Whimsy Modules — Wellington
Mary Mary
Quite Contrary
A Whimsy Module for the Wellington Hospital Precinct
I had a very intense month and a half at the Wellington Hospital starting with an eight and a half hour lifesaving operation and recovery. My profession allows me to seek out and perceive ritual, rhythm and spectacle in complex systems and as someone who was being wheeled into elevators for daily MRI's as well as left to heal wandering my floor when I had the energy it was apparent to me that the Hospital lived and breathed and albeit the constant tragedy in larger measure it healed.
My floor had dayrooms that looked out to the final stages of the Childrens hospital's construction. There was a rhythm that contained elements of serenity, visitation, contemplation, unspoken camaraderie. I found myself noticing, becoming attuned to rhythms as I stared aimlessly down at the lane below with its roundabout and entrance into the underground carpark more or less at the same time most days and thought during those times...
"You know this would be an ideal venue for some environmental theatre, captive audience who would celebrate some inclusion and it would be ongoing, a 'season' that wasn't pre-marketed but became a small progressive uniquely whimsical rhythm among the life and death."
That was eight years ago. I've healed and have worked on my idea and here it is in its present form for your consideration. Now the Childrens Hospital is operational it is potentially theatre in the round.
4–6 week season. Two performances weekly — Tuesdays and Fridays, scheduled between 11am and 1pm. Precise timing subject to consultation with hospital administration to maximise exposure to patients and visiting families.
Each performance: 10 minutes. Final performance: 15–20 minutes.
Nocturnal supplemental growth spurts — once weekly, non-performance hoursA Mercedes delivery van arrives at the hospital concourse roundabout at a fixed time twice weekly. The rear doors open. Mary — a stilt performer operating as work foreman — descends, accompanied by 2–4 clown minions. The van departs.
What follows is the establishment and progressive tending of a surreal garden on the roundabout's surface: Dr. Seuss-scaled flora, astroturf, a watering can producing cellophane in lieu of water. Ten minutes later the van returns. The performers load out. The garden remains.
Between performances, nocturnal supplemental growth spurts occur once weekly. New plantings replace and extend existing ones. The first growth cycle is subtle enough to be a contested talking point among regular witnesses. By week two it is undeniable.
By weeks three and four, day lounge windows up to seven stories above fill with anticipatory witnesses. On the opposite side, interior vantages in the children's hospital offer their own sightlines. This is an outdoor installation for indoor audiences — patients, families, staff — for whom the concourse roundabout becomes a recurring event in the texture of their stay.
The final performance runs 15–20 minutes. The garden has fruited — surreal produce on every stem. Deckchairs are unloaded. Party hats distributed. A picnic is conducted among the impossible harvest. Then, methodically and with ceremony, the garden is dismantled. The van is loaded. The roundabout is returned to itself. The performers exit.
The garden grows. The concourse remembers.