I remember it was grey, but not too cold—November temperatures could (should?) be so much worse. I remember no rain was forecast, but it drizzled for a short period. I remember feeling drawn to some potential performance spaces more than others, and then being attached enough to the first site we chose to locate the second performance in almost the same place. Almost, but not quite. I remember a small child wanting to pick up a piece of twine, but shyness (or was it suspicion?) got the better of him. I remember two people who tend the adjacent park walking by, and one of them stopping: “I just had to ask— what are you doing??” I gave her some twine. I remember the ground was wet and cold. It left dirt smears on my dress and shoes, and made my ropes damp and heavy. I remember Dancing Glitter Man being ten times brighter than his surroundings. I remember not being sure whether I had started the performances or not. The endings were clearer. I remember the funny looks from the construction workers on the embankment, the goose who eyeballed me, the baffled cyclist, the waiting women, the man with the rat (Oscar was its name), the cigarette smoker, the perfectly timed leaf fall— things you can’t plan but that come to define the experience of the work, both for those performing and for those observing…if you can even separate them.

- Elise Nuding