Sarah Forrest

The Objective Narrator

"Audacious bravado and a stampeding heart lock horns. The competition is fierce and my body the battleground; it is a heady concoction. In this charged moment I am abandoned by rationality and desire lays claim to my mind."

Their first encounter left the object in a position of uncertainty, dazzled, it seems, by the reflective lustre of desire. During that brief moment of exchange, the object entertained, if only for an instance, the possibility of difference.

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Between them a space has emerged, they sense its vastness, simultaneously separating and encircling them. Although instantly perceived as immeasurable, futile attempts are made to harness it into reality, allocating a duration that will be determined by the next interruption.

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Although aware of the illusion, the space performs, growing edges in response to this audible rift.

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That my voice would echo her own, rendering her words tangible, is the concept and therefore foundation for my existence. I am her innovation, her work of genius, I am her voice. To look at me, I may not be the most obvious choice for a narrator, but it was my objectivity and my presumed passive nature that lead her to cast me as the leading voice in this interpretation of events. She believed I lacked intention. As a product of her own artistic imagination, my form depended entirely upon her hands, but she was naïve when she presumed I would be void of intention.

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Their awareness of the space equally isolates and binds them to the other; they oscillate between closeness and hostility.

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I admit, on occasion, my testimony may appear a little incoherent, but I would like to point out that thoughtless deviation holds no interest for me. The resulting shape that my narrative adopts is rooted, unquestionably, in Fact. Precedence, however, is not given to when these facts appear. I have no desire to situate them on a time line, like a piece of string you can follow repeatedly from beginning to end, but my interest resides in their movement, their shift towards emergence. Sensed on the spot, was a certain affinity with my fellow object. This has influenced my approach to story telling, propelling it out of sequence. It reflects a desire to move away from the linear. As far as I can deduce from this peculiar situation, the thing that has complicated matters and ruptured any possibility of a fruitful relationship between the two, is this matter of linearity.

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Bearing in mind the implausibility of you having ever encountered such sensations, I urge you to overlook the familiar and imagine, for just a moment, how it would feel to have your entire being reduced to one narrative. An imposed beginning and ending that is incompatible with your own sense of self, stamped eternally on your face. You are burdened with the weight of a voice that has already spoken, forcing you to recite words that were never your own. The mere utterance of your name is a declaration of your fate. That one word condemns singularity, corners your identity, indiscriminately lumping it together with whoever might share your address.

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I have been interrupted, it has been insinuated that perhaps I am deviating slightly from the matter at hand.

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I recall an acute awareness of my self as I witnessed her try on her partner's words for size, my presence now a question. Curious as to how they might feel as they pass her lips, the words are uttered; they reverberate. Were they hers?

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Unforeseen by its author, the object watches as her eyes consume its insides, an unravelling has commenced. They keep pace with each other in this game of concealment, tentatively revealing a shared desire for understanding.

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She scratches her head.

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Opposite her sits The Book, unopened, but it doesn't matter anymore.

Transcript from the video installation The Objective Narrator (2009)