- You don't look happy.
- Haven’t you found it?
- Isn’t this funny?
Don’t call me sir, call me Barman or Paul.
I’m not much older than you.
- Please! Another baby, sir.
- Here you go, Miss Nelson.
Don’t call me sir, call me barman or Paul.
- I’m not much older than you.
- Then how old are you? I’m 22.
- In 22 years, you’ll be twice that.
- Yes, in 22 years, I’ll be 26.
- She is wrong, sir, sorry, barman or Paul.
In 22 years, she’ll be 44.
- You are good at maths, but her French is better than yours.
- I can catch her, I’m only two years older.
- I didn’t know you were 19.
- Come on, 22 plus 35 isn’t 19.
- Except during the war. The result of 70 plus 14 was 40.
- As you’re so good at maths, I’ve got something to ask you.
Count every object in the bar, for the inventory.
- What’s a bar?
- Coming! A bar is . . .A place, I mean, a room. It’s several people who gather under the eye of a barman, and also a room where liquids are served. It’s several people who gather under the eye of a barman and also a room.
- A bar can’t be two things. Can she be a woman and a crocodile?
- Embarrasing question. I’ll think about it but tell me what objects are here.
- I can see a glass, bottles, a rose, windows to my right, a door that is both in front of me and behind you. You see, one thing can be in two different places.
- Go on.
- A barman .
- Where is he?
- Right in front of me, it’s you!
- Right, I couldn’t see myself. Go on.
- An ashtray, cups, plates, a coffee machine, three taps . . .a cigarette, a striped dress.
- Four walls around the bar, the floor under our feet, a worker and me, Paula, in a situation from which she sees no way out.
- You gather words at random. You have to order them.
- What for, Barman or Paul?
- What are words for, Miss?
- Is it really necessary?
- I believe so.
- I make sentences, but I don’t like it.
- Why don’t you like it?
- Sentences are pointless or empty words. That’s what the dictionary says.
- But it also says that sentences put words together . . .to make them meaningful.
- I don’t agree at all.
- What’s wrong with her definition?
- Sentences can’t be meaningless and make words meaningful.
- You’re complicating things. If you don’t make sentences, I can’t understand you, and I can’t serve you a drink.
- OK, Barman or Paul, I’ll give it a try. The glass is not in the wine. The barman is in the pocket of the pencil’s jacket. The counter kicks the girl. The floor is stubbed out on a cigarette. The tables stand on top of the glasses. The ceiling is hung from the light. The window looks at the girl in the eyes. I open them and see the door sitting on the stool. There are three bars in the phone. The coffee is filled with vodka. The Cinzano is surrounded by four walls. But the dictionary only has three windows. One American and two French ones. The doors jump out the window. The barman fills a cigarette with whiskey. He lights up the tap. I am what you are. He is not what we are. They are what you are. I have what you have. He has what they have. They don’t have what we don’t have.
- What do you want?
- If they ask you, say you don’t know.
- Say something at least.
- “What’s the maximum speed for love? The answer is 68 kilometres per hour. One kilometer more flips you around the wrong way.” (laughs) Fine.
ARMED FOCRES WILL BE DISPATCHED TO PROTECT THE 535 CANDIDATES IN SUNDAY’S ELECTIONS
- Say something at least.
- I’m sick of this.
(Marianne Faithfull sings as tears go by)
- This is the address you asked for.
- Thanks. Whatever I do, I can’t escape my responsibilities towards others. My silence has the same effect on him as my words. My departure troubles him, as does my presence. My indifference can be his downfall, as much as my help can. My concern, sometimes thoughtless, kills him. This life is either nothing, or it has to be everything. Considering losing it, rather than making it absurd, I place at the heart of my relative existence an absolute standard called ethics. The absolute in this sense is nowhere else. No past justifies it. No future could promise it. I chose to live to become more faithful to myself, to Dick and to the others.
Juliette Blightman (*1980, UK) lives and works in Berlin.
Solo shows (selection): I hope one day soon you will come visit me here, Isabella Bortolozzi Galerie, Berlin (2011); A Year With No Head, International Project Space, Birmingham (2011); The day grew dark, Künstlerhaus, Stuttgart (2010), The day grew darker still, Process Room, Irish Museum of Modern Art, Dublin (2010).
Group shows (selection): Death Dies, Tramway, Glasgow (2011); 'How To Work (more for) less', Kunsthalle Basel (2011); British Art Show 7, Nottingham and London (2010), Based in Berlin, Hamburger Bahnhof, Berlin (2011); Paradise Lost, Dirk Bell/Juliette Blightman, Kunstverein Arnsberg (2010); Silberkuppe, Staatliche Kunsthalle, Baden (2009), Friends of the Divided Mind, Royal College of Art, London (2009). Nought to Sixty, ICA, London (2008).
Nominated by ICA
This work is part of ICA SOUNDWORKS - www.ica.org.uk/soundworks