Some photos from Friday set-up of S.J. Norman’s Take This, For It Is My Body, at Science Gallery London’s Blood exhibition this last weekend. S.J., Carly Sheppard, and Naretha William manifesting Australia in Peckham, South London.
Sparky the Dish Pig mixes bodgy wiring with water.
S.J Norman, Carly Sheppard, Naretha Williams. In London. This weekend.
In Take This, For It Is My Body, small groups of 6 audience members are invited to enjoy a traditional afternoon tea. They are seated and served a delightful spread of tea and fresh scones with jam and cream — a homely, nostalgic treat — which they can opt to consume or otherwise in the full knowledge that the scone batter includes a quantity of “aboriginal blood” (the artist’s own).
Take This, For It Is My Body
Performed by: Carly Sheppard, Naretha Williams and S.J Norman.
The artist wishes to the acknowledge that this work was conceived and developed on the lands of the Gadigal and Gundungurra peoples, whose sovereignty has never been ceded.
Saturday 28 October, 2pm–10pm (15 minutes each)
Sunday 29 October, 2pm–7pm (15 minutes each)
Safehouse 1, 139 Copeland Road, London SE15 3SN
Part of the Becoming Blood Weekender.
Booking is free via our Eventbrite page here.
Please Note: This event is free to book but we ask attendees to make a voluntary donation of £5.00 to National Justice Project. You can do this via their website here.
I found this photo, cleaning out my camera before yet another trip to Gemäldegalerie: the Danube is behind the line of trees.
S.J wrote and talked with us about aftercare for Rest Area. Kali Rose said the snake I ran over on my e-bike was a good omen, and she’s never going to let that go. I arrive in Vienna, cafés I’d aimed for are closed for lunch so I find myself in Café Jelinek, a bit off Mariahilfestr. neighbourhoods I’ve biked through before. A second breakfast, after our all-’80s singing one in Landgasthaus Rodlhof on 3 hours sleep, raked from the work and hungover, is a big mug of coffee, croissant and honey, bowl of fruit and yoghourt, 4 slices bread with cream cheese, chives, tomatoes, all for 9,50 €. On the plane, easyJet to Schönefeld, they offer me two seats, ’cos I’m mad tall. I fall over myself into it. 4 hours later, a half before midnight and the Danube churning in my lungs, I arrive home. Katrin has left dinner on the table for me. Aftercare all the way.
From the break during Friday night’s première, No. 4 van is S.J Norman’s Rest Area.
I stood on the Ottensheim ferry each night, crossing and recrossing the Danube, the air growing cold and damp. Water. Spirits of the drowned. Direct line to Australian ghost travellers. A fog that hangs on the surface and coats metal with condensation, soaks into wood and lungs. I stood on the ferry’s Wilhering side, furthest from the wheelhouse, while Rest Area was in the van beside me. Unlit and isolated, I opened the van door twice every fifteen minutes, one person in, one person out. I breathed the Danube air, scraping my airways, sluicing my heat out. This is two minutes of the sound outside Rest Area, from the fastest part of the river, on Sunday night at 8:20pm. (Sounds like gargling static, but a memory nonetheless.)