installation as part of ‘Amharc Fhine Gall X: Transhistorical Terrain’
joint exhibition with Ella de Burca
Draíocht, Blanchardstown, 2015-2016
- Invitation
Works:
- setting
250 x 300 digital c-type prints (series of 3 - sold in aid of the Coalition to Repeal the 8th Amendment to the Irish Constitution and the Dublin Rape Crisis Centre)
- Frances in the Basement with the Revolver (Spoiler)
2' 32" digital video & photo montage (variable)
- found object (script)
accompanying text:
Instead of the cross, the Albatross / about my neck was hung
We all walked across the bridge and when we came to the end everybody clapped. Then we turned around and went back the way we came: through the elevated tunnel, down the pristine wainscoted staircase, across the parquet floor of the hallway and out, emerging beneath an imposing neoclassical portico. Upon exiting the building we felt unsure of ourselves. Should we go for another round of applause? This seemed excessive so instead we just smiled, nodded and shook hands. The thrill of the crossing had begun to wear off and we were left with the sobering sight of a suburban housing estate and a damp November afternoon.
That was our first crossing. We had procured, from a sympathetic insider, the code to the gate that guards the entrance to the bridge—a closely kept secret—and this served as a basis for our calculations.
1+9+4+5=19
1+9=10
1+0=1
1 for the first crossing; 1 for the letters A, J and S. This meant that it should be a Saturday Afternoon in January. Unfortunately, it was October when we made this plan and we were anxious to get going so a Saturday Afternoon in November would have to suffice. Looking back, this was probably a mistake.
The day of the second crossing was to be determined by the building’s postal code: D20 N207.
D=4, N=5
4+2+0+5+2+0+7=20
2+0=2
2 for the second crossing; 2 for the letters B, K and T. We were unsure of the meaning of this new set of letters. T could be a Thursday, but more likely would be Tuesday because it is the second day of the week. Tuesday Bridge Krossing? In the end we decided to just repeat the Saturday Afternoon in November formula, as there were still three of them left that year. There was some debate about whether to continue as planned: not everybody was comfortable with so flippantly ignoring the numbers. But it was agreed that we should waste no time in returning. The next stage of the crossing was to move further in, beyond the first step of the far side of the bridge—the point at which we had politely applauded ourselves.
There was a rumour that they kept the clocks running twenty-five minutes late on the other side; some people thought that explained the faint sensation of jet lag that crossers experience upon their return. Supposedly the circadian rhythm of your body is thrown by the short jolt back and then forward again before your mind has time to adjust to the shift. But this was perceived as a minor side-effect and could be easily prevented given the correct mental preparation. It certainly did not deter us as we once again passed beneath the great portico, crossed the hall, ascended the stairs and paused momentarily at the entrance to the tunnel. With little hesitation we all trotted across to the other side. No time for celebrations as everybody jostled through the door at the end of the short flight of steps leading away from the bridge. We stood silently on the dim landing, uncomfortably close together, but nobody was willing to stray. As before there was a sense of haplessness in the group once we had reached our objective. What now? In our haste to return we had not thought to consult the numbers about how to proceed from here.
There were murmurings of discomfort. A faint, yet undeniable sensation of slow, gnawing bone-wetness began to rise up through the soles of our feet, along our shins and around our kneecaps. Simultaneously, a subtle weight leaned against each chest, causing everybody’s breathing to become shallow and unsatisfying. A dark damp permeated the air. We had not expected this and it was clear that the initial excitement of the second crossing had slowly transformed into a feeling of dejected, nauseous dread. Nobody wanted to be the first to turn back. Feeling dizzy then the group began to sway on the too-small landing, teetering over the edge of the steps and then back towards the way we came in. Of course the question on everyone’s mind was whether this awful discomfort was to do with the clocks. “B, K, T!” someone shouted hysterically, “Bridges Kill Time!” This was too much to bear and as one mass we scrambled for the door, ran back across the bridge, down the stairs, across the hall and out, panting, beneath the portico. Nobody shook hands.
There are various theories about what went wrong on the second crossing. The one we have come to accept is the following: the human heart beats eighty times per minute, or one hundred and fifteen thousand two hundred times a day. Our day was temporarily shortened to twenty-three hours thirty-five minutes, or one thousand four hundred and fifteen minutes, when we crossed over. Our hearts have become stuck in this time lapse and now try to beat the usual number of beats but in less time, meaning of course that they all move slightly faster than before. Our bodies belong to the past, creating a disjuncture in our souls from the here and now. We will never escape the low-level anxiety to which we condemned ourselves; we have the numbers to thank for that.
1440 X 80= 115200
1415 X 80= 113200
115200-113200= 2000
2+0+0+0= 2= B, K, T.
