For the making of that video, she persuaded the authorities at Newcastle Airport to close the main runway to planes for an hour or so. In the aeroplane-free slot, several off-duty air traffic controllers bicycled up the runway in V-formation, guided by the voice of an on-duty colleague. Amongst other things, the resulting film is a tribute to human communication and co-operation, so often taken for granted. The tremendous power of the engines blasts frantically pedalling cyclists to the edges of my mind and beyond.
It folds out like an Ordnance Survey map, but the only symbols printed on the paper are groups of words. My only previous experience of the French art world was when I stayed for a week with Neal in when he was doing a residency in Saint Nazaire. On the last day of that visit, we went for a walk, which culminated in a non-conversation with three French boys. But I sat there and responded as best I could, because I knew Neal was filming the interaction from a few yards away.
After a chat, I look round the CCC. Orange chutes that descend from the white-topped mountains, on either side of the range, are what make it friendly, I guess. Looking at it now, the shiny plastic facilitates easy—nay, magical—movement from the skies above Luton to the fertile plain that is the Loire valley.
Is the idea that the mountain—self-imposed burden or source of inspiration—in the end becomes a motivator and possible means of escape for other people? Around the table are the three British artists responsible for the show Panacea and three French architects and journalists.
The Brits start the ball rolling. The initial idea has become an evolving, expandable and travelling artwork designed to function—in part ironically, in part optimistically—as a universal formula to cure social, economic, political and personal problems.
