Filemaker's Notes

edited by Gary O'Connor

Filemaker has livedand worked in East London since 1997.

He describes himself as a sound collector, a dance mechanic and a story teller. His surreal, and at times dark humoured outlook on life, is illustrated through live art and written works. These actions, or interventions, are physical reactions to the sounds and smells of his immediate environment. In many cases, his descriptions of the olfactory and auditory senses become blurred and confused.

Filemaker has kindly allowed me access to his private notes and written documentation to compile a short written piece which supports the performance of Slide.

Gary O'Connor

14.26 12/08/01 E7 64

The small clearing is surrounded by shabby housing blocks. These multi-storey dwellings stand tall and formidable, towering above the token pieces of land like badly dressed predators. The grassy area is dry and worn away in criss-cross patterns by countless encounters with expensive trainers. To the east, at the edge of the green, lies a small brick wall that seems to serve no purpose. Just off centre stands a solitary swing and a child's roundabout. The women beging to gather there, thirty or forty of them. Shrouded in black they swarm about the play area like faceless nuns, each with at least one child - most of which are crying. Some women poke the children with sticks and scald them in a language I do not understand until they too begin to cry. The result echoes about the space, the resonating quality of the architecture brings the structures to life. The sound smells like paraffin, greasy and uncomfortable. Some of the children sit on the roundabout and it turns, slowly. Gradually the women begin to sway in a slow unified motion, they appear content as if all is right with the world. Just to the north of the green, beyond the blocks, is a busy road: a main artery into the city. The roar of its traffic filters through the concrete and accompanies the sound of the children. I sit on the wall and set up my recording equipment, then setting the levels, I begin to move. This dance is very simple. I sway in time with the women, replicating their movements. The rhythm of the traffic in the background smells just like candy floss - sweet and sticky. With each sway to the left I dip my shoulder, pointing my elbow towards the ground and I hold my right hand out in front of me with the palm facing the crowd. I appear to be accepted as part of the spectacle, there is no adverse reaction to my presence; in fact they completely ignore me. This continues for 36 minutes then the group begins to disperse, shuffling away in all directions back to the blocks.

13.06 13/09/99 D6 62

The security guard is stirring his tea and chatting to a blonde haired woman at reception. I manage to slip past him unnoticed and head for the lift. As I approach, the doors slide open and two men step out, an automated voice announces their arrival and I step in. I press the button for the third floor and it asks me to mind the doors. They close and I ascend alone. The lift shudders, the sound of the motor smells bitter like almonds and as each floor passes, the scent wavers a fraction. It comes to an abrupt halt. a bell rings, the doors open and my floor is announced. The corridor is empty so I make my way towards the first door on the right. I try the handle but it is locked so I move on to the second and it opens. I peer into the office and find it empty. It's lunchtime. I know I haven't got long so I let myself in and close the door behind me. All of the Macs are up and running, the low hum of the G4's cooling systems fill the room. It sits in the stillness, crisp and fresh, occupying the space like the scent of citrus fruit. This dance involves a minimum of movement. I lay down on the floor facing the ceiling with my arms out-stretched and my legs together. Slowly. I raise my arms until the palms of my hands come together above me. Then, keeping my wrists together, my hands and fingers are splayed, as if to receive an object. This position is held for about ten minutes, then I get to my feet and leave the room.

22.38 19/06/00 E3 48

At the end of the terrace in Bancroft Road a group of Bangladeshi boys from number 77 begin their evening ritual of parked cars and relentless drum and bass. To the rear of the house runs a rail line, the intermittent sound of the trains mask the cars output bar the odd sub-sonic fragments and rat-a-tat-tat of hi-hat and snare. Stepping into the garden I head for the rear fence. Once over I make my way into the darkness, down the embankment through nettles and weeds and into a ditch running parallel with the tracks. All about me I can hear the movement of unseen creatures disturbed by my presence. The rustling smells like dirty bed linen, an unpleasant distraction from the noise of the cars which is now difficult to pinpoint as it oscillates above my head. I pull myself up, out of the ditch, and stand next to the track. A train is approaching so I assume the position. I can feel the vibration under my feet and the tracks begin to rattle. This dance is more complex than others: there are several key elements to consider. First I turn my back to the oncoming train, my feet are wide apart and I stretch my torso - arching my back and lifting my head to face the sky. My left arm is in front of me with my fingers turned inward - down towards my chest. My right arm is above my head and my fingers point forward. The train grows closer. I can hear its rumble as it penetrates the night. I jerk forward spasmodically- there is no rhythm, no timing. The train is almost upon me, its deafening roar blocks out all other sound like the odour of chlorine and my bodily movements match the crescendo. With its presence, my body tunes into the rattle and rhythm. As it passes, my arms fall and come to rest across my chest. I sway gently, accompanied by the Bangladeshi boys from number 77 and something scurrying about to my right. Then I make my way back to the house.

16.32 03/06/02 E3 48

My June afternoon has been interrupted by a sudden downpour. The air is thick and muggy and the warm summer rain beats heavy against the window. It comes in waves, filling my senses with the sound of ripe tomatoes and Sunday lunch. I'm in the quietest room in the house. It faces the back garden, the double glazing helps dampen the noise from the trains and the road, but the shower seems amplified. I open the cardboard box and begin to take out the portable CD players. There are nine in all, I need at least this number for this particular dance. I plug in the three plug boards, then the CD players and arrange them around the room. The I fetch the CDs from downstairs and begin to load the players.

My list of choices are as follows:

Here Come the Warm Jets / Brian Eno

Outta Sight! -Nansi Wilson Sings the Hits

The Clash / The Clash

In-A-Gadda- Da-Vida / Iron Butterfly

Pictures at an Exhibition / Mussorgsky

L.A.M.F. / Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers

The Look of Love - the Burt Bacarach Collection

The 50 Greatest Hits / Elvis Presley

Chat and Business / Ikara Colt

The play button on each Discman is pressed and the mechanisms spring into action. There are no headphones or amplification, just delicate whirls and clicks as the motors spin and the lasers scan the discs. I stand in the centre of the room, my left foot in front of my right with both knees slightly bent. My arms are out-stretched in front of me - both hands are at chest height. The sound of the rain hitting the glass sits just above the mechanical activity within the room. It smells pungent and damp like freshly mown grass. My fingers twitch, frantically fingering the air and I begin to move: back and forth in a rock steady motion. One by one each CD comes to an end, until all that is heard are the splashes of rain against the window. I come to a standstill. I unplug the CD players and go downstairs.

Gary O'Connor 2002