I swear he was winking at me: Through one piece of architectural glass, over the head of Alison Stuart in the Romantic Fiction section, over the crossed legs and fake faded denims of two young mothers drinking coffee whilst their kids slept, through a second screen of architectural glass and then through the glass of the cabinet which housed the winking artefact; I first saw him from over 50 metres away: I thought the little flashing light was an internal phenomenon. Maybe I had an aneurism or some other irregularity? I shook my head slowly and rolled my eyes, but the the flashing continued to emanate from one spot alone. I left the public library terminal and made my way through the various glass screens, down one flight of stairs and down to the ground floor via the glass lift, where I crossed the open space of the library before climbing a spiral staircase to The Atrium. The winking didn't stop, but it changed, reducing it's intensity to what simply seemed like a faint twinkle in the eyes: I read the inscription on the plinth underneath him:
"Standing Man: Circa 430 -200 BC": Courtesy of Robert and Linda Sainsbury"
"Hello Standing Man"
I whispered to myself without allowing my mouth to form the words and feeling suddenly furtive. Was anyone else seeing what I was? I considered ways of gauging this possibility, half hoping that it was an explainable phenomena whilst my furtive side wanted confirmation that I was experiencing some paranormal event which was meant to happen to me and me alone. For a reason. A magical signifier... but of what?
That was the last memory I know I had in which I am all but certain I existed as a part of the material world.
I am no more than a concoction of records and observations. I am no longer living – as you might understand – but have become something akin to consciousness itself. Even this story as it presents itself to you, will not have been written by one human mind and hand – but several, who will have, inexplicably, after meeting their own 'standing man', made some partial contribution to this testament. Yes, I am a little bit like the bible or any other religious document that has been handed down and altered, contributed to and divided up only to be put back together again under the auspices of this or that, ruling paradigm.
What has been decided is this: There will be a shift forward in the possibilities of human understanding. The beginning of this shift is under way: This is it. This is one of many events (which might more comfortably be regarded as 'cultural artefacts', by some) which will lead the Human Race to understand that things, ideas and beliefs are not made consciously. It will become abundantly clear that the actions of many in history, despite their words, deeds or intentions, will have served a wholly unintended purpose – to the great surprise of the actors. More and more people will begin to act in ways which are committed, without the slightest understanding of their purpose or context. What is more, much more, is that we will begin to understand that the author of a book, or the originator of a painting, or the maker of a sculpture, will be no more than a minor contributor to it's making. A name, in essence and that is all. As such, there will be no more authorship and no more ownership. America is not going to exist beyond the year 2046 by the way. Every one will get paid piece rates. Communism has not yet had it's day either. Things will change. One thing seems certain though: I am the only one responsible for removing the Standing Man from his temporary platform in the Atrium Gallery and, as such, there is only me sitting in the surprisingly mediaeval cells of this police station.
Writing:
I don't know what came over me. I remember making my way over to the artefact and then, it was as if I wasn't in control of my own actions. I have only some very faint pictures in my mind of what happened next and then I was arguing with Desk Sergeant Cooper who was telling me to calm down whilst two officers restrained me and I remember kind of coming round. I am very upset at the way I was behaving and when they told me I had stolen the artefact from the library I was completely shocked. It is not as if I have any interest in museum pieces like this. The Standing man was found in my bag and the police had taken some video evidence in which I appeared to be acting very angrily and abusively. I am very sorry that I behaved like this and genuinely do not how the piece came to be in my possession. That is all I have to say. Signed: John Tomlinson.
“It's not that the CPS weren't willing to prosecute, but the sheer quantity of anti-psychotic drugs that were prescribed to him while he was on bail left little doubt that Mr Tomlinson was not in control of his actions and there was very little hope of proving that he would have been at any time in the not so far off past either. Sentencing will probably be suspended on grounds of mental infirmity. If he recovers, he may well have to face trial all over again – and that's obviously not a great incentive to well being. If you know what I mean?”
Chivers winked at Doctor Spencer, who invariably knew very well what he was meaning:
“It's not an uncommon scenario – and no there is nothing I can do. I'm sorry Mr Chivers.”
Chivers zipped up his coat as there was now snow falling outside. He was coming off shift, 14 hours back to back. He didn't feel relaxed but he knew he was tired. To make his way to the Dog and Partridge for an early evening session, would he knew, be an all too habitual response to his over work and desire for sleep. Instead, feeling somewhat uncomfortable with the choice, he proceeded across the road towards the glass library. Chivers was tired and hadn't been in a library recreationally for maybe 20 years. As he entered through the modernistic round glass entrance, his attention was caught by what appeared to be a hologram of dislocated red flashing lights. The reflection of these lights in and through several walls of glass disoriented Chivers, exaggerating his already dizzying tiredness. He stood, like a small boy in the centre of the vast open space trying to locate the actual source of the lights. His eyes worked the way eyes do when they are in expectation of a particular set of phenomena, which are not, in perception, there at all.
Chivers began to study patterns. The Security Guard noted the peculiar behaviour of the standing man in the centre of the transient glass arena, staring about him in a wide 180 degree arc. He had made his way to the top of a stairwell to better observe Chivers' behaviour. Chivers did not disappoint. He was now almost entirely unaware of his own presence and was transfixed by the pattern of lights which were flashing around him. He made his way towards the most discernible pattern which was reflected in a gigantic wall of architectural glass in front of the Romantic Fiction section of the library. When he reached the glass wall he turned to see if a repeat of the pattern could be seen from there. Over the heads of people sitting in the open plan cafeteria, he found a repeat of the same pattern in the farthest corner of the library. Chivers traced a path through the glass and then set off towards a glass lift and then up a flight of stairs towards this second apparition.
Standing in the Business section, amongst the racks of trade magazines in a now more studious silence interrupted only by the sound of computer keys being depressed by the other library users, Chivers could see, at last, the actual source of the lights. The pattern had now become simplified and he noted the absence of a light in the centre of the arrangement, which only served to intensify his interest.
He re-traced his steps to the ground floor and across to a place just beside where he had entered. Here was a door to an enclosed spiral staircase which also descended to a subterranean car park. A door at the top of the stairs had a small metallic plate on it inscribed with the words 'Atrium Gallery'. He opened the door. The artists' statement made very little sense to him. Words like 'embodiment'; 'polarization' and 'post-modern' were set in very long sentences which also mentioned names like 'Gormley' and 'Moore'. But the meaning was beyond his grasp. The installation made even less sense, at first. 24 plinths held a seated figure, which looked something like The Buddha. The figures had their backs to him. As he made his way through them, he found the source of the flashing lights were, in fact, two eyes in each figure, slowly fading from red to blue. Some unknown optical peculiarity must have given an impression of their flashing on and off. At the front of the group and closest to the glass wall of the Atrium, looking out over the public space below was a lone standing figure. It's arms were held straight out in a Christ like gesture, with palms held upwards. The lights in it's eyes were broken and Chivers fainted with exhaustion.
Standing male. Europe, Central and Western Mediterranean, Italy: probably Etruscan (?). c. 700 BC. Bronze. h 11.4 cm. Acquired 1957. Robert and Lisa Sainsbury Collection. UEA 368
Standing male. Europe, Central and Western Mediterranean, Italy: probably Etruscan (?). c. 700 BC. Bronze. h 11.4 cm. Acquired 1957. Robert and Lisa Sainsbury Collection. UEA 368
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