Yesterday’s tally of art fans came to 3,500 lookers. It felt like it in
Santiago Sierra’s room where the vibe and hum of the humans almost seemed to be
pushing me into the wall. Their warm bodies filled the room so much so that I
was claustrophobic and anxious. It was the Invasion
of the Body Snatchers come to life. It is difficult to come to any
conclusions about this piece. Art fans responses cover a broad spectrum of
attitudes. The laughing and sniggering certainly stand out and I surmise this
has more to do with their social unease at confronting the work head on. The
door openers and slammers are as numerous as the first week, however, when the
seagulls’ flutter and mass they pick at me with their verbal thoughts, jibes,
questions and occasional touches.
Indiscriminate Mortar's fall scaring the living shit out of me, even though they were
far away Iraq 1991
When grouped together the visitors change the light in the room. As the
move in and out I can see subtle changes in line and shadow in my space. It is
as if on a bright sunny day a rolling black cloud looms heavily on the horizon.
The light does not entirely vanish it dampens and perhaps in time the cloud
dissipates and the light returns. It has been a fascinating experience and one
that I am fortunate to have been given. The difference between the first days
and the last with respect to my corner meditations is tremendous. I am mostly
aloof from my surroundings and create pictures, thoughts and fantasies to keep
me rooted to my spot.
American Soldiers - friendly and extremely generous
Here's another short story I wrote a few years ago about my time in Iraq. The writing is a bit rough but the I feel its sentiment works.
NKA
It was fifty degrees and a blue
mammoth sky heaved upon me heavy metal Karma. The Giri-Pit-Valley shattered and
I was left adrift in a sea of light. Ever since I set foot in Iraq I had been uneven,
disjointed and scared. The rush of abandoning the safety of familiar
surroundings left me nauseated.
We sat on our
packs fingering our weapons listening out for the magic word. I felt a rush of lust
to get into the belly of the chopper. Nothing to that moment of my life matched
the intensity of deploying to Iraq. The shooting had stopped [officially].
However, information abounded [unofficially] that our enemy had not [unofficially]
extracted themselves and we could fire [at will] under various circumstances [officially].
A blatant bureaucratic
sociopathetic
mess. Yet, there I was somewhat intact but anxious in mind and body [no spirit].
Images of Sydney, its ferries, beaches, bridges and red roofs had disappeared
from my accessible memory. My senses unreadable, my fleshy hard drive knocked
senseless by incessant fucking fanatical heat and a dose of cultural clap. Inside
the chopper through a thick fragrance of gasoline I tried to talk with the
others but they were disinterested. We were individuals and when we dropped into
the valley it was everyone for themselves.
Children always willing to share laughter and smiles
I unravelled
quickly. I didn’t know who I was. Though, I didn’t know it. I met this other
‘me’ when he [me] unearthed himself [me] to me in the darkness of the gun pit
where. In the hot blackness I shivered with fear when I realised that he was I
and I was he [identity snapped]. Enclosed in a bubble of darkness sounds crept
in from the dark. Ugly sounds and I felt compelled to fire indiscriminately. To
control my impulses I counted to thirty, three times. Alone, frightened and excited
with one fist on the gun I held on. My insipid mental experience became an all-encompassing
terror that dug deeper than I realised. It was real and even in the daylight fear
came looking for me. It was a crash unable to stop.Back in
Townsville we leaped for joy when told of our Iraq deployment. Though I was surprised
when tanks cruised into Kuwait concluding the mother of all wars. The modern
age brought us the two-minute burger and the 20-minute war. In my seedy
barrack’s room I guzzled beer hypnotised by flickering green images drafting
the coming apocalypse. I was going overseas and no peace-mongering politician
was going to stop me.
American soldier, he was New Hampshire
Weeks later I’m
pissing fear in a pit. Nevertheless, I followed the rule ‘be afraid’ but don’t
look afraid. We undertook misery paparazzi patrols through the refugee camps, scorched
gassed villages and sewerage swept clinics. It was inhumanity on a massive
scale and nothing I did made a difference. For every injection, bandage, sweets,
cordial or food parcel I handed out another nest of dirty wriggling fingers
slithered out. They grabbed and groped at everything. It was always more, much more
than I had to give and they sucked me dry. Before long I would shout and treat them
with hatred. I lost sight of their plight and sneered at their desperation. Was
I another person or did the experience uncover the true me?
By the time we
were re-deploying for home nothing had been achieved. It was over for us. And
what about them? I didn’t give a rat’s fuck in shit.
Our final patrol
was a leisurely Sunday drive in the country. It was beautiful apart from the
starving, the stateless, the wounded the sick and the dead. The monochromatic
landscape of bombed out villages and towns added to the mise en scene. By then I couldn’t remember who I once was. The
villages were sickly brown and sooty like the inhabitants. They had been ripped
by historical convenience, but mostly by physical forces. In Iraq I had felt
the reverberations of explosions but none fell near enough. The negative
effects of bombs raining down on humans cannot be understated. However, back
then at this point of history I was dumb to reflection.
Iraqi spy (left) and British Royal Marine Nick
We stopped in the village centre. Three terrified children surrounded and implored
me to follow. Inexplicably I wandered off alone. I followed them into a dank
dark house. The stench was overwhelming and I caught some vomit in my hand.
The children ran
down the rabbit warren. I held my weapon out in front me as I moved down the hallway.
Ahead the children stopped and I walked into a foul smelling chamber. A child’s
bony arm pointed to a bundle of rags in the corner. I looked and the details
emerged one moment after the next. A resonating ting of flies feasting and the
fetid stench of rottenness kissed me. Moronically I pointed my weapon at it in
retaliation. I stepped closer and saw a sniggering jawbone of a rabid dog.
Flies flew manically in and about its head and it shook hideously. I lunged
back in disgust and fright. Fear seared itself permanently in my head. I was
vulnerable my heart stammered and a wash of freezing anxiousness overwhelmed
me. I panted and looked away. My rifle hung flaccidly. The children stood still
as I placed my rifle barrel on its head. I ran quickly from the room and passed
down the corridor feeling for light and air.
In the context
of my life in middle suburbia a war continues where a war officially
[unofficially?] ended. I am unfortunately happy.
Song,
‘This is my beautiful house, this is my beautiful wife and this is my beautiful
barbeque.’
It wasn’t a dog.
Song continues, ‘my god…what have I done?’
Last day tomorrow Art Fans hope to see you there.
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