Lifting Heavy Metal
Cindy Moore
This past December in an industrial Baltimore warehouse, sculptor Tim Scofield debuted his latest performance involving large machinery and acrobatics. Fabricated in steel, a pair of bare metal sculptures set the stage for Scofield and fellow aerialist, Mara Neimanis. The performers, equipped with harnesses, strap themselves onto the crane-like appendages of the massive machines. The imposing contraptions, composed of exposed bolts and rusted metal prove uncharacteristically light in movement. Calibrated to counteract the weight of the performers, the unwieldy machines lift and swivel arcing at times up to 15 feet in the air. The choreography consists of simple sets of movements. Neimanis and Scofield somersault and leap, twist and balance, hovering mid-air. The sensation of floating is palpable, yet the groaning of the apparatus and the visible effort of the movements bind these moments of grace firmly to the ground.
Tim Scofield’s history of creating human-powered, interactive sculpture began ten years ago, while he was working towards a graduate degree. Inspired by childhood acts of weightlessness, achieved through countless bike jumps and relentlessly practiced skateboard tricks while growing up in rural Illinois, he set out to recreate the sensation of flight with a set of sculptural amusements. The early flying machines took participants along for the ride; volunteers could rise and dip on an extended steel arm, as they quickly spiraled around a central base. While people were treated to a breezy (albeit bumpy) ride, Scofield provided the manpower. Physically pushing the bulky apparatus for the entirety of the experience, he ran along side the machine in constant exertion, often with a cigarette clenched between his lips.
The strain was apparent, as were the limitations of the machines. Scofield went back to the shop. The machines that emerged over the next three years have a much greater range of motion. The newest pair rotates on several axes concurrently, allowing performers to flip, twist and spin simultaneously. Now too complicated to maneuver for amateurs, the interactive sculpture has morphed into a tool for performance. Hence the quiet sculptor’s shift of roles, no longer a self-made carnie, he is now the star of his own circus.
The first performance was held in a large mixed-use warehouse called the Substation, far from the trendier parts of the Baltimore scene. With a raw concrete floor and 30 foot pitched ceilings, the space contained practically nothing, aside from the hulking machines. It was cold enough to see your breath, and audience members huddled around an open propane flame for warmth. Overhead, a shallow loft supported the band, Grandchildren, who provided a live score. Their Mogwai-esque, post-rock sounds perfectly complemented the grinding of the machines and the earthbound yet ethereal movements of the performers.
Although it references works by Jean Tinguely or Survival Research Lab, the aerial performance defies artistic classification. It hovers somewhere between heavy metal sculpture and interpretive dance; a gear-head’s retinkering of Cirque de Soleil. Paired with seasoned aerialist Mara Neimanis, Scofield has choreographed a 15-minute performance that goes beyond highlighting the mechanical possibilities of his creations. As they are vaulted around the room, the performers play out a complex, yet recognizable, drama. At first their movements are relatively self-contained; one waits while the other bounds through space. The playful banter between the machines seems almost coy. At moments, Neimaris and Scofield are perfectly timed. They twist in unison, connect and then drift slowly down as if floating towards the ocean floor. But surrounding these moments of suspended grace is constant struggle; the performers often reach towards each other without making contact, not in the overdramatic way typified in modern dance, but as evidence of a more humble failing. The impact of the landing is felt; the gears of the machines and the bodily toll they extract are in constant view. The price of weightlessness is made clear.
It is, in many ways, a modern retelling of the Sisyphean act. The performers struggle to rise up with the express knowledge that they will be brought back down. In Camus’s reading of the myth, there is a moment after Sisyphus has pushed the boulder up the mountain, right before it will inevitably roll back down, in which we must imagine he feels joy. Tim Scofield’s performance finds the visual expression of that moment and repeats the process. He binds together ideas of freedom and bondage, capture and release.
Scofield’s aesthetic also hints at darker pursuits. His visual style might best be categorized as apocalyptic chic. The machines are for the most part salvaged from Baltimore junkyards, pieced together remnants of now-forgotten industrial equipment. They are welded together in his carriage-house studio, stored in a heap next to half-finished motorcycles, full ashtrays and empty beer bottles. The gear he has chosen for the performers is equally telling. Ballistic nylon corsets, custom-made by Melanie Freebairn, are equipped with hip-level grommets, latched directly into the apparatus. These highly fetishized objects are worn over denim and black–nothing showy enough to overshadow the raw power of a highly sexualized machine and its equally suspect creator.
Scofield’s role as the creator or performer is as highly constructed as his machines. He is one part dancer, one part inventor gone mad. His work hints at sadism, yet is undeniably sentimental and truly touching at times. Upcoming shows will cast his creation in different lights. He hopes to take the performance to Philadelphia, New York and Richmond over the upcoming year, and undoubtedly each venue will provide its own context. There is even talk of a set of performances at the National Air and Space Museum on the mall in Washington DC. Surprisingly, it’s not hard to imagine it placed between early Wright Brother creations and Leonardo’s models. I can see the school buses of children surrounding Scofield’s behemoth machines, watching as they perform their anachronistic dance. At the heart of it all is still a boy jumping bikes in the Heartland, out to find that moment of flight.
