In
our
long,
slow
process
of
disappearing,
we
had
forgotten
that
the
surface
of
the
performance
space
was
not
worn
wood
like
a
table
in
need
of
refinishing
but
a
scuffed
black
page
with
cobblers,
saints,
and
carpenters,
projected
out
into
its
flickering.
Sitting
in
the
wings
and
watching
the
ending
as
it
folds
and
unfolds
through
the
amber
glow
and
shadows,
he
is
aware
of
the
always
empty
proscenium
warm
with
absence
and
the
dull
silver
glow
of
chair
arms.
There
were
moments
when
two
birds
twittered
and
he
was
neither
watching
the
performance
nor
looking
through
it,
and
the
audience,
themselves
seated
on
the
stage,
caught
themselves
looking
at
one
another
awkwardly
while
the
persistence
of
the
metronomic
pulse
evoked
a
succession
of
piano
teachers
the
length
of
a
century,
skirts
spreading
out
on
benches.
In
these
moments,
it
is
clear
that
my
office
always
resembles
my
childhood
bedroom. Just
as
it
is
the
work
of
the
dramaturge
to
see
that
the
gun
on
the
table
is
never
fired,
what
is
enacted
as
memory
is
a
flight
towards
neutrality.
=> info | Construct a last
Exhibition: The Last Performance [dot org] @ Haus Der Kulturen Der Welt