I stumbled on this British red phone booth, after the champagne moments. I picked up the receiver and could hear voices. Voices of women. I was taken back to another party covering the Mint 400. I had been awake for four days and had been hallucinating on my own dreams. The tall man again passed me by with his shoulder bag firmly resting on his attire. Many of us can remember dramatic moments in phone booths, they kind of resonate with trouble don’t they? All kinds of shit, percolating up from below.

The voices are in some cases troubled on this phone. It’s like I shouldn’t be listening but I am and the more I listen the more I am drawn in to this world. From one side someone shouts: ‘Just remember it’s an artwork, Gene, an artwork’. And the surrounding crowd laugh. My temper snaps and I lunge over to him – ‘It’s not a just a fucking artwork, you asshole, it’s life, get a fucking grip.’ The asshole pushes me back against the stone wall and some people emerge from the bakery and stare at us. We start to fight more earnestly and I can hear the clack of the receiver hitting the side of the booth. The voice still cuts across the space.

Later on I reread the situation. This artwork is about people who are invisible, off the register and what the booth does is give us a form of witnessing. Thank you. Invisible people can be heard.

 

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