“I burst out laughing at the sight of a lobster arching through the air.” Cabinet of Curiosities

Dodging vegetable masks and flying lobsters, C James Fagan wonders how to describe last night’s live performance by Filippos Tsitsopoulos…

In this crazy world of art you discover that there are at least two approaches to the dissemination of information regarding exhibitions, events and performances. One approach tends to be a detailed account of the artistic process, the concepts and influences behind the piece, and even the actions that will take place. This approach leaves me, the viewer, with a sense of familiarity before seeing said event.

On the other hand, you can find yourself you just enough information to know that something is going to happen.

The latter is what I’m facing at the Bluecoat tonight; described as part installation, part lecture, part performance, all I really know about Filippos Tsitsopoulos presents: Cabinet of Curiosities of Mr Bonsai is… well, nothing, other than the title conjures up images of Victorian freak shows, of juggling monkeys and elephant men.

As I wait outside the performance space with the gathering audience, a sense of vague expectation builds, and I wonder if I should have researched Tsitsopoulos a bit more. Of course, in these days of instant knowledge maybe it’s better not to know, and not to taint the experience.

Soon enough that experience is underway, and in entering the space I am confronted by four large, projected heads. I say heads; they appear to be heads, there is something head-like about them. These things are covered by a glut of strange objects, mainly natural, often edible. The first one I see is combination of different seafoods (prawns, lobsters e.t.c.), another is a truly bizarre mixture of crisps and chicken heads. One is more clearly a human head, though it sprouts barbs in a way that makes me think of this image of Tom Baker.

That may seem silly, even irrelevant, but as the images, music, words all overlap and threaten to overwhelm, I guess I am trying to dredge some connections out of what’s happening, trying to piece to all together. Doctor Who references merge into images of the horn of plenty, or cornucopia: bountiful harvests and an overabundance of want. I have this feeling that there’s something sinister here, something about the true nature of fruits and plenty that has to be given away to the next generation to rot and give up their seeds. Another pop culture bubbles up: this time a lyric from a Scott Walker song about the ‘grossness of spring lolling its bloodied head’.

Again, I find it hard to form a coherent narrative from what’s happening around me. This is not a failing of the performance; it’s just that my mind is in review mode, and I’m trying to translate what’s unfolding. This is the point where I bring out the cliché, ‘You had to be there’ — we are uncertain, and don’t know how long this will go on. The audience reflects this as it leaves the centre and settles around the edge of the room, in an attempt to find the most comfortable place to wait. Though they have to crane to witness a new combination of man and consumable materials.

It all carries on as it started: the heads loll, speak poetry, sing what sounds like a Tom Waits song, and recite Shakespeare. There is a moment when one of the heads reveals its human face, which then proceeds to sew its own mouth shut; it’s a strange, bloody and painful moment. I don’t know how it fits into the context of the rest of the night and I can’t recall how that sequence ends.

After a couple of seat changes, something else happens: almost imperceptibly a figure emerges from the darkness. I only notice it when it becomes a silhouette against one of projections. The figure is one of the projected head made real, a creature made from dead animal and vegetable matter with the body of a human. It seems to emanate a strange plaintive howl, as if it’s calling to its pre-recorded brothers.

Somewhere under that mass of surf ‘n’ turf is Tsitsopoulos, and what happens next elevates the sense of the absurd. From within the bizarre  ’headsalad’ (I don’t know how else to describe it) Tsitsopoulos delivers a monologue that beings to explain what’s going on: donning ‘food masks’ as part of a ritual of thanks for a bountiful harvest. I wasn’t far wrong about the cornucopia earlier.

It also brings with it a smell, the odour of the sea and of greengrocers; a smell that is at once comforting (because it touches on memories of holidays) and disturbing (as it contacts us with a vague sense of the dangers of nature).

This is all tied up with Tsitsopoulos’ memories of his father (a famous actor), his death, and having to live in his shadow. How in dealing with all this, he turned to an idea of ripping apart the mechanics of theatre, making the stage his own. By creating these food masks, Tsitsopoulos is creating a new identity: something separate from whatever he was before, I guess in order to discover himself. Creating something that he can define as truly his: ‘This is me, this is part of me’.

At one point he begins to lead the audience into the middle of the space, and I wonder what will happen. Seating emerges from the wall and Tsitsopoulos takes what would have been the audience’s position, squatting in the middle. Soon he is ripping his face of food off; pieces of veg and seafood fly everywhere. Something unexpected happens: during the violent destruction of his own mask, I burst out laughing at the sight of a lobster arching through the air. Tsitsopoulos sits there and pulls his shirt over his head, as if not ready for us to see his real face.

The audience stands, wondering if it’s over, and Tsitsopoulos cheerfully informs us it is. I’m still unsure what happened; I can only attempt to provide you with an account of what I witnessed. It was a night of curiosity, of sincerity, of an experience that’s was baffling as it was intriguing.

C James Fagan