Simlâ Civelek enters her performance in a beige shift dress and metallic heals: apparel difficult not to read as yuppie businesswear or the garb of a disaffected housewife. (I’m conscious of this hyper-gendered description. Men’s suits signify across various social and economic lines, and I held back comment on John Court’s black activewear and cargopants earlier today. The ambiguity of character afforded by men’s clothing has no equivalence in women’s fashion. The performer’s dress and appearance don’t escape being read despite their apparent neutrality.) Her face, which is powdered in a tone mismatched to her skin, takes on a mask-like quality indicative of some level of… Nostalgia? Unbalance?

She begins with a reflective black plate sitting on the floor. Briefly examining its shape and catching her reflection, Civelek proceeds to hurl it against the wall. It clanks metallically, provokes an equivalence with the performer’s iridescent black heels. Upon second attempt, the plate shatters, flinging glass across the floor.

Civelek climbs a ladder (her heels teeter anxiously on the edges of the rungs) to its summit. She peels a blank piece of paper from the wall’s uppermost edge (a prop I handn’t noticed until this moment.) Appearing to read the page, she then slowly crumples it, compressing the sheet into as dense a fistful as she is able, over several gestures of flexing and opening the hand. The then deposits the crumpled mass into a vase of water on the floor. Listlessly, she stirs and splashes it, until the page has become a set of pulpy wet chunks at the bottom of the vessel.

Returning up the ladder, Civelek removes a package of cheesecloth affixed to the wall, unwraps it, and slowly begins to unfold the length of cloth. She turns it over and over in her hands, running the length up and down through her hands in short, circular tosses. I have seen my grandmother, whose arthritic hands are riddled with the stamps of her own particular anxieties (of hosting, home-making, being taken seriously and treated with dignity, being remembered, being safe as her body shudders) perform this same action: straightening and folding over, only to straighten and refold the same piece of cloth in a kind of soothing and familiar repetition.

Civelek veils herself with the cheesecloth, conjuring some figure betwee bride and ghost. She sits, gestures with her hands, rests them upon her thighs, and then turns them over again. Eventually, removing the veil, she returns to the gesture of straightening the cloth, letting it unfold from the top through the length of the ladder, evening its edges, and then continuing the loop to the other end. Her short, rhythmic tosses to unfurl the cheesecloth— familiar gestures of inconsequential meaning— become moments of curiosity and pause. At the cheesecloth’s peak through her hands, Civelek untimes her short tossing action, and the cloth drops. Her hands remain in mid-air, the moment suspended.

I have been struggling to synthesize Sivelek’s disparate and narrative-resisting series of acts. But something Anya Liftig said in today’s panel struck me as particularly applicable to Civelek’s performance: that performance is an attempt to manifest an interior world in real space. That it materializes imagination, makes public the difficult, the compelling, the strange moments of aloneness. Civelek’s gestures have in them the quiet contemplation of simultaneous solitude and sharedness.

The artist pushes and pulls. He threatens to crack.
Please… just touch, just break, just reach, hope…just try.
It might be enough this time to make this tension subside.

“Is there anyone who is willing to hug?” he asks.
Later, “Does anyone want to kiss?”

Christian Bujold’s performance constructs intimacy in ways that strategically conflate it with pain. His confusions, his In betweens, are spontaneously determined yet contextually deliberate, and they lend themselves to a willingness to disappear inside. Not forever. Just long enough so that there is a sense of delay.

To push boundaries of accepted behaviours, Bujold evokes and troubles outcomes through the performance of tasks. To test capacities, he forces an environment of sonic disturbance. Conveying a psychological sensory receptivity as much as building into a maelstrom of high frequency dissonance—cacophonic mania rising from just the slightest vibration—the anxiety is incarnate. The execution is affecting and involves holding the tension for as long as possible.

Questioning relationships methodically is like a stress test. The outcomes will always lead you to know the weakest points. You’ll learn when your efforts will likely cause a rupture.

Bujold’s performance as method seems to be asking: how long until, how much can I, how soon will I make it/you/myself… snap?

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Christian Bujold will perform again on Saturday, November 1, 3:00pm, Artscape Youngplace

Kurt Johannessen probably doesn’t think about fractals, at least not when he’s performing. I don’t generally consider the self-replicating patterns that approach infinity very often either, so I can understand the idea that it’s not at the forefront of anyone else’s mind.

Fractals are natural phenomenon of repeating patterns that don’t alter regardless of scale. Fractals are, in general, a theoretical concept of near infinitely self-similar and iterated replicability. Based on the Latin fractus which means ‘broken’ or ‘fractured’, the idea of a fractal first arose from the study of recursive images, such as what we see when two mirrors are placed in parallel and reflect each other indefinitely, or in what is called infinite regression.

Organized into mathematical formula, the concept of fractals has been illustrated by artwork that uses this formula as algorithm to generate geometric patterns that self-replicate, which represents the theory best for the lay person (like me). While this scaled visual representation of fractals is useful, fractals can also describe processes in time.

These ideas and images have been on my mind ever since I saw Johannessen’s performance Orange the other night. At first, fractals struck me as an elegant metaphor, a way to draw myself to his process of presence and his focus on creating microscopic variations of an image within the frame of his experience. I was thinking that the concept of ‘infinite regress’ in terms of human consciousness was a way to think about mindfulness as a bottoming out of a moment to reach toward questions of self observing self observing self, and so on. I thought his approach to his materials, and the ways in which he was spare not only with their presentation but in his treatment of them as both precious objects and alchemic ingredients, could also tie in to considering fractals as natural phenomena, with Johannessen performing the minimalist magician.

I thought all of this because I was considering the work in somewhat of an essentialist way at first and wanted to conceptually break from that. I had created a list of what he had done, and what he had used, what it was, and how he moved:

Letter sized paper – stacked.
Black photo box.
Beaker of water.
Bag of mustard seeds.
Out of box –
Glass sphere of mustard seeds.
Vial of mustard seeds
Paper strips – 5, lined up parallel on floor
Tiny white square box.
Another box, smaller.
Brown chocolate stone.
Hair from floor – placed on paper stack.
Out of box –
Another white box, larger than last, smaller than first.
Petri dish, mustard seeds.
Petri dish, placed next to beaker
Canister of mechanical pencil leads or pins?
Smaller vial of mustard seeds.
Petri dish very full of mustard seeds.
Black canister.
Fluted vase, very small, filled with mustard seeds…placing with great care. On hands and knees. Using two hands. Trying to balance. As though he’s frozen. Placing vial. It’s unsteady. Spills.
Delicate relationships.
Out of box –
Another small vase of mustard seeds. Drops when discovers another hair, which is placed with first.
Hair on paper, set aside.
Precarious.
Precious.
Out of box –
Chip – Orange. Becomes 2 chips. Circles. One chip on black canister. One in hand of another.
Vial of lead/pins in his hand, he stands on paper stack.
Places lead/pins between stack sheets.
Opens small white box, and places a fly in another’s hand.
Removes it. Places fly on the canister.
Takes strip, puts between fingers of another.
Places brown stone in hand of another.
Empties another white box into another hand.
The strips hold words. Sentences.
They are laughing.
Humourous.

But then, after a little while, I decided to stop hurting myself and feel some things instead. What Johannessen did was that he created qualities using his attention, and ours. He experimented, and he considered these qualities, missing some or feeling his way toward others in a process of locating items and us in relation to each other.

He showed the strips to us, and we read their words:

I AM ME. YOU ARE YOU. THE SEED IS THE SEED. I AM YOU. YOU ARE THE SEED. THE SEED IS ME. I AM THE SEED. THE SEED IS YOU. YOU ARE ME.

I SEE ME. YOU SEE YOU. THE SEED SEES THE SEED. I SEE YOU. YOU SEE THE SEED. THE SEED SEES ME. I SEE THE SEED. THE SEED SEE YOU. YOU SEE ME.

I AM ME. YOU ARE YOU. THE DED FLY IS THE THE DEAD FLY. I AM YOU. YOU ARE THE DEAD FLY. THE DEAD FLY IS ME. I AM THE THE DEAD FLY. THE THE DEAD FLY IS YOU. YOU ARE ME.

I SEE ME. YOU SEE YOU. THE DED FLY SEES THE THE DEAD FLY. I SEE YOU. YOU SEE THE DEAD FLY. THE DEAD FLY SEES ME. I SEE THE THE DEAD FLY. THE THE DEAD FLY SEES YOU. YOU SEE ME.

I WENT TO THE STONES OF NORWAY. I ASKED THE STONES OF NORWAY: IS THERE ANYONE THAT WANT TO JOIN ME ON A JOURNEY TO CANADA?
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Kurt Johannessen will be performing About thoughts on Saturday, November 1, 4:30pm, Artscape Youngplace

An accumulation of chalk on the floor, an accumulation of marks on the chalkboard, an accumulation of blisters around the performer’s mouth, an accumulation of time in his stride, an accumulation of dust in the lungs.

London-born, Finland-based John Court’s performance builds in steady accumulations. Piloting a long, irregular stool-like construction, one uneven limb between his teeth and the other, slightly shorter, in his hand, Court walks paced circles around the studio. The seat of the stool-like construction takes on a compass-like shoveling function, pushing a pile of white chalk dust into circular grooves as the artist maintains his trajectory. In a rhythmic progression, Court uses his free hand on every pass to make a chalk mark upon the studio’s chalkboard.

At first, Court’s circles are slow, weighted. His grimace and averted eyes are difficult, even painful to witness. Sometimes the chalkboard is just outside of his reach, and Court flails in an attempt at drawing. The marks accumulate, chart a mass at roughly shoulder level.

Over the course of Court’s 6-hour durational work, his pace quickens, sometimes slows. His tired body makes desperate marks and lunges for the chalkboard, his stool-shovel shifts abruptly. His floor circles widen and condense, chalk snaps, screeches across the board. By 8 p.m., two hours before his performance is slated to end, Court has abandoned his mark-making on the chalkboard. The chalk dust, once dense and clumped, thins out, ground into a fine powder which leaves streaks between the grooves on the floor. The hockey tape wound around the base of the stool has begun to unravel, and trail through the chalk. Court’s sleeves and his pocket are populated with chalky handprints, a catalogue of his own touch.

In the context of Artscape Youngplace, a repurposed elementary school, Court’s endurance of the marks of schooling upon his body, and upon his measurement of time, resonate with the architectural realities of the site. The studio is recognizable as a former classroom, and although the building has been re-painted and outfitted with a cafe, it undeniably retains the imposing aura of a school structure. The institutional policing of behaviour and grooming of manners or social graces (the primary socializing functions of schooling) exact minor and progressive violences upon Court’s body. Court’s chalk circles evoke the disciplinarian practice of punishing unruly students by forcing them to keep their noses inside a chalk circle on the board, his stool echoes a “time out” station, a taped binding looks noticeably strap-like.

And despite the brutal nature of the accumulation of marks upon the floor, the chalkboard, and Court’s own body, the performance is also highly studied. The simple formalism of his uneven (and the occasional strikingly even) white circles on the grey floor, the mass of the scribbled drawing on the board, Court’s own contrasted black and white figure— all betray an exactitude nearing scholarship. Court’s repeating motions are caught in between stringent self-punishment and immaculate technical and artistic calculation.

Eduardo Oramas is already seated when we arrive. Settled and straight-backed at his desk, the artist is dressed in a dark suit with a silver-striped red tie, and he gazes at the door through which the large festival crowd comes. On the table, he has some fixings for a bit of a celebration. Felicitaciones / Congratulations is the name of this art-game, and so far the rules are unclear. There is a cake covered in candles, a drinking glass, and a 2-litre bottle of 7-Up. Around the room are other conditions that provide clues—a dozen balloons tied in a bunch at ceiling height, a pin-the-tail on the donkey poster taped high on the wall, and a climbing harness hanging from a hook.

Oramas’ face, mouth in a slight frown, registers as unimpressed. His hands, planted palm down on the tabletop, are shoulder width apart in that way that suggests control. Feet in black leather shoes are spread wide apart. Oramas is unmoving, and as such he is commanding. Oramas is watching, and he’s waiting for us all to sit down.

The tremors build slowly. This stern figure, it seems, is not as infallible as he first appears. When his right foot begins to tap, this tap-tapping grows more rhythmic. When the left foot joins, for a moment, he’s Fred Astaire. Then it’s the hands that twitch and flail, now the legs, and his arms too. He’s no longer dancing. There is no music, and this is no earthquake. Fully convulsing, Oramas’ body rocks the chair which has rolled away from the table. Shaking, rocking and horribly juddering the previously stoically firm man in the suit has aggressively transformed to a erratic shuddering body, with hanging head and drooping lips—it’s the kind of movement we might recognize as a seizure.

In his practice, Oramas creates endurance performances that focus on relationships between the body and its environment, specifically those that happen within the city. Incorporating improvisation and the interdisciplinary, Oramas is interested in how we can collectively build meaning and exceed what we know about our potentials.

With a final jerk, Oramas collapses to the floor and is still. Breathing heavily, he lies there and slowly his heaving relents. Rising, he lights a cigarette from a mashed pack in his pocket, and begins again to play with our collective senses and sets of expectations.

He falls, this time gracefully with the cigarette in hand and his other stuffed in his pocket. With a sudden shift to a one-armed push-up, Oramas gives us a decent Jack Palance impression. Pinched between two fingers, Oramas’ cigarette burns. Lurching, he tries to grab a quick drag without losing his balance. Missing, his palm slams down in time to save the stance, smoke wafted into his face. He tries again but it’s no good. Falling often, he tries over and over again. Supporting shaking arms and legs, his hand won’t reach his lips. It’s an apparently impossible undertaking today, and this is maybe how we discover the most important rule of Oramas’ celebratory game: challenging limits.

Pulling a bundle of string from his pocket, tied on one end with a red bow, Oramas gestures to the crowd. He parts them as though they were the proverbial sea. He needs them to make way. He’s got to try, and fail, to pin this tail on the donkey, twelve-feet up on the wall.

Next, he removes his jacket and shoes, socks too. Strapping on the harness, he takes a lighter from his pocket. It’s time to light the candles and get the party started. Placing the cake with burning candles at the opposite end of the room, Oramas returns to the desk and leashes himself to the wall with elastic restraints. He’s going to try and blow out those candles. He’s going to try very, very hard. We’re all going to cheer, chant and sing to encourage him. He’s going to fail here too, but that’s maybe just chance. Or maybe, again, it’s the point.

Human endeavors are perhaps equal parts skill as gumption. Oramas has enough of both, but he also has limits. “It’s because you smoked,” someone obnoxiously offers from the crowd. Oramas smiles. Our bodies all fail us sometimes.

He’ll drink the two litres of pop, if the straps on his wrists will allow the glass to reach his mouth. Then he’ll sit and sweat in between sips, and we’ll hear his exhaustion and remember it when next he’s jumping high into the air to pop balloons one by one.

It’s been a grueling hour of games mixed with a salty sting, and when that last balloon pops and the room erupts, Oramas joins in on the cheers and applause. He watches us and we watch him. He is clearly spent, and it seems that his face is drawn a bit tight as it was before. Even his clapping feels a bit insincere. It could mean the artist is again in control, or it could be he’s too tired to smile. It’s hard to tell. The spectacle of it all undercut the simplicity of compassion. I was rooting for him to ‘win’, but maybe you weren’t. Maybe he can tell.