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On the train from Dublin to Galway, the strangers that share my table discuss the likelihood of impending nuclear war over recyclable cups of tea. Their tone is polite. Disinterested.
Walking into Gallery 126, the darkened exhibition room is illuminated at the centre by an art deco chandelier which emanates a cold, white light. In place of crystal, three tiers of medical grade IV fluid bags encircle an LED bulb. They are filled with water that I know to be mouldy, although it looks clear through the frosted plastic. They drink up the light, gorge on it. I stare for some time, wondering if I am in there somewhere.
Three years ago, my housemate and I spent the winter collecting water from our dehumidifier as participants in Corroon’s Got Damp exhibition in Project Arts centre. The result was a similarly imposing sculptural work where the water we collected and all the DNA therein mingled with the extracted humidity and bits of viscera of other participants, other members of the Community Action Tenants Union (CATU). In the last exhibition, water flowed through the sculpture, becoming briefly vaporous before condensing back into liquid, passing along a series of tubes and chambers. It was accompanied by a sound installation composed of interviews with participants in their homes, which echoed around the cavernous space. Today, it stands still before me, hermetically sealed, with not even a rustle of plastic in place of tinkling glass. I feel bad for my trapped cells, if there are any there, for being removed from the process of being and becoming natural to organic matter. I wonder if they yearn for more.
I am reminded of the Soviet ‘palaces for the people’ imperative - a grandiose architectural drive, intending to show off state power by constructing elaborate metro stations and state offices laden with ornamentation. These extravagant projects mirrored the soaring architectural accomplishments of other imperial European capitals, but for the luxury of all. Corroon’s chandelier is huge and it looms over the crowd, a bit too low, implying a much larger space. In the small foyer, Tenants Union leaflets mingle with copies of a publication about the democratic model of 126 Artist-Run Gallery, encircling the visitor’s book. But inside, there is little to hint at a specific political affect.
The chandelier is juxtaposed by a set of mounted crowbars, almost nestled into the posterior wall. One lonely stray, among the smallest, leans a few metres apart from the rest, as if deposited hastily. The crowbars are hand-forged, and bear the signs of artisanship. They are not as sharp as their mass produced counterparts. A black patina spreads across the steel, blooming like mould. Each is unique.
The first entry in the visitor's book reads ‘a little minimalist, no?’
For those familiar with the tradition of squatting empty buildings, a chandelier next to some crowbars may speak volumes. But it is a necessarily clandestine tradition. Still, the juxtaposition asks, who deserves decadence? And why does this chandelier feel so out of place, and why do emerald-cut IV bags feel more morbid than the crystal of palaces built by slaves, glass droplets scintillating like blood diamonds?
Of course, squatting itself is not necessarily a revolutionary activity. It’s all about what you do with what you’ve got.
The next day, I return to the gallery for a workshop. The other participants are, by and large, members of CATU Galway, and the workshop is run by Cairde, a local community fitness group. Together, we devise a circuit of exercises derived from the motions required to employ the crowbars for our various ends, christening them with sweat. We use them, but we also use gravity, resistance, and each other’s bodies. We squat, pant, laugh, and dance to music. Some of the exercises involve holding hands with strangers, and others running or jumping. I make eye contact with my exercise partner while we strain against a crowbar held between us, and then release my social anxiety by jumping extra high, extra fast before doing it all over again.
During the cooldown, I feel a bead of perspiration gather momentum as it swings down the slope of my nose, watch as it hits the concrete floor and breaks. My forehead appreciates the preternatural cool of the concrete floor as we rest in child’s pose, heart still pounding as if it didn’t get the signal to stop. We break for lunch and then return to take apart a set of pallets, passing around the different crowbars to try out their different sizes, working up another round of sweat which mingles as they pass from hand to hand. The steel I put down at the end of the day is warm and slick. The room, when we depart, reverts to its original state: dark and quiet, the atmosphere heavy.
Power is ambivalent. Decisive action, once taken, no longer belongs to the actor, and results may depart from intent. The word pry denotes a coming apart. In the world outside, inequality is on the rise, and living standards are falling. Polarisation rises. During the workshop, participants discuss the sense of power they feel with the heavy tools in hand, but which of us would be free to walk across the city as-is, spinning one jauntily over the back of our hand?
And if it were concealed?
As I go to leave, I look back into the room once more. The lone crowbar strains against the wall once again, separate from the others. Taken on its own, as a visual, an uneasy call to action. But my hands remember the transfer of heat, the energy cost, and the process of failure required in learning to use it successfully. In the following days, the soreness in my legs will tell me how far I’ve come, and how much farther still there is to go. That pain is growth. I’ll return to Dublin a little stronger, a little more powerful, and a little more free than when I arrived. Now an initiate, as I look back the lone crowbar winks at me, its slope against the wall more insouciant than abandoned. And why not? it seems to say. Your palace awaits.
Written by Julian Bernard
