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Black Noise
Ruth Biene / 60 min

I kneel on the floor. In front of me on a white canvas: thick black charcoal sticks on a white plate and fifteen little containers with black lids in a row along the edge of the canvas. I take knife and fork out of my pockets, cut a bite-sized piece off the burned wood and put it into my mouth. I look around the audience until I make eye connection with one person. I get up and walk up to the chosen one, put my hands on her shoulder and cheek to cheek I chew the dead and dry wood. The cracking noises vibrate through both our heads. I finish chewing as the coal has changed consistence and the noise has faded out. I go back to my place, open one container and fill in the deep-black fluid that pours out of my mouth. I close the lid. Sitting there with the essence of our meeting, I look for the person who has shared the intimate sound with me. I walk up to her and give her the substance of our meeting to keep it.