Holy Fool

A performance artist, Morgan Prescott, sits atop a wooden chair at the end of Toronto's Tommy Thompson Park every month, for 40 minutes, for an entire year. In the soundtrack, you hear the park and Morgan's side of a phone call from that month. It is a long-exposure document of one person shifting through the seasons of their life. What happens when we deny ourselves the familiar comforts of narrative and editing - can our inner selves withstand their true reflections? A performance artist, Morgan Prescott, sits atop a wooden chair at the end of Toronto's Tommy Thompson Park every month, for 40 minutes, for an entire year. In the soundtrack, you hear the park and Morgan's side of a phone call from that month. It is a long-exposure document of one person shifting through the seasons of their life. What happens when we deny ourselves the familiar comforts of narrative and editing - can our inner selves withstand their true reflections? A performance artist, Morgan Prescott, sits atop a wooden chair at the end of Toronto's Tommy Thompson Park every month, for 40 minutes, for an entire year. In the soundtrack, you hear the park and Morgan's side of a phone call from that month. It is a long-exposure document of one person shifting through the seasons of their life. What happens when we deny ourselves the familiar comforts of narrative and editing - can our inner selves withstand their true reflections? A performance artist, Morgan Prescott, sits atop a wooden chair at the end of Toronto's Tommy Thompson Park every month, for 40 minutes, for an entire year. In the soundtrack, you hear the park and Morgan's side of a phone call from that month. It is a long-exposure document of one person shifting through the seasons of their life. What happens when we deny ourselves the familiar comforts of narrative and editing - can our inner selves withstand their true reflections?