Belluard Bollwerk Festival, Fribourg Switzerland. 1994
The audience approach a ‘door’ set in the middle of the room.
Looking through a door security lens, they watch the performer.
A single horizontal line on the wall suggests a horizon, a division, a benchmark.
The room is illuminated with a single, low slung bulb.
The artist approaches the other side of the door and recites a text:
Look across the field to the horizon.
A line there marks the beginning and end.
They descend from the telegraph wires, the birds crossing the light.
A buzzing vibration of cables,
Each wing beat strobing red to the lens.
An unkindness.
Settling to the newly cropped ground they raise it until all is bare.
In a vinegar smell.
Back-draught pulling them to the spot immediately they launch themselves.
A second wave.
A new right.
Pulling worms with insatiable appetites.
The site is merciless.
Further at the distant does the air rise to the green,
Fading in Prussian at a moment.
Wind buffeting against your ears till they yawn
Each temple bone pain beneath your face.
Cut through by fine wire,
A cathedral of light dazzling the retina
And seducing the brain.
Not forgotten, the dust will settle upon us useless eaters.
Black birds.
The imagination and memory as one,
Breaking pencil lead to set the record straight.
There is no other sound.
The artist leaves the door and swings a single light bulb against the wall. It smashes and the room goes dark.
The audience leave.