Parfums Pourpres du Soleil des Poles at South London Gallery

Parfums Pourpres du Soleil des Poles at South London Gallery

24 January, 2011
by: Tom Jeffreys

Tom Jeffreys is enchanted (and a little baffled) by an evening of performance art exploring synaesthesia.

Given that I'm not a huge fan of performance art, find video art largely tedious and know next to nothing about music, an evening that promises to fuse the three might sound like an odd thing for me to want to attend. And it is. But, like many people, I've always been intrigued by synaesthesia, a fascinating neurological condition in which the senses of those affected get crossed over. So, they might taste colours, or see music, or associate certain numbers or days of the week with specific sounds, emotions or even personalities.

Frankly it's a bizarre condition, and, like LSD, one that puts into question our everyday assumptions about the reliability of our own senses, and our authority over them. If there's one thing that neurological difference tells us – whether drug-induced and temporary or hard-wired and permanent – it's that what we can know is, to some extent at least, always secondary to what we can perceive.

Exploring some, if not all, of these things is contemporary artist Ulla von Brandenburg's performance evening at the South London Gallery. Parfums Pourpres du Soleil des Poles seems to translate as “the crimson perfumes of the sun of the poles”, which is a fairly baffling title for an evening that turns out to be a slightly peculiar one, if at least intriguing and at times utterly engrossing.

The South London Gallery's main gallery space has been painted black, and at the front of the high-ceilinged room, three traditional reed organs are buttressed against each other in a triangle. The lights dim, and a throbbing, minimalist drone echoes forth and judders through the assembled audience. A middle-aged man with the white curly hair of an eccentric genius ambles to a table at the front: this is our synaesthesist.

The music ebbs and flows, throbs and pulses. At times it's darkly menacing, at others strangely uplifting. The rhythmic squeaking of wooden pedals adds a sense of history and humanity – an old man on his rocking chair, a boat creaking in the gathering squall, even a toucan in the jungle rustle.

Throughout the duration of the piece the synaesthesist lays out plain coloured cards in various layers, lines and combinations, the exact colours of which correspond to the frequency of the notes being played. The resulting 'pattern' is then projected onto a large screen behind the four protagonists.

It's an interesting visual tool to use and one that has its pros and cons: there's certainly a pleasing clarity, but perhaps at the loss of fluidity or flexibility. At once methodical and occasionally arbitrary, precise and slap-dash, this is a process – both futile and fertile – that enchants, and yet in places it drags. There's something comical about it, something amateurish, which in some ways is a real strength. But it's also apparent that this is not a scientific experiment, nor is it simply a transparent representation of what goes on in the mind of someone with synaesthesia.

What this means is that the audience – or at least those like me – are excluded from proceedings, proceedings which do rather remain internal. But then perhaps that's deliberate. Synaesthesia remains as fascinating as ever, but my understanding of it has not been significantly enhanced.

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Tom Jeffreys