Abtffn...............................................................................................................tilbake til JIB
Jacques Taris: rag ropes and remembrances
In Naval terminology, a mooring rope may be wound. tightly round its bollard or coiled loosely to form a flat circle on the deck. Great skill is required in the correct coiling of the rope since, in an emergency, it has to be released quickly to be pulled tight or paid out.
For two days now, we have had a coiled mooring rope hanging overhead; one end is tied up near the set and the other reaches as far as the Balcony. The rope is hanging loose, as though we had neither moored up nor cast off. The place where the wound up rope is looped changes now, but the rope itself continues to be plaited by a silent figure who carries with him an ordinary black bucket, taken from a boat or a kitchen, containing strips of fabric soaking in water. Then we remember, and we shall certainly check, that these strips of material are taken from a canvas that will continue to be shredded but which was intact and on display in the Basement of the Theatre at the beginning of our session.
Now that we have finished speaking and are drawing to a close, all that remains is the bucket and the rag rope: the plaiting has ceased and the rope will grow no more for now. Only the braided strips of the rope remain bearing an imprint of the canvas, its yarn woven into the rope, ceasing to grow as soon as we cease to speak.
This weaver of rag ropes and remembrances is silent, his plaiting speaks in his place and expresses what our words cannot articulate.He brings no pressure to bear and opts for the role of an unknown, unidentified and transitory presence in a public place: not entirely private, but not very media friendly.
This unknown person, silent chronicler of so many conversations does succeed in revealing the truth and the hope contained in these dialogues with the past:
that we may emerge from misfortune with some shreds of experience to weave into our future lives. Though we may not be able to reproduce the beauty of the canvas that was our past life, and may even have to plunge its remaining shreds to soak in the bucket of water, obliterating its original patterns, we may at least weave our rags and our remembrances into our own rag rope, ready to be paid out when we need it.
It is the tenderness of the colours of our individual tragedy which will remain in the new creation (in the words of Yves Peyre); it is the thread that connects us to the coiled rope lying ready to be unfurled.
I have hung the rope from steeple to steeple and now I am dancing
The thread that we weave is the thread that connects us secretly From time that has been shredded, we hold the imprint of those voices that can no longer speak and those gestures that live in our memories and bind us.
It is the rag rope woven from old cloth which renews the canvas once more To be aware of misfortune yet to make ready, to repair, to bind together: this then is the work of unseen hands, of those who remain silent, of those who are not seen, of those who are patient, of those who are unknown, of women, and of artists.
Title : MEMORY'S WEAVES,
Citations coming with " ACTIONS-POTLATCH "
I would watch over the people so that they might understand the gravity of death. Having boats and carts, they would not use them; possessing arms and armour, these would be of no use to them. I would have them return to the use of knotted strings.
We are passers by destined to pass through, hence to do away with trouble, to inflict our warmth, to speak out our exuberance. There, that is why we are tempestuous and unusual.
I stretched ropes from bell to bell, garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star and I danced
"Illuminations" ARTHUR RIMBAUD