Collaborative Space – In Certain Places – The Gates of Paradise

Continued…

This year I am able to see who rings those bells. I will always remember glancing over at the doorway to the south sacristy, where a priest stood in a perfectly placed shaft of sunlight, exuberantly pulling the bell rope once the dove had returned. In that moment it struck me how joyful Easter must be to a person who has devoted his life to the service of God. For many of us, it is a herald of spring, or an excuse for an extravagant feast, chocolate bunnies and brightly coloured eggs with surprises inside, but for Catholics Easter Sunday is the highlight of their religious calendar.

The explosions continue for a quarter of an hour. I hear the parade of Florentines in historic costume as it retreats from the piazza, and know that the police are stepping through the debris to remove the barricades now that the crowds have started to disperse. While the party outside may be over, inside the real celebration is just beginning. It’s exciting to be in the basilica, to find out what happens after the cart explodes-now it seems more like a prelude to the main event. Even though the Scioppo del Carro tradition continues mainly for the sake of the tourists, it thrills me to be part of this event that began nearly a millennium ago. How dramatic it must have been when the explosions used to take place at midnight, under a veil of darkness. Even without the cart, midnight is still a significant moment of the holiday. Just before twelve, having rested silent since midnight on Holy Thursday, bells from all around the city join in the joyous song, calling people to this first mass of Easter.

As the long mass proceeds, people continuously traverse the area in front of me, their shoes squeaking on the marble floor. I observe the many priests; there is one who nervously twitters around, emphatically gesturing, unconvinced that all is well; the bell-ringer, well chosen for his enthusiastic disposition; and the archbishop with his beatific smile. The cheerful priest escorts young women and men to the sacristy; later they emerge with baskets to collect the donations. All the while children are admitted to a sectioned-off path along the main altar, proudly holding Easter eggs in their arms, or carrying them in pretty baskets or fresh kitchen cloths. They will be presented for blessing in the sacristy, something I had read about but did not imagine still happened.

Throughout mass, a number of honoured guests are admitted within the octagonal-shaped altar: trumpeters, their almost fluorescent red medieval costumes slightly reminiscent of a Santa Clause outfit; members of the military; the handsome city council member who attends all the cultural events; a tiny hunchbacked woman whose iridescent shoes always catch my eye as she walks through my neighbourhood on the other side of the river. Finally, the holy men parade around the choir, wearing lace and floral brocades in shades of spring-green, pink, lilac and yellow. With a nod towards the thousands of international visitors who come to Florence to celebrate Easter in the Duomo, prayers and closing greetings are spoken in ten languages. And regardless of your faith, or lack of it, you can’t argue with the message of peace and harmony that the archbishop encourages everyone to carry into the sunny day.

In November 2010 a research trip took place to the Cast Galleries at London’s V & A. Collaborative Space founders Hannah and Jeni were joined by artist Orly Orbach. After a discussion around Ghiberti’s Gates housed in the museum all three went on to create individual responses to the day.

Hannah developed an artist’s book containing pencil drawings and typewritten text (from Walter Benjamin’s essay ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’).

I was struck by the frailty and lack of grandiose posturing in the copy. These were neither the plaster of the Grand Tour tradition, or painstakingly replicated painted doubles, instead here were bowed and shunting sheets of tin. Misplaced in rooms of cool, grey monoliths and towering crosses. Unimaginable feats and times, great constructions, the oppressive sense of scale lingers in the mind, dizzying. Renaissance tin plate is easy to ignore in these surroundings.

Sitting here, I am spoken to less by Italy, and more of that London workshop which was surely not far from here, now idle. The replica, in being all too real, too fallible in its nature as duplicate, focuses the mind on its physical nature: the imperfections, its existence as pale shadow, a reminder of ‘the thing’ but never its own.

The essence – a half-life of a memory, an idea. Dissipating, weakening, yet also spreading.

Can a shadow begin its own story?

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In 2009 a simultaneous filming of the casts at the Harris Museum, Preston and the Baptistry, Florence took place. The text below recalls the intervention as a conversation between the spaces.

Absorb the historic surroundings; ancient, powerful and majestic buildings stand proudly cheek by jowl with the contemporary sentries which guard the perimeter. Paving slabs of grey, soft and smoothed through constant footfall support the eternal travellers.

We arrive too early, unexpected visitors. Echoing footsteps on the marble floor approach with the trundle of trolley wheels. Money counted coin by coin. Cutlery polished with a clean white cloth. Puzzled looks. Rewinding tape breaks the silence.

Amidst the buzz and unceasing chatter; nearer passing footsteps mingle with mechanical clicks and whirs of recording equipment. Wireless voices transmit through the airwaves, unseen, unheard except by those who sport the team colours, passing on the narrators story to them, the listener. Singular units that move almost as one; the flock shifts to a new location, a new fascination, triggered by a voice in their own tongue. And so the mingling of languages becomes incessant and drifts, distorted by the talkers own first voice, shadowed, hinting at their mother’s tongue.

A slow trickle of visitors. Pairs sit down although many alone, hurrying through loaded down with bags of words. Frowns at the intrusion, suspicion of change within this static state – their space – questioning is required… “so what do you think you’re doing?”. An expectant shuffle and challenge. Tongues are bitten. Information given.

Swift feet pass as I stand . . . still . . . and look.

It is the people that shift here – ageing, greying, multiplying, beginning – the space remains unchanged, witness to their inconsistent state

Street beggars, some dressed in white billowing clothes with white faces pester, piercing your protective bubble, catching your eye, looking directly into your inner soul for a hint of generosity. Policemen talk together, with an ever watchful eye, guns loaded, strapped to their leather belts. Again there are more people, cameras facing you, taking pictures over your shoulder of what’s behind, and you realise that there is so much to see. A short stop on the busy guided route, following the upturned umbrella, newspaper, the fluffy toy on stick, the handkerchief, the book; signs of the leader of your gang.

Still, silent. Cool and shaded. June’s afternoon sunlight doesn’t reach here.

The constant images taken to recall at a later date, adding ‘we’ve done this’ on the list of things to do before you die, a tick marks them being there, the classroom register harks – a snatched memory to look back on, a trigger and a mask in one.

The slow rhythmic swing marking a separate time, becoming hypnotised by its regular elliptical path. Too constant to bear after a while. Some visitors follow the camera’s eye… interest piqued, information boards read. A small diversion to the routine.

A bell, a bicycle’s faster movement catches the attention. Few run, most walk but with a constant eye to the surroundings, here not guided by narrow streets but wide open spaces and visual stimuli everywhere, perhaps it is just the sky and the ground that hold no interest and then you notice the camera held aloft. Perhaps there is nothing here that does not appear on an image somewhere around the world, in all those technological archives to be brought out at dinner parties.

The room slowly clears, tea drinkers moving on, shuffling away. Plates are cleared breaking the silence all too obviously. Hushed tones feel fitting here.

Suddenly the space clears, a solitary female stands resolutely in front of the fence, smiling, waiting patiently for her image to be captured, she had come at the right moment and as she moves away and before the next group arrives I can finally see that which I have been waiting for all this time.

Still, silent.

Collaborative Space | The Gates of Paradise | Introduction

Collaborative Space is a partnership which emerged in 2009 from creative projects and explorations undertaken by artists Hannah Elizabeth Allan and Jeni McConnell working together, and leading collaboration with a range of artists, makers and performers.

The initial seed from which this way of working has flourished is the cast copy of the Gates of Paradise which quietly adorn the café walls of the Harris Museum in Preston. They are one of a group of full cast copies which exist around the world, duplicates of the original gold laden bronze doors which hung majestically on the Baptistery in Florence, Italy for over 500 years.

Our project focuses on interpreting the replication in cast form, as well as providing a basis to explore and define the nature of collaborative working practice. Investigations and working methods to date have included film, drawings, bookmaking and writing – produced over a period of two years after site visits in Preston, London and Florence.

In late 2011 In Certain Places approached Collaborative Space to further develop and extend The Gates of Paradise project to coincide with the Preston Guild 2012 celebrations, and alongside three other artists commissioned to work on independent projects.

The next phase for Collaborative Space is to conduct a research trip to visit cast copies in Berlin and Florence in February 2012, during which we will explore working methods with other artists, as well as between ourselves.

This blog will function not just as document but as meeting place; between the artists, ideas and sites. A creative form where a number of ‘voices’ around the project will be heard.

For further information about In Certain Places, the Guild, and our fellow artists follow the links below…

http://incertainplaces.org/home (Twitter: incertainplaces)

www.a-n.co.uk/p/1832928/ David Henckel

www.a-n.co.uk/p/1839493/ Lisa Wigham

www.a-n.co.uk/p/1838157/ Iain Broadley