of course this is a version, Colombia remains one of the most violent countries in the world by some statistics, but none that I witnessed anywhere in my wanderings around town.

And the school Circo Para Todos, how to begin… I’ll have to leave out the history for the purpose of this travelogue and speak about the present I witnessed. Set on the end of a park, the site consists of a huge big top tent, a tall octagonal dance space, and converted shipping containers that function as a canteen kitchen, loos, storage, and offices. All this scattered among grass and trees. The school is spiritually and educationally supported by a trio of incredibly dedicated Cubans: Annia the schools’ director and Fernando and Rodolfo the circus teachers. Never have I worked in an institution so open to suggestions, willing to accommodate and trusting of a stranger in their midst. Organised, dedicated and engendering confidence and trust in the students and new staff alike these three are well worthy of true respect and admiration. Along side my workshop the school had four new teachers in dance, music, theatre, and technical scenography. My role was to give artistic direction to the final year production of the graduating students. The school was rebounding from massive budget cuts, with a financial injection from the Ministry of Culture, and abuzz was this energy of regrowth and redistribution. With my pedagogical training, technical knowledge, and artistic vision, I ended up situated in the best place possible. Working with a new team, developing a large creative project and organising a group of young people to make the best out of their skills and talents.

And about the students: a veritable microcosm of the country. A variety of social and racial backgrounds with a common interest: their abilities and skill in circus. Mixing in with these students were the egresados graduated circus students who come back and train between touring in cruises and circuses around the world. This possbility to travel and make a living through a creative enterprise is a valuable commodity. And I made it very clear to the students what a total luxury this school was. Though the physical site was in need of repair, it remained fully functional and offered a free 4-year education that included a hearty lunch every day and two decent snack-breaks twice a day (high energy training requires a good caloric intake).

This experience has reiterated my assertion that for a successful outcome to a collaborative practice model, it is dependant on three inter-combined factors:

1. A sound working methodology for development of a creative practice

2. The host organisation’s willingness to incorporate that model into their existing format of practice

3. The participants’ openness to engage with the methodology & ability to collaborate with each other.

In this case the fantastic hosting of the school, the eagerness of the students and my own working methodology combined to create in a matter of three weeks, the beginning of a 90 minute circus show to be presented 14th Dec, the date the co-founder of the school passed away and the first class graduated. It would be amiss to not mention Felicity Simpson who co-founded the school and the circus company Circolombia, which is composed of the talent trained in the school. The school’s basic premise is a social enterprise, giving access to training to disadvantaged young people. But this is a core principal and not a limiting factor, for mixed with students coming from Agua Blanca district are university graduates from Bogota and this mix is healthy for like Colombia it represents all walks of life.

I’m leaving out the many details of my adventures in order to focus on the core of my travels, like the friends who took me out and around Cali and Bogota and the great times I had. The only regret I have in Colombia is leaving and if you have the opportunity to come here one day, I’m sure you will be just like me… counting the days to come back.

From the dark skies en route to the Big Apple…

R

Circus in Colombia...

Nothing better to do post-PhD than take up tattooing and run away with a circus.... In this case am now Technical Director for Circolombia on their world tour of their show Urban... Circolombia is was born from and is composed of graduates from the Colombian circus school Circo Para Todos based in the city of Cali.

You can read more about the school here: Click

And about Circolombia here: Click

Also a brilliant documentary on the school and it's social context (Spanish no subtitles): Click

Finally a music video I shot with part of the troupe in Rio de Janeiro in June this year: Click

The great thing about circus is that everyone is in it together, less comparmentalised than traditional theatre and much more risk. Though I have included circus in my performance work before I am now incorporating performance into circus work and finding it totally gratifying. How did it take me this long to get into this artform? 

Very happy to also be completing a residency here in Cali, Colombia at the circus school Circo Para Todos. I am giving an intensive laboratory in creative collaborative performance making for the final year students. The students basically have by this point completed 4 years of training where they have completed a routine that they then sell to the various businesses around the world, either touring shows, cruises or theme parks. The perks are travel and pay, a real draw for many of the inner-city youth who compose the student body.

I have found the energy and vibrancy of the participants intense and brilliant. Very open to the process and able to conceptualise form and play in an open-minded and exciting way. In a matter of days we put together 6 skits based on dreams that we performed for a small audience. Now my task is to think about the bigger picture of their final degree show in December and offer a method towards which to create a meta-narrative that will link all their individual numbers as well as transition skits to keep the flow of the show.

Apparently Cali is the 11th most dangerous city in the world according to a report by Seguridad, Justicia y Paz. Of course this is subjective, as I wandered the streets going from bars to clubs and meeting people throughout the evening without ever feeling threatened. But of course Colombia is synonomous with the drug trade, and well after all it is a major producer marijuana, cocaine and heroine. Regardless there is the Latin American warmth that is contagious and undeniable. No exchange begins without a ping-pong of salutations and greetings, which are actually genuine not just an ice-breaker. And like Brasil, its teeming with a mix of races that form a real unique mix.

The combination of vibrant energy, motivated students, engaged staff and a circus ethos make for a formidable experience. There is a magic at the school and in the city that demonstrates a cultural power here in Colombia that from afar gets clouded by negative media attention and assumptions. But as I've recently learned it is after all here in Colombia that the famed El Dorado existed, city of gold that the original conquistadors sought with such bloody consequences. And so apt that this vast and lush country, bordering the Pacific and the Gulf should hide its treasures until you come seek them out... 

As Choc Quib Town says closing their song: 'Ahora dígame que cree usted porque Colombia es más que coca, marijuana y café'

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

on Nature Walking...

Just returned from an epic trekking experience: did the 'circuito grande' of the Torres del Paine national park in Patagonia, Chile. Walked about 180km over 8 days starting at Refugio Laguna Amarga and ending at the waterfalls at Pudeto (map below).

The park itself has a variety of areas of outstanding natural beauty and levels of tourist infiltration, from more upscale country-hotel lodgings to free camping. The general trek is called 'W' which takes you up to see Glacier Grey then around one small mountain range and up Valle del Frances, back down to the immense lake and up again to see the famous torres.

Though the 'W' trek is highly walked, around the back of the mountain range you can go at it alone with the wind, waterfalls and puma tracks as company. Taking all my provisions with me, it took a few days before the noise in my head died down. No company, no phone, no music just my 12k pack stuffed with a good tent and sleeping bag and my walking shoes.

There is a poetry in walking and traversing space consciously. Becoming aware of the gradations of landscape, of the changes in temperature to altitude, of your body's own weight and posture. There's that moment that you stand still only moving your legs while the earth magically revolves under you. I think about Richard Long's work, where we get to glimpse a single moment of a journey. But when that journey goes on a week it becomes a pilgrimage, like the Camino de Santiado de Compostella.

And silence... This is key. It was days before I had to speak to anyone and then it was 'hola' in passing. There is a lucidity in quietness, in taking the time to listen and hear. Each bird call transforms from a musical note to a language, the trickle of the upcoming river beckons a rest and a drink, the thunder of crashing snow and glaciar ice a power that fills with awe and dread.

I can't remember feeling so alive and full of hope before. You feel the wind come off the millennial ice caps, formed from the cracking and popping of millions of little air bubbles trapped since before the dinosaurs and breathed into your lungs, whirling in your brain. The cold, crisp water that tastes so pure you just become certain its somehow linking you with the planet from before man ever even walked this land.

And so much water... clean, fresh, aqua-blue, sweet water flowing non-stop.... The dreams of 2012 armageddon are very far away in these remote places...

Moving your body through a landscape allows a sense of focus and freedom, of accomplishment and dedication and of humbling pain and uncertainty. A time-out from the urban experiences I study and love. But it also gives me the tools to understand better how we may walk in the concrete forests of London, New York or Santiago by being connected to the more subtle currents that revolve around us.

I may have arrived but I've left part of me in those mountains while part of them remain in me....





Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

Memory Walking and Nostalgia

Just returned from Crete, visiting a friend who grew up in the capital Heraklion. We were given an amazing tour of the city centre that was based on her memory of what was there when she lived in the city during a variety of different ages. Seeing past the numerous cafes and bars a new city began emerging. Hidden under the parasols and flat screen tv's of the multiple venues, were beautiful facades of stately homes that housed a variety of characters who came to life among the cobbled lanes. The white noise of chatting people and buzzing phones, became the ghost sound of a child's bicycle racing down the slanted alleys, or the old woman chasing them with a pot of boiling water.

A new city emerged, like Raban's Soft City, one of histories and stories, one which seemed much more local as a social network. Raban tell us 'the city, our great modern form, is soft, amenable to a dazzling and libidinous variety of lives, dreams and interpretations'. It was this soft amenable city that came alive with the bench behind the square where lovers once met now empty, the popular hair dressers studio where the scraping of chairs being pulled out for customers was heard around the corner but is now turned residential, the childhood home transformed into a health spa yet retaining the original tiles and doors, allowing the phantoms of nostalgia to continue to inhabit the hard city. The hard city that retains its shape while the soft city lives and dies within it. 

Going on this walk around Heraklion opened up a past, re-awoke a memory, like Lazarus it brought to life a narrative that once was but had died. The deep nostalgia that punctuated the derive was palpable and I felt a strange sense of both belonging to the place and envying the memory. Somehow wanting to be a part of that which was never mine. It reminded me of Boym's The Future of Nostalgia and her rich analyses of the workings on memory on society and city. She tells us 'the past of the city... is not entirely legible; it is irreducible to any anachronistic language; it suggests other dimensions of the lived experience and haunts the city like a ghost.'

This was an alternate ghost tour of a city, a rich and vibrant walk down memory lane that made me really truly appreciate Heraklion and see it for what it was and had once been.

NYLON

It's hard to wrap your head around the scale of New York and London as they are so topographically different.
London is a complete mess of roads neatly organised into concentric zones that seem to spread out forever until suddenly it hits the M25 motorway and becomes farmland.
New York is a neatly organised set of roads set on to a mess of islands and inlets and seems to be encircled by endless suburbs with farmland somewhere way down the I95 highway.

I made loads of versions of these maps in some sense to put my two realities together, they somehow help me better contextualise and understand my place in these two twin cities (fraternal twins of course)

'...interstitial, unoccupied spaces at the edges of the interstate...'

The Edge of Light: Wendover is a poetic study of landscape, environment, development and isolation in what the artists Brian Rosa and Adam Ryder describe as 'the border of nowhere and nowhere' in the US.

What is striking about these photos is the stillness and isolation in the images, confusing the viewer as to wether the subject is that which is being lit or the light itself. Though the exploration sought out the edge of light, its the degrees of dark that become most heightened. Light at dawn or is it dusk? Artificial or natural? Either way there remains a sense of deep sleep in the photo essay. It makes us question not only how we use light but how we use the landscape. Its no wonder its a result of a residency at the Center for Land Use Interpretation. 

For a comparable study of light and subject, see Peter Di Campo's photo study of Ghana at night via flashlight Life Without Lights recently published in the NYTimes. 

Invisible Topographies - Blind-folded walks at the end of the trainline

Back from the Rifrazioni residency... completed three separate one-to-one performances based on a blind-folded walk through a specific location. It was in interesting experience, the festival organisers where really hard-working and dedicated. And apart from the chaotic environment of 30 or so artist in a concrete state school overlooking the mediterranean sea, I was able to carve out some thinking space....

My original intention was to create one walk and repeat it in various sites but it became clear that each site had its own significance I wanted to respond to, and metaphors I wanted to create. So I ended up devising three narrated walks that took in the local environment - part fact part fiction - and in all cases were a parallel to how I sensed each space reflected the larger landscape of the city and the culture around it...

Anzio and Nettuno are these twin cities bordering each other and hugging the Mediterranean.

Like good siblings they compete incessantly and draw their own identities in their comparisons. Though at first glance the sun, the beach, the tans, the streets, the palm trees have this really elevating holiday feel, in actuality I sensed a deep tremor of insecurity, struggling identity and financial pain. But can't this be said about everywhere and everyone?

The three sites were the Medieval quarter of Nettuno, The port of Anzio and the train station of Nettuno. I mixed the actual inhabitants of each area with metaphorical ones, shadows of people who existing in each place and who in some ways I felt represented the spirit locked in the brick and mortar. I'd give more away but I plan to translate the walks back into English from Italian and give them in London as part of the Translocated preview coming up in a few weeks...

It was great to put the dvd of life on pause and go into a totally new situation to create and make. After burning the candle on both ends with the PhD and teaching, being free and creative helped me bring all the loose threads of my interests together and create something that I felt was really successful.  The participants emerged from the walk, opening their eyes somewhat dazed, and often sought me out to give me a big hug and thank me, which was really nice...

After all each walk was really just an analogy of our own lives, how does waiting at a train station for days, years, ages, reflect how our own longing for something? The port, with its fishing industry, seemed like the womb of the city, from where it was born to grow upon on the shores and then die back into the sea. The waves were like each generation, you barely had a chance to grow big and strong before you were collapsing upon the shores staring back at the next generation that took your place....

Well the sun is still shining in London today so alas back to work, check out some of the other festival artists and their work, interesting stuff...

Zoukak Theater and Cultural Association, Beirut Lebanon 2009

In Beirut currently developing the performance project Triangulated City. In collaboration with and hosted by Zoukak along with members and associate members of Lotos Collective. Beirut is a fantastic city and if you have never been to the Middle East, I recommend Lebanon as a great starting point for further exploration. Charismatic, chaotic, passionate Mediterranean both remembering its recent scars and celebrating it continual future.

For project information check out: www.zoukak.org

G20 Bank Protest - April Fools Day

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

Another example of the incredible difference between the mediatised image, the reality of a situation, and the uses of power within how we operate (see Inauguration entry for example). I cycled over to the event at Bank, which was coined as a carnival atmosphere by its adhoc organisers, and it was. There was a variety of games, costumes, live and prerecorded music, and a very diverse age range. The police practiced what the call 'kettling' keeping people penned up in sections. It was very mellow, there wasn't much chanting or slogan yelling, just a lot of standing around in what was arguably the most beautiful day of the year so far. We wanted to get into Bank but it was impossible, all cordoned off by walls of police in high-vis gear. They were generally at this point good natured, joking with the crowds, who were at most pretty bored outside trying to get into where the music seemed to be. One protester offered to take them to get a cup of coffee, as it seemed rather pointless to stand around... We walked around the perimeters, through side streets and followed a marching troop of horso-cops prepared for serious battle. People were not happy at the sight of this, as it brought a feeling of menace and violence to an otherwise chill afternoon... We passed Jesus on the way and ended up past the horses and police and by RBS, the now infamous smashed bank windows. I suppose the link of police opened up for the horso-cops to take their place and we inadvertently walked past. Shortly after a group of young anarchists began smashing the bank. It seemed so timely, it all felt very rehearsed. As the police presence became more heightened the kids got angrier and responded in turn. As they smashed the windows, an incredible amount of cameras flew out, both handheld, professional, phones. I was really taken by how mediatised the event was, and the desperate need to capture the moment seemed more violent than the window smashing. The cops stood idly by on their horses, letting it happen...
Watch the video I uploaded, its celebratory, most people standing around watching the event unfold like a football match. Can you spot the difference between media and reality?(beware of close-ups!) Lets just assess who is breaking, who is capturing the breaking and who is watching the capturing and the breaking, look at the gap of people between the police and the action.... We left the scene and wandered about, but there was no exit in sight, I wondered why not let people leave, it was so obviously quite on the side streets. Fear, fear, fear.... But we were able to get out on one street that was open, and wandered off to Trafalgar Square to a peaceful demonstration with intelligent speakers and well timed hooting. I found both scenarios emotionally effective in their purpose I suppose, what other options are most people left with if they cannot influence public policy otherwise? Was I a participant or just another voyeur, like perhaps you are now if you watch this clip

Inauguration Trip

It was really odd to attend the inauguration. I wanted to write about the extreme joy and passion and love and life but actually I can't say thats what I saw. The TV seems to portray that really well, throngs of people cheering and crying, but I think the reality was much more subtle than that. In many ways much more intense.

The journey really began waiting at Penn Station at 5am in a freezing cold New York. Everyone seemed silent in their down jackets and Obama pins as we scuttled into the warmth of the bus. There wasn't much enthusiasm, more a blanket of sleep as we drove out of the city past the industrial landscape of New Jersey. After London, America's general structure looks so industrial, a homage to post-WW2 might. Enormous steel bridges crossing wastelands of industrial parks, endless electric towers, vast lots full of new cars, impressive electrical plants that look like miniature cities condensed into a jumble of metal, lights and plumes of smoke five times their size moving up into the distance...

I thought about rolling across America in a bus, how many of us coming from so many diverse places, as I stared out the window watching the sun come up on this bleak man-made horizon. I woke up later to snow covered rocks and trees as we made it past the Delaware River. Well anyway I imagined it was the Delaware River and that George Washington nowadays couldn't even fish there if he tried, but it still looked majestic with its frozen slabs colliding in the currents.

I noticed something else as we drove into the suburbs of D.C., a real lack of flags. This mad pro-war nation seems to suddenly be ashamed of itself, all those trite images of patriotism tucked away into attics for the next big war. Just a few well graphic designed Obama-Biden lawn placards could be seen placed neatly in front of the houses like a frozen herald.

By the time we arrived the bus was buzzing, everyone was chatting about strategies for getting into the Mall, passing around maps and their iPhones with live TV streaming of the millions. The guy in front of me was African and had a huge bag with mini-pillows connected to a suction cup on a string, presumably for your car windshield. On one side was an American flag and other Obama's face, fairly pixelized, the whole thing trimmed with gold tassle. He was traveling with a Central American man he had hired to help him sell his wares, who was very excited because he had never been to D.C. before.

The metro was full, people from all over America, but also all over the world. I had to help two Italians buy their tickets. The Junkie with the tear drop tattoo on his eye and spider web on his neck was upset the machine took his quarter and it was all the money he had to get into the centre of town....

D.C. was packed like a factory farm. So completely controlled, tall metal gates you couldn't throw a candy bar threw blocked off areas in a labyrinth pattern. If there's something this government knows how to do is control people. I was impressed at how managed the flow through the city was. As we moved towards the only suggested accessible gate to the mall, what struck me most was the amount of hawkers: t-shirts, pins, stickers, hats, scarves, calenders, "official" passes. There was also the incredible amount of special-interest groups giving out information, like the map of the city that doubled for some Church, or the Vegan postcard of Obama.

We never made it to the Mall. By the time Obama was being sworn in we were still marching along with hundreds of thousands of others who had no idea where to go. A delivery man with a sandwich cart and a transistor radio stopped in the middle of the street and aired Obama's speech. We stood huddle around it, such an incredible range of people, all shapes sizes ages nationalities colours creeds, just in this one little ad-hoc group.

People hugged their kids tighter, and some tears flowed and everyone seemed relaxed and content. We applauded and nodded to eachother and smiled. It was such a small little group on this oasis of millions, standing around together sharing this moment. I thought to myself this is exactly the point isn't it? This notion of community felt so very present....

We applauded the end and disbanded into the city again.... As we walked by Airforce1 carrying Bush flew violently by and people cheered his departure. Not angry and not violent, but relieved. Then the millions began pouring out of the Mall, we had been a block away after all.... What a sight, can you imagine 2 million happy people? Not ecstatic, not chanting not a rock concert, but just happy. Happy, content, relaxed, relieved. We walked with the flow and everyone smiled, walked slowly and carefully, didn't push or fight. It was so impressive....

Of course I was wearing my white top hat and angel wings I had made.... In the front in silver it said "Angel Obama" and on the back it said "Hello World, We Are Back!" I don't recommend wings for large crowds of millions by the way... One woman came up to me and said "Back from what?" I felt immediately defensive and without looking at her said "Back from the dark ages of these past 8 years". She laughed and responded: "Honey, that was the inquisition!"

For whatever its worth and whatever may happen in the future, I am glad that for one moment in time in this short history we spin, I stood around with 2 million people and just felt happy, I mean thats gotta change something!!!

Beirut Travelogue

Wandering around Beirut, got lost and found an internet place so thought I would drop in a do a quick travelogue...

Have only been in the city 48 hours and leaving in another 48, but am really looking forward to coming back and doing a project. This is a place moving as quickly as possible away from its past. The streets are busy and feel very safe, there are cafe's, bars, restaurants both trendy and backwater catering to the glamorous and steadfast locals. The people are incredibly friendly and even in South Beirut where UMAM, the cultural centre I visited is and also the Hezbollah area, it feels relatively at ease, with its backdrop of gunned walls and posters of martyrs. Most of the damage obstructed by advertising for various things to beautify your life, one enormous billboard for a make-up artist...

Senaya house, the flat/open source culture centre I am staying at is huge, its really feels like I am back in Naples, gorgeous tiled floors, 20 ft cielings and enormous doors leading to balconies where I can watch the bored police soldiers pace back and forth with their machine guns drooping at their sides desperately trying to entertain themselves by counting cracks in the pavement. But their presence is no more menacing than the robo-cops at Waterloo or Grand Central Station...

I bought Obama's first book at the airport in London and proudly promoted it my whole flight here to many happy responses. Never before have I crossed into a border with a US passport feeling so unashamed, knowing that regardless of his policies and politics, his symbol would be remembered forever. I had an amazing conversation with Mustafa, the caretaker at UMAM about Bush, Obama, Allah, Marriage and life in general. He speaks not a word of English and me not a word of Arabic but it was certainly an in depth analysis of the world!

This eve is the opening of the show I am helping install, My Place in Between, so I am sure I will get to see some nightlife and network like mad!