In a blasted-out shell at Grand and Crosby in Manhattan’s SoHo district, Patrick Stickles takes echoey footsteps across piles of time-weathered woodpiles and floors coloured with layers of dust and decay.
We have come to the site directly after a demolition, old walls and pathways destroyed to make way for the new. In this environment, Titus Andronicus finds a kinship to its sound. Paeans to truck-stop heroes and fallen icaruses bounce off the bare bricks and mortar until inertia runs out and they fall to rest with the other debris.
With this one song, Patrick briefly fills the giant hollow with life, reaching every corner and illuminating the forgotten floor plans beyond the scope of the flickering work-lights left by the labourers. When he is done, he sets his instrument down and walks away, leaving no trace behind besides the footprints that lead him out into the streets of New York City.