18.10. - 09.12.19
Sebastjan Brank, Dennis Brzek, Sarah Crowe and Antonia Orsi
Obsolescence of language, gesture, ideas. Obsolescence of existing?
A deluge of non-information. The constant struggle to have a finger on the pulse dictates all content. Is there even a pulse? This text is redundant upon reading.
Nora Turato delivers an avalanche of verbal detritus. Her monologues invoke inattention. Lecture performances perpetuating a half-fulfilled existence bedded upon having a finger in too many pies, even when that finger can’t find a pulse.
Performing like a paid-by-the-minute corporate motivational speaker she effervescently renders her own words obsolete upon deliverance through stark decontextualisation. In spite of this, a commanding manipulation of language ensures listeners attempt to follow the fragmented speech with gusto. Their feigned understanding furnishes her purpose.
The artist dictates a steep trajectory to the upper echelons of social righteousness taking the audience with her, only to drop them down harder than the climb up ever was. Never fear, she is here to pick you back up and do it all again tomorrow. Jump back on the conveyor belt of your life marionette.
The message, meaning, essence is in its non-meaning. A cyclical repetition of alienating pseudo-information on your devices. The brain is a device. Same shit, different smell. Our innate tools of expression are used against us by Turato. She’s a product of her time. A time in which our own language, text and coherent thought is devalued, deconstructed and then repackaged and sold with a 1000% mark up as a weapon in the combat of modern life.
Turato appears impulsive but she’s meticulously deliberate. If you paint the face, put on a show and maintain the façade noone will be none the wiser. It was different content to last night, right?
A stage of books sees Turato violently trample the written word in designer heels in favour of the voice. Her script based live performance amalgamates text appropriated from literature and print media to Facebook and internet forums. From catwalk to the boardroom her styling reflects and signifies all that her deliverance offers. If you look and act the part, people will pay attention. Neurotic, emphatic, all consuming. Her voice versatility and circular performance is reminiscent of Philip Glass’s Einstein on the Beach. Ludicrously serious it’s a highly planned stream of consciousness delivered as a dramatic non-linear narrative. It can start and end anywhere. You know it’s pointing to something bigger and strain to gauge what that is. It’s all in the delivery but there’s no deliverance.
Turato gives society a dressing down with the fruits of its own demise. A confluence of pushing to the extreme until there’s nothing left but the uninterpretable. That is society. It’s comical, cynical, satirical and her delivery is ironically cutting. We piece together elements of the complied monologue taking from it what we can decipher to create our own version of the present, shrouded in the melancholy of knowing its funny but true even though we don’t quite get it.
Through theatricality of language she has proved her point via its obscurity. Exactly what Turato is saying becomes immaterial. The precise issue is that we absorb it as gospel anyway in pursuit of contemporaneity despite its irrelevance, indecipherability and obsolescence after delivery. No matter, the audience will be back tomorrow night and the night after. And so it goes in life, online and over the rainbow.
Photography © Eike Walkenhorst