"Where is the clown?"
I stood at the panorama of the famous Lake Jarun - the only lake for swimming in the city, and where I had never been in my 8 years visiting Zagreb - and scanned the different lifeguard-chairs. The approach had been fascinating, with the various desire lines and pathways through the surrounding bushes pointing to a often-repeated journey of Zagreb's luxury-loving population. Standing amid the beach-goers, looking for the central actor of the performance Dead in the Pool - a clown intervention and 'indefinite cultural event' by Tereza Sikorová and Tomáš Moravanský - I was dwelling on the unique perspective, on the uniqueness of the situation: here I am, with people who possibly care only about the sun and the water, looking for an artwork without knowing the exact location, or even what I am exactly looking for. Finally, off in the distance, a black dot greeted me from the top of one of the chairs, and I trudged off in the direction of the clown.
Dead in the Pool is a durational (4-hour) performance in which a clown intervenes in a body of water - normally a swimming pool, this time adapted for Faki Festival to the shores of the lake. A creation of Czech former clown Sikorová and intermedia artist/dramaturg Moravanský, part of the Brno-based collective Institut Institut, the work offers a macabre underbelly to an otherwise mainstream human activity of chlorofied swimming. Previously staged in Brno at Lužánky City Swimming Pool, the performance creates a question mark amid an otherwise unquestionable situation. My own question "Where is the clown?" could equally, therefore, be "Where am I?"
Photos: Jahvo Joža
In keeping with the sharp negative tone of the work (the clown's costume is an ominous black-on-black ensemble, reminding somewhat of an adjudicator), Dead in the Pool is perhaps more significant for what does not occur. The intervention seems a minimal one: as clown, Sikorová sits atop the lifeguard chair, and does little apart from occasionally changing the direction of her gaze. Yet, as you bathe in the clear waters of Lake Jarun, you cannot help but be aware of the clown's perspective, and the significant element of doubt that it brings. Taking my first swim, I felt something like a guilt, or maybe simply a sense of connection, with those vast majority who, for whatever reason, could not enjoy a cool dip in the water. The clown in Dead in the Pool very much functions as an inherent critique: it asks a question merely through its existence in a particular place, at a particular time.
Rewards came when one shared the clown's perspective. Looking around, it seemed I was not the only one experiencing this existential uncertainty. A family joined nearby, appearing to largely ignore the surreal vulture-like figure perched on top of a lifeguard chair. Yet overhearing their conversation in Croatian (I think) as they entered the water to throw a ball, I could hear the word "Joker" as part of the conversation, even from where I was sitting some 50 metres away. Children came to stare, and, receiving only a mirrored-gaze in return, were left only to wonder. This is a work that exists as a splinter in the mind.
The intervention became more marked when the clown made what would be one of just two significant pivots: walking down the stairs of the lifeguard chair, taking the long journey over the pebbles, to take position on a second chair 100 metres away. I witnessed this with some sense of entertainment: initially, as Sikorová's black-booted foot hit the first step, it created a shattering interruption to my perspective sitting behind the chair. The journey across to the second chair was faintly hypnotic: the clown seemed to float across the pebbles, somewhat reminiscent of Death in Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal.
