Some Time, Paolo Plotegher
Some Time, Paolo Plotegher

Some Time, Paolo Plotegher

Some time... some words are coming into my room, the window is open, a high window, open onto a balcony, like a large interruption on the wall. Opened on the suspended space of a balcony: outside my room, facing the void, and yet still part of the house, of this huge housing block. It’s warm, the window is open, I’m writing, and whilst writing words are coming into my room, from different directions, from other balconies. A conversation across balconies, a bunch of housewives chatting from a balcony to another. My bored neighbours, I almost hear them. A group of women talking, some words are coming into my room... “Maria, sei tornata dalla Calabria?” “Si, ti ho portato il salame che ti piace tanto...” A whatever conversation, talking across balconies, a bunch of housewives exchanging recipes, lamenting backaches... it is as if the script has been written already, it’s always the same script, written somewhere else, everywhere else. But now the voices come from different balconies, voices facing the void, coming as a murmur into my room, towards the open, already dispersed before their own beginnings. who is speaking... what is said... The stage is reassembled: the balconies, projecting appendices, serve a different use, like platforms for words to be uttered, per dare aria alla bocca, for the mouth to “give air”, to give breath to the air of a summer day in a small town in Italy.

Some time... in a square in La Paz, a bunch of women re- enacts a different script, Maria holds a child on her shoulder whilst throwing a bucket full of blood onto the ground. If it wasn’t for the red colour it could be taken for a bucket of soaped, warm water, thrown to wash the pavement in front of a bar. Maria is shouting, it is difficult to understand her words, she is talking about people being murdered. As part of the stage, a group of policemen is watching the scene, ready to intervene. There is another woman acting as part of the stage, a middle age woman, wearing a round-neck fur, and a heavy makeup. She is addressing both Maria and the bystanders, blaming Maria for her ridiculous acts. There is a crowd of people around Maria and the police, the crowd of the spectators. They are the actors. Maria, the police, the Bourgeois Lady, are just part of the stage, a stage for the passers-by to inhabit. A group of women rearranges itself, to re- enact an old script, to capture both the police as part of the stage, of the reorganization of an architecture, and the public as the actors of a performance. The old script, a street protest, a bucket of dirty water thrown on the pavement after mopping, is repeated, and in this repetition there are no spectators left.

Some time... a bunch of women talking on the street, words addressed, to capture a group of involuntary actors. A bunch of women talking across balconies, words addressed to the void: as the actors of a play in which, through a small shift in the arrangement of the stage, I am captured, and everything differs remaining as such, the balconies, the emptied bucket, my open window, the streets of La Paz, shouts and crying, a police car, lost words and empty breaths, the warm air of a summer day exhaling from their bodies.

Paolo Plotegher
(Text from exhibition publication for allsopp&weir;, Some Time Repeating An Embarassed Word, Studio 1.1, London, 2007)