THE ARCHITECTURAL SCRIPT

 
 

The Script

SCRIPT:

Me: Hey guys, I have something to ask of all of you !!  Basically I want to play a game where you look at my stereoscopic images and I wills start off with a sentence to imagine a narrative, you carry it on and it creates a sort of story. I want you all to imagine an architecture.

All characters look at the box,

What would you imagine in the space?

Participant 1: The thing is there is a certain intimacy in the box, can we not imagine a sort of house, that we are looking into someones house

Me: I guess we can yes, lets go with that, what do you imagine?

I will start with the first sentence

Me: The porch is wide open as she steps into the house.

Participant 2 : she steps into the house lantern burning in one hand her old keys in another

Me: okay great what next?

Participant 3 : wait this reminds me of a poem we studied in a level

wait maybe I can find it. It was about a house, and it referred to a lantern light  

Goes on phone.

Participant 4: the floor Boards creek and the lantern brightens every splinter in the wood and crakes on the walls

Me: yes Sadek, creating imagery !

Participant 5: she steps towards the living room, she kicks over a cracked wine glass and spills blood red wine on a faded Persian Rug

Me: the room is familiar

Participant 5: A noise emerges from the dimly lit corner, the sound of blinds hitting the window

Me: she instinctively looks up at the ceiling, its glass reflecting back the light from her lantern

Participant 2: but it seemed to be coming from her left, the bird banging trying to penetrate the double doors leading to the balcony

Participant 2: It seemed almost disturbed thrusting its body from left to right

Me: almost simultaneous to the banging there was an old oak carved clock. She remembered this clock specifically as being part of the set up of the room. Always placed in a slightly pecular place, it seemed to be ticking but it wasn’t the second hand that was moving, it was the hour. Time did not exist in this house.

Participant 4: oooo , this is sounding really good

Participant 2 : nor did the whole situation. Is she imagining all of this? She thought. Everything starts to slowly fad, her vision blurred and she finds herself in another room. She could still hear the bird and suddenly a thud, nothing. What happened? Is someone else in the house with her? Or did the balcony doors open by itself from the harsh wind outside ? She looked to her right and she could see a glimpse of the balcony through a series of cuts through the walls. The doors were wide open and she could feel the cold air coming in

Participant 4: the lantern completely blown off by the wind it turned dark,  as she looked up to the glass ceiling her eyes then became comfortable with the darkness- she could see the moon and the stars reflecting its soft light and painted glass and walls with a glow

Participant 2: she feels her way through the concrete walls but accidentally slips and falls face first onto the floor. A familiar smell caught her attention. She got up and followed the smell into into a room with shelves of books right up to the ceiling, filing every corner of the room. The smell must have been the books. She remembers it quite clearly from when she was a child.

Participant 2: She used to read a lot , Used to. In the middle there is a desk

I am basically describing my child hood hahah. Sorry, okay so in the middle there is a desk, and a skylight that had been opened. The wind was blowing pages of unwritten letters over the room.

Participant 4:. Plain old paper, with nothing written on them

Me: wow okay guys we basically have three rooms, this is great!

Participant 2: yeah I think I'm done, I have to go.

Participant 3: Buse I will send you the poem later I cant find it.

The poem that was sent read:

This is the house of Yves Tanguy

The house is entered by lantern light,

As through dream and its darkness

The sawmill spinning so fast you cant catch its movement

Watching all of gods stars

She’s made of ropes, curvy down strokes, she's the colour of crayfish swimming though the water, where is the neutral?

With the lantern light, the sawmill spinning so fast you can't catch its movement, watching all of god’s stars

The tramways moving in every direction only to end up back where they stared, the endless mane of hair typical of the Argonauts

The service is completed by the Sphinges, those women with the lion bodies, who cover their eyes with a cloth, with dazzling furnishings of a desert we bruise and heal and plot against ourselves but fight back without shelter, with a lantern- light as though a dream and its darkness and songs that lovers exchange from afar

This is the house of Yves Tanguy