Runway x West Space: Interdependence

The seventh Runway Journal x All Conference Conversation comes from West Space, based on the unceded sovereign land and waters of the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation. 

West Space asked writer Fiona Murphy to respond to Fayen d’Evie’s exhibition We get in touch with things at the point they break down // Even in the absence of spectators and audiences, dust circulates… (West Space, 10 Jul - 5 Sep 2021).

I am in the process of moving. In the days before I have to hand over the keys to the real estate agency, I scrub away any trace of myself from the flat. My vacuum cleaner splutters to a stop every few minutes, choking on tangled hair sucked up from the carpet. Hair that has fallen throughout my tenancy. On Monday, the property manager will arrive and ensure that my presence has been satisfactorily erased.

*

Our bodies are in a constant state of erosion and renewal: skin sloughing, hair shedding, nails clipped or chewed. As we move through the world, we can’t help but leave a trace, an impression, a mark. We breathe in each other’s exhalation. We house bacteria that predates humanity. We carry ancient grief, rage, distrust at a cellular level.

*

My clothes reek of bleach.

Between packing boxes and scouring my bathroom, I look through Fayen d’Evie’s installation The pull of urgency answered by ease. Even at a remove, I am physically engaged: clicking and tapping and touching the contents. Zooming in on photographs. Playing and pausing videos. Shadows lengthen as I follow a series of links, spiralling outwards to other works d’Evie has created—Museum Incognita, Cosmic Static, Beyond Exhausted, Essays in Vibrational Poetics, From one body to another. Art networked together. Collingwood Yards, Pōneke/Wellington, Belgrade, Christchurch, Sydney. Click, click, click.

That night, I re-read through my to-do list. I itch to cross things off the list. The list remains stubbornly long. I imagine it shrinking, the chores completed. The pleasure of my hand rising and striking off each item. A clean, bold mark.

It is a Saturday afternoon, one week since moving and my phone is ringing. It is an unknown number. I answer. It is my property manager. She inspected the flat last Thursday.

She asks if I have vacuumed the carpets. I have, I reply, twice. She wants me to do them again before she will release my bond.

‘And there is the issue with the cobwebs.’

‘The cobwebs?’

‘Yes, there are too many cobwebs on the balcony.’

I laugh, assuming that this is a joke. But she reiterates that she cannot release my bond until the issue has been resolved.

‘But the flat backs onto a national park. There are always spiders around.’

‘There are more cobwebs than normal.’

I’m too shocked, too angered, to ask her how many cobwebs would count as being “normal”. She ignores my silence, instead explains how I can use a broom to clear the cobwebs.

She ignores my silence, instead explains how I can use a broom to clear the cobwebs. 

*

There are a handful of cobwebs above the sliding door. I spot a nest under the kitchen window ledge tightly insulated with web and leaves. I work vigorously and with an unblanched anger, raking away the cobwebs. The woven silk catches to my jacket, pants, hands. I feel filthy and deeply ashamed.

*

Spider webs are also called networks. They can be found almost anywhere on the earth, even underwater. I have destroyed an orb web. I read that this is ‘the classic, wheel-shaped web’ and ‘crafting such a web is a highly cognitive endeavour’. The orb weaver will eat its own web towards dawn and then must rebuild each night. Selfishly, I hope the spider does not return before the property manager does her second inspection.

I find a SoundCloud recording of d’Evie performing Double or Nothin’. It is just over 55 minutes long. I huddle next to the speaker of my laptop, body contorted and trying to decipher the sounds, which are soft and low. If I were listening to the performance in a gallery space, I would have resisted this urge to crouch and twist. It would be too obvious that I am deaf. But alone in my new home, my deafness is unleashed. I willingly bend, allowing the words to run into my ear. It takes me almost three hours to finish the recording. Pressing pause to stretch my body. Pressing pause to rest my brain. Pressing pause to worry.

With hips pressed against the kitchen sink I submerge my hands in hot, sudsy water. I slowly wash the dishes, treating the task almost like an event. I handle each plate and bowl and spoon and fork and knife with curiosity and care. The news of the day circulates in my mind: Sydney’s lockdown has been extended by another four weeks. I have already touched everything in the flat, twice. Packing, unpacking.

I still haven’t heard anything from the property manager. By now, I’ve learned that cobwebs are abandoned spiderwebs. The slow accumulation of dust weakens the web, forcing spiders to move on.

Carmen [laughing]: Okay, I might step out of frame when I’m presenting though so I could be on my feet and gesticulate.

As the captions appear below the Zoom recording of Open Access: Accessibility as temporary, collectively-held space, I expect to see spelling mistakes and miscellaneous words. I am surprised by the well punctuated sentences, the neat audio descriptions. I quickly realise that they are closed captions. Each word of dialogue has been carefully transcribed by humans and not autogenerated by artificial intelligence.

Carmen: On the topic of accessibility in this virtual space, I want to just say that this is a relaxed space, so you can feel free to move around or leave if you need to. I think of accessibility as an ongoing negotiation that’s guided by the needs in a community at any given time…

I sink into my couch, eyes skimming the conversation, my jaw losing the tight clench of effort that comes from listening/deciphering/holding/holding/holding.

Two days later I receive a text message from NSW Fair Trading. My bond has been released. I exhale.