Afilador
There
is always a sculptural aspect to the performance work of Lorna Stewart. She is often inspired by Greek and Roman
sculpture, and she has an interest, which she shares with Bruce McLean,
in the
notion of the plinth as an armature for a performance.
One is also reminded of the “singing sculptures”
- Gilbert and George - and how they have used a table as a dais.
Traditionally
the plinth raises the statue above its viewers.
But when the statue is a living one, this puts the body in a
precarious
position. In an early piece, For Jenny, curtains opened to reveal a
cornet balanced upside-down on a high, narrow plinth.
After a minute they closed, only to re-open
to show the naked artist balancing on her head on the same plinth for
the
entirety of a minute. With her knees
bent, her position echoed the shape of the cornet.
It was a mystery how she got up there and was
an action imbued with suspense and danger.
After that the curtains closed.
When they opened for a third time, there was darkness and the
sound of
the last post played on the cornet by the artist. The
piece was an elegy to a cornet-playing
friend who had died in a car accident.
Stewart attempted to learn how to play the cornet in order to
perform
the piece. She sets herself tasks which
are just a little too hard for her to do.
Yet the tentative nature of her cornet-playing contributed to
the poignancy
of her tribute to her friend. She says
of her work, “The accuracy required for it to be executed invests each
piece
with the drama of its difficulty, the slightest error having the
potential to
bring about failure.” In another
performance,
Self-improvement, she balanced upside
down as a lectern for the amount of time it took for a person to read a
long
and complicated text spread open on the soles of her feet: another
instance of
difficulty and vulnerability creating suspense.
More
recently, in Mappa, she stands naked on a small table holding
up a silk
napkin in a position that suggests power and divinity.
She then drops it, spins and attempts to
catch the napkin. If she fails to catch
it and it floats to the ground, a double projection of Ben Hur begins
to play,
triggered by the remote controls in the hands of two men in evening
dress. She may be obliged to half-crawl,
half-slide
off the table in order to stretch for the fallen napkin.
Her now abject position is trampled over by
the thundering hooves and the armed wheels of the projected chariots. The films only become frozen when she
retrieves the napkin and holds it up again - in an action that renders
her
sublime once more, and triumphant, though ironically it also guys the
attitude
of Pontius Pilate - who drops his napkin to start the chariot race. If her assistants make mistakes, the tension
mounts. The frozen images inevitably
become
out of synch: the near repetitions that result read as variations of an
image
rather than as errors. As a twist, when
the race is over, the projections freeze and the artist also becomes
frozen. One man, the person whose race
ended first, places the napkin in the breast pocket of his tuxedo.
In
addition to her interest in sculpture, Stewart is an accomplished tango
dancer,
and the Room is privileged to premier Afilador - knife-grinder
- a
performance that has developed out of a visit to
Although
she does not speak Spanish as yet, or know how to sing, she attempts to
sing a
tango in Spanish at the same time as she pedals and grinds. The song is called Amablemente. It is about a man who
comes across his girl
in a lovers’ hotel, in the arms of another man.
He takes her home, and then “with tranquillity and great
kindness,” he
stabs her thirty-four times. Stewart has
thirty-four knives to sharpen and sings the song thirty-four times.
Anthony
Howell, April, 2005
The
Room is
at
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