MICHAEL GIBBS, PIECE IN A MINOR KEYBedaux b.v., Nieuwe Leliestraat 96hs, 28 Aprilby Jan van Raay
ARTZIEN Vol. 1 No. 7, May 1979
The room at Bedaux was fairly dark, lit only by blue light. Viewers
sat grouped to one end of the lower floor. Michael began by switching
on two tape recorders placed on the balcony. One tape, Michael
speaking, reading...words..."start again...," interrupted by a
fragment of nostalgic music by Schumann; and the second, predominant
tape, Michael humming...it is Schumann too? He stops the first tape of
words and music, the humming continues, and he turns the blue lights
off and reddish-orange ones on. He comes downstairs, switching on
tapes there, reading, biographical..."I was born on the eve of World
War II..." On and off, the tapes fuse over each other..."slipping
between pages..." "For me she was perfection...she was as lovely as
day itself..." Up and down the stairs, Michael starts and stops the
tapes on four cassette recorders. "I was born at dawn under the
astrological sign of Aries..." "...success should be great..."
A barrage of words, feelings, thoughts, information. You strain to hear, to
select from the bombardment and chaos. But people in the audience are
talking, too, talking over, under and around Michael's words as he
choreographs. One tape whispers...secrets? Shadows of words, dark and musty.
Michael goes to a new place on the balcony, spotlit between shrouds of white
curtain. Holding a large book, slowly turning the pages as sand and crisp
dead leaves falls from them gently to the floor one level below. The secret
whispering continues; mysteries of words and books and secret worlds
imprisoned behind the spine and cover. "...gently eyes like a gazelle...she
loved rats."
The pages turned, the ashes fallen, the book is closed and it is over. The
piece had a freshness about it; fresh around the dust of words, of material
gathered spontaneously, not after long thought, but after a living and
dreaming, of loving and collecting. It was as a purge of pages and
paragraphs dog-eared long ago in books to be looked back on. A collage of
precious fragments turned into an absurdity, or something more difficult to
reach because it is so precious?
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