The Artist’s Paradox

Tashi Carroll-Ryan

‘I became a body in motion without meaning for the audience and, worst of all, devoid of any meaning because I have no meaning for myself.’ (Bentley, 2003)

You describe sound as a series of invisible lines dancing across space. I struggle to understand what this means. But then, I think about the hushed silence that falls over an audience right before the curtain rises. You speak of vibrations through air as being powerful enough to activate a crowd. I am transported to the feeling of momentary stillness on stage, the kind that caused the breath to catch in my throat. I’m not surprised to learn you played the cello; its presence lingers in your work. You abide by the rule of line-we have that in common. Though you seem more at peace with it. It guides you, but it doesn’t seem to control you like it did me. You exist in harmony while I lived in fear. The longer I sit and watch, the more I become aware of a new type of line. Hidden in plain sight, the line between spectator and participant. I watch the revolving stream of bodies pass through your exhibition, and understand The same crowd never gathers twice.

‘Every arena holds a sense of possibility or uncertain outcome, yet its activities are shaped by specific conditions.’ (Lee, 2024) 

The sparseness of the gallery is sterile and soulless, dressed in hardened concrete floors and endless white walls. There is a gentle thrum of industrial noise punctuated by murmuring voices and running water. Unconsciously, I circle the ceramic bathtub, watching as water pools at the bottom. It is both deeply introspective and perverse to be privy to a scene so intimate. Still, I am fixated, unable to steer my gaze. Struck by its nakedness, the line between private and public has been blurred. Undressed and vulnerable domesticity is pushed (willingly or unwillingly) into the arena of life.

‘What made me successful that day was not the will to dance, only the desire to please.’ (Bentley, 2003)

As if someone opened the lid to their childhood music box, the piano starts to play, and my body must obey. But I do not wear tulle, and no tiara adorns my head. I am one of many in a sea of navy, a daily uniform to which I conform. My ribbons are drawn so tight it will surely leave a mark and my pointe shoes, fused by sweat, have become extensions of my limbs. I stand unflinching and repeat the same three movements, aware of their scrutinising gaze. This is not an intimate moment. I feel the other students watching me, and by now the window to the studio has attracted a crowd. There is a witness to every misstep and offbeat; privacy is a non-existent luxury. I am not on stage, yet I have been underlined. I move again and again on their command; this music box has got jammed.

‘There are social and structural architectures that define space, and by extension, the elastic relationship between performance and reality, audience and participant, public and private.’ (Buxton Contemporary, 2024)

I am a captive audience, transfixed by the image of water hitting the side of the bath. The persistent drip, drip, drip, soothes and unsettles me in equal measure. I wonder if you’re attempting to mollify the discomfort I feel, having intruded on a private moment. The sound of distant laughter reverberates through space, releasing me from my trance. I move with the piece, following the metal installation welded into the existing beams. It weaves across space like a spider web, bending and moulding to its surroundings. Disguised among the beams sits a mattress—hiding in plain sight, it seeks shelter from my prying eyes. I resist an overwhelming urge to crawl beneath its covers and take refuge in familiar comforts. The lamp suspended above my head omits a warm glow, bringing life to the otherwise clinical space. I ruminate on our internal worlds being laid bare for public consumption.

‘Any hint of facial wrinkles, teary eyes, drops of sweat, audible breathing or diminishing energy levels is a sign of imperfection. They are symptoms of mortality.’ (Bentley, 2003)

To the untrained eye, you wouldn’t notice anything wrong, just a room of dancers dutifully taking their morning class. But look a little closer, and you might just see our smiles falter or notice the whites of our knuckles as we grip the barre. By now, class is a mediative ritual which I trust muscle memory to carry me through. I can feel their eyes following my movements, but I stare determinately ahead. I concentrate instead on steadying my breath and executing every intricate detail to satisfaction. I am not foolish enough to think this is just a class—every moment is an audition with no margin for error. When I do steal a glance, their expression is unreadable. It would be kinder just to show outward disgust, than leave me to decipher the subtlest sign of pleasure. I plaster on a smile, turning attention back to what I can control—internalising the music, I attempt to focus on my body in space. But I can’t shake the lingering feeling of their gaze on me. I know that in this moment, my performance is being dissected and ranked. I am reduced from an artist to just a number within their calculated system.

‘Implicit codes, temporal cues and choreographies guide individual interactions and group dynamics. Whether looking on or joining in, we take comfort in knowing the rules.’ (Lee, 2024)

In the centre of the gallery sits a table and chairs. Two high school girls are seated giggling and acting out sipping coffee as if at a café. Unaware of my watching, they are entirely uninhibited by the fear of judgement. I wonder if this is what you hoped would happen? A fusing of our private and public worlds. They have, by extension, become a part of the art—seemingly unintentionally. I catch the eye of one of the girls, who flushes crimson and immediately stiffens up. I attempt to give her a well-meaning smile, but she and her friend have already scurried away. I meditate on our social conditioning and the dichotomy between our behaviour in private and public realms. I witnessed the shift between two friends interacting with a piece of art to a guarded awareness of public perception and how one ‘should’ behave in a gallery space. I am left questioning: was I the intruder to their private moment?

This question prompts more, making me think on the social norms of our behaviour within private and public spaces.

The teal-painted bench fastened to the ceiling no longer seems mundane or simplistic to me. I take great pleasure in piecing together stories out of unfiltered moments I witness from my local park bench and frequently trespass into the lives of strangers. In this sense, I expose myself as an interloper, and contradict my earlier displeasure at your intrusion into our private moments. Perhaps because it feels less overt than the bath or the mattress, I argue there is a temporal beauty in the act of people watching. There is something special about witnessing the in-between moments of life that haven’t been dressed up or curated to assume a societal norm. The gaze does not scrutinize or judge, rather seeks to capture the quiet subtilties and idiosyncrasies of human behaviour.

‘If I can only get in, I’ll be happy, I’ll be satisfied. I’ll never ask for more.’

‘I did not realise what a deeply sad day it was—the end of a dream and the beginning of reality.’ (Bentley, 2003)

Dancers are held to an impossible standard by both the industry and themselves. Dancer-turned-writer Toni Bentley, writes of a pervasive infantilisation with the through line of never ageing. It is understood to be an incredibly unforgiving career, with little allowance for human fallibility. Constantly on show, the body is not only their tool but their livelihood. In a world constantly teaching them to be the smallest version of themselves, the expectation to fill the stage feels grimly ironic. But again, everything must look effortless in ballet. I can’t tell you how many times I was fed the analogy about the swan while dancing. The swan, who appears to glide elegantly across the water, is furiously paddling underneath and is unbeknownst to us. This became my earliest understandings of the internal and external learning, silence and compliance as the key to success. With this came a loss of autonomy, and my constant pursuit for perfection.

‘I let it show more—or perhaps I’ve no strength, no time for masks anymore.’ (Bentley, 2003)

I am unsure if my relationship to our internal and external worlds (and by extension the body) is a shortcoming in me viewing The same crowd never gathers twice. I was conflicted throughout the exhibition. I found your intrusion of traditionally private spaces to be frustrating. But perhaps this was because I operated for so long in a world that blurred the boundaries between private and public. I understand your intention is to encourage us to question modes of behaviour we have been taught. In this sense, you were successful. Sitting with the enormity of the exhibition forced me to reconcile with my past and triggered an exploration of the self. In ballet, I was always seeking the validation of someone else’s gaze or bogged down by the scrutiny of my own. Perhaps there is something about the hidden sanctity of domestic spaces I seek comfort in. They provide a safe place to be entirely myself, free from expectation or fear of judgement. Your enmeshment of the two worlds activated my instinctive need to please. By breaking down the barrier between private and public realms, you exposed my desire to control the narrative of perception.

Your work has shown me how little I trust myself. I sit with the discomfort of knowing I seek reassurances in others because I can’t find it in myself. I am burdened by the question of choice and control. How can I relish in attaching stories to strangers but live in fear of controlling my own? I appear to have trapped myself in an artist’s paradox.

Tashi Carroll-Ryan is a Melbourne based writer working predominantly within the genre of creative nonfiction. Much of her writing draws on personal experience and explores the space between our internal and external worlds. Focusing on themes of the self, Tashi’s work seeks to challenge modes of behaviour within society.