30th June 07.28-
The balance between an experimental writing to an art criticism, in a name of review, was hard to measure. The intention was to implement the form of the art piece as much as possible within the writing, while the vulnerability of the private life as a mean to transfigure, or to advocate, the position of an audience into a conversationist. This notion comes from the site-specific performance, Passing Remark by Hildur Guðnadóttir in collaboration with Het Muziek, for it amplified and refocused my sense of living hours with a short meditative duration. The openness of the spatial but also musical structure allowed me to wander and shift attention externally as much as internally. Therefore, the review here below is constructed in timestamps and fragments. They do not intend to formulate sharp analytical text to suggest any evaluation of the performance. Instead, they offer and if ever possible, provoke, with a gesture of stirring affectively and intellectually upon a still pond of silver water in the quite blue night, in hope for an experience which transmits a glimpse of the performance Passing Remark performed at Westerpark, 21st June 2026, 13.00.
16th June, 23.23-
Late at night after a day of work, I emailed the education programmer at Holland Festival because I was somewhat lost as to where to begin at Westerpark for this performance. Apparently, Westerpark is not a concert hall but a park of roughly 100 hectares. The next day, I received clarification about where the performance would take place. However, I could not help but wonder whether the ambiguity of the exact location was intentional for experiential purposes, as the search itself evoked a sense of passing.
21st June, 12.37-
I hopped on my bike and started cycling from my place. I thought about the heat warning, but no—actually, I felt the heat. While cycling, I was texting a friend whom I had not seen since the beginning of January.
12.57-
I found myself standing at the edge of an open green space. The sun was miraculously veiled by clouds, yet the fullness of the humid air weighed heavily on my skin. I walked toward the pond and saw a full spectrum of colours among the participants: a young couple with their toddler; owners with their dogs; an apparent resident walking alongside a bicycle loaded with groceries; a man dressed entirely in black, philosophically observing the situation; two girls exchanging words beneath an old tree; a group of five topless men practising boxing, and so on.
They were scattered like M&M's across the densely green canvas, while the young musicians stood in groups of three or four around the pond. All of them played brass instruments.
12.59-
I passed through the crowd gathered at the entrance to the open park. Aiming to find a quieter spot, I let my legs lead me halfway around the pond until I found an empty bench. Not far from where I sat, I noticed a fire burning on the grass beneath the shade of a tree. It appeared to be a barbecue gathering among a few friends.
"This is the spot," I thought.
13.01-
Although I did not see the musician who gave the cue, the performance began with a sharp blast from one instrument. The other musicians apparently received the signal, raised their brass instruments, and joined in. The music consisted of fragmented patterns, repetitive yet variable, evolving with the passage of time. These fragments functioned as a signifier rather than the protagonist of the stage. Because there was no protagonist. Or perhaps every sound during the performance united as one.
Amid these elements, I noticed moments of confusion among the musicians, and at one point a programmer from Holland Festival had to run between two groups, seemingly for synchronisation.
13.05-
A young family with their toddler came to join me on the bench. The baby looked at me with curiosity and the parents spoke in a language to which I have no access.
13.11-
The barbecue fire was put out. I took a video recording from left to right from my perspective. The duration of the recording is one minute.
13.15-
The music reminded me of Samuel Beckett’s Come and Go, in which three almost identical roles exchange whispers in darkness and literally come and go choreographically amidst an abundance of silence. These silences, in my view, are deliberately allowing the time to be experienced and by doing so, the play creates an implosive sense of drama, or more precisely, a drama of passing, a drama for time.
13.20-
The performance finished at roughly 13.20. During the performance, I counted four trains passing on the rail line along the edge of the park; seven bird calls drifting from the green island between the echoing music, seemingly as responses to the ensemble; and the sound of water splashing from the fountain in the middle of the pond, flowing relentlessly and consistently. I texted my friend that I was done with the performance.
13.28-
While I was cycling, there was a ladybug resting on my shirt. It only left when I arrived at the bar.
13.44-
“I am here.” We hugged. The conversation teased its way from how life treated us over the past few months to his missing glasses on an airplane; from his recent operation to my study; from the Taiwanese economy to whether we should separate artworks from their makers’ morality; from Oedipus’s sour beer called polyamorie to the sixth outgoing Prime Minister, Keir Starmer.
“Why did you text me?”
“…why did you reply?”
15.10-
We play three different games in the arcade. I lost twice, and we were both drenched in sweat. There was nobody but us. We slipped into a toilet and made out passionately for a bit.
15.37-
“You should head home and help prepare dinner for friends.”
“Yeah. Which route are you biking? I come with you, if I can.”
15.49-
I showed him the new doorbell system and said he should type in my address number next time. He remembered my number. We had sex. He asked me again in bed,
“Why did you contact me?”
I replied, “Why are you here?”
Then we held hands. I almost immediately regretted failing to be open and vulnerable at that moment. Before he almost fell asleep, he managed to get up and leave after we kissed. Then I fell asleep instantly. It was the deepest sleep in months that I woke up in a slight panic. Less than twenty minutes had passed. I took my second shower of the day.
17.55-
In front of a hidden windmill, I parked my bike. Clearly drenched in sweat, I sat in one of the seats in the triangular space and put on the installed headphones, facing the glittering canal. With a sharp emergency siren after I pushed the green button, Laurie Anderson’s work Your Eyes in My Head began. The view provided me with, again, all sorts of people. Whether on boats, on foot, or on bikes, they were all just passing by, as her voice and the ambience of music gently left marks in my head with a muddy, warm, and kind radiance.
19.48-
The heat continued into the evening. I took public transport to Bimhuis for a concert by Meredith Monk and John Hollenbeck. Titled Duet Behaviour 2026, the concert was versatile in its diverse styles and unbelievable capacity. From a happy woman to a fly; from percussion to a modern dancer, I was extremely grateful to experience the journey at that hour. Concluding with an older song called Gotham Lullaby, it began with this iconic set of four notes on the piano, which echoed the musical patterns in Passing Remark earlier. Repetitive, minimalist, or sober? It may be more about tirelessly embracing the unknown with open arms, I think. How simple and difficult is it in a time like this.
21.55-
As I sat on a bus looking at the passing orange rays, I reflected on the day. As the shifting perspectives drifted in the windowed images, I was a little overwhelmed by a deep sense of appreciation through three different programmes within hours, as if I were quietly reminded of the possibilities of empathising beyond words through attentively listening.