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'Nuremberg' was performed at the Surreal Salloon in Exeter 12/4/08
Paper pasted pealing strips providing a bland background un-patterned
rather like the bare wrinkled neck of an old man with a black battered
hat that tips forward in the direction of the unseen eyes that watch the
The black and white cat sits aside the French bulldog in the basket.
The stuffed parrot silently doubts in it silver cage ornate. Startled
at one’s own reflection, like hearing one’s voice on film.
Erased gesturality inevitably asserting difference into and onto these
grey rectangles. Holes in the curtains. The wrinkled hands tug and adjust,
carefully folding the black funeral veil over the widow’s teary
‘Get out and go, man’ he kept telling himself, but these
orders were no sooner given than countermanded. What could he expect to
find out there, save fresh disappointments. Opening the door he throws
the bulldog out. Turning he scoops up the cat to throw it out too and
opens the door only to let the bulldog back in. He re-opens the door and
throws the bulldog back out only to let the cat back in. He throws the
dog back out of the door but lets the cat back. He throws the cat outside
the door only to let the dog back in and only in swiftness can he ensure
an empty basket.
Sitting quietly in the rocking chair before the mask and staring into
its black wide eyes. Back to his feet he rips up the mask and tears it
into tiny pieces and sits back in the chair to observe the remaining nail.
Wrinkled fingers open the brown envelope that fell from the satchel. He
removes the photographs but quickly replaces them. He does not want to
see the details.
No shiny surfaces
He sits and dozes in the rocking chair. ‘Get up and go man’ he tells himself, but these orders were no sooner given than countermanded. After all what was the point of moving, when a fellow could travel so magnificently when sitting in a chair? Wasn’t he already in Nuremberg?
He opens the brown envelope and stares at the photos.
A lady and a young child
The wrinkled eyelid opens. The iris like a solar eclipse. Outside again amid the tall grey walls and multiply ordered brickwork, the cloudless sky and the vertical staircases. Shuffling along the grey wall he must be careful not to be seen. He must traverse these obstructions, human or object, that lie between him and the tower. He checks his pulse before placing his wrinkled hand on the iron banister and begins to climb the staircase. Opening the door with shaky hands and a rusty key he enters. Placing a chain across the door he puts down his satchel and turns to look at the scarred walls, the wallpaper peeling and pockmarked like the wrinkled neck of an old man.
(c) Mark Greenwood 2oo8