I arrive at HAU2 after lunchtime. Matt Adams lets me into the space where Day of the Figurines will start in just a few hours. This is the first time I see the figurines and the beautiful table with the cut up destinations. The figurines are much smaller than I thought – fragile, almost – and yet their display already constitutes an irresistible focal point. I realise now that this is not only the site where the spectator or player encounters their own double, but also a space charged with social possibility. The destinations’ table, on the other hand, now appears static, waiting for something to happen.

I take some photographs, start writing, still wondering about how to best document this extraordinary piece of art. As I write, I observe Blast Theory and Mixed Reality Lab at work. Then, almost unexpectedly, the time comes. An announcement is made – I can hear the spectators talking downstairs. Computers are packed off, tables are moved, the room is cleaned up and the lights are dimmed. Suddenly the whole room changes. It becomes a theatre. As the audience is about to come in, I send one last email message to someone who I know must long to be here. Then I pack everything up and, like everyone else, wait for the performance to start.

Although initially somewhat uncertain about what to do, the Berliner audience quickly learns how to own this site. Conversations get going. The game begins. Figurines are chosen. Questions are asked. The destinations’ table slowly becomes animated, turning into a performance surface. As the operators and Blast Theory let more and more viewers populate the game, Mixed Reality Lab are still at work monitoring the game's response to the players.

Finally, I decide to enter the game. My operator registers my details at a terminal – my figurine’s name, what shoes they wear – my name, my contact details – address, email, but also, the name of someone my figurine feels safe with, what she would like to be remembered by, who she/I am in the game. As in other Blast Theory works, I feel that I must surrender myself to strangers. Thus the game starts with an act of trust, producing an inevitable vulnerability. At the same time, this is a moment of theatricality. I am not my figurine. I do not wear their shoes. Although I choose to be the same gender, I decide not to mention the name of the actual person who makes me feel safe but rather, for my figurine, pick that of an old friend. I do, however, offer my own qualities to my figurine. So, in some ways, I now ‘am’ also that figurine.

In passing on to me a small instructions’ card, my operator politely explains the rules of the game. Then, suddenly, my phone rings. Her face lights up – ‘This is it!’, she says, ‘This is it!’. I must look puzzled. ‘It is the game!!’, she smiles. This is my first message, to which, I am told, I must reply by choosing a location. I’m on the edge of town. I am run down. For some strange reason, I decide to go to the canal.

To an increasing buzzing of ring tones, champagne is being poured. This is the time of speeches: Trampoline, the British Council, Blast Theory. While more figurines are chosen, more questions asked, Mixed Reality Lab and Blast Theory are still monitoring the game’s behaviour. At this point in time I notice for the first time that the augmentation is visible on the space through a series of arrows, indicating the directionality of our journeys, but also near misses, possible encounters, ‘essential absences’.

I borrow this term from the postmodern architect Peter Eisenman who in discussing the notions of presence and absence in modern architecture, introduces the notions of memory and immanence in relation to the concept of ‘site’. Eisenman argues that site cannot be understood entirely as presence and that it has to be constructed as ‘palimpsest’ and ‘quarry’, containing traces of ‘both memory and immanence’ (1986: 5). To explain his theory, Eisenman uses the effective analogy of the difference between a moving arrow and a still arrow. Whereas in ‘real’ life the moving arrow can produce pain, while the still one does not, if a picture of each were taken and compared, they would be virtually indistinguishable. Yet, the two arrows are not just physically different. As Eisenman argues, the difference between them is that the moving arrow ‘contains where it has been and where it is going, that is it has a memory and an immanence that are not present to the observer of the photograph; they are essential absences' (ibid.: 6, original emphasis). This analysis is crucial in my understanding of the game’s augmentation which not only constitutes a remarkable document of the player’s journey throughout the game, but also reveals something about the fundamental relationship between presence and absence in this work.

With the performance now reaching its peak, it is noticeable that relationships, both real and virtual, are being formed, players wonder who the other players are, conversations abound, both in and outside the world of the game. The atmosphere is so buzzing, that a number of members of the audience start to talk to each other about these encounters, with one woman even asking Matt Adams how they can ensure to actually meet the person they have been texting in the game: should they offer their phone number to them? could they access the information in the game to obtain their details? Others cannot help themselves in wondering – are Blast Theory playing? Is Matt Adams playing? What is his figurine's name? Have they met already? I hear - Who are you? – what are you? – where are you?

Then my phone rings again. I’m on my way to a street corner. I meet SUPERMOM who is cool and, like me, run down. I say something but hear nothing back until a couple of hours later, when in my own hotel room, while working out what to do in the morning, I receive a last unexpected message.

I now am at the canal. There is a path, a melted dog shit bin, and ‘many’ DRUM KITS. I pick up the drum kits. I must remember to play them tomorrow.

Follow this link to tomorrow's play Day of the Figurines 29/9/2006