At dawn one September morning, a group of us gathered at a residence in Freemans Bay for an event organised by PARLOUR, run by Kirsten Dryburgh, Harriet Stockman, Vera Mey and Lydia Chai. The group’s mandate was to build warm relationships in the arts community, to inspire conversation and an exchange of ideas in homely environments.

Sonya Lacey’s performance that morning taught me how tender, immediate and imperfect performance could be, at a moment when everyone seemed to be obsessed by spectacle and transgression. Everything about this encounter was invigorating. Fancy going to see art at 6am! In someone else’s house, no gallery, no institution! It left a burning imprint on my psyche and my curatorial practice. Below is an excerpt from something I wrote at the time.

*

cars were sputtering to life this morning while it was still dark.

one had to get dressed blindly and speak in hushed tones in order to make it to an early-morning exhibition of work by alexandra savtchenko- belskaia and sonya lacey. there was a generous turn-out of cheery and earnest visitors to a small apartment in freemans bay. it helped that there was hot coffee in agreeably textured white paper cups and soft pastries in large woven baskets.

…

some blinking visitors were also privy to the two parts of a new work by lacey. three small discs cast into zinc and finished by hand, melted pebbles or pennies stretched on train tracks, were handed out, fondled and warmed by palms as lacey spoke, reading from a printed piece of paper. in the corner, on the stairs, she read aloud, interrupting herself to ask whether or not we could hear her, sometimes stumbling and making corrections. lacey read of atmospheres, water, air, breaths … appearances and disappearances, anomalies of vision, light and darkness, volumes of bodies …

one young man with a beard in the corner by the stairwell struggled to stay awake.

there was a morning chill, blue light, pink blossoms but the warmth of being invited over to someone’s house.

thank you for having me!