I used to not have a phone that could take photos. I also used to not have Instagram. But I acquired one, and then the other. Sometimes I miss not having them. I wonder what it was like.
When I watch a performance, I put my phone away. It can take me a moment to stop feeling its presence, its pull on my attention. Sometimes I’m tempted to check it, but I try not to. If I do, it’s only when I’m really bored. Then I’ll check the time.
Depending on the show, and whether recording is allowed, I might use my phone to take a photo or video. Even when I choose to do that, I never feel quite right about it. My relationship to the work becomes acquisitive, as if I’m trying to hold onto it, or prove that I was there, rather than just letting it happen and letting that be enough. Plus, if I were dancing, I don’t think I’d want to be watched through people’s phones.
A few years ago, I started taking pictures of performances when they were over: whatever remained onstage as the audience left. I would post them on Instagram with the hashtag #aftermathsofdances (clunky but accurate). It became a way to keep a record of what I was seeing, and to share that with others, without intruding on the work or confusing my experience of it. I tried to get other people to use the hashtag, to post aftermaths of their own, and within a very small circle, it caught on.
I’m writing, unexpectedly, in the past tense. The last time I went to a live performance was on March 11, more than six weeks ago. I don’t know when I’ll go again. We’ve entered an aftermath of a larger scale. I guess these images have always conveyed a sense of absence or loss. Now I look at them and feel fortunate to have gathered so many times, with so many people, for ending after ending.
All images are courtesy of Siobhan Burke.