By Seran Dolma, Resident Author

Darllen yn Gymraeg

One unpromising Saturday in November, Ynys Faelog, Menai Bridge was occupied by a group of artists under the banner of 'Neue Walisische Kunst'. This group seems to be associated with 'Utopias Bach' - another nebulous group that can only be described as 'something arty'.

Estimates of numbers range from seven to over a hundred, but eyewitnesses agree that the artists were carrying a flag, a loudspeaker and an office chair, and that some were under ten years old. They also agree that those children were using the loudspeaker to 'make a bloody racket', and that their parents ‘ought to have known better'.

The first thing the founders of the new state did after sitting on the grass outside the old wrecked corrugated iron shed that had once been a boat repair workshop was to declare a state of emergency. They then wrapped themselves in red and white plastic tape, creating a kind of disastrous spider web. Everyone was given a passport, without being required to provide any documentation regarding their birth (obviously, they had been born, or they wouldn't have existed at all) or their origin (the founders didn't care where their citizens came from. some were Vibrant Welshies, others Welsh Bulbs, some Germans, or Germanesses, because, in fact, most of them were female.  Some came originally from England, others were blown in by the wind from nowhere in particular. 

Everyone was welcome, no one was denied a passport, no matter what their history, and having spent some time considering this issue of being in a state of emergency, and the implications of this for the new state, it was decided to also consider crabs, pines, dead dogfish, mussels, gorse, and some types of seaweed as citizens.  The passport office complained that there was already too much work to do, giving every human person an official document who happened to accidentally stray over the connecting walkway between the place and the mainland. It was agreed that the paper passport could be waived, and the principle of belonging recognized without any further bureaucracy. From then on, the passport office was abolished, and some citizens threw their passports in the sea. Others used them as a notebook or drawing book. We believe that at least one passport was repurposed as toilet paper.

As the sun set on that first night in the new country, it came to the minds of some citizens that it was very likely to rain, and that some kind of shelter would be good. The most sensible went home to their houses. Some had prepared for this sort of thing, and had brought sleeping bags, and one very well-organized person had a tent. Most entered the boat shed, tottering from one rotting beam to another, avoiding the nightmarish holes in the floor. Three adults and four children slept in a perforated rowing boat that had been hoping to be repaired for over twenty years. The boat was pleased with the attention, but disappointed that none of the artists were carpenters by training.

After an uncomfortable, cold and damp night, the citizens woke up to the dawn of the new day full of hope and enthusiasm. Circumstances were hard, space was scarce, fertile land was non-existent; there was no fresh water, even. But their hearts were full and their faith was strong. Some people repaired the hut floor, stuffing old plastic bottles, buoys, boos, buns and any other plastic junk below 'for thermal insulation'. Someone went to Waitrose and came back with a sack of croisonts. Someone brought firewood. Gradually, something like a refugee camp was established, where, at any time of the day, a state of perpetual crisis could be enjoyed. Everyone was full of passion and purpose, loved each other, and sometimes agreed on certain things. Some were more into Fluxus than others. Some did not know what Fluxus was. Some saw themselves more as process artists, or protest artists, processionists, proceduralists or pedants. The question was asked 'what here should we restore, repair, save?'

Several answers came

“ME!”

"Each other!"

"Our relationship with the land, the sea, all living things"

"Colonial attitudes to land and property"

"This shed"

"This boat!"

Someone started writing slogans on the rusty corrugations in white chalk

"Ynys Faelog for everyone!"

"No privatization"

"Dim Deddf Dim Eiddo!"

At that, several people wandered over to the main part of the island, ignoring a sign saying 'private', opening an unlocked gate, and walking under a bridge that was part of the strange, thoughtless, brown brick architecture of the nearby house, which appeared to be empty. Another sign saying 'Private, keep out, danger, private property' was ignored. This was a very official looking sign, fastened to a fence, with a locked gate and a bulky chain and padlock.  But the fence was short, and didn't reach the other side of the path, and was easily circumvented. On the other side of this was a ruin, a construction site, a rubbish heap, rubble, an overgrown space with alien trees that kept the sun from shining on the mess below. It was not a promising place. But that's what artists do - create something out of unpromising material. So some of the children climbed to the top of the highest tree, and by the end of the day they had created a platform, and were determined to sleep there that night. Their mothers said they were in danger of falling out if the wind blew and rocked the tree, so the four youngsters were tied together and to the tree with a blue nylon rope, and there they slept, like four pioneering owls.

The state continued to evolve over the next week, with improvements to the boat shed and tree house. Someone tried dowsing for water, but there was none other than the salty Menai itself. Someone planted a potato, as a symbolic act of hope. A national costume was created from sea plastic and seaweed, with a seagull feather headdress. Some people experimented with preparing and eating seaweed, others collected mussels, cockles and other molluscs. Some people said that fellow citizens should not be eaten, but the cockle fisherwomen argued that they gathered the cockles with respect and honour, and that we are all here to eat and be eaten. “I don’t fancy eating you" the vegetarian said to the cockle fisherwoman "you're all mud"

Everyone accepted from the outset that the economy would be based mainly on the creative sector, and that most other resources would have to be imported. Some people left every day to go to their jobs on the mainland, in the real world, or on nearby planets. Everyone was cold, and muddy, but fairly cheerful most of the time.

But then into the middle of the new state's artistic bliss came two unfamiliar marauders. They arrived in a rowing boat one afternoon, smelling of skunk and carrying Lidl bags full of cheap beer. They were made welcome, with a potato blackened in a driftwood fire, and they shared their beer and their suspicious jokes. They were male, with plenty of experience from the  university of life. After talking for some time, and understanding the nature of the camp (which had by now developed a totem pole, print workshop, café and an informal school) one of the new marauders asked

"What about them houses?"
"Oh well, yes. Someone owns them. We don't know who ”someone said
“What? You call yourselves revolutionaries? ”
"I don't recall ever declaring this a revolution. More like a kind of experiment in community life during a time of emergency. It's a creative response to our circumstances. ”
“Whatever. Dave, you game? ”
And with that, the first window was broken.

After that, life was better, in the sense that living in a house was much easier than living in a dilapidated boat shed that filled with water at high tide. But worse, in the sense that the vandalism has been reported to the police. Prior to that, the authorities had been quite tolerant of the camp. It was messy and noisy, but most of the campers were women with good accents, and could act normal enough when needed. The state was a bit of a tourist attraction, and although technically illegal, as long as no official complaint was made, it was sufficient to issue a warning every day or two.  But when the houses were occupied, it became another story.

From then on it was all Eviction Notices and Arrest Warrants. There were surreal court cases with the accused defending themselves with statements such as:

“Im zentrum des fluxus wird sich ein weg zum überleben auftun. Das haben wir gelernt als wir der kunst den rücken zudrehten”

"This court does not operate in the German language" said the judge
"And Neue Walisiche Kunst does not recognize the authority of this court!" The defendant said "All we want to do is to liberate expression from the tyrany of meaning. We have declared a Buoyovernment on Ynys Faelog, Ynys Bach, A captivating, captivating, imaginary, gripping, fascinating, imaginary, Heiligenstäte des Fluxus, Epistemisches Zentrum, Ynys Afaelog. The law is Fuoyca, Buoyant, Floating. It cannot be reversed until it ends on its own. Which will be as soon as it's declared, if not sooner. Would you, your majesty, graces, sir, like to be a citizen of our imagined, alleged short-lived state? Everyone is welcome, whether their eyes are wide or they insist on wearing a silly wig and a bat suit. ”
"Silence!" The judge roared, hitting the desk with his slim but noisy hammer. "Or I will have no choice but to find you guilty of contempt of court."
“Hey! Salmon! Peasant! ” The defendant shouted happily. She managed to avoid a prison sentence by claiming that she was rational and in her right mind, sufficient evidence in the eyes of the court that she was completely crazy and beyond all reason. 

In the meantime, the ragged remains of the brave citizens of Ynys Faelog sat around a smoky fire discussing failure.
"There's nothing I want to restore or repair," said one.
“No! It's perfect as it is! ” said another.

“Pydru ‘mlaen”  Said a third “Rotting along”. 

“Mae rhinwedd mewn pydredd,

mae rhwd yn beth da,

gadewch i ni eistedd,

a sugno da-da. 

Da da da da da da da da da da da,

o bydded i’r pydredd barhau!”

That night, with the artists asleep in the rotten shed, and the full moon shining between the gaps in the roof, there came a spring tide. The shed groaned, and with a sucking sound, the rotten foundations came free of their muddy bed, and the whole structure bobbed gently on the water, the buoys and the plastic junk under the floor raising the structure on the racing tide. And as the river swept past the island, the boat shed was carried away past Caernarfon castle, past Llanddwyn island and out to the Atlantic, with its cargo of artists sleeping like seeds inside.

And as the artist in court had anticipated, the experiment ended, just two hours after its start.