I am emptied from raising up and screwing together poems, ’tis true, my mind is fragile and temperamental and The Sydney Writers’ Festival was work and winks of relaxation whilst swallowing bubbled water against the Pier’s sparkled waves.
Until Nightwriting I had transported poems in pockets, bags, heart and envelopes. I’d known a poem’s physical to weight like a leaf, a feather, a pip, regardless of content. Yet for the last five days we have installed, axed, fixed, welded, moulded and dressed three poems or poem-pods, each one a wood extension of a poem by three poets.
The installation launched on Thursday night fronted by the silvery polo neck jacekted Jacob Polley who delivered a hypnotic and unexpectedly sensual minislec about poetry and night. (This minislec will be on line soon as a video and later, audio and text available). The audience held their breaths and it the shadows owned the space, the room heaved with bodies I have little doubt were wood spirits from the wool shed of past centuries.
Not wanting to mention money or door takings – but, we had to charge $10 to cover the space hire for this event. Of course we offered comps to those who couldn’t afford $10 and then we waited to see if the public would bite and buy their own entry for $10. With a crowd of about 160, I’d estimate half bought tickets the others used our comps. As many in the poetry pages know, individuals have no problem paying $10 for a theatre, music or dance event , a hair cut, petrol or sandwich, but paying for poetry is an anathema. And I know, those who fund Red Room will continue to ask why don’t you charge stacks of cash for your events and projects – but it simply turns people, future readers and writers, away.
Tomorrow morning we truck to bump-out and yes, the event and installation whilst in the studio throughout the festival, reached a massive audience, I am left wondering what everyone thought, I saw bodies stand in our poem-pods but couldn’t read their thoughts and detest the concept of interrupting an experience in order to get ‘stats’ such as post code and out of ten enjoyment levels.
So, hundreds of heads who have experienced these poems flow back to work on Monday, a little different in how they think of a poem, a highway, a nocturne or Pin striped suits. Or not?
