Elysium is the documentation of a collaborative performance that took place in the Tate Modern Turbine Hall in association with Self Publish Be Happy.
there were voices and feet moving. strangers were together in a communicative syrup, dripping down throats and sugar in the veins. insulin prickled and belt-buckle clinks tapped off the floor as percussion for the spoken hum.
a wink or someone else’s molars showed open with a tongue and a scalloped palate, calcium leapt between synapses and shouts. there was electrified fatigue pushed out from practiced faces, there were hangnails and jumpers and sliding wet mascara. there were orders and impulses, and there was a frayed overhead wire sending white sparks of competition on to the domed skulls below.
there was a cluster of moments; a polycystic gleam of talking spheres that groups and names foamed into the room. there were flashes and pauses, held poses and chromic authenticities. the galvanised non-poetry of the shake, clasp or grip rolled heavily around the space, flattening toes and squeaking off anxious palms. noise and gesture left bodies centripetally, arcing off and peeling out from hot torsos.
a lightbulb continues to glow after the power supply has been switched off. the filament is white hot for a tiny moment, cools to a lava thread and then hardens to a tungsten grey. the glass holds the warmth for a few more minutes, and hands in darkened rooms can touch the heat left behind from their illuminated hours.
Text by Polly Gregson
© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, DOMINIC HAWGOOD, 2016