Buzzcut Commonplace Book (2015)

The Buzzcut Commonplace Book was an alternative documentation project for Buzzcut Festival of Live Art and Performance in March 2015. The project took the form of a website where audience members were encouraged to submit creative reflections on the work at the festival and a 15 minute performance response that I developed over the 5 days of the festival.

The Buzzcut Commonplace Book derived from a model of creative response developed for the Abandoned Practices Institute by Mark Jeffery (ATOM-r), Lin Hixson and Matthew Goulish (Every house has a door).

It aimed to be a meeting point between my practice, the work of the artists presenting and the reflections of the festival audience.

The website documenting the audience reflections can be found here

Photo credit: Beth Chalmers

Performance Response (Sunday 23rd March 2015)

This performance starts with a list of things that I have missed:
I have missed the wise glory owl
I have missed the guddling
I have missed imprints
I have missed an anticipated stabbing
I have missed blood on the streets of Partick
I have missed an inverted shell
I have missed man vs. woman
I have missed what Richard would do
I have missed the treat ment
I have missed a savage amusement
I have missed a dirge
I have missed a confession
I have missed a girl and gun
I have missed 3 out of 4 expressions of masculine prowess
I have missed Donald and Dusty
I missed the fire
I have missed the old hairdressers and stereo
I have missed fermented ink
I have missed the drone and the robot
I have missed the soap opera
I have missed the smoke and the colours
I have missed the flood plains
Jamie McMurry response
Marlene Dietrich karaoke song and projected text and movements 2
This performance ends with a list of things that I have witnessed:
a book of unsaid things (missing)
an autobiography of objects
an archaeology of objects
an augmented body-machine
our terrain is our biography
and there is a politics of space because space is political
I saw a falling tower block 
I felt a terrible loss
I saw a disembodied hand
I saw red hands and blue hands
The stag’s head and the ram’s head
An archaeology of objects
The next image when it arrives will be…
An ending, an event, a transition
An invisible land
The futile attempt to clean what cannot be cleaned
A painting ripped from its canvas and folded in on itself
A performance folded in on itself
A canvas, an art lecture
I was healed, I was held, I was kissed
I consume
And this is not about me but it is about us
And they are not afraid of anything
And this is a bad essay, a queer essay, a tasty essay
And we cannot help but be changed in the process of interacting
I am welcomed into a reflective space
I have a moment of calm amid chaos
I see questions that outnumber the answers
I think about my responsibility to enter the discussion
I am healed, I am held, I am kissed
I felt like I was returning
I am carried on a journey through childhood reminiscences
I remember tastes, smells, sounds, textures
I am haunted by a missed encounter with Marlene Dietrich, 
I am haunted by a missed encounter with Alfred Hitchcock, 
I am haunted by a missed encounter with Ingrid Bergman.
I saw Freud wearing crotchless chaps
I saw his work being critiqued through a series of increasingly elaborate knob gags
I was taken on a grotesque night out that condensed a whole evening into an hour
And we cannot help but be changed in the process of interacting
I heard hundreds of tiny rusted bells drop to the floor and felt the focus of 37 minutes
I saw two women not giving a fuck
And I have witnessed many different versions of masculinity
I witnessed a jilted bride in a graveyard 
Or a cruise ship singer in a graveyard
I revisited a scene from my past
I witnessed an event,
I felt the closure of a moment like the shutting of a door
And we cannot help but be changed in the process of interacting
And we cannot help but be changed in the process of interacting
And we cannot help but be changed in the process of interacting
Don’t think about fire and sand and ash and fear, and trembling
We are the heroes now – the dancers and the public.
it remains unresolved
they and I are like organs of one single intercorporeality
an invisible landscape conditions the visible one
an unimaginable connection
with your milk, Mother I swallowed ice
do you see blue through your blue eyes?
layer upon layer of different sets of linkages
the simultaneous presence of performer and performed
They simply set up home inside our dreams
Root me to the earth and watch me fade away
theatres for repertoires of preservation
I’ll draw a line and you follow it
Thinking of my GOB
Be In The Right Place
At The Right Time
With The Right People
imagine different selves
A man came in with a bucket of blood
I remember when the man came on stage
The knife glistens in the light.
the present thing in its absence
He struggled with himself
Full of melancholy longing or wishful yearning
can the new be recognised
one good joke and perhaps some cheerful nudity
emotion that can jump
changes travel from the edges to the center
People are my roots, my soil
The autobiographical and the political are interconnected
I felt dead cool
Time fragments
All streaked with oil and rust
So rudely forc’d
the aura of his defined state
contaminated by repetition