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This work is about death. Grief
The relationships before
The aftermath - of confusion, violence, isolation
The never ending questions
The devastating loss and paranoia
"Since my wife died, I have spent the last six years treading water - trying to stop myself from drowning. Sometimes I catch myself not breathing. I have to remind myself that I can't live underwater no matter how much I want to."
Grief. Loss. Tears. Fear. Sadness
Water. Milk. Salt. Ice
Falling. Waiting
Submerged. Suffocated. Broken ties
Intention. Lack of focus. Intensity of focus
Fighting. Screaming. Wailing
Blue. White. Black. Blackness
The doors open: we walk through a gauze curtain and discover a dark space with a square of light in the middle of the room. As we walk closer to the light, we see a girl writing in charcoal on the floor around a square box filled with milk. She is writing the same thing over and over. The more she writes the more desperate she becomes: I am listening…
We have to keep walking past. She isn’t writing for us. We find our seats
Two people: one slowly breaking the hundreds of fragile strings that tie her to the other. The other is pleading with her to stop:
Please. Please don’t. Please Avril. …Please don’t
One girl facing away from us. She is slowly swimming on the spot without water. Projected next to her are images of her drowning under water. Salt falls in front of her. Behind her. A wall of salt. She is bound to the spot. Underwater and still breathing. Swimming in her own tears. She won’t escape. She wants to stay, but desires nothing
Two people standing in a large square box filled with milk. They start in intimacy. The relationship begins to dissolve before us. One fights to be with/on/behind the other. The other fights her off. The milk is splashed. Why aren't they being careful?
In the darkness there is scrubbing. Someone is scrubbing the floor. The other girl is on her knees trying to erase the original writing. The traces left behind that we have no control over. We only see her for a second, but hear her in the darkness. Scrubbing. It is pointless. You can't erase the past.
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