~

a sizeable room in an art gallery

white walls, good lighting

empty but for fifty folding chairs

people drift in, find a seat

there is no introduction

there is nothing on the walls

a person comes to the front of the room

sits on a chair before the audience

that person is me

i begin tapping my foot rhythmically, without speaking

four/four time, moderately

my head and body sync to the rhythm

i do this steadily

and i do it until, gradually, after a few minutes

a few in the audience pick up the rhythm, consciously or not

and begin to tap their feet

begin to move their bodies in rhythm as well

they sense this is what is intended

i don't know how they know, but they do

before long almost everyone in the room

is on the beat, their feet tapping, their bodies keeping time

the four/four time is like this: one two three four

with the emphasis on one, less on three, and even less on two and four

this is conveyed solely by my tapping and body movement

there is no other sound or gesture

when most of the people are in sync, and most are

i change the tempo

both ways, slower and faster

the audience understands, those who are with me

keeping perfect time

we are making music 

the sense of rhythm in the room is palpable

is dynamic, almost unstoppable

i make eye contact with someone in the audience

i nod to them

they understand what i'm implying

they take the rhythm, the beat, and make it their own

we pass the rhythm from one to the next 

whomever wants it, takes it

some are more musical than others

there is some syncopation

some missed beats, which brings a few laughs

when it works

the entire body of the room is in unison, we have unity

when it seems everyone who wanted to take the rhythm has done so

it is passed back to me

all unspoken, all by a communal understanding

by a simple gesture of the head

a nod, no more

which is inexplicable, other than it's human

that we are social creatures

that there are more ways to communicate than by speaking

i take the rhythm

i slow it down, like a heart coming to its final beat 

so it concludes

winding down as my tapping slows, slows steadily

one by one the others drop out

until all that is left is the sound of my ever-slowing, ever-quieter, tapping

this is my piece, my creation for art class

the assignment for the week—create a conceptual piece 

the theme i chose—something from nothing

i call my piece silence

because after the final tap of my foot, that is what's left

~