Posted on September 22nd, 2015
He stands. He stays. He wobbles and he sways.
In a complement to his earlier performances, Christian Bujold stands before the legislature building and beneath the mottled sky. For an hour he is cut off from the rest of the world, a null figure, not a person but a body, an any body.
With more space to breathe, accidental observers are free to ignore or attend at their own pace. It is far more calm than before, a reflection of the area and the day.
It’s difficult to tell which way Christian is facing, further amplifying the ambiguity of his form, and the means to approach this bell curve of pleats, wrinkles, and rivulets beckoning in the breeze.
When the time comes, he folds, like a jackknife, twisting his body to the side. There is greater articulation in this movement than any other, and suddenly his arms and legs appear as appendages instead of hints. The sheet bunches and clings, and it is only at the final moment that his shape returns to naught but a mound, a hump, a lump.
He emerges from the cocoon, retrieves a stick from a pile unseen, and spears the mound of white. In a tile riven with holes, the banner mounts. Two shorter, broken sticks are placed in similar tiles, fifty or so meters apart, providing a trail, a slalom, towards the sheet billowing in the wind and the promenade below.
Pushing the hair off his forehead, Christian walks away from the remnants of his action.