The PostPartum Depression (Or: You Never Remember The Birth)

by Anthony Schrag, 16 Oct 2007

In the midst of it, your memory doesn’t work. From the blur of Thursday morning’s 5am rise, to lack-of-sleep fog, to the feel of the cold wind on my back as we moved tables and chairs in the rain, and the wind-ripped marquee flapping and limp on the mud, and the taxis that raced through traffic, and the faces of the ‘kidnapped’, and them huddling like old friends around a heavy, muddy table: I remember very little. Such is the state of mind of any artist when in the midst of swirling mass of something tightly planned. Plates need to be spun. Clocks need to be watched. Schedules must be adhered to. Everything must happen according to plan.

There were the usual hiccups – too many people, taxis were late, people were early, but, it happened well enough and close enough within the parameters I had set. Issues were discussed. Conversations were had. Ideology and Geography did occupy the same space. Place and Policy overlapped in a unique way. I was, I think, very happy with the whole thing.

I was shocked that no one was upset with the shift from the gallery’s warm boardroom to the wet and muddy fields of Toryglen. That is perhaps a sign of Glasgow City Council’s dedication to the arts and awareness of it odd possibilities. Or to the individual councilors’ and gallery staff’s readiness to readily tackle the issues. Or because it had been leaked and everyone knew what was going to happen and were just humouring me! Either way, I’m not that concerned – I’m happy they indulged me and can only hope they got something from that hour and half sitting discussing the legacy of this Sectarian art project. It was, I think, in its finality (and, as always, artists can only truly and honestly see the shape of their beasts once they are born and free) then work was about an intersection into the institutional structure of galleries and museums, in the same vein as they hope to make intersections into the lives of youth groups who deal with these issues regularly.

(Incidentally, this work took place on exactly the same ground where the recent Sony Bravia TV ad took place (the one with the exploding colours on a High-rise block of flats). There was none of the joy, none of the brightness, and everyone stayed far away, watching from their closed windows. Only one brave woman approached with a belly full of venom when she discovered there were counselors sitting under the marquee. She left, deflated, when she discovered they weren’t benefit or housing counselors, but those in the arts.)

And then the taxi’s came, took everyone home and we took down the table and marquee and left the rutting mud and the crows to peck at the crumbs of our biscuits. And the space seemed a bit emptier. I felt guilty that I hadn’t made something more permanent – what does it mean to show up, use the space for my own purposes, and then leave…Which was really the rub. I COULD leave. I had the option, many of the people living there didn’t, and I hoped that came across to those sitting at the table. It depressed me too that within bureaucracies, things take time to filter through and any discussions will take time to affect anything.

I suppose I knew deep inside that it wouldn’t change the world: to an extent no art can do that. But the intention and the attempt can make a difference, and I hope it had. But, driving away, all I felt was deflated.

And maybe that sense of guilt and depression are a natural part of any Live Art event, a small postpartum depression. But I certainly felt that it – the project? the event? The ideas? – had fallen, again, into that malformed, directionless mess. The goo returned to exact its vengeance on me. But I did have one weapon against this – 6 hours of videotape, 2 rolls of film and an hour and half of audio recordings. Which just brings me to the documentation – the second joy of ANY live art project, and where it can make a real difference… But that’s a whole other blog.

(Images to follow…once I get them developed!)