*Chris Harry, 2021
On an evening when the Belgian government announced new security measures for another COVID wave, I decided to attend a performance at Rataplan in Antwerp. A friend and I took the train from Brussels, masked and ready for the journey. Upon arriving at Rataplan, we found ourselves among a sparse audience. Due to the restrictions, there were only about 15 to 20 attendees in a space meant for 50 to 60, with everyone surrounded by five empty seats for distancing. As we settled into this uniquely distanced setting, the lights dimmed, and the sound of bells began to fill the air. These bells, sometimes resonant and other times fading into the gathering darkness, accompanied the gradual illumination of the space. This light revealed a black and white forest, unfolding in mystery, alongside a large roll of paper unfurling on the stage, guided by the artist Cy Mirol.
I knew she would take the stage, and from following her on social media, I was aware that her performances invite audience participation. Although I hadn't fully grasped what Bookperformance entailed, her social media posts were always inspirational. As she began to slowly and cautiously unroll the large sheet of paper, it felt as if hidden secrets were about to be unveiled. Yet, nothing was written on the paper; instead, the words were softly whispered into the space through her voice, accompanied only by the paper's own crackling sounds. The combination of sights, sounds, and sensations created an atmosphere that was both mysterious and intriguing, one that has stayed with me ever since.
The way she moved across the paper, and how the chalks appeared, drawing or writing, were distant from the audience's view. Yet, when combined with the screen behind her, it felt as though she was creating waves on a sea, with the horizon taking shape as a reflection before us. At times, it seemed like the reverse—as if the screen on the horizon was dictating her movements, influencing the writings and drawings on the stage that resembled a sea.
As a dancer of improvisation, I could hear the words' invitation and felt compelled to join her on what she called the "page-stage." The moment she turned to a new blank space and tossed chalks onto it, I stepped onto the stage, shoes off, to accompany her. Unexpectedly, she left me alone with the audience. Initially, I had planned to move in tandem with her as she wrote, imagining myself dancing around her. However, being caught off guard, I realized she was indeed a true performance artist. In that moment, I connected with her moving images on the screen, which she refers to as "daydreams." It was captivating to either anticipate or flow with the digital imagery. I almost felt as though I was occupying the artist's role in her performance. Later, I understood this was precisely what she meant by "sharing the authority" between the writer and the reader, or the audience and the artist.
After a while, I could hear the audience whispering, my feet gently rustling the paper as though caressing skin, and the soft murmurings from the screen. This was a delightful surprise for me, especially after the isolation of COVID, during which, as both an artist and audience member, I hadn’t participated in any live artistic experiences. I felt joy coursing through my body.
At some point, losing track of time, I felt other footsteps joining me on the giant page, with other hands drawing alongside mine. It felt as if we ourselves were becoming the writings, as Cy’s whispered words echoed, “Sounds rely on pages, letters run on pages, waves flow on pages.” Those who joined me and Cy left their marks on the page. The screen turned black, and the whisperings faded into the surrounding darkness. As a small spotlight illuminated us, Cy and I turned the enormous page before rolling it up, prompting an applause from everyone present.