ARCIPELAGO Collective Signatures III

By Marisa Garreffa
Edited by Francesca Carol Rolla

 

SEVERANCE 

It begins with a rupture

A stone like a loaf of bread splits

in silence, into two pieces

the inner faces as black as the seeds that spill, feather light 

from dense green hands along the sea 

Black is the colour of life 

and the stone is ready to share 

lost secrets

The sky folds itself into three shades of blue

and layers its belly in pink

Music holds us in gentle hands

marking the change

Ghosts walk and the children become calm, 

quiet with their ice creams 

the screams of play and novelty rest now 

with the remains of a feast

The cemetery marks the place 

of beginning

its door open wide to the square 

We gather

A man whispers poetries 

to a woman waiting 

at a bus stop to go nowhere

Red hips and black boots, 

she trails a seaweed of words behind her 

and vanishes 

between the mounds of earth piled high 

dressed in plastic flowers, bright, but fading 

into soft pinks, ochres, 

the tones of the island itself

Damp clay marks the departed 

earth crumbling as wet chalked stone

an echo of words on the wind

without voice

Severance

We sever from life, from everyday

from what we already know

walking together into a portal

to separate a before from an after

We depart from the centre to journey 

toward the trembling edges 

where tricksters live

to the illusion of the archipelago 

the great game of shifting elements

a border impossible to define

to approach the places where elements meet is to risk total annihilation 

to perform on the edge of the elements is to risk your own total erasure

the portal is opened, but not all realise the moment of no return

she pounds the trident into the ground

we walk

Archipelago was the name of the sea

the great expanse of blue lightly freckled with land

until a slight adjustment was made

and the word came to mean the islands themselves

a shift from salt water to dry land

the sea is the great unknown, out of reach for those 

whose lungs cannot pull air from liquid

the focus changed to what we can know

what we can come to understand

Islands. 

 

 

Tangible things. 

Yet, we are nothing without mystery

crumbling bones that channel no magic

The islands scream, turn again to the water

they cry, turn again to the sea

we stand on the edge

we are not the islands surrounded by sea

we are not the sea that holds its thorns of land

we are the places where they meet

The trident tears into the modern gravel road and it splits

wide open, roaring 

the old island wakes 

mnemonic earthquake

that shakes off the debris of human excess

and darkens the sky

Two blind men walking

one blind by necessity, held in the hands of love

the other with a storyteller reading printed tomes into his ear

the red woman trails her words

as drums drive us on

The sun is setting at our backs

away from the day and into the night

The net trails behind her, empty

waiting for the place to cast

Steel in hand pounding music from the road

a chest of woven weed, briny and strong

whose black feathers fall to the street, carrying messages

memories of sweat and love on their lips

they taste the gravel and the dust thick frosting of a thousand feet 

that came before them, the black tar tread of tires

All feathers will fall, eventually

We are approaching the edge

A crackling through the long procession, a hungry wailing

anxiety, anticipation, a desire to have it done

Drum rolls as a man writhes and twists along the ground

brothers in voice gasp and groan, siren calls, run ahead

run, run, stretch the synapse, already the temptations push people together

break the trap, crack, the trident, crack, heavy steel shows no mercy

as the bleached seaweed of words flutters 

into  absurdity

Palms joined she raises her hands to the sky, diving upward

and vanishes into the sky as a poet speaks of dying

beautifully, and a woman presses skin to stone

her body the bridge between walls

a hollow waiting for water

Hands carry the split stone

bread already broken for the feast

cracks open and from the dark, the eruption will rise

We dance. We drum. We call. 

Sometimes silence. 

We rarely know how to greet the effigies of the old island Gods

The lighthouse flashes the way, slowly turning

turning the world on its axis

its light shrinks the island

seems reachable by an outstretched hand

the cock crows in the dark as goats cluster in their stone pens 

 

It is awakening now

A woman collides with the ground and it takes her teeth

bone crumbles as dust, and the first price is paid 

the island is restless

it hears us coming

stands firm

I’m singing this song to the one I love best

And her name is tattooed all over my chest

Yo ho little fishy, don’t cry, don’t cry 

Yo ho little fishy, don’t cry, don’t cry 

 

THRESHOLD

She is breast deep in water

rocking

with every wave

rocking

with the tides

rocking

as she stares into the glow

of a sun hidden 

by grey sky

Surrender, she tells me, 

just surrender

and it’s only a small step back to where you were before

it’s when you fight 

when you stiffen 

that’s when they drive you 

far from the place

you want to stay

remaining in place

is a game of surrender

passing gently through

over and over again

Bring me your offering.

Blood drinking into stone

the child runs close, but always one step behind

cannot leave him, and cannot walk by his side

the blind man knows he is there, guided by others

following the song of a light that cannot be seen

Tell me what you see.

Bone becomes stone

the muscle clench squeeze within

pulls until he is a ribcage breathing

a pocket of floating skin on bone

the saxophone howling

for breath, for life

desperate

she paints the blood branches over the remains

stone and rag and tears

the women of the sea

balanced in a play

of weight

 

From one end of the island to another

the once-blind man walks alone now

mapping with his feet, his breath, his time

the arc of the journey

this is the marathon, he says through tired eyes

I want to feel the marathon

A red streak across the land

she is the stone and sand earth

a coil of ribs and red

smeared from nose to chin

she is the ruins, the remains, 

but she is not finished

she is rebirthing herself from the earth itself

the still arms of the windmill behind her

steel wrapped wails through the morning

the grunt and call of a male voice

we see only her

the wind is silent

He lays an offering 

you cannot see 

the moon rising, the sky shifting

dark grey and violet, light blue and coral, sand and water

she is searching for herself

here, the shadow on the stone asks a different question

more primal than the gifts of water that he brings

she crawls belly up to the sky over the rocks

a fish out of water

she beats her back against the stone

he bathes her, one small bowl at a time

a stone nest to hold her as she learns how to move

rides currents of air as a boat slamming on waves

We walk again now

another lighthouse

this light is old

walking backward in time

following the path to the ancestors 

the scent of bone

is our history too 

the sun sets with each step

time folds

Tell me who you are.

 

 

Beneath a sunrise, we are protected

the air is warmer

it didn’t happen suddenly but I notice it suddenly

“Where is the wind?” he whispers, “you do not understand

there are always violent winds here but this morning is still” 

The shadows are travelling now, later, they will rest

beauty has come

each is strong in their own world 

and the words are pouring

Talk to me. 

So many are asleep, 

but somehow, 

there are always three

to bear witness

What makes these eyes worthy? 

Worthy of art. Of beauty, of contemplation, of an entire orchestra 

of body and nature playing for the ears of our soul. 

Tell me what you see. 

She dances the stones to the pile

a book appears from within a red cloth

he takes it from her gentle hands and once again

his voice carries us as she approaches the edge

the invisible see us

los olvidados nos recuerdan

She reaches the wall

and enters alone

with only bodiless sound 

this place is hers

the red cloth is dropped at the threshold

a scar

yes, I think, yes

this is right

all wounds must know their place

must know that they are wounds

and not the body itself

this landscape is our own, even as it changes

Three women are led by the hand, onto the cloth

amongst outlined bodies

we are crossing borders now 

remapping

unmapping

gaze towards the point of Africa

hand in hand

blood stained dreams

cleansed in salt water

he tells us what he sees

we listen 

in the water, the broken stone 

in each of her hands

the space between each of our cells

the sea itself

that holds

the archipelago

the other hand

with which 

we can join together

the conduit

the bridge

the synaptic lightening

feet in sand, mouth in air, body in water

she rocks with life

I cannot understand what is earth and what is light

we exist where the elements meet

in the place that does not understand separation

the fisherman forms the triangle

earth, air, water

we hug our brothers and sisters

I do not ask you to stand between

I ask you to inhabit both, to inhabit all

and to laugh as the edges dance, ever changing

portals opening and closing, within and without it all

synaptic bridge, compression of time, or space, or mostly 

it is we

who fold

CARE

Each arrives on the island

and she is there

wide smile and wider arms

to embrace you 

tenderness

she steps onto the streets

and presses a blessing 

onto the forehead of the woman 

who brings us here

A red fingerprint

the lamp is warm for the old storyteller by the fire

his words have meat for our bones

a geography, to get lost, a map

the lighthouse softens to listen

in its court of white stone

the man and his books form the hearth 

and the wind joins his voice in the microphone

Living relatives hold the space

with food that grounds and warms

they come, through the night, through the morning, 

through the day

always someone

with a paper bag of comfort in hand

it tastes like home

the red scar lays a path on the stone

Ancestors here for the farewell

white moons are filled with breath

and they hold them

waiting in the wind

for him to come

He sits in a fire warmed tomb

with poetries 

gentle caresses 

to soothe weary travellers

each enters alone

but the stone is an ear

amplifying

and we sit in the cold night

listening to murmurings within

the perfume of roses

overseeing the vigil

his words are the taste of spiced tea

warmth and flavour for old bones

the chosen from his collection

is one he read on the very first night

meant for me

Beneath the old lighthouse we listen

to the bodies beneath the sea

a final spell is cast, and 

we hug our brothers and sisters

Steel slides carefully from his back

she has followed him all the way

watching, keeping close vigil

Now, her

gentle hands cleaning the wounds

with time

an archipelago of scars

Three men sleep, one smokes

two women hold each other

he dries her as we huddle for warmth

wraps her

bound

now their robes are sandy stone

in the light we see his offering

fuchsia slivers of silken flower

she lays them gently for the sleeping

and they begin the swoop of light

calling for the day

it takes time, but it answers

a thick pink intensity at a far corner, the shift from purple to blue

lights that seemed so distant in the night reveal themselves as close

more gather to the waterside

they cannot know what happened in the night

what the two day-breakers have wrought 

now in peaceful wake

The archipelago is a question of depth

the depth of water, the depth of the air that kisses above it

they play with land’s edge, in the way a child may rub its two feet

soothing, playful, dirt between its toes, the arcipelago tugs at its own borders

revealing and hiding slips of flesh and bone

with the suck pull slither of water and air, playmates, chasing each other

up and down the island surfaces, soothing, stroking

a mother’s hand idling in the hair of her beloved child

 

 

She gently paints their tired feet red

three women beneath three white crosses 

they are the women of the sea

And onto the red fabric itself

we paint our morning evocations

beauty, symbol, grace

He rests the live wire and comes

moving stones onto the stack

simply

it could be this easy

but it had to be the other way too

Flowers are crushed

pressed

squeezed

and a stone is baptised

with the birth mess of another creature

the fuchsia stain

running into the soil

and the lizards come

called

by sweetness

called

The stone like a loaf of bread is pressed into a cloth

stamping traces

it will remain in the earth where it belongs

memory keeping 

its print carried onward

to the next place

Together we sing, all voices as one

swirling in the darkness of a tower

we vibrate together, voices against stone

and I do not want to leave this moment

it wraps itself around me like a warm blanket 

after emerging one night from the cold sea

This is our family

a temporary constellation

we meet across seas and are woven into the fabric

then ripped again into threads

the red siren waves the white flag

the collective signature

she is laughing

Stone chalices of salt water in the last place we gather together

the sky dances flame orange with the pink of dusted rose

red sky at night, sailor’s delight

we are together now

where the land catches the water

in its stone hands

cradled

Now the fish are asleep and the sea is at rest

and ancestors stay to touch at your breast

yo ho little fishy, don’t cry, don’t cry

yo ho little fishy, don’t cry, don’t cry

~~~

Marisa Garreffa is a writer and performance artist, whose practice explores performance as a deep and not completely solvable, and fixable human place. Her performances explore the creation of new rituals to express the moment by moment response to waves of emotion and the re-comprehension of one’s life. 

Marisa Garreffa has been invited by performance art curator and PhD candidate Francesca Carol Rolla at ARCIPELAGO Collective Signatures III edition in Formentera (ES), October 2019 – a 48-hour marathon of performance art – to witness and write about the site-specific proposals of the 19 invited artists to the project: Alterphase (ES), Lorenzo Pepe (IT), Miquel Costa (ES), Negritos (AR), Dario Fusco (IT), Valeria Del Vecchio (IT), Gautama del Campo (ES), Ana Celada (ES), Matilde Sambo (IT), Mauro Sambo (IT), Andrigo&Aliprandi (IT), Preema Nazia Andaleeb (BGD), Preach R Sun (USA), Nicol Vizioli (IT), Juan Carlos Villalba (VEN), Fenia Kotsopoulou (GR), Marisa Garreffa (AU). Storytelling, memories, poetic reflections, mythologies, images and epiphanies have been used by Garreffa to be the voice of the project after its conclusion, so to leave a textual trace of the collective experience. Writing here becomes a powerful, performative, ritualistic act of witness and transformation such a vibrant, public, committed, radical performance art experience of a different kind. Marisa Garreffa’s text thus serves as entry point of a renewed sense of belonging, universal freedom and humanity the project ARCIPELAGO has put forward. 

 

First Photo: Preach R Sun, processional performance ‘The Fisherman: Behold, Sun-Moon Child… The Fisher of Men is Light of the World’, at Arcipelago COLLECTIVE SIGNATURES III. Carretera del Far de Barbaria and Far de Barbaria, Formentera 2019. Photo by Lorenza Cini