A couple of weeks ago, I went to see Jordan McKenzie’s Drawing Breath in the Basement of Victoria Studio’s. I had booked to see the performance some time beforehand and had almost forgotten it was on. I was characteristically late, rushing back from work and only just got there in time.

My slot to have a one on one performance was the last on the list. I pounded down Shakespeare Street with my heart thumping in my throat. Would I make it? By the time I got there, I was a sweaty mess and my pulse was pounding. There was no moisture in my mouth and found it difficult to tell the invigilator what I was there for. Fortunately, she guessed and I was quickly ushered down the stairs, gasping. I prayed no-one else would witness my dishevelled state. I only just made it in time, enough time to take off my jacket and put down my bag.

I was instructed to walk into the spotlight when I entered the space. I did so tentatively, almost ceremoniously as I took in my surroundings. A man at a desk, some paper on the opposite wall, some more paper on the floor. These objects were illuminated by spotlights, like the one I was standing in. The man looked busy, industrious like Bob Cratchitt at his ledger. Seemingly without noticing I was there, he stood up and placed this white chair under his white desk. I could see that his white clothing was soiled with black marks. His face was black, particularly around his mouth as if he had been eating soot.

With a sense of purpose he approached the pool of light I was standing in. My heart was still thumping, trying to regulate itself to the calm pace that surrounded me. The man got closer and closer... this really was encroaching on personal space, I thought. Uneasy anyway, it did nothing to ease my panicked body. He was close enough for me to headbutt his chest if I sneezed; I’m not very tall and was just focusing on the blackened buttons on his once starched shirt.

His dirty fingers began unfastening the buttons to reveal a fairly clean chest. Given this immediate intimacy, I thought it would be rude not to look at his face. I saw that he was already looking down at me with piercing light blue eyes. Shy and embarrassed, I could not hold the gaze and quickly looked back at my own shoes. This all happened in a matter of seconds and yet it felt like Millennia. Still anxious, my heart continued to beat at a hamster’s pace.

He took my hand and placed it flat on his chest. I could feel my clammy palm relax the instant it touch his skin. He sandwiched it there with his own hand. My own pulse began to regulate to his slow and methodical heartbeat. My breathing became more measured as if responding to his body as a metronome. I dared to glance up at him again, now accustomed to his proximity. Carefully, he put my hand back down by my side and whispered ‘Follow me’.

Back at his desk, the man continued with his work, which I could now see was drawing with charcoal onto a white paper bag. The type of bag one would see in a newsagents used for holding penny sweets, or the type of bag I have more recently come to associate with as a useful item during a panic attack. When it was coated both sides with a good thick layer of blackness, he scrunched up the sides and brought the bag to his lips and filled it with a lungful of his own breath. Swiftly, he paced to the opposite wall and burst the bag against the paper on the wall, leaving a subtle residue of the black powder. The burst bag was then placed on the floor below as the waste product of a ritual that was now over. I stayed in the space a while, but not for long. The man had returned to his work and my presence there was no longer required. I left in a calm and collected state. My heart felt healed and regulated.

Jordan McKenzie's Drawing Breath was at Victoria Studios on 14 April 2005