Written on October 29, 2011 by frances

Reading: Gordon Mathews — Ghetto at the Center of the World

I once stayed a night in Chungking Mansions, when a flight from Canada arrived too late to catch even the cross-border bus to Guangzhou. I was given the address by a woman at the information booth just past the exit gates from customs, and probably told to make certain not to get off the city bus one stop too early. Someone was waiting for me, amidst the hysterical confusion of touts, and led me into the depths, up an elevator and to a small guesthouse, run by an older Pakistani man. My room even had a window, from which I could see the street below, washed in rain, with a throng of bodies like no other.

Another time, after a climbing trip on Hong Kong island, I went with a group for dinner in a Pakistani restaurant. Once more up elevators and along corridors. As we departed, I glimpsed through another door momentarily opened and saw groups of serious islamic men eating their own dinners around wooden tables.

I stayed there because of course living in Guangzhou and having a fascination with the Pearl River region how could I not hear of this place with the dangerous reputation — especially given my taste for Wong Kar-wai’s films. Were I to get stuck again in Hong Kong now, I’d likely stay there again, given at least it’s a name I know.

There is a compulsion in accounts of globalisation and the developing world to make the story about us, we who live in the global north, who either speak english, are of european descent, or both. That there could be a parallel yet predominantly disconnected globalisation, a flow of trade, people, ideas and culture is often seen as irrelevant or incomprehensible to the central narrative, if even addressed.

Gordon Mathew’s anthropology of this building, Ghetto at the Center of the World — Chungking Mansions, Hong Kong appealed to me for more than just what goes on in the confines of its seventeen stories and five separate blocks. As he points out in the introduction, the history and culture of the building is also one of low-end globalisation. This is not a narrative of the developed world’s arrangement with China in providing cheap, off-shore manufacturing, but rather that of a globalisation in which Europe and America are at best ancillary nodes on multiply-layered and discrete trade routes that span from Africa to South-East Asia by way of Dubai, India, and Guangzhou, and more often simply don’t occur at all in the narrative.

I’ve already spent much of the morning perched on the windowsill in the sun, having knocked off half the book in a sitting, which should give an idea of how fascinating I find the topic and book.

Gordon Mathews — Ghetto at the Center of the World

Written on September 29, 2011 by frances

Shibari Kantine

The Kantine is on the ground floor, stretching from the street back some fifty meters in three distinct sections. First is a slight mezzanine, where the BVG Orchestra practiced; separated by three or four steps and sliding accordion screen doors is the central main dining area, now with dance floor. This opens out to the east with a wall of windows and a small courtyard garden. The north wall is the serving counter, behind which the last third, that of the kitchen.

The first need met – a floor upon which to work that is comfortable, our attention turned to the ceiling. A 1970s square-panel drop ceiling above which appeared to be satisfyingly thick and solid concrete. Except not. Whatever it is, held together with a chicken-wire-like mesh, it has the consistency of dried, ground porridge. Above which …

Dasniya cut enough of a hole to stick a head through, which we then worked on opening out to the area enclosed by the next level of structure – 4-5mm steel wire. Cutting the middle out of this and cleaning the edges, venturing up into what previously was only seen in flash-lit shots from my camera.

The steel wire is bound to 50mm wide T-beams, in turn welded to I-beams about 120mm high. They in turn bolted to the uprights above which they are mirrored beneath the scrabble-tile sloping concrete roof.

Much clutter and chunks of porridge clag.

Dasniya bores the first hole through; it’s almost a waste of an impact drill being so sandy. I think the paint on the underside assists significantly in preventing unison of ceiling and floor.

I do a bit of cleaning, soaking the exposed rim in acrylic paint to try and bond it, and scrabble above also, to set the first suspension rope. We have plans to bore at least four more over the weekend, and perhaps others if the urge takes us.

Last night after class (many regulars making the new space feel very comfortable), Dasniya rehearsed MA, which she is performing in Ljubljana next weekend (and perhaps a small rehearsal showing next Wednesday after Yoga+Shibari also).

dasniya mit schlagbohrer

kantine dachboden

dasniya, hartmut, fertig mit seilehänger

Written on August 30, 2011 by frances

Madrid

Already in Madrid three days since arriving Saturday morning and sliding across town on the Metro to walk into Dasniya’s weekend Shibari workshop, Michael and Gala both there also. We four are together this week (and they three last week also) at Compagñia Nacional de Danza de Españia, around 20 minutes walk from here, starting mid-morning and fleeing just before security would kick us out at 19h.

The sky is empty blue, dry and hot like Adelaide. Proper summer, that is.

view up calle de moratin

the roof looking east-ish

the roof looking north-ish

Written on July 31, 2011 by frances

A day in Gent

A short pause for two days before the next project begins. Gala and I have been working together and in each other’s pockets for two weeks, but haven’t had much time to spend together doing not very much. Somewhere in the past week, the idea of Gent came up, and in keeping with my weekend trips to nearby cities, we jumped on a train early afternoon.

The last and only time I’ve been to Gent was when Dasniya and I missed the last train from Brugge, and found ourselves at 1am or so sitting in Gent-Sint-Pieters, one of the more pretty train stations I’ve passed through. It turns out the entire city is quite intent on showing up that edifice. Our first destinations, once arrived, were a pair of bookshops. It turns out the English bookshop is nothing on Saint George’s, and the other one, despite a multilingual website was firmly Flemish.

Naturally, we decided to find a café to drink hot chocolate, eat chocolate croissants and so on, and so took a tram all the way to the end of the line, missing whatever it was we were looking for. This is though a rather good way to see and feel what a city is, and Gent, somewhat like Amsterdam is small and with little of attraction beyond its inner confines.

What is in this region though is delightful. Spires and and turrets stab at the vault above; symmetry occurs only enough to be folded into and out of , as a leitmotif around which other ideas flourish. Churches, yes, of which there are many, but castles, warehouses, dwellings and theatres all take part in this. The rooflines also show the beginnings of what is possibly best expressed in Amsterdam, and like that city the canals break across streets, winding the city together.

We walked for some time, feeling for the vague direction of a theater and nearby café Gala had once visited. Around 19h, down a street along a low rise, she saw this: Kunstencentrum Vooruit. This is a beautiful theatre, arched windows filled with red drapes leading ever higher until overtaken by turrets and other accumulations, one continuing upwards in unrepeating differentiations on each floor until arriving at a small, steep, windowed roof. Another opening outwards to a curved balcony high above, just large enough for a single person, sprung out into the void above the street. I could surely live in that.

The café was closed, but across the road. Oh really worth coming to Gent for. A small pub/café, some tables outside, but inside is the place to sit. We stayed only a pair of hours, but amused ourselves very much. Amidst the old signs for beer and seeing machines, dark woodwork, all scuffed and worn, statues of jesus, saints, apostles were to be found. And amidst all that also, we threaded together a quite debauched story of the real purpose of this bar. Perhaps to say, ‘Dikmaker’, ‘Slijterei’, ‘Krak Pils’, ‘Slagroom’, and other such words were too much of a temptation for our soiled minds to resist (especially when aforementioned jesus was greeting with open arms and beatific expression the deliverer of said Krak Pils).

The eetcafe is ‘t Gebed zonder Eind, which is not so hard to find, and the owner told us of a similar one in Brussels, which we intend to move on to next.

gent – across bridge

gent – barges on the canals

gent – kunstencentrum vooruit

gent – chair in ‘t gebed zonder eind

gent – ‘t gebed zonder eind

Written on June 19, 2011 by frances

Finissage der KunstAktienausstellung

Saturday night was the Finissage of the KunstAktienausstellung in Uferhallen. Some hours were spent wandering around the entire Hallen looking at art, trees, clouds.

In the generator hall an installation artist was working on his project for an upcoming exhibition. It is a TARDIS. The hall in itself is vast and high-ceilinged, and the late-evening light sent a warmth and glow through what in winter is as oppositely cold and grim. In this sat a square wooden cube, about the size of a large, high-ceilinged room.

On the far side was something that played such delightful havoc with my perception; a slit perhaps half a meter wide exposing the innards. Whiteness and light so uniformly even and depthless as to confuse me to think I was staring into something infinite. An optical illusion yes, but on a grand scale and one that subtle enough to not be aware of.

The paint was drying and I found, once I entered, that by covering my eyes so as to desensitise them to light, the effect was magnified. As was it by blinking exaggeratedly, or moving around, holding a hand up. I became a little silly in there, once even thumping into a wall I had no idea was so near. Dr Who would love it, I think – though he has his own ‘bigger on the inside’ box.

The photos can’t convey the perceptual weirdness of it, a physical dislocation almost like being drugged, still … photos …

sun in generator hall

its bigger on the inside

uferhallen tardis

some clouds, crooked building, ufo

suspended disc and traveling robot lights

Written on June 16, 2011 by frances

drilling foundations at night

Riding home from Yoga+Bondage with Dasniya, around 1am the city still, especially along my favourite to-and-from Kreuzberg route. From Oranienplatz a detour leads beside the wasteland of the wall, now an impromptu park and wild, overgrown space.

Through an upheaval of new inner-city apartments (as if Berlin can ever be anything but inner-city, yet still …) before turing a bend and arriving at the river. Which will be on one side until we cross and leave it at the far end of Museuminsel.

It’s always peaceful this way, no cars and few people. Arriving at Unter den Linden and passing through the heart of Berlin, at night on a bicycle, the Dom, Fernseherturm, the pit of the Palast, all the museums … I often think what a joy to live here.

Leaving the Spree, over Oranienburgerstr and winding through the small streets near Sophienstr, up into the industrial and public housing parts of Wedding, alongside Volkspark Humboldthain and home.

More night construction along the banks of the Spree beside Neues Museum…

drilling at night

Written on May 9, 2011 by frances

(renamed as) mm ∫-1x dt/dv ≥ ⨍(dy:fr:hf)

The last few days, Dasniya, Hartmut and myself had been in another Fabrik, with another mobile gantry. More dust and dirt, grime, rope adventure. We have somewhere new to play. More to talk about also. John Cage makes an appearance.

Yesterday was the opening of ~~nameless~~, not far from Uferhallen, in an old factory. In darkness later, with lights burning behind glass once more, it felt as if life was returning. The past weeks, ~~nameless~~, along with many others have been taking advantage of this emptiness … an entire Fabrik, empty! One building – the smallest – with three floors and an attic, the other with four spread along two sides of the yard, then more single-storied buildings including the beautiful, wooden-roofed Embassy Room.

For summer, or at least until September, this will be a place for art, and with their histories in opera, it might be the only artists’ Fabrik of its kind in Berlin where performance is close to the heart.

So we made noise with the gantry – not as fast as the one in Uferhallen, but higher and noisier – and over some days made a thing. We performed this last night, sliding in after the fourth number from Berlin Art Orchestra, who accompanied us for the binding and suspending.

~~A video might appear soon, until then, a photo.~~

Also, Dasniya and I, separately and together, and with others will be having workshops, classes and works there. More on this soon, except to say for now, I’ll be teaching yoga in the mornings from later this month, and Dasniya has a Yoga+Bondage workshop on the 28th and 29th.

~~removed~~

Written on January 14, 2011 by frances

la monnaie

Strange I have no category for pain. Two days after feeling so comfortable hanging for half an hour, I find myself shoved deep into the ropes not able to find any comfort. mmm pain. Tomorrow I shall hang on the other side, as my left side is worn out.

We made it into the theatre today, wigs and all. A run of Act II, and with wigs, lights and hurried sense of immanent importance, I decided to do the hanging topless again (it’s mostly easier to tie without clothes in the way), and so felt a little obvious surrounded by everyone in trackpants and singlets.

The set is huge. I’ve seen Act I and have no idea how the techies are going to turn around that monster in the pause. Rainforest *zap* big white box. Deeply envious Gala gets to climb all over it.

BUT!

I feel like not saying too much about it, especially as “Hi! I’ve read your blog!” is becoming quite common. Writing about my own work is different. It’s also a method to clarify what I’m doing, so is quite personal. Writing about someone else’s … I have an acute sense of not-stepping-on-toes and the uncomfortable feeling of clown feet.

I spent much of the remainder, once unroped and dosed on aspirin, lurking in the wings with camera. Part of me would love to put up all the photos now, but I’ll wait until we open.

the extras, backstage

parsifal in three acts

the extras move sidestage

the kiss

spread fingers levitate table

prompt side bound spectre

untying untying

… en vernietigt deze valse pracht

a step a step

finish finish

klingsor returns after

parsifal kundry after

Written on December 24, 2010 by frances

ein bühnenweinfestspiel, some books, a story

“A funny story.”

(As I remember it from 9am, or, how black metal brings us all together.)

“I said to my brother, “No one ever makes dance to Throbbing Gristle”. Then he was in Adelaide and said, “!!! Throbbing Gristle!”. So I googled ‘Frances d’Ath’ and then someone said you, here.”

(Hello Anne-Lise.)

Some warming up. Some suspensions, but the ropes have left some deep bruises making for enjoyment-absence. A short rehearsal and then a look through the libretto. A run out the door to find beautiful Ivo waiting for me, just leaving for Sofia. We go to a bookshop and I come out with Howard Barker’s Death, The One and the Art of Theatre (as does Ivo) and Frank Dikötter’s Mao’s Great Famine.

Dasniya, Gala and Jorgos continue with some suspensions and we all trawl the snow with our boots towards the shops for food and home to talk and eat and soon eat once more.

(Addendum: Parsifal is blogging Parsifal.)

apprehending the grid

whiteness escapes stage right

jorgos, dasniya and fire curtain

audience absent theatre

5, 6, 7, 8

parsifal – ein bühnenweinfestspiel

Written on October 16, 2010 by frances

uferhallen at night

Apparently the fire department will come and take me down if I attempt to climb the chimney in Uferhallen. Well, it has a ladder, and with a harness and a couple of ‘biners on slings I should be safe within the relative context of the word. Photos from the pinnacle at dawn would be beautiful.

The last days it was surrounded by a silverish bulbous alien abode (or maybe Zaha Hadid was visiting); a ring around its base that last night glowed from within, even resembling the much-reduced Beijing bird’s nest stadium. Uferhallen was opening. After many long months of drilling, hammering, digging, moving piles of earth from one place to another, various loud noises associated with engineering, the studios are finished.

Berlin’s Wedding now is home to something of the size and feel of Vienna’s Arsenal; 14 studios on the south side of the street alone, for Tanzfabrik, Hochschulübergreifendes Zentrum Tanz Berlin and others, and even more vast space on the north-side.

I finally got to go into the old generator hall beneath the chimney last night and my photos really don’t do any justice. It is cavernous … and the stairwell leading to the underground labrynth … mmm I would like to venture down there for exploring and camera-ing.

Stumbled home around 1am, not too late but the week has included Osada Steve (who has beautiful red fingernails at the moment) and much Shibari, Kinbaku and other rope adventures with Dasniya, so tiredness was in order.

uferhallen - 1 uferhallen – 1