By Mike Fay:
It’s limbo, nowhere, a force field. We sit in a tight square, then these people come out of the night, strut, fret, and fade away. We see a centre, piles of furniture and objects they must negotiate, and around this they chat and embrace and quarrel and sulk, energising themselves and each other, clambering to momentary heights of oratory, then subsiding, sleeping and dreaming.
There is optimism and despair, solid material realities and empty space. Some haven’t learned the rules of conversation, or maybe have stopped bothering: the words they find sometimes inspire, sometimes betray an emptiness, or get lost in the hubbub, or fall flat, or die away. There is warmth as they rub together, talking and laughing all at once in a passion of agreement, charged, magnetized and maybe ejected. Some have intentions, resolve, projects; some are deflated, defeated; some look towards us across an unknown future. Some just oscillate. Motifs appear as novelties, gifts, shared projects, then reappear as worn-out clichés.
Voices get lonelier as the piece subsides. Anxiety on borrowed time? Random particles? Code programmed to pattern? You’ve got to laugh: we’re a long way from Moscow by the end.