UnScripts:Films of Waves Accompanied by a Breathy Voice-over to be shown at Modern Art Galleries

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Also known as Effervescence, Films of Waves Accompanied by a Breathy Voice-over to be shown at Modern Art Galleries is a 2009 film by Aliyah bin-Andrews that got a circuit round galleries in Spain and Germany, presumably because audiences there were unlikely to understand English. Its run stopped after filmmaker Tacita Dean sued bin-Andrews for stealing the visuals and concept from her film The Green Ray.

Films of Waves Accompanied by a Breathy Voice-over to be shown at Modern Art Galleries.gif

Waves, waves, rushing along the sea, no shore in sight, poetry, pleasure, sexual liberation. Every facet tonally intricate, cleaning, washing, hanging out to dry, washing, leading up to its ceaseless cease. Sea. And what can be seen on the horizon, its details small and fragmented, obscured under the undulating sun? Perhaps a cove, a secret, a pirate vessel of joyful camaraderie, times past, when we were kids? No. Don't be silly, it's just more sea.

Husshh. Listen to the waves, as they crash out of the frame and more waves from behind come in to take their place. Watch, as our plane of view pans inexplicably downwards, the most visually exciting event I assure you will ever occur.
Desaturating waves.gif

The picture gradually de-saturates.

Behold, the true vivid convivial vivacity of nature's beautiful organic windswept organism. Orgasm. Even in its tonality it represents true colour, true light and life like nothing else, complexities worth hours of pontification. Plunged into darkness, a miniscule crack of light persists, seeps, like the hole in the camera's gate that ruined our first take. Effervescence. Self-reference.

Drooling noises

Guess who?
I was nine, and liked to go to Marks & Spencer to buy lace panties at the weekend. Bobby was eleven that unfateful September, and had an odd habit of burning Border Collies alive. We ran off together to look at the night sky at the top of the tallest hill in our town. Sitting on the hillside, he asked me if I'd had the chance to see his latest exhibition of work painting woodland birds with a mixture of butter and margarine on canvas. Spitting out an inconveniently designed puce brassiere I confessed I had not, but that it sounded delightfully specious and insufferable. Then we saw it, up above, a sight we were sure was unsurpassable in beauty: it was not an eclipse, nor did it have anything to do with the sea, but at that moment Bobby screwed the cap back on the bottle of Listerine he'd been using and just stared. There was electricity, in the night sky, between us. We didn't kiss because Bobby hated homosexuals, but there was a flicker, a moment, a muscle spasm, like an endless cycle encapsulated within a momentary moment. Effervescence.

For years after we fell silent at one another, watching, from the distance, up close, scaling his bungalow for points of entry. Then suddenly we were driven apart, as if the chemistry between us was too much for the universe to handle, and he was sentenced to five years for trying to set a baby alight on a public train. Even now he comes to me in my dreams intermittently, wearing a wizard hat and the gymnastics leotard worn by China in the 1996 Olympics. Dances, he and some homeless friends set fire to the trampoline, blazing in the night.

It blazed, blazed, like an endless swarm of orangey sea against the lawn behind it. The sea, it has always been said, is one of the most exciting and dramatic of all forms of poetry. It screams longing, whispers desperation, kisses wrath, chats insatiable lust, and whistles Shenandoah. The waves, the waves, the waves, the waves, the waves, the waves, they... roll, together, like... a peloton, an harmonious gangbang, like a conveyor belt carrying... waves.