At the invitation of Folie/Culture artist-run centre in Quebec City, I invested the space of The a-Post Office, (Bureau de l’a – POST –), a portable structure set up in strategic locations in Quebec’s city centre. Taking inspiration from the idea of the Post Office, this two-day durational, and relational performance became an annex of research into another kind of Doing Nothing – that of Waiting. Standing inside my little kiosk, this Office on wheels transformed into a site of pause: The Waiting Room / La salle d’attente, where I contemplated what it means to wait, while demonstrating waiting (as we once did when, in a previous era, when we mailed letters and had to be patient about getting a reply).
Sitting at my station, this fire-engine red shelter became like a miniature observation tower. And observing, as I was, the circulation of schoolchildren, delivery trucks, cars, tourists, retired folks and working parents, I couldn’t help but ponder my performative action through the lens of Resting, Walking and Place-Making. My kiosk was situated smack dab in the middle of a neighbourhood that felt very much like a little village, the same people possibly strolling past me several times in one day. While I observed their walking, some actually stopped to consider my resting, and verbally expressed wonder at what the Post Office – and I in it – were doing here.
This intersection of their walking and my “doing nothing” became the very site of place-making; for at the instance when someone would decide to stop and approach me, their otherwise fluid passage was brought to a temporary halt. Why is she inhabiting this spot, why now?
– “What’s going on here, what are you doing?”
– “I’m waiting.”
– “What are you waiting for?”
– “Nothing. I’m waiting. Just to wait.” (“Rien. J’attends, juste pour attendre.”)
…And from this entry point, The Waiting Room / La salle d’attente became a locus of inquiry; a place that when unnoticed, sat latent (yet attentive), and waited, but when remarked upon transformed into a site where questions, values, reflections, local history, concerns, and confessions, were all conferred not only upon me but the situation as a whole (me, and this little booth).
These punctuations in waiting gave the project of waiting a whole other flavour. It was as if I could (and did) occupy two distinct zones: one of actively spacing out and one of actively listening. The two continuously bounced back and forth and definitely complemented each other; I felt myself go into a calm and comfortable lull (in my own head) staring off into the beautiful view of a steep street lined with staircases and overgrown summer flowers when I was unnoticed… And was reanimated when someone came up to me and started to speak. It made those moments more precious too – because the piece was just as much about the waiting as it was about the interactions (which inevitably had us collectively reflecting on waiting).
These punctuations in waiting were also made possible precisely because of the structure surrounding me – this flaming red booth. If I had been sitting on a park bench, no one would likely take notice at all. So in eking out an autonomous space, and putting a sign on it (two signs: Folie/Culture’s Post Office signature and my little “La salle d’attente”) I contributed to creating a place where these exchanges could occur. It should be noted however, that these exchanges did occur entirely because of people’s curiosity. Clearly the kiosk was an eye-catcher, but I was genuinely surprised by the number of locals (and tourists) of all ages who did approach to ask what it was, and why I was there.
And so this coinciding of walking and resting – punctuating waiting (as it were) – became a place where unexpected conversations between strangers could spontaneously happen, with us then collectively establishing our individual and unique positions (who am I, and who are you, as we now meet in this conversation)? What place we do create and inhabit together – both within this specific conversation, and within the world immediately around us.
(Photos above are by Fabien Abitbol, who also wrote a nice little piece about the performance here).
The Sanctimonious Sect of Nothing Is Sacred 