You enter an empty room. On the wall is a projection of a computer screen, displaying some text. From time to time a new sentence appears. If you look through the doorway into the next room you can see a person seated at a desk with a Mac laptop, typing.
I approached the typist. She had typed the words displayed on the wall. She told me she writes down what she sees in the room. I went back into the room and waved my arms about. After a delay the words 'man stands in the middle of the room flapping arms frantically' appeared on the wall.
I went back there on Monday lunchtime. I sat in the room with my little Asus eee laptop, and typed the narrative that I saw displayed on the wall. There was a different typist at the desk this time.
Some people walked straight through the room and hardly paused to look at the dull text on the wall. But when people realised that the text was about them they tended to linger, waiting to see what thought would appear next and giggling at descriptions of themselves.
It is the usual gallery scenario of people looking at a wall, but the difference here is that the wall is looking back at you, commenting on you, and commenting on your reaction to it.
There were times when the people in the room were motionless. The wall had nothing to comment on, so it didn't comment. There would be minutes with no addition to the narrative. The wall's silence echoing our silence, its lack of reaction to us mirroring our lack of reaction to it.
The set up adds to the tension. The typist is obscured, seated in the dark of the next room (where a Barbara Visser film is showing). The words don't appear as she types them: when she has finished a line she presses a button and then the whole line appears at once. We cannot be sure she hasn't already typed something that will appear any second.
The pauses don't go on for ever: one side would crack: someone would leave the room, or the wall would make a comment. At one point the wall that ended a prolonged pause with the sentence 'The man stands motionless. like a statue, his face hiding any expression.'
What would happen if no-one visited the ICA on one day of the exhibition? Would there be a narrative? Would there be an artwork? Would the wall periodically say 'there is still no-one in the room?' What happens when the typist goes to lunch? Does someone else take over, or is the wall silent until she comes back?
It becomes hard to leave the room, you want the person to say something about you. When you do leave you want to come back to see whether the wall has described you leaving.
I would like to go there for a whole day. From the moment the exhibition opens until chucking out time in the evening. I'd bring sandwiches, a flask of tea, and my little laptop. The wall would tell the narrrative of my day, the people I came into contact with, the times I got up and stretched to avoid getting cramp from sitting cross-legged on the floor, the times when I left the room to go to the toilet.
Below is the complete narrative from the twenty minutes I sat in the room on Monday lunchtime. There are only four sentences about me, I have put them in bold.
a man steps in behind them, hands rummaging in his coat.
he takes a crossed leg seat.
the girls giggle in unison.
reading, embarrassed.
another slips in behind them, obscured.
A woman, shadowing the blonde girl in front
she steps out into the light smiling
heels tap across the floor into the dark
the two friends retrace their steps
three women huddle in the dark
still reading these words from its black safety
the woman behind them swings her heavy leather bag as she walks
a metronome in motion
a smiling face of the invigilator at the letterbox doorway.
two girls sit closely.
watching the film in comfortable silence
unconsciously distracted
they twist heads back to read glimpses
a woman shuffles into the space.
red and tartan, her coat keeping her hands warm
she crosses the floor and takes a heavy seat.
the blonde friend shifts in her seat.
the pair raise and exit together.
hesitating at the door.
an obscured person appears from the corner
two more enter to take his place
supported by the back wall.
a man and woman read in silence
white pages held in hands.
the man stands motionless.
like a statue, his face hiding any expression.
his female counterpart moves to the side.
the woman in red and tartan interupts the space
long dreadlocks and red jeans
she steps across the projection
barbara visser printed onto her clothes
she peers out into the light
polyester rusling
still he stands reading.
balanced by his right hand on shoulder strap.
he glances round the ceiling corners suspiciously.
the woman loiters in the doorway before she leaves
idle fingers twist in her hair.
the statuesque man gives way to a smile.
two more men step inside the room.
they stand transfixed their eyes glued to the screen
the tapping of a keyboard echoes around the space
the two friends look into each others faces talking.
they shift positions slowly.
minor movements. feet crossed at ankles.
a nod of a head.
eyes cross the room into the dark.
watching and waiting
time to move on
the male couple step into the dark
caught looking
