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.