John Cavanagh says:

The boundary is only set by the limits of the listener or reader's imagination. Nothing is permitted.

Text of an intimate or specifically personal nature may not transcend the gap between the mind which sourced the memory and that of another orator.

Every perspective offers a new interpretation of the work being performed and the space which is inhabited by both audience and performer is critical to this.

Searching our memories is, in essence, drawing a mental map, whose width and depth is limited by the freedom of both our conscious and subconscious minds.

Location is often a trigger to the complexes of our memory.

Repeated memory os often the source of fiction, as the original detail shifts slightly in the re-telling. Examining the source material is important, but, as the saying goes, why bother to let the truth get in the way of a good story.

Maria says

WHAT AM I DOING HERE?
WHAT AM I NOT GIVING?

They were mainly old men and old ladies selling memories or just looking for impossible objects. Lost objects. They would come very early in the morning, I would be waiting, the kettle was on, the door unlocked
I was ready.

Strangers from the city. Looking for the aura of things, you know… people who talk to objects like if they had live.

I went away.
I moved on
I decided to never look back again
I got ill
I got better
I forgot
It vanished after that

The small man with only one eye open, that eye is not the colour of the sky but the deep sea
Four small stone squares
The globe with an old ship - What is Lisbon doing here?
Apartments with Riverview
The seagull far way
A short fast noise coming from the wheel of a bus

John says

IS IT WORTH THE EFFORT?
AM I COGENT?

Tell me about the people you used to meet who travelled from afar to your antique shop?
What about more unusual people from the city?
What happened next?

Smoke haze lit by sunlight
Arts and crafts floral pattern on bag
Yellow sports car, blasting distortion
Iron post, topped with a star & the number 75
Car with registration ending in the word MIX
Plant in Riverview Apartments window, seen through frosted glass
Runner wheezing
Cyclist freewheeling
Fyffe's banana skin
Particularly gory colour of red vomit (2 pools of it)
Man with weatherworn face, small, smoking

*******

"I spend six months in Scotland and six in - ""
"42 waist"
"That's us here"
French conversation
Asian voice on 'phone
Low rhythm of train, like end of a Steve Lacy record
Seagulls
Sliding metal shutters
Cars criss-crossing as we stood in the middle of the road <- <- <-
0 0
-> -> ->

Hum of traffic
Squeal of bus brakes
Testosterone-fueled group of male voices, like rutting stags
Wind

It’s about waves
It’s about sounds
It’s about communication
It’s about the sea
It’s about trust
It’s about people who let you down
It’s about friendship
It’s about cities
It’s about secondary roads
It’s about long distances calls
It’s about voice
It’s about being alone
It’s about loneliness
It’s about giving
It’s about listening
It’s about antennas and roofs
It’s about attics
It’s about dust
It’s about guests
It's about integrity
It's about reaching out
It's about looking in
It's about isolation
It's about searching
It's about curves
It's about loss
It's about connecting
It's about mistrust
It's about death
It's about people we miss
It's about distance
It's about space

A equipa mais a Laura que está cá atrás e a Tânia que estava no comboio e o Neil que está no Japão

Dream a little dream of me

Manuel Tur em Glasgow 4

Glasgow 4, o nome de todas as ruas em Guimarães

Marie



















Manuel Mota e Manuel Tur

Flora e Nuno

Tânia durante a emissão

Manuel, Laura e Tânia na janta

TERRORISMO POÉTICO 9 – Estar Aqui

Quando chegámos a Guimarães eu e a Laura decidimos rescrever algumas partes do texto para incluir a cidade na emissão de rádio. A Laura foi à noite para a rua e eu acordei de manhã para escrever o que ela viu e fotografou na noite anterior, e foi mais ou menos isto o que a Tânia mandou para o ar:


TERRORISMO POÉTICO 9 – Estar Aqui

Ontem à noite saí do hotel para um passeio sozinha depois dos ensaios. Desci a avenida D. Pedro IV que vai dar ao largo República do Brasil. Andava à procura de uma cabine telefónica. Gosto de andar nesta cidade à noite. Gosto das ruas desertas e divirto-me a mirar os quarentões com os seus iphones a meter conversa com as miúdas novas. Gosto das sombras, dos vultos, dos gatos que andam no passeio como se fossem pessoas e das lesmas que andam nos muros à noite. Gosto deste largo porque tem um jardim em linhas rectas que me faz lembrar o Japão.

Esta cidade está a apodrecer. Guimarães está a apodrecer e há algo de inquietante nisso. Aqui gosto de matar tempo à procura de fantasmas. Todas as cidades têm os seus, não no sentido em que as pessoas estão mortas. Há algo de ancestral de desencanto de triste de amargo e de misterioso em cidades que aprodecem lentamente. Eu gosto disso. Gosto do azul torrado pelo calor do verão. Gosto da chuva e do cinzento do céu em dias quentes. E do fogo, do fogo que cidades assim aportam.

Estar aqui não é estar aqui
Estar em Guimarães não é estar em Guimarães
NESTA CIDADE AS RUAS AS CASAS TÊM CAMADAS DE TEMPO SE ANDO COM OS ÓCULOS DE VER AO LONGE LEMBRO-ME DE TODAS AS PESSOAS E DE TODAS AS HISTÓRIAS SE ANDO COM OS ÓCULOS DE VER AO PERTO REPARO EM TUDO E ESPECIALMENTE NAS COISAS QUE NÃO SE VÊEM E NÃO SE OUVEM
Aonde quer que vá trago sempre comigo uma cidade com portas e janelas que dão para praças interiores jardins interiores e ruas interiores
Estar aqui é estar numa cidade que é minha mas que não conheço muito bem

A RÁDIO JÁ NÃO EXISTE EMBORA HAJA MUITA GENTE QUE AFIRME QUE CONSIGA AINDA OUVIR RÁDIO

Rádio Pirata em Guimarães

Laura em montagem

Tânia em preparação

Emanuel na montagem da antena e moi même a experimentar as k7s

Em Braga na RUM - Rádio Universitária do Minho

mini museu na RUM este emissor é igual ao da Rádio Pirata!


















José Reis

Estúdios da RUM

Rui Torrinha - director de Antena

Para ouvir o que a Laura está a ler:

http://www.rum.pt/index.php?option=com_conteudo&except=&task=full_item&item=15815&catid=194

arquivos e posters antigos da RUM

autocolante RUM

José Reis durante a gravação

parede-mural-janela

Road Trip até Guimarães

Lisboa Guimarães - Maria Gil ao volante

Return e ao volante da Fiat Doble- Laura Barbeiro

Teatro do Silêncio no Festival Gil Vicente 5 e 6 de Junho em Guimarães

“Rádio Pirata” é uma performance radiofónica ao vivo, onde uma voz, um convidado e um músico, transmitem uma conversa escrita a muitas mãos. O projecto parte de uma premissa original: construir uma rádio caseira em cena e construir um texto a partir das experiências em torno desse dispositivo.

“Rádio Pirata” is a live radio broadcast where a voice, a guest and a musician bring a script written by several people to life. The performance starts off with an original premise: build a home radio station on stage as well as a text based on the experiences happening around the radio.

O que é que se faz quando se chega a uma cidade nova? O que é que se faz para pertencer a essa cidade? “Glasgow 4, o Nome de Todas as Ruas” tem como ponto de partida uma premissa autobiográfica: viver quatro meses numa cidade desconhecida e construir um espectáculo a partir dessa mesma experiência.

What do you do when you get to a new city? What do you do to belong to this new city? “Glasgow 4, the Name of Every Street” takes off from an autobiographical premise: to live for four months in an unknown city and to build a show upon this very experience.

http://www.ccvf.pt

Cartas Telegramas e Postais - próxima criação

Oh oh oh ohoo little china girl

Oh oh oh ohoo little china girl

I could escape this feeling, with my china girl

I feel a wreck without my, little china girl

I hear her heart beating, loud as thunder

Saw the stars crashing

I’m a mess without my, little china girl

Wake up mornings wheres my, little china girl

I hear hearts beating, loud as thunder

I saw they stars crashing down

I feel an tragic like an Marlon Brando

When I look at my china girl

I could pretend that nothing really meant too much

When I look at my china girl

I stumble into town just like a sacred cow

Visions of swastikas in my head

Plans for everyone

Its in the white of my eyes

My little china girl

You shouldn’t mess with me

I’ll ruin everything you are

I’ll give you television

I’ll give you eyes of blue

I’ll give you men who want to rule the world

And when I get excited

My little china girl says

Oh baby just you shut your mouth

She says ... shhhhhhhhhhhhh

She saysShe says

And when I get excited

My little china girl says

Oh baby just you shut your mouth

And when I get excited

My little china girl says

Oh baby just you shut your mouth

She says ... shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

She says Oh oh oh ohoo little china girl

Oh oh oh ohoo little china girl

Oh oh oh ohoo little china girl

Oh oh oh ohoo little china girl

Oh oh oh ohoo little china girl

By archery in the traditional sense, which he esteems as an art and honours as a national heritage, the Japanese does not understand a sport but, strange as this may sound at first, a religious ritual. And consequently, by the ‘art’ of archery he does not mean the ability of the sportsman, which can be controlled, more or less, by bodily exercises, but an ability whose origin is to be sought in spiritual exercises and whose aims consists in hitting a spiritual goal, so that fundamentally the marksman aims at himself and may even succeed in hitting himself
(1985: 14).

Espectáculo em criação a partir do livro Cartas, Telegramas e Postais

De tanto levar flechada do teu olhar

meu peito até, parece sabe o quê?

Tábua... de tiro ao alvo

Não tem mais onde furar