On Location 3: Appliqué

As part of my investigation into queering spaces and creating a queer intervention on your surroundings, I decided to go to a bar in Falmouth and apply some make up. This is envisaged to be a series of performances of putting on make up in public places and how people react to it.

Again, I can't tell you how scary this was - the knowledge that you were going to do it, but the people around you probably don't know what the hell is happening and probably don't even care. Still, the intrusive presence of the camera makes people shaky. As soon as you start clicking off photos, people think, "What is he taking pictures of?", or they move out of the frame, or object to their privacy being invaded.

So I set up the tripod, but then I bottled it. Fortunately, I was waiting for a friend and so I waited until she came and she said, "Not doing it is sometimes just as important as doing it" and I think this is an important discovery – asking ourselves why we feel this way. The reason I wanted to do it was because I knew the gesture would look strong on the image, but I was surprised that I still felt constrained by perceived societal gender roles.

Determined, I downed three pints of milk stout and – emboldened by beer – I asked my friend if she would press the button while I put on make up.

One of the biggest problems was that it took place indoor and I had to compensate for the indoor light. I wanted a reasonable depth of field so I had an aperture size of 8, but that meant the exposure was quite long – 1.6 seconds. The ISO setting also had to be boosted to 500... I really wanted as little grain as possible. Example shot:

I wore a suit to emphasis the male gender performative in order to openly subvert that with make up and provide a strong masculine/feminine contrast.

At one point, someone came up to me and asked what i was doing. I just honestly replied "It's a piece called Appliqué about putting on make up in public places." He then went on to tell me that once upon a time he studied photography and we laughed about Jeff Wall, before he moved on.

I took 74 photos but only two quite captured the effect of Appliqué. Because of the low light, it was only the strong red colour of the lipstick that managed to show through. And so I colourised this to emphasise the monochromatic flavour of the scene:

Appliqué

The long exposure time actually adds to the anonymity of the people in my surroundings because of the motion blur as they turn their heads, coupled with the removal of colour, the queer gesture of applying the lipstick actually becomes something that 'gives colour' to the scene. The figure in the foreground looks off into the distance, momentarily distracted. The lipstick runs off the lips... Is this an absent-minded gesture or is it a sign of mania? Are the people dressed in reds and blues in the background also tainted in a different colour? Are they tainted with queerness?

I feel like Appliqué could become a series... Perhaps if I just distilled it down to a man in a suit applying lipstick rather than 'full make up' it would be simple, but encapsulate a sense of queerness and this would be a quick, simple action that would be less intimidating.

What the Camera Sees (And Shouldn't See)

So far my investigations have focused on things that have been aimed directly at the camera, or that the figure in the photo has a knowledge of the camera that is being posed at them. I decided to stage an investigation that was much more private and perhaps more sinister. In this setting, the camera becomes a voyeur. Or, perhaps voyeur is too passive a word as the camera becomes more like something that exposes – quite literally – the subject.

In fact, 'exposure' becomes quite an interesting term if we take it both in a literal and photographic term. To expose something in photography is to shed light on it – it is an act of 'throwing light' on a subject. Perhaps this is why we believe in the veracity of the photograph: we believe that it brings something to light that was previously kept in the dark. In the very early days of photography, this was perceived to be the 'tabula rasa' of the film: an uncarved block that could only have what was exposed by light impressed on its surface. However, exposure takes on a deeper meaning when the camera makes all acts – including private acts – public. The camera loves to expose as – through angle, frame and lighting – it reflects things back at you in a new light. The camera is not a voyeur, but sometimes a very vicious tattle-tale who only sees things from its own perspective.

In this investigation, I Heart Television, I decided to invert the knowledge of the camera, or the expectation of enactment happening when the still image is viewed, and make it an exposer – an intrusion on an extremely private act. It started with a literal interpretation of a gesture, loving your television, and took it to a level of mania and hysteria.

I'm not saying that the poses or acts weren't staged – obviously they were – but I tried to introduce a mania or erotic impulsivity to it.

Tuning In

Television Love

The set up of these pictures felt very 'Readers Wives': there was something very domestic about the shots and very seedy about the setting adding to the image's uneasiness. Also, the deranged and ominous motivations behind the gesture – clearly driven by eroticism – provide

I found this series became replete when it followed a sequence and had a poignant 'ending':

I Heart Television

Here we can see the mania and the indulgence, as well as the love and entertainment the TV provides, but for me it's the last image that completes it. It feels like a frenzied action driven by an uncontrollable eroticism, which then inevitably ends in shame. The camera exposes this shame and amplifies it. It focuses on the ridiculousness and makes the figure in the picture feel it. It makes the viewer feel uneasy for peeping into this private act. And what is most surprising is that even though the act is sexual, the over-riding question (or perhaps it is underlying) is did the person actually enjoy this act? The pleasure seems to be taken beyond the point of pleasure to sadness and pain.

I think the interesting thing about this experiment is what is it the camera should see, and should it expose what it sees? Do we even have a choice about what is exposed by the camera and what isn't? To the camera, all acts are fair game.

Also, there is a difference between the knowledge of the presence of the camera and a sense of enactment where the figure expects to be viewed, and presenting the viewer with a sense of privacy and a 'forced enactment'. This 'force' presents the viewer with unease, but could also give birth to intrigue.

On Location 1: The Beach

I've recently been interested by the idea of the performance intervention, or how an intervention leaves very little trace after it happens. The intervention is a gesture that has an accidental audience at the time of capture and is usually documented as a still image after the fact. The viewers of the still image are a more considered audience and the intervention is re-enacted when the image is viewed as an encounter between the photograph and the viewer.

Taking advantage of Falmouth's varied scenery (rural, beach etc), I decided to start investigating this sense of intervention, by using elements of the absurd to intrude on the landscape. For my first investigation, I decided to go to the beach on one of the coldest days in January and have an impromptu beach party. The actions were simple – for instance trying to pour a glass of wine or blowing a party blower in front of the camera. Of course, I also dressed in a party hat, frilly shirt and bow tie.

There were two elements to this: firstly, it was the confidence to actually dress up and just 'do' something. Secondly, it was how well I could take these images by myself on location. I decided to use natural light and set the camera to a low ISO setting (200) to try and retain as much natural light as possible. I did plan more actions, such as popping party poppers, but it was so windy, it made it near impossible.

Beach Party Blower

What I love about these images is there are evidently other people on the beach, but they largely try and ignore what is happening. In fact, the 'accidental audience' met the actions with confusion and gave me a wide berth. Their dogs, however, were much more curious. I had many dogs running up to me and barking at me while their owners were very embarrassed and tried to shoo them away from me. This was especially difficult if I would set the timer on the camera, run for a pose and then have a dog running after me. I think people were also very suspicious of me. Some of them watched me to make sure I wasn't doing anything harmful or damaging – I was actually surprised at the level of concern at what appeared to me to be a completely ridiculous action.

Funnily enough, there were also other photographers on the beach who were trying to capture the waves and scenic landscape. I  found it interesting that they made a decision that was contrary to mine: they purposely chose not to have me in their frame because I was ruining their image of a picturesque beach in January. So in this way, there was an interesting photographic dichotomy going on that day. There was me who was deliberately trying to find the ridiculous, the unusual or the abnormal – in fact I was creating it, causing it. And on the other hand, the other photographers had made a decision to cut out this happening. I won't go so far as to say they weren't looking for the extraordinary – scenery in itself, or simply photographing the grey clouds could be considered just that – but they actively chose to move somewhere else on the beach to preserve its illusion of tranquility.

So a question arises here about which of the photographs is more deceitful: mine for constructing a happening to be documented, or theirs for making a choice not to document something that was happening as simultaneously as the beautiful clouds and rolling waves?

Out To Sea

After a while, the fact that I was dressed in a party hat and sunglasses seemed to fade slightly. However, the focus on constructing the image becomes more intense. Because there is an 'end purpose', the achievement of this purpose becomes primary and the performance becomes focused towards that end. Does it matter that the performance is solely for the camera? If the real focus of the performance is to happen when the image is constructed and printed, then no it doesn't. The process of taking images becomes a rehearsal – you take them over and over until you get it right and then instantly the 'right' image becomes the one you present to your audience.

The weather was a constricting factor throughout the shoot. At one point I tried to go into the sea without my shoes on, but my feet went numb, and running backwards and forwards to the camera became a hassle. Also, I was going to do some shots in just trunks, but it didn't happen because the tripod kept blowing over and there was a limited time I could spend that undressed.

I Wished You Were There (But You Weren't)

What has struck me about some of the images, like the first one on this blog and the one pictured above, is that there is a sense of absence. The gaze in 'I Wished You Were There' says "I am having a great time, but only because you can see me now." Which leads to the question, was I actually having a good time when I was on the beach in the first place, or do I just want the viewer to think that? It very much reminds me of Baudrillard's comparison of the hyper-real to the holiday snapshot. When we look back at it, we convince ourselves we were having a good time in the photo because we smile, gesture or pose in such a way. However, it could have just been another boring and ordinary day.

Nonetheless, this puts some kind of emphasis on absence in the still image not of the performer, but actually of the viewer. The expectancy of the figure in the photograph is that he is eventually viewed, that he comes to life once more. I titled this particular photo 'I Wished You Were There (But You Weren't)' partially because I wanted to encapsulate a sense of fun that the audience wants to share, but also slightly to convey a sense of disappointment on behalf of the person in the photograph that he was essentially celebrating alone.

For the first intervention, I think it was a good experiment. It challenged how gutsy I could be and also a lot can be achieved by acting on artistic impulse, in terms of realising in whatever way an idea that's bouncing around in your head. I learned a bit more about where and how my practice could go and would probably return to this set up with a better camera and tripod, with perhaps slightly more stable weather.

I wondered if the gesture of the action in itself was strong enough to attract much of an accidental audience, but it certainly made me contextualise where the still image sat in relation to an action that you were doing right now.

The Ghostly Photograph

The idea of of photographs becomes haunted or ghostly is something that Barthes and Baudrillard both discuss. The photograph has an unholy power to collapse past and present into one moment, and also the power of evocative nostalgia – sometimes the power to bring what is dead back to life.

I started to play with this notion of 'ghosting' by using long shutter speed times in order to capture a momentary impression. The place in which I experimented was in itself a transient space – a room on campus that I stay at overnight. It made me think of other places that we temporarily own, or non-places. For instance, when we go on holiday and stay in a hotel, we often refer to the hotel room as 'my' room, 'my' bed and 'home'. However, it has been a home to many people at one time.

This impermanence is a quality that performance shares: it exists as a brief impression on both the environment and on the mind of the person who witnesses it. I think this ghosting effect very accurately captures this sense of something once being there, but now no longer. In a sense, all of our actions become ghosted and leave the tiniest, momentary impression on the environment.

Falling Into Bed

I found that choosing where you wanted the deepest impression to be left was one of the most important parts of this exercise. For example, the final point – lying on the bed – left the longest exposure, but the motion blur gives the feeling that the person could either be getting up or lying down. As long as the gesture has a cyclical nature, the gesture stars to take on a repetitive power of its own.

Faceless

This particular image, I was shaking my head side to side. I thought it might give the impression of looking around the room, but instead the lasting image is of a faceless, more frantic being. The motion produces a very nervous kinetic energy – it almost buzzes.

The most effective image came from a very subtle impression:

I Woz(n't) (T)Here

The impression is almost unnoticeable at first, but on second glance it is evident the shadow in doorway is a figure. I have showed it to people since who always squint as though they wonder why I am showing them a picture of a room, before they say, "Ohhhh" and realise.

The image for me encapsulates the sense of someone or something having been there and now is there no longer. There is also some question as to what the figure is going through – Loss? Grief? Upset? The transience of the mood is also captured here as a passing moment. I also think it gives a sense of unease about putting context to what is essentially a 'non place'. This room may, over time, be populated by many more people. However, it is now no longer an impersonal, anonymous room you can make your own – it is haunted by this event, by this figure and by their emotion.

I think this making a place out of anonymous rooms and also trying to track the 'impressions' that we as human beings leave on buildings has an interesting angle of transience and perhaps highlights the disappearance of action effectively – that ultimately the world is populated by ghosts who live near-invisible marks on the physical environment.

The house where the universe ended

I've recently developed a bizarre interest in quantum physics, largely because it is a science that seems to explain how we still know relatively little about this universe. I mean stuff we can actually touch or see only accounts for 0.4% of the total stuff that makes up 'space'. And we don't know this because we can see the particles of this 'other' matter. We know it because of the effect it has on the matter we can see.

Anyway, as a consequence I've recently been researching the ultimate fate of the universe and there are three ways that we could go. The one I found most interesting was 'heat death'. It is the theory that everything in this universe will eventually die – every planet and every star will in billions of billions of years eventually die out leaving a 'dead universe'. What I found so fascinating about this idea is that it is so... Comforting. That there is a shared fate for everyone and everything regardless of how big you are or how much energy, or even how long you exist for.

But don't let it start you on a depressive spiral about how futile everything is. Instead, I really find it's something that should be embraced. Live, do what you have to do and know that no matter how many books you write, songs you sing or pieces you paint, one day they'll be part of a world of lost knowledge. Then breathe a sigh of relief, and stop being so hard on yourself.

Pleasure and Pain

A student e-mailed me the other day with some questions about my artistic practice, which is always really great in the way that I could talk about myself and what I do forever, but it's always better when someone invites that dialogue. Anyway, one of the questions was about live art and why people would choose to cut themselves under the bracket of 'performance art' and defy natural instincts of not cutting oneself.

Before I go any further, I wouldn't like to say I am advocating self-harm. I have never judged anyone for their desire to self-express inside or outside of the context of 'art', BUT I proposed those artists who are actively engaged with pain do so because the aesthetic of performance art lies within this dilemma. Live art's aesthetic lies in that relationship between pleasure and pain in order to achieve beauty.

My conclusion was "To bring it to a more down to earth everyday level, when you really love someone it is the best feeling in the world and yet it hurts so much at the same time. That is what true beauty is all about - feeling pleasure and pain simultaneously."

For some reason these words came back to haunt me tonight when I listened to 'Summer In Siam' by The Pogues. It is a song that reminds me of someone I loved. It is a song that reminds me of falling in love on a warm summer's day. And yet the lyrics simply state "When it's summer in Siam, then all I really know is that I truly am in the summer in Siam." It makes my heart ache because of the simplicity of the words mixed with the memories.

I have avoided listening to this song for such a long time until tonight. And I felt it: it was a small reminder of what love is, what beauty is. An indescribable joy mixed with a pointed melancholy. The pleasure that seems to fill you with mindfulness, with wanting to be right there in that moment, and yet seems to ache only in your heart.

Next phase...

I think there's a phase in every emerging performance artist's life where they wonder "After this, what next?".

It's such an interesting question- Mainly because I believe that the 'what next' is the default mode of an artist. One of my heroes, Paul Draper, once said that "nothing is ever finished- you're just happy to abandon it at a certain point." And this is true. While there are the perfectionists out there, I find that I work better with pressure and deadlines- there's more importance for the piece to happen. And yet, at some point it has to be left... otherwise you'd end up doing the same piece forever.

Another one of my favourite artists, Laurie Anderson, said that no-one is ever bad at what they love to do. And that's a thought to keep you going through all your artistic self doubt

Love Is A Number

I have been working on a performance piece called 'Love Is A Number' to perform at the Scenepool at Camden People's Theatre in February, and I have been surprised at how a few words can really challenge your whole behaviour. In the piece I talk about taking risks, and I thought it would be totally unfair of me to ask the audience to take more risks if I myself have not been risking anything. I had decided to 'practice what I preach'.

So, of late, I have been acting on those surreptitious smiles and casual glances and, believe me, it is like walking through life with your eyes open. So perhaps my theory that love is a numbers game is correct- the more impulses you act on, the closer you get to hitting that magical number...

However, if I ever do crack the mathematical formula to falling in love, I'm publishing a book and making my millions off of it.