This week just gone (gone, fshwumm, vanished), I was well excited about a performance scratch night that my good friend and constant-future cohort Jenny Duffy was hosting at Leeds Met. The event is part of a series of fund/profile raising performastunts for the inaugural Lift Off Festival, a degree show project that Jenny is managing as a part of her enviably hip bespoke Live Art degree.
Since moving to Leeds in September, I’ve seen the BA Art, Event, Performance gang (or AEPers as they call themselves – I also call them that, but have no right to) regularly participate in, collaborate on and produce work that tips the cutting edge of the region’s spectrum. Whilst I was too hungover to blog about their Holus Bolus Art’s Birthday Party in January, and dazzled with educo-jealousy by their undergraduate conference in March, I still feel like I haven’t really seen the best of what the AEPers can do.
And after Wednesday, well, let’s just say I’ve seen that a very few of the AEPers can do some good. This is a blog post, and not a press release, but I’m not really into hating. Also, a scratch night is supposed to a supportive forum to experiment, not the rotten tomato splattered stocks.
So, to start with the GOOD: Indivisible‘s ‘Third’, a stark and provocative, laid back and trussed up, stabby and desperate piece that sprang comfortably around the Live Art playground. The gentle, hulking form of Adam Young dragged a diminutive and rope-bound Becki Griffith‘s across the floor to the corner of the stage, leaving her to lure the audience with nothing but a piece of paper and a fiver from her pocket.
After twenty minutes of watching her struggle, fall and be hoisted back into place by Adam, eventually Becki’s perverse and increasingly frantic hand gesturing dislodged one of the less sadist audience members from their seat, and she was relieved of her props – satisfied in her task, but still bound to her position. I liked that, it meant something.
Ryan Kitto’s one-on-one performance, ‘Contact’ was, as I told the usher waiting outside, probably one of the most erotic things that has happened to me for the last two years.
Semi-pro boxer Ryan emerged in pants and mask from behind the black curtains of the mustily fragrant intimate space, knelt before my seated, trembling self and proceeded to paint patterns on my face with paint-brushes dipped in water. Ryan’s bloodshot eyes seared with vulnerability, I could smell his taut determination to move me through is delicate brushstrokes. Er, swoon.
I barely had time to gather my skirts before Carrieanne Cara Vivianette’s ‘Frequented Tune’ began in the theatre. Evidently a skilled performer and storyteller, Carrieanne rushed the audience through a pacey and abstracted retelling a Native American myth, splashing a bowl of red and blue paint around with agility and precision…
O no! I’ve run out of space to mention any of the stuff I didn’t like about the evening. O well, maybe next time. Actually, I’m hoping next time that more people show up (especially people from the actual course that the fundraiser was in aid of, tut tut, bad AEPers), more of the performers have the respect to inform the organizer’s if their piece has changed at the last minute, and that every piece reeks with artistic merit (rather than sweaty, uncharismatic mundanity). Itchy fingers crossed.
In other news, I want to set the sort of thing up that Residence is doing in Bristol in my basement in Woodhouse next year.
You have been warned.