mountain of signs: October 2011

I was sitting at a table with three others, two of whom I might have been introduced to, the other sitting opposite, amass of curly hair is Patrick, whom I’d just collaborated with in what may have been a ‘performance’ in Oxford’s Christchurch meadows, for four hours no-less. My attention drifted from the conversation at our table. Located right of a woman flossing her teeth, positioned with back turned to a window onto a early Friday evening in Oxford, a old man with a large grey beard, long black coat and blue denim trousers with each leg rolled evenly up-to the shins, sits eating a ice cream from a cardboard cylindrical container imprinted with a procession of cows on its exterior. His eyes are full of glee, he chuckles to himself after each laboriously dragged scoop of ice cream deposited in his mouth. Each scoop starts from the base and moves to the summit, after the ice cream is deposited the process is repeated- steadily moving clockwise, with such content, never more, never less was each deposit. He might do this every evening, a allowance sufficient for a ice cream, he measures each swoop and chuckles, surveying the room with glee another deposit lands and the scoop returns to the base once more of the ice cream dish, ready to excavate.

A hour or so prior, the bells rang out and from his camping stall Patrick got up from his station below the tree and I collected the scattered drawing refuse left pinned amongst the autumn leaves by varying sized stones .. The strangers who had clustered to Patrick’s right on a slight incline for the duration of the ‘event‘, started drawing near and questions regarding fatigue from the ‘performance’ were vaguely answered. I felt relieved
To be left mostly alone in the immediate aftermath, I felt almost unacknowledged, which was fine. I wasn’t all that sure how I fitted in either.

-My preparation extended little further than buying copious amount of charcoal.

-Two thirds in, I abandoned my slab of rocks and creepy crawlies, for residence beneath a tree some 20 meters away. Up-to that point- frustration. I survey the stage, the audience. I drew them from afar, like a Seurat scene, until emboldened I returned.

-I set out, perched upon my slabs of rock and concrete, located on Patrick’s right a aprox four feet away, drawing upon sheets held by a bulldog clip on a cardboard portfolio resting upon the knees and steadied with the left hand.

-The bugs exposed to the light dwelling on the underside of the slabs, lifted to construct a chair, were felt to be crawling upon my person.

-A wasp took to scouring the park floor, its wings disturbing the dust and fragments of dried leaves, after several flights directed at me.

-A intermission in the drawing, crouching, arm extended charcoal in hand, the frantic motions of a large beetle rocking upon its back, legs pumping in the air waylays mark being made until corrected- it scurries away

In the distance was heard:
-The van engine of the grounds-men.
-Dogs and their owners imploring their return, general barking of orders by the sober and the -not so sober.
-Swans?
-Families, tolerating each other.
-Snapping of charcoal stick in hand and spraying of fixative.
-The dull thud of conkers landing in their spiked armoured casing.
-A wasp.
-Patrick’s movements, pauses, notes.
-My steps upon the debris from the trees.
-A cascade of leaves.
-Various sighs on my part.
-Football’s kicked.
-Conversations from the nearby footpath and canal.

-Upon completion(?): If you were ok, you were sprayed with fixative and place upon a pile held in place by a stone. If you were no good, you were disdainfully cast to the ground and held in place with another stone not so much as placed but dropped, preferably larger.