West Space Bourke Street
I can’t even remember what it was for, a performance, an installation but I found myself alone in the shell of what was to become West Space Bourke Street. Exposed roof, filthy floor and walls of grey. I stuck my microphones between the interior and exterior wall, where drafts of air floated. The rain from outside beat against the drain pipes. Dada da dada da-da … tch …… tch —tch. Everything amplified in my headphones as the space opened up inside my head. I felt the overwhelming greyness and the distant swish of the tram in the rain. I felt the imaginings of the gallery reveal themselves and room itself breathe in large slow gasps.
Anthony Street was always so cold, even on a summer’s day. When Eamon Sprod and I performed for 8 hours a day for 3 days for the durational sound installation/performance work, Vacuum, I thought I would die of cold. But it wasn’t the cold I was worried about. It was the state of mind that one enters when performing these long works. The walls seem to shift and shimmer. The dust and dirt became part of my being and I entered some sort of atheistic transcendental state. The drones bounced off the walls and the various hand-made ‘instruments’ rolled across floors and clashed against rusted bed frames and metal garbage bins. Due to my delirium I could barely acknowledge audience members who drifted in and out, but still we kept playing. After finishing that show, I rolled out of the gallery. Physically and mentally exhausted, I could hardly string two words together except to ask Eamon, ‘Whose idea was that anyway?’, to which he laughed ‘Yours.’