Punctuated by child-manoeuvred exploding street fireworks, sleep depravation, dehydration and the entire Sonarcinema programme, Barcelona, as ever, was beautiful.







This is the entrance to a 20 minute sound installation. Beats a set of headphones, ha. Incidentally, Richie Hawtin's haircut was discussed more than any other this weekend. Probably the only 4/4 I could love in the long term (lie), although I wish he could get a little more sparse for the suitably impressive surround sound speakers. A girl with pink dreadlocks clapped at the end. This confused me. According to those with higher heads, his Sonar-night performance was accompanied by Tarkovsky visuals and "German meat-head" dancing. By this point in the morning, I was in awe of my barely conscious state/survival within the terror that can only be described as the euro-club equivalent of Canary Wharf. Adopting tunnel vision and holding hands was my technique, and Mu was worth it.

Messa di Voce. Third time round, upon the realisation that my admiration for this creation has spanned different time zones, I plucked up the courage and found my exhibitionist streak. Schools should invest.

Battles settled me a little. Until this point an excess of monotonous musiqua and Crowds Of People had triggered my brain's off-switch somewhat. If Oxes got off their boxes and had fun, it is still debatable they'd be this reassuring.

Tapies makes secret codes; amalgamations of Catalan history, Buddhism, medieval mysticism and personal histories. I like to decipher them using my own. This piece is one of my favourites. It consists of 7 x 5 concrete slabs and was made in 1985. The heat on the terrace allows you to use your fingers as eyes tracing the shapes through the brush strokes. Tapies himself would approve with his pain = understanding ethos.

Francis Alys documents journies that he walks in the 10 blocks surrounding his home in Mexico City, in various ways. I liked these; his 45 Ghetto Collectors - small magnetised constructions that he dragged along the ground, collecting rubbish. He also made a flip book-esque film of drawings; a man tapping a stick against passing railings.

Just before departing I managed to escape the morning heat via the tale of Donald Crowhurst and the Teignmouth Electron. Having already read Tacita Dean's book on the man who deceived his home town and lost himself alone at sea, made this landscape-narrative utterly beautiful.


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