C’est le silence qui répond

It is a failed show. There is nothing to “see”. No performers, no organising intelligence, only you — who turn up — and the empty space of light in perpetual motion. “We are of the same nature as mountains”, we know that. How can we see what is? Absolute beauty, what is. So it is a ceremony, a celebration, or perhaps exactly the opposite, a time of “suspension” of ceremonies. Come as you are or come at your best: fancy dress, costume, tuxedo, etc. — or with nothing on at all — or in the costume of your trade. A cloakroom will be at your disposal. Come with an object dear to you, come with an animal dear to you, with a plant dear to you if it is willing to make the journey. Obtain your own consent and that of your loved ones. Love others as yourselves. It is a Noah's ark, a refuge in life, or else a “holiday in reality”. Nothing happens, or so many things, as Georges Pérec puts it (‘Tentative d’épuisement d’un lieu parisien’): “What happens when nothing happens, other than time, people, cars and clouds”. It is a failed show, and therefore an extraordinary one. It is left in “the state of apparition” (Marguerite Duras, ‘Emily L’), with its flaws, its dross, the raw state of Art Brut, drowned in life. What can you do — art has always wanted to make life more interesting than art; that is its hubris. The Arsenic lets me dream. That is rare. Come and dream with me. You are dreaming; you are, as every night, writing the dream, acting the dream, watching the dream, being the theatre of the dream. Come and take part in this show of WRITING IN THE NIGHT.