Stefanie and Corey sit perched on folding chairs atop an industrial table. Our methodical movements unfold over the course of four hours. Corey’s bare feet slide and skim through a plastic bin filled with turquoise dishwashing liquid. His head rests and rolls against a gold foil-covered beach ball. Occasionally he stretches his arms upward, maneuvering the orb up the wall. Stefanie’s feet burrow into a pile of earth in another plastic bin. Painstakingly, with a fine, long-handled brush, she paints each leaf and twig of a potted holly plant with sky blue paint. Our practice in this durational work quietly endeavors to negotiate Christian mythology. Without leaning on sarcasm or irony, it still acknowledges our criticism of what has come to be called Christianity.

Corey:

A golden halo or ball covered in gold foil.

A way of being alone. Negative theology and the hole.

Covering nature with the color of the heavens.

Plastic prayers.

Dawn dishwashing liquid becomes the washing of feet.

while the poetic of blue paint becomes the sky’s meditation on nature.

Another’s feet, literally in soil.

Always knowing someone else was there but enduring the time very much alone.

Stefanie:

Corey’s back to mine. I lean in on occasion, feel the slight undulations of his spine as I imagine his head gently spiraling against the ball. My own spine twists and adjusts as I weave my hands in, up, and around to reach each small leaf; as I return the brush to the paint and reach out again.

I feel focused, calm, deliberate, determined. The light in my eyes prevents me from seeing exactly what I’m doing as brush meets leaf; as heaven meets earth.

I think about faith.

David Lang’s piece on repeat. Silently I count down the fourteen revolutions that mark our duration. I feel the presence of others in the room with us, sitting, standing, and wandering through the gallery. Two of the festival’s other performers glide past each hour. Involved in their own repetitive task, I feel them walk past, hear the door shut behind them; experience them as our extension out into the world.

I imagine the music of the spheres.

The title, (from the Lang piece), remains unpunctuated.

Is it an imperative, a suggestion, or a question?