Biennale of Sydney

Brian Fuata

Brian_Fuata_Improvisational_Performance_Australian_Centre_for_Contemporary_Art

Brian Fuata

Born 1978 in Wellington, Aoetearoa / New Zealand 
Based in Sydney


Brian Fuata works across the fields of improvisational visual and performance art. He employs the properties and concepts of post dramatic theatre for his live works, physical environments, objects, and visual ephemera.

APPARITIONAL CHARLATAN ~ MINOR APPEARANCES. 

"I have cold fingers as I write this. Maybe I’m dead. I have died gracing various performance stages. Dying during performance is my thing. Dying as a performance, as the performance, as a, as they, as we, figure eight, figure out, figure around the potency of improvisation inside a given space (often a gallery or theatre) and timed twenty-minute structure. The phone alarm closes a temporal parenthetical bracket. When it rings I’ll say something like ’Great thanks for coming’ or let out an emphatic ‘yes’, often surprised by the performance’s natural circadian rhythm. 

"Here in this death, perhaps in mentioning ‘ghosts’, you the reader run head first to a town fair into a series of interconnected black boxes comprising the fair’s haunted house and its ride. You enter it, the affect between you and the building. The humidity of an uncreative writing lab is thick here in that ‘ghosts’ come loaded in narrative loops, associations, anachronisms, the corridors sweat pataphysical potency, inter everything – set in the air as texts –  titles embossed on the spines of books, read aloud in dyslexia.

"I begin in Z-level B-grade, a bed sheet without eye holes. Our reception of the performer’s hand levitating the chair is both cropped from sight and gloved with sparkling visibility. Let’s say this hand momentarily belongs to me, my body networked to everything in the room is a stage prop of energy, my register of casual conversation is in fact daylight glamour transplanting the hand, here, in an act of good faith, now as your hand, you levitate this chair, this bedsheet, this sheet of paper, this found text, this microphone, this bottle of amyl, this room’s laughter, this sound poetry, this thing that happened to me on the way over here, this public arena, this business called show, this consciousness, another consciousness, double consciousness.

My fingers are now hot. Maybe I’m alive! I have lived gracing various performance stages. Living during performance is my thing. Living as a performance, as the performance, as a, as they, as we, figure eight, figure out, figure around the potency of improvisation inside a given space (often a gallery or theatre) and timed twenty-minute structure. The phone alarm closes a temporal parenthetical bracket. When it rings I’ll say something like ’Great thanks for coming’ or let out an emphatic ‘yes’, often surprised by the performance’s natural circadian rhythm. Here in this life, perhaps in mentioning ‘ghosts’ you the reader run head first to a town fair into a series of interconnected black boxes comprising the fair’s haunted house and its ride. A fault-embracing ride animates no wrongness, an infrathin choreography of non-judgemental presence producing no fancy product, no spectacle, more atmospheric glitter, until some deep significance apparates perhaps not at the time of witnessing, maybe way later wayward spectral, a positive dissolution into watery memory."

Exhibited at