For Mathew Wilson, art is whatever he says it is. Or it’s not. It all depends on your perception of things. Or it doesn’t. “It’s art because I call it art,” he says. “It’s up to you whether you like it or not.”
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To add to the working kitchen and bathroom that are already part of the theater, Wilson and Martinez-Almaral are importing a futon (to share), a record player and records, an organ (which neither knows how to play), and a crow’s nest from which to address the audience. They have prepared approximately six hours of scripted material involving cooking, bathing, and other everyday tasks for their piece, which they call Tragedy. Wilson says the planned action will run out pretty fast. “Most of the period is going to be taken up by how we overcome the practical problems of being in the space,” he says. “The six hours that we’ve scripted may become pretty irrelevant by the second day, and that’s why we’re doing this, to see what’s going to happen in an extended performance that the audience cannot take in as a whole. Unless, that is, they live in the space like we do.”
But even if the theater is empty, which it probably often will be, the performers will not take a break. “As far as we’re concerned, if there’s nobody in the space, we’re going to maintain our concentration on performing,” Wilson says. “We’re not going to go, ‘Right, there’s nobody here, let’s get a cigarette and have a chat.’”
It’s going to be difficult to perform Tragedy without any of the conventions of performance art, Wilson says. It is in a theater, and, sometimes, there will be an audience. “We came up with some idea, but then we said, ‘Well, that idea will last an hour, but what will happen when that particular scripted part runs out?’ Well, nothing, we’re just going to carry on.”
I usually just fight with my roommates about doing the dishes, I say.
“You know, the piece,” he says, “the piece we just did.”
So, I guess this is a cup of actual British tea.
