When you reach out to touch me, I recoil. Do I know you? Do you know me?
Breathe in. Breathe out.
My skin and self are distorted and disjointed. My body, my skin contains what I am, not who I am. Who I am is caught between our physical exteriors.
Our flesh fools us into thinking we are different, into thinking we are alone, but we are not alone.
I can’t quite find the words or comprehend the depth of the imprint the three days in Fremantle left on my soul. This, I guess, is somewhat appropriate, since my literal and metaphorical speechlessness is something that coloured both my creative practice and personal experience while there. A week later, when subsequently attempting to describe the residency to people, I still find myself leaning on overzealous and annoyingly vague adjectives – it was “amazing”, “brilliant” and “wonderful”.
The brief and concise nature of this particular residency, was juxtaposed with the multilayered subject matter of 4:48 Psychosis, a play by the British playwright, Sarah Kane. Because the piece profoundly pulls apart the human condition, leaving the raw, real and gut-wrenching stuff of isolation and despair exposed. In the medical context, the protagonist desperately seeks, not so much relief, but a rational way to frame the emotional state, so it will be less likely to destroy them. The work is then punctuated by the added frustration of these feelings being diminished and simplified by their doctor.
My genuine attempts to candidly connect and collaborate during the residency, felt relentlessly fragmented and incomplete, as my mind struggled to understand the intricate inner workings of my heart. I found myself battling to cope with it, and felt myself unable to communicate anything of value. That said, I recognised a sort of forced staccato of my typed/signed words that coincidentally mirrored the inherent and fraught struggle to adamantly express the inexpressible parts of the self in Sarah Kane’s play.