Field notes from Electric Bodies (06.03.26) By Naomii Seah
It’s my first time here, and I’m unprepared for the dizzying descent down four flights of lawn-green stairs. I spin my feet anticlockwise, falling in slow motion like a modern-day Alice. The rabbit hole is lined with posters, its tiled walls painted in bold shapes coloured butter yellow and brilliant red. When I arrive in Wonderland, small groups are already standing around. I sink into the plush sofa clutching a muesli bar labeled “EAT ME” and close my eyes, listening to
the voices bouncing off
concrete
off
concrete
concrete
off
concrete off
As it approaches eight, I join the crowd in the abyssal main room. It’s pitch black all over except for a white tarpaulin in the centre, where a singular microphone is spotlit against the darkness.
the void has a disco ball / the void has two disco balls / the void / has a platform rising / from the ether / the void / sets the stage with a microphone / for no one / as the void / the voices / criss-cross the void / is an empty floor / a black & polished obsidian mouth
says “come closer,” and I creep shyly toward the tarp, watching the artist
rise to meet the edges
of performance
jingling a sharpie & coins, a golden totem
He gathers us but we’ve intruded; he takes
it all and goes.
—‘Untimely: Threshold’ by IVAN LUPI
As LUPI leaves the stage, Janaína Moraes, artistic director of Ōtautahi Tiny Performance Festival, gives a mihi, acknowledging the significance of INTERxCHANGE as a space for performance art. Moraes is speaking mostly about the artists, but it strikes me that events like these are also an essential public good. I look at the others in the crowd: strangers of all ages and backgrounds sharing time, space, experience.
Come slowly through the door: a portal guarded
by barefoot angels
in black linen.
Listen:
an orchestral oeuvre
the rattling cicadas
tonight we are shedding our shells
Once disparate individuals, now a community. Isn’t that what art is about? Creating a collective
what?
follow the pied piper
as the spell is cast
let it baffle you
consider
you don’t already know
everything worth knowing
(the void calls. It is never far away)
Onstage, bodies are transformed as the tension buzzes—I mean, builds.
ecdysis is supposed to be painful , so ride the wave
let it move you
let the lightning
crack open
your ribs.
—’Violin Mantis’ by Sarah Elsworth and Anita Clark (MOTTE)
Entering single-file, we slink around the inflatable pool. I crouch against a wall. Too late, the smell of damp draws attention to my full bladder. The artist lifts a jug over the surface…
What is this, auditory torture?
perpetual motion machine
sinks once again:
GLUG LUG GLUGL UG GLUG UGLG GLUGLUG GLUG UG GLUGL UG
GLUG
late night showers & babbling brooks & roaring rivers in the distance & leaky basin dripping tap as lover comes to bed
The sound of water transforms the scene, and I wonder what memories are being recalled as I observe the audience
rapt at
the stream
trickling into the
trickling into the
trickling into
the trickling
to into the
ling trick
ling
into
the
SPLASHING! PLONK PLONK PLONK
PLONK PLONK
waves on the beach / the tide turns, crabs
scuttle across / windswept cliffs echoing
The artist is a one-person band, using a loop pedal to mix a symphony.
Underwater, rain / looks like stardust
whirlpool swirling
rushing / gasping
(harder)
it’s lonely in this room full of people
struggling to surface
—’a body and a body of water’ by Jazmine Rose Phillips
When we return to the void it smells of ash and sandalwood, faintly sweet, like burnt incense at the temple. Dirt gathers in piles on the floor.
Step one: plant the seed. Cover it; roots grow in darkness. Pull them out. Now it’s a hole, not a home. There is so much longing in empty space.
The artists play like children, making castle-shaped hollows with their hands.
Step two: can you hear it? The sand speaks of how it feels to be small. There are no riddles, only little wishes seeking being, piling up until the weight is unbearable.
Singing drifts eeriely into the ether, punctuated by the slapping rhythms of palms against wet sand.
Step three: make it pretty. The earth is as unsettled as you are, cracking and shifting to make space for something new. It is cold & firm & heavy. Being held is a spiritual thing.
In Korean folklore, toads symbolise wealth and future blessings; they are guardians who help those in need. The artists wear green balloon warts on their backs.
Step four: survey the land. Sell it, the valley dares you. Beyond these shores the ocean is hungry. The world is much larger than you know.
The artists hold hands and bow, triumphant. I ascend the stairs to undo the dream; I emerge, newly born into the cool evening.
—’Toad Hole’ by Cindy Yunha Jang & Sung Hwan Bobby Park
It’s my first time here, and I’m unprepared for the dizzying descent down four flights of lawn-green stairs. I spin my feet anticlockwise, falling in slow motion like a modern-day Alice. The rabbit hole is lined with posters, its tiled walls painted in bold shapes coloured butter yellow and brilliant red. When I arrive in Wonderland, small groups are already standing around. I sink into the plush sofa clutching a muesli bar labeled “EAT ME” and close my eyes, listening to
the voices bouncing off
concrete
off
concrete
concrete
off
concrete off
As it approaches eight, I join the crowd in the abyssal main room. It’s pitch black all over except for a white tarpaulin in the centre, where a singular microphone is spotlit against the darkness.
the void has a disco ball / the void has two disco balls / the void / has a platform rising / from the ether / the void / sets the stage with a microphone / for no one / as the void / the voices / criss-cross the void / is an empty floor / a black & polished obsidian mouth
says “come closer,” and I creep shyly toward the tarp, watching the artist
rise to meet the edges
of performance
jingling a sharpie & coins, a golden totem
He gathers us but we’ve intruded; he takes
it all and goes.
—‘Untimely: Threshold’ by IVAN LUPI
As LUPI leaves the stage, Janaína Moraes, artistic director of Ōtautahi Tiny Performance Festival, gives a mihi, acknowledging the significance of INTERxCHANGE as a space for performance art. Moraes is speaking mostly about the artists, but it strikes me that events like these are also an essential public good. I look at the others in the crowd: strangers of all ages and backgrounds sharing time, space, experience.
Come slowly through the door: a portal guarded
by barefoot angels
in black linen.
Listen:
an orchestral oeuvre
the rattling cicadas
tonight we are shedding our shells
Once disparate individuals, now a community. Isn’t that what art is about? Creating a collective
what?
follow the pied piper
as the spell is cast
let it baffle you
consider
you don’t already know
everything worth knowing
(the void calls. It is never far away)
Onstage, bodies are transformed as the tension buzzes—I mean, builds.
ecdysis is supposed to be painful , so ride the wave
let it move you
let the lightning
crack open
your ribs.
—’Violin Mantis’ by Sarah Elsworth and Anita Clark (MOTTE)
Entering single-file, we slink around the inflatable pool. I crouch against a wall. Too late, the smell of damp draws attention to my full bladder. The artist lifts a jug over the surface…
What is this, auditory torture?
perpetual motion machine
sinks once again:
GLUG LUG GLUGL UG GLUG UGLG GLUGLUG GLUG UG GLUGL UG
GLUG
late night showers & babbling brooks & roaring rivers in the distance & leaky basin dripping tap as lover comes to bed
The sound of water transforms the scene, and I wonder what memories are being recalled as I observe the audience
rapt at
the stream
trickling into the
trickling into the
trickling into
the trickling
to into the
ling trick
ling
into
the
SPLASHING! PLONK PLONK PLONK
PLONK PLONK
waves on the beach / the tide turns, crabs
scuttle across / windswept cliffs echoing
The artist is a one-person band, using a loop pedal to mix a symphony.
Underwater, rain / looks like stardust
whirlpool swirling
rushing / gasping
(harder)
it’s lonely in this room full of people
struggling to surface
—’a body and a body of water’ by Jazmine Rose Phillips
When we return to the void it smells of ash and sandalwood, faintly sweet, like burnt incense at the temple. Dirt gathers in piles on the floor.
Step one: plant the seed. Cover it; roots grow in darkness. Pull them out. Now it’s a hole, not a home. There is so much longing in empty space.
The artists play like children, making castle-shaped hollows with their hands.
Step two: can you hear it? The sand speaks of how it feels to be small. There are no riddles, only little wishes seeking being, piling up until the weight is unbearable.
Singing drifts eeriely into the ether, punctuated by the slapping rhythms of palms against wet sand.
Step three: make it pretty. The earth is as unsettled as you are, cracking and shifting to make space for something new. It is cold & firm & heavy. Being held is a spiritual thing.
In Korean folklore, toads symbolise wealth and future blessings; they are guardians who help those in need. The artists wear green balloon warts on their backs.
Step four: survey the land. Sell it, the valley dares you. Beyond these shores the ocean is hungry. The world is much larger than you know.
The artists hold hands and bow, triumphant. I ascend the stairs to undo the dream; I emerge, newly born into the cool evening.
—’Toad Hole’ by Cindy Yunha Jang & Sung Hwan Bobby Park
Field notes from Electric Bodies (06.03.26) By Naomii Seah
