MCH/BLANK

Official website for Mark C. Hewitt and Blank Productions

Female. Born 1959. Singer

I live here. It’s an old building, with rather a large unkept garden. There’s no heating. It smells of damp and dust. I have never walked right around it because my house doesn’t belong to me. There’s an owner, but that person doesn’t live here. The bay windows make the place colder – they’re leaky. There are two bathrooms, two kitchens, too many toilets. The extra rooms I just wander into and wonder why no-one remembers they’re there. I can’t really use them – you only need one kitchen, one bathroom. It’s a waste of space.

There’s a door that’s always ajar. The lock springs open if you try to close it. It makes me feel vulnerable, like someone can get into my living space. It makes me angry. It leads to a landing. Sometimes there are voices. It’s down some steps. The steps are confusing – like when you return to a car park and you don’t know what floor you’re on.

Sometimes I go into this other part of the house when the voices stop. The rooms – sitting rooms, bedrooms, are large, open-plan, magnificent, designed for comfort. Vast. Splendidly furnished. Velvet swags, low silk chaises longues. It’s a sumptuous lounging area. There are books, the place is used a lot. Nineteenth Century. Everything is antique – from the escritoire to the hairbrush and mirror. I go on sometimes, through this part of the house, down more steps and along a bare corridor. It’s impersonal here – functional and dirty, like a tube station. The only way to go is down. You can’t go back up.

It leads down to a stage, highly lit. Really this stage area is just the end of the line. You can’t go behind it. Everything ends here. You can’t go back up. It’s moulded concrete painted a cream colour, just a large, horribly impersonal space. A high-vaulted square, brightly-lit area for performing. Nothing behind it. Underground. No way out. People have been here, but it’s in between performances. You can smell their sweat, hear the echoes of their bitchy competitive voices, feel their mutual hatred. There’s no air conditioning down here. No way back.