In early September I was invited to be part of the exhibition Din at 195 Mare Street in Hackney, London. Built in 1697, 195 Mare Street is one of the oldest surviving buildings in Hackney and was once home to the Elizabeth Fry’s Society Refuge for women leaving prison. The Quaker and reformer Elizabeth Fry had played a significant part in prison reform and between 1860 and 1913, Mare Street provided refuge for thousands of young women recently released from prison.
In 1913, the house become home to the New Lansdowne Liberal and Radical Club, a working men’s club, but subsequently fell into disrepair. In 2022, the house was finally bought and will be restored and turned into a domestic home and community arts centre.
In its current state of vacancy, the house on Mare Street bares mute and beautiful witness to its prior dwellings. Abandoned layers of paint peal quietly, exposing the temporality of place. Whilst the karaoke of floorboards allows our steps to walk with the ghosts of absent footfall.
195 Mare Street. Photos: Sebastiane Hegarty
At home in the temporary refuge of this peeling landscape, Din, curated by the artist Matt Harding, (aka: The Thames Submarine) offered an exhibition of sound and its absence. For two days at the end of summer, silent sounds dwelled behind the doors and windows of Mare Street. The exhibition, which included film, painting, sculpture and installation, opened with a concert of sound performances, including Angharad Davies and Matt Harding, performing around the silent sonic gaits and characterful strides of Sue Harding’s collection of Foley shoes. Other contributing artists included Maria Chavez, Lynn Loo, Dion Kitson and OyamaO (see poster for full list).
My own contribution was a performed variation of the text piece, “I am not imagining the sound of these words you are.” In keeping with Mare Street’s association with Elizabeth Fry, penal reform and refuge, this Variation for Cassettes and an Empty House, would occur in isolation. Behind a door closed-quietly-to, the performance would only be visible through the jar of the door and the hole of its missing lock. The percussive rhythm of the typewriter’s metal letters falling on proofing paper would be pronounced in the acoustics of the space and heard through the grade II listed resonance and wooden tapes of the walls walnut graining panels
“I am not imagining…” Limited Edition Audiocassette. 2023. Sebastiane Hegarty
The performance (lasting approximately six-minutes) would be simultaneously recorded and duplicated via a pair of obsolete portable cassette recorders and the performed text produced pinned to the back of the door. It would be recorded on two C15 ‘prison’ audiocassettes – clear plastic cassettes sealed without the small screws that enable the cassette to be dismantled. Once over the sound would be rewound and its sonic remains replayed and performed again. The cassettes would then be immediately released as a limited edition of two. On the other side of each cassette, is a simultaneous recording of the performance rehearsals made at my home in Winchester.
Sadly, the day before the exhibition opened, I became ill and was not able to attend or perform at the opening. But Matt placed my written instructions for the performance, and his own portable cassette player in the window seat of the room where the performance was to take place. This silent obituary for a performance that never took place, was not only very kind but also an appropriate variation for a text that sounded in the imagination.
I decided that the record of my not performing was a form of taking part and decided to release the unrecorded performance as a limited-edition cassette diptych; on one side the recorded rehearsals for the performance; on the other side, the blank tape of a sound [and its record] that never took place.
“I am not imagining…” Limited Edition Audiocassette. 2023. Sebastiane Hegarty
“I am not imagining …” is now available for purchase. The tapes can be purchased as either individual cassettes or as the original diptych, carefully packaged in the shredded paper remains of the typing rehearsals. Leave a message if you’re interested.
sebastiane hegarty 