“Paperwork: The Department of Dreams, Hopes and Fears” by L.M. Bogad

Friday, 28 June 2013
10:00 – 11:45 pm (observed intermittently)
Roble Studio 25 (Performance Gallery)

Blog Response by Dr. W.C. Meier

Photo by Jamie Lyons9209924679_738ed1aa71_o

As soon as I happened upon The Bureaucrat sitting behind his regulation metal desk, dressed in a polyester suit, silently grimacing, gesturing intently for me to sit, and surrounded by all of the props a busybody who works for something called The Department of Dreams, Hopes and Fears would have been issued by the unknown higher authority he comes from, I knew I was in trouble. With trepidation and unable to stifle my giggling, he turned a bright desk lamp so it shone directly onto my face as I sat down in the chair and squinting, connected with his eyes glaring back at me with glee. Watching, his finger tapped the desk impatiently three times. He was waiting for me to pick up the pen provided and write on the white paper…my fears. The Bureaucrat has three plastic signs which he uses to silently instruct an audience member brave enough to answer the call of his desk bell what to do. As I handed him my confession, he took a large feather out from a drawer of his desk and tickled my nose, quickly hiding the instrument of my olfactory torture when he was apparently satisfied with my recoil. He then carefully examined my document, highlighted one word, stamped it with the words ‘Return to Sender’ before promptly crumpling it up and handing it back with a smug grin. And with that, the Bureaucrat was indicating that he was begrudgingly ready for the next client to hand over to him their dreams, hopes and fears. And while I was only a part of this performance for a few minutes, I watched L.M. Bogad in character with absolute delight on and off for a few hours. And I swear, paperwork was never so much fun.

“Honey” by Stosh Fila and Julie Tolentino

Friday, 28 June 2013
7:30 pm
Roble Courtyard

Blog Response by Sampada Aranke, PhD Candidate, UC Davis Performance Studies

Photo by Jamie Lyons9209945645_e9a90d01f5_o

Truthfully, I didn’t go to the performance gallery expecting to see HONEY. But it captured me. As I walked through the performance gallery courtyard on Friday night, I noticed a tall, black tripod structure towering over a woman. As I walked toward her, I noticed a glistening golden trail leading from the top of the black structure towards her face. It was excessive, extravagant, velvet, and moving like sand through an hourglass — slow, layered, purposeful, directive. Honey. Honey slithering down a wire catching the evening light with it’s fleshly materiality. Atop the structure crouched a man, white wearing all black. He poured the nectar from above. She stood underneath, wearing a garment made of what looked like a white tarpy vinyl, and caught the honey in her mouth. Tediously keeping her mouth open, she writhed from ease to discomfort, joy to crazed fear. Fear of choking on honey. What a luxurious murder.

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“Falling Into Place,” by Gretchen Schiller

Friday, 28 June 2013
12:00 pm
Roble 33

Blog Response by Rebecca Chaleff

Photo by Jamie Lyons9209914477_23ee68699f_o

For the past few days, Roble 33 has been a mystery to me.  I heard whispers about it: those who had volunteered to set it up expressed incredible curiosity, and those called upon to photograph the space exclaimed, “I don’t know what she’s doing in there, but it’s beautiful.”  I got several text messages telling me that I absolutey had to see it.  My interest was engaged, to say the least.  I tried desperately to find an appointment—the books were full, and only one spot remained.  I nearly sacrificed a friendship ensuring that I was the one to take this appointment.  I was lucky (and yes, we’re still friends).

I returned the next day to check in at the front desk of Roble, disguised from its usual function by a lace tablecloth and stacks of archaic-looking books and scrolls tied with ribbon.  I was checked-in, led down the hall to Roble 33, and told to stand in the threshold until instructed to do otherwise—until the “librarian” came to fetch me.  All I could see was absence.  Thick curtains sucked space and time out of the room.  I felt as though I were standing in a vacuum, a black hole in the middle of the Stanford campus.

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Performing the PSi Conference: A Processural Twitter Archive, Post 1

This blog is a catalog of responses to events. These responses occur in various temporalities, in different rhythms, and in different media. The psi19performance blog attempts to collapse the distances, distinctions, and differences between these times, patterns, and forms as well as those between the “liveness” and the documentation of the conference, between the academic, praxis, and performance valences of the conference, and between this blog’s own nature as archive and its serial eventhood, marked by its insistent up-to-datedness.

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