Marina Abramovic in Oslo



The exciting evening included the inauguration of View Point The Scream at Ekeberg Sculpture Park, followed by a live performance by Abramovic, and thereafter screenings of excerpts from the documentary about the making of the film, and finally the world premiere screening of the film “The Scream – Oslo participants” (to which I proudly contributed my own scream).



( Above photo: just one of many wonderful sculptures in the park.
See photos of the sculptures HERE! )



Abramovic invited several guests to scream at the inauguration.
Here are three of them:





Above photo: Oslo City Centre, as seen from the park and the Munch Viewpoint.

And finally, a photo of me screaming at the Munch Viewpoint before the screening of the film (photo taken by Per Eidspjeld):


All lovers of performance art and the work of Marina Abramovic should really see the film when it comes to your area. See if you can pick me out amongst the succession of 270 screamers. A book about the performance art project is also in production.

Still photo from Marina Abramovic’s film “The Scream”, republished with permission from Ekebergparken’s Scream Prosjekt / Marina Abramovic

adam with mother at three years

I was a “primal screamer” {Janov} way back in the early 1970s. When I first screamed I was shocked because before that, the only time I had raised my voice or screamed was when I was born. Once, in a primal session, I suddenly re-experienced my journey through my mother’s birth canal. It was amazing! Later, when visiting my mother, I “primal screamed” inside a locked bedroom in my mother’s house for an hour. My mother freaked out, banged on the door furiously for five minutes and then sat down on the floor and listened. When I came out of the room she was sitting on the floor, holding herself, rocking … and she embraced me and thanked me — wishing that she could do the same.


In the twenty-fifth hour,
as sleeplessness concedes
to Jungian twilight,
the inviolate ticking
of the bedside clock
betrays consciousness
with sinister rhythm.
It is a requiem of
abandonment, whereby
unprotected souls are
magically ushered to the
threshold of time’s end.
Clockhands melt into
surreal images of groping,
disembodied appendages which
pull me down into the
infernal swirling oblivion.
I seem to fall forever;
plummeting past floating
sandstone ruins, through
prehistoric jungles and
at last into a vast galaxy
of translucent emerald shards.
The heartbeats of innumerable
still-terrified predecessors
urge me to scream before
striking bottom, and I
awaken in panic: grasping
for the luminous dial
of my unwitting timepiece.

Copyright Adam Donaldson Powell, “Collected poems and stories”, 2005

Collected poems and stories

Still photo from Marina Abramovic’s film “The Scream”, republished with permission from Ekebergparken’s Scream Prosjekt / Marina Abramovic



Differentiate dream from vision: I heard a voice
telling me it was
so softly
in whispers become fingers insistent each
a separate story in whispers become
a hand coming to rest assurance
on my brow smudging wrinkle away from shadow
Shadows become whispers
sliding into sleep, dreams descending
to a new crescendo to vision turning
on its heel and reminding
in whispers as indifferent as relentless
as ocean waves
going about the business of being ocean waves.


SPLASHING whispers gone amok;
red paint SPLATTERED on white sailcloth ..
one green eye and one brown
talking with one another
but without seeing;
leaving me DISJOINTED but not perplexed.
My dream-catching whispers are now
quite rambunctious and I’m feeling rather
GASPING for words on the edge of an eternal
moment for moment
flirting with smothering cobwebs ..
You’ve shown me more than my whisper can digest.
You’re falling far .. far past the point of
being in love with yourself and
I want to cry more but
my tears have given way to
Turn me loose … turn me loose ..
A pale oyster-moon has just slithered past
the sweet nothings and penetrated my inner ear


Don’t speak.
“Speak softly,” my conscience says.
There is no room for doubt in such proximity and
waking hours spent running and arranging and defending and
composing and planning and
Sometimes I think that our sounds don’t
really match anymore …
a mad woman running from place to place in sensible shoes falling
asleep on buses and subways snarling
at old ladies coming too close with their dripping …
If only men
could bleed for love
as only women can … perhaps
then I could surrender to your whispering.
You do still hear me, don’t you?
Umbrellas. THEIR
LARGE BIRDS’ MOUTHS open and shut open and shut in silence.
You stalk my emotions, steal my words ..
(Openings rest there near rapture.)
SHHhhhhhhhhhhh…….”Don’t speak,” you say.
Fuck off …
Meanwhile an honest feast takes place unperturbed
in the moonlight.
Just because you’re not actually being
followed doesn’t necessarily mean that you
don’t have a right to be PARANOID.
Hey! Are we talking about your experience
of my words …….. or mine of yours?
but nobody noticed my shadow mingled swiftly yet another meek
among their own; they went right on eating.
I just want to SCREAM In silence.
SHHhhhhhhhhhh…………… WHAT?!!!


All I do is salvage the remains and begin again A Broken Child
teeters with epileptic balance
down along the sidewalk. Paranoia reduced to one
crystal fragment fractured and reeling in umpteen patterns,
each collecting and then returning
in its own fashion. I can’t
catch up with it: it shifts
quicker than I can move quicker than
the frenzy of my thoughts. Shiny white minnows fly
into sight like mirrors, now gone
TIT FOR TAT this for that Heads
Nodding in implied
Consent PUPPETS not the thing like
the thing itself. We accept this
and ravenously A broken room and all the while
the heart beats a dogged rhythm.


I get spooked when you corner me inside myself;
especially when you whisper those seductive,
unspeakable psychological assessments
against my ear-drum ..
tango-like rhythms bouncing
in a stilted, jerking fashion
I follow your lead
’round and ’round, closer and closer until ..
Our precarious showdown brings us
face-to-face with insecurity and dream.
An orchid unfolds an insistent
vermillion informs
pink petals distended
.. endings mute into beginnings ….
Screeching, flamebreathing dragons soar low over
violated plains of brainmatter.
As silk upon iron. Vibrato persists
confused but undaunted as wings span
a trembling distance
Fires of fear incite waves of internal uproar to sear the
ulcerated lining of delicate abdominal tissue, while
glowing corpuscles ferry hysteria into distended veins
and scorch alarmed nerve endings
.. crops fail, dams break, control centers malfunction ….
eyelids clamp shut in retreat from the horrors
of imminent disaster but optic darkness is cruelly
marred by vermillion blotches — proclaiming realization
of all that was dreaded yet intuited as inevitable.
Unprescribed; an estimate of
mute yet yearning finger
tips trembling search. Desist (as)
and as the war-drum heartbeats of
a million Amazons prepare to vanquish
my masculinity with insecurity at its
first indiscretion, I load my tongue with
silver arrows ..
Darts soaring swerve and distort
Falling short to collapse
mid-flight. One lone note
And mercilessly catapult the words ‘I love you’ against
your brazen shield and prepare to fall — breathlessly —
into the fiery ashes of countless charred impulses
raining heavily upon furrows of creativity;
cultivating retrospect with expectation.
Tests timbre tone tenacity. Yawns
and swallows seeds of hope.
One lone orchid
unfolds out of my throat
an insistent vermillion.


Our whispering draws to a close ..
the stillness of space around us
empty of airflow and sound;
all confirmed by the syncopated
racing rhythms of my own heart ..
unaffected by the rotation of the Earth
while breakdancing clouds laughingly roar
with all the grace of
And there our whisperings remain,
rather indistinguishable from the multitudes
and dulled by disclosure and dessication.


Je m’accuse … je suis tombé(e)
Openings rest there near rapture: A pale oyster-moon
has just slithered past the sweet nothings and penetrated
my inner ear: je suis tombé amoureux.
(Implicated and falling in love ..)
BIRDS’ MOUTHS open and shut open and shut in silence;
one lone orchid unfolds silver arrows loading for flight.
Je suis tombé amoureux de ton chuchotement
A hoarse licorice whisper on the edge of an eternal
moment for moment shiny
white minnows fly into sight
like mirrors, now gone missing.

Still photo from Marina Abramovic’s film “The Scream”, republished with permission from Ekebergparken’s Scream Prosjekt / Marina Abramovic

Copyright Adam Donaldson Powell and Diane Oatley, 2006

“Whispers” (a dialogue for two voices) had its world premiere in Kathmandu, Nepal (at Gurukul Theatre) in 2006.

Diane Oatley is a poet, writer and dancer. She is also the author of “Swoon”, published by in 2005.


Read more about Marina Abramovic and her “The Scream” project HERE!


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