It is wrong to oppose to objects an isolated ego-subject, without seeing in the Dasein the basic constitution of being-in-the-world; but it is equally wrong to suppose that the problem is seen in principle and progress made toward answering it if the solipsism of the isolated ego is replaced by a solipsism en deux in the I-thou relationship. As a relationship between Dasein and Dasein this has its possibility only on the basis of being-in-the-world. Put otherwise, being-in-the-world is with equal originality both being-with and being-among.
Martin Heidegger, The Basic Problems of Phenomenology
Performance Studies international #19… Over a hundred performances, a hundred, and I’m supposed to what, exactly? Freeze them? Like trying to can lightning, bottle smoke, take a knife to the ocean and carve out a piece to take home. That one-second piece is already gone before my shutter even clicks. And the nineteen-hour endurance thing? Am I expected to be there for the whole degradation, the whole beautiful, excruciating arc of someone breaking themselves down for… what? Understanding? Transcendence? A line on their CV?
I’m running on fumes and bad coffee, skateboarding between courtyards and fountains and theatres, trying to catch Margaret Tedesco blocking a screen in one room while Marcia Farquhar‘s still monologuing in another, while Aleta Hayes is singing rooms into existence somewhere I’m already late for. My camera bag feels like it’s full of rocks. My back’s screaming. I’ve got that specific exhaustion where you’re not even sure what day it is anymore, just that it’s another performance, another artist asking you to bear witness to something that maybe shouldn’t be witnessed, that maybe can’t be documented, but here I am anyway with my goddamn camera trying to prove it happened.
And then, because apparently I’m an idiot, there are parties every night. Every single night. Like the performances aren’t enough of an endurance test, now we’ve got to stand around drinking shitty wine, talking theory with people who’ve been thinking about temporality and embodiment for longer than I’ve been alive, everyone performing their own exhaustion like it’s another art piece.
And the real kicker? I hosted one. At my own house. What the fuck was I thinking? Like I needed more bodies in more spaces demanding more attention, more documentation, more energy I didn’t have. That was stupid. That was so goddamn stupid. But there I was, playing host while my brain was still trying to process seventeen performances from that afternoon, still seeing Farquhar’s eyes finding me in the crowd, still hearing Aleta singing spaces into being, still trying to figure out how to photograph the unphotographable.