after his broadcast/witnessing
during Radio Confessions
when i was young (teens) my little transistor radio connected me to
another place where music happened and emotions (however shallow, trite
and mundane) were expressed and where i and others could dance.
i arrived at Claude's studio for the 2nd trial of Radio Confessions,
between two work meetings, distracted, hurried and not connected to the
project at all. just wanting to complete another task/commitment
and get on my way.
nothing to say - but then - somehow sending something out on the radio
waves (limited and limitless) took me back and i confessed my FEAR.
The contradiction between the public act and the private secret was
made manifest, the world slowed and i began to hear the music and feel
the dance again.
the experience has been present with me ever since and is starting to, hopefully, be a catalyst for my creative growth
like a distant whistle of a train in the night, the whisper of secrets
on radio waves takes me on a richer journey through the day and night
The following Sunday, Radio Confessions set up in the commercial
district of Yonge and Dundas. I attended to lend a helping hand, which
on that day meant purchasing a cable, tuning radios, hanging signage,
and unexpectedly but I feel most importantly, offering an audience for
the transmission made by Claude and Coman. After an incident with the
police, the group was forced to set up under a tent just east of the
Hard Rock Cafe. There was sense of frustration, but also a sense of
commitment to the project. Being unable to use the “public” space I
think was an essential point to make, much like the ability to use our
supposed public airwaves.
Through misty rain and sunshowers, the collaborators crossed into the
sensory milieu of Yonge Dundas Square, where they apologized to each
other, to the streaming audience, and had a very intimate and intense
conversation about the project, their artistic practice, and the
setbacks and perceived failures of the afternoon. I stood under the
tarp, radio glued to my ear, silver antenna erect, and volume loud
enough to hopefully attune others in the vicinity to the public
confessional taking place. This time, I was the voyeur. While the
confessional delved into anger about the stolen land we were standing
on, a boisterous wedding party sashayed through the square, their
matching jewel tone dresses and bow ties cutting through the gray slate
as their yips and yelps underscored the confession. I felt privileged
to bear witness to this.