(Inspired by “When the King is Half Undressed,” by Jellyfish)

Nobody saw the cage and its occupant arrive. It must have been installed in the night, witnessed perhaps by a vagrant or two, someone coming off a late shift, someone heading for an early one. But few would have had time or inclination to consider the whys or whats of a metal box lowered onto a stone plinth. Even fewer would have noticed the Man as he unfolded himself within the cage and proceeded to remove his clothes for the first time.

Though later, on close examination, some would wonder how he got in there at all. The cage had no visible entrance or exit. And they would question how the barred box had been so thoroughly fixed to the plinth without the noise attracting the attention of somebody. But, they would agree, this is a city and strange things happen in cities – things come, things go, people modify and destroy and build endlessly. It should not be too surprising for an inaccessible cage, containing a man, to be firmly fixed on a plinth overnight and nobody to notice or care.

A Young Woman was the first to see him, though she is not officially recognised as such. When history recounts the story we will hear that it was Abdul Banerjee, eighteen and from Camden, who noticed the cage when on his way to work – the breakfast shift in a fast food restaurant before college – and the Man within, undressing and wearing no more than a pair of grey cotton shorts. Abdul took a photo with his phone, passed it on to a friend on the picture desk of a national tabloid and so it is Abdul Banerjee, eighteen and from Camden, who is written into history as having discovered the Man on the Plinth.

But, before this, the Young Woman had seen him. Just a few minutes after she arrived in the square and a full hour and a half before Abdul Banerjee would appear. She was tired and, if truth be known, more than a little emotional – more than a little in need of distraction. She wasn’t the sort to cry in the street and had paused at the steps beneath the Column to sit down, to contemplate her life. She faced the Gallery because she liked the view, moved her gaze upwards – perhaps seeking celestial help for her woes – and spotted him out of the corner of her left eye as he began to remove his shoes.

That wasn’t there last night.

It seemed early for the start of a performance – she and the pigeons were the only living creatures in close range, with a smattering of Others on the periphery, going about their business and not having noticed plinth, cage or Man. But for the Young Woman, he was a welcome distraction and she soon forgot to cry.

His movements were quite beautiful. Slow and perfected. He undressed in a way we perhaps all wish we could undress – with grace, with a smoothness born of rehearsal. He undressed with a fluidity the Young Woman envied and she could not take her eyes off him.

After half an hour’s deliberate, focused removal of clothing, the Man stood naked on the plinth. It was still early, the sun had not yet warmed the night’s chill from the concrete, the stone, the iron railings. And yet he stood as if bathed in its warmth, arms outstretched, head tilted back, legs tight together, rising onto tiptoes, closing his eyes and smiling as the imagined sun coated what had previously been clothed. The metal bars striped his body yet concealed nothing. The Young Woman watched as Others passed by – singly, in pairs, heads down, with briefcases, newspapers, mobile phones – all walking within metres of the plinth, the cage, the Man, and yet oblivious.

After five minutes he began to dress, reversing the order in which he’d removed the clothes and (the Young Woman would swear to friends) each movement was exactly reversed. A fact borne out by later analysis of film footage which proved, in the main, an uncanny ability on the part of the Man to exactly repeat his forward momentum in reverse. There was a documentary made on the subject. Others tried to emulate in their own mime acts – but none achieved, when filmed and subjected to the same analysis, the unfeasible ability exhibited by the Man on the Plinth.

When dressed he paused again, but without the raised, majestic posture. He just stood. Arms by his side, face level and staring towards the Column. But never looking down, never acknowledging the ground or the Young Woman sitting on the steps watching him. He gave his fully-covered state the same five minutes he’d allowed nakedness, before beginning once more the slow and deliberate removal of clothing.

Whatever misery had led the Young Woman to sit on the steps – to contemplate, to cry – had been forgotten. Granted she would remember later, when back at home, when faced once again with the choices of the night. But for the next few hours it was forgotten.

When the Man in the cage had stripped to his cotton shorts for this second time, Abdul Banerjee appeared with his mobile phone and curious gaze. This tendency to let his eyes wander had, on occasion, been a cause of trouble. But equally it had allowed him, in his brief eighteen years, to see things others often missed. Like today, and the Man in the cage on the plinth. How many had passed by already, unseeing? But Abdul saw straight away.

That wasn’t there last night.

As he took the photograph with his phone, Others started to notice a naked Man in a cage on the plinth. They too stopped to watch as he removed the grey cotton shorts with more elegance than any had ever before witnessed a man undress, and posed again, naked in his imagined sunshine.

No better than a flasher!

It must be one of those arty things.

That’s not art, it’s disgusting!

He’s just taking off his clothes. Pointless.

The first crowds were mainly Dissenters and Indifferents, though even the latter group watched. Their apathy shaded opinion but did not interfere with curiosity’s arousal. Next came the Officials – police, council officers, the Fire Brigade – to fan away the watchers, who shuffled backwards reluctantly. But all continued to stare up at the Man on the Plinth as the sun’s strengthening rays seeped in between the bars of his cage, lining his nakedness with rippled shadows. Some thought he looked more dangerous with stripes.

In the silence of his first performance the Young Woman had been readily transfixed. Nothing but the coo and flutter of pigeons, the rumble of traffic behind, to disturb her appreciation. But now, as he proceeded to dress for the third time she noticed, with irritation, a lack of focus on her part. Her peripheral vision was distracted by Officials, Dissenters and Indifferents; her concentration spoiled by their raised voices, the laughter, catcalls directed up at the Man, witty quips aimed at Officials, aimed at each other.

Best wait till he’s dressed if you’re giving him a fireman’s lift.

Nah, bring ‘im down nekked, I ‘aven’t got me glasses on, can’t see the bugger up there.

It’s disgusting. He needs locking up.

What’s up wi’ you, missus? Left your sense of humour at home?

Journalists arrived, pushing through the clusters of watchers to focus on the Man, his cage, his repeated performance. They flitted from one spot to another, pointing over-sized lenses, squatting, climbing, pressing forwards, standing back. Some pleaded with Officials to be allowed to go up in the bucket with the designated Fire Officer.

Just one shot before you bring him down.

But all were refused. The Officer himself was only in the sky for moments before signalling to be lowered where he formed a huddle with other Officials and explained how the cage had no door and, not only that, was bolted securely to the plinth from the inside. No adult arm could fit through those bars, he told colleagues, it’s impossible.

How did he get in?

Who fixed the cage to the plinth?

Where are his tools?

The bucket was raised again – with yet another accompanying Official, another opinion – but the Man did not lose a second from his performance time. He never acknowledged they were there, never looked once into their faces, did not even appear to see the increasing crowds below, or hear their chants, their insults, their encouragement. He continued to dress and undress in the same dignified manner as when the Young Woman had first sat alone, in peace, to watch him.

By late morning the square resembled a festival site. The performance took on a new dimension as groups settled on the steps with drinks and snacks. They watched the Man in the cage on the plinth in various states of undress and they watched Officials dashing around, grouping to discuss options, each concerned with their own corner of the world.

The plinth must not be damaged.

It’ll be tricky, but we can cut through the bars with the right equipment.

Speed is essential – get him down, out and away.

In the interim it was agreed the cage should be covered, a tarpaulin lowered from a crane, draped over the whole thing – cage, Man and plinth. All agreed maintaining public decency was key whilst they waited for cutting equipment. Later, when debriefing superiors, these Officials would concede it had possibly been a knee-jerk reaction and, had they known what would happen they may have taken a less confrontational stance. The Officer who had leaked their plan to the press was suspended. A report would be filed.

But for now they waited in smug anticipation for the arrival of tarpaulin and crane and considered that, give or take a few hours’ careful cutting through the bars, the spectacle would be over by dusk.

When word got out that the Man on the plinth was to be covered in a large tarpaulin and the bars of his cage cut open, the Bleeding Hearts arrived.

Censorship!

What happened to freedom of expression?

Where does it end?

Placards were hastily constructed, chants devised. Several Indifferents gravitated towards the Dissenter camp, others moved to join the Bleeding Hearts. Most remained indifferent. An Official from the Gallery stated, when interviewed on national television, the artist’s work had not been authorised – was not officially prearranged – but, he was clear to point out, whilst the Gallery could claim no part in this particular performance, it did, in essence, believe this display of the naked form an artistic endeavour and not one of public indecency.

Art? We all dress and undress. Isn’t it a little pointless?

Perhaps that is the point. Perhaps the artist intends his work as a metaphor for human existence.

But public decency? Surely we’re all bound by our country’s laws? Naked is naked, no matter what the intent.

Look around you! Advertising hoardings, scanty fashions, magazines, films. Lines are flexible, open to interpretation, to context. We could discuss this ad infinitum!

The Young Woman no longer had space to move on the steps. To her left a curious group of females who fell cleanly into neither the Dissenter nor Indifferent groups but somehow straddled both. As though they perhaps had not yet made up their minds. As though they did not have the mental wherewithal or keenness to be anything other than confused and, in that confusion, were compelled to draw on any and every clichéd platitude and social construct they held in their mind’s archive.

It’s disgusting, there’s kids around.

Yeah but he’s a bit of alright, isn’t he?

I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, that’s for sure.

Not right though, is it.

By the end of the day two of the five women would be dead and the remainder firmly placed in the Dissenter group. But for now they laughed and were free. They mocked, tutted and griped. They sat and enjoyed the day’s sunshine, sipping coffee from polystyrene cups and not thinking at all about the start of their evening shift at the hospital, about the staff shortages, the threat of unwanted change, the gloom of politics, dissatisfaction and angst, the hard work, the tired legs and feet. 

To the Young Woman’s right a group of students, mixed gender, who were divided into Bleeding Hearts and Indifferents. None were against. But they barely watched the Man’s performance, seeming more concerned with soaking up the general atmosphere, the sunshine and banter, and texting to friends that they were here, in the square, watching a Man in a cage on the plinth get naked. They grew in number as the hours passed and, later, some of them would instigate the climbing of the crane, the removal of the tarpaulin. Some of these students would, to all intents and purposes, be murderers by nightfall.

What did Rousseau say? Laws are the authentic acts of the general will? Nobody fucking asked me.

You got freedom in a cage and you think it won’t cause rage. Ej von Lyrik, you know? Ah, man she’s cool, got her on MySpace, send you the link.

Oh my God, it’s been re-Tweeted fifteen times already!

The Man in the cage on the plinth had been performing for seven hours. Each complete sequence took one hour. He was naked for five minutes and fully clothed for five minutes in each of those hours. For the remaining fifty minutes he was in various stages of dress or undress. This analysis passed most people by – except for the Young Woman, who had watched every routine and was the only person present that day who noticed he had a subtle sense of humour. Twice, once whilst dressing and once whilst undressing, he’d slightly altered the order in which he removed or replaced items of clothing. Left shoe first instead of right. Right sleeve first instead of left. She’d smiled the first time, laughed quietly to herself the next as the edges of his mouth turned up just slightly and she imagined she saw him wink.

When the tarpaulin arrived, along with a small crane, the Officials had to clear a space in the crowd which pushed everyone closer together. Some lost vigilantly held spots and the mood took an ugly turn. It festered for a while – minor scuffles, a few half-hearted shoves, exchanged profanities – but was held at bay, in the main, by the prevailing sense of festival spirit and the glorious weather.

But when the tarpaulin was attached to the crane, lifted high into the air where it dangled to one side of the cage – effectively blocking the view for all those standing to the right – it seemed to darken the scene, as though it were high enough to block out the sun itself, which wasn’t the case, but which somehow seemed the case. The camaraderie began to lag, despite the efforts of those who envisaged the covering of the cage as further entertainment and who cheered and booed to this effect. These few were content to be amused for another hour or so by the incompetent efforts of Officials to wrap a cage, Man and plinth in twenty square metres of blue tarpaulin.  And it may have been the case, Officials would later say, that they would have converted the rest, had it not been for the Agitators turning up, split into their respective core beliefs and keen to be heard.

Don’t let the patriarch tell you what offends, sisters! Are we offended? No, we are not! Are we offended? No, we are not!

Democracy! Where was the vote? Have we had our say? Let the people decide!

Fucking freeloader, send him home!

Justice for Fathers!

Despite the Officials, their crane, their tarpaulin, their incompetent efforts to manipulate twenty square metres of fabric, the Man continued to perform. For the remainder of his sequences he stayed true to the original routine – perhaps he, too, had lost his sense of humour. It was the last of these performances, the final three before the tarpaulin was put in place, before things turned nasty, that were captured on film and later analysed to reveal his extraordinary ability to perfectly replicate actions both forwards and back.

Journalists crafted a crowd more interesting than the performance as groups argued, old disputes re-emerged. Those prone to simpler discord started fights with fists. Others used words, rapidly exhausting their repertoire yet compelled to persist, repeating, regurgitating to anyone who seemed in any way fresh to the debate. The television cameras were coveted by all – some said they were a trigger for disharmony. Whether cameras gravitated to trouble or caused it was unclear, though most had an opinion.

The Peacemakers were called. Officials would argue some months on as to how timely this had or had not been. Some believed they ought to have been summoned earlier, others that they should not have been requested at all. Whilst most appreciated the inclusion of soldiers and ambulance crews, few understood who had asked for the priests.

Whether the Man continued to dress and undress after the tarpaulin was put into place, after the crowd started to push and fight and become an uncontrollable mass, after the students climbed the crane, hauled on the cloth, bringing it and machine crashing down the steps, crushing and suffocating thirty six members of various groups – Dissenters, Indifferents, Bleeding Hearts, Officials, Journalists, Agitators and, sadly, a handful of Peacemakers – was unknown. Even the Young Woman did not see the Man’s final performances. Perhaps he stopped at that point. Perhaps he carried on. By then the cameras – those that remained intact – were focused on the canvas, the panic, the writhing of the Injured, the futile attempts of Others to help, the movement of those compelled to run without direction.

Were the screams art?

This was the thought in the Young Woman’s mind as she stood, rigid, back against the column, in what remained of her spot on the steps and watched the apocalypse unfold. It was a guilty thought. It was untimely. But the whole scene had taken on a filmic quality – happening, and yet not real, not possibly real. She waited for a voice to cry cut! through a megaphone so everyone could get up, wipe the blood from their faces, laugh and talk, go to find the canteen. She would then applaud and set out for home.

Jesus Christ, oh Jesus, Jesus Christ.

I can’t find my daughter! I can’t find her! I can’t FIND her!

Can somebody help over here? This bloke’s  bleeding to fucking death.

Everyone forgot about the cage, the Man within standing naked with straight gaze towards the column, oblivious to the people running and crying and helping and holding. None noticed his lack of interest. The remaining Officials and Peacemakers, however, didn’t panic, didn’t weep or run, but calmly – and efficiently now – put into place their combined knowledge, their shared years of experience, to arrest the feisty, move away the uninjured, wave in emergency vehicles, set up a makeshift first aid room in the foyer of the Gallery. To organise people. To bring the chaotic back under control.

The Young Woman glanced one last time at the cage. She couldn’t help it. She was possibly the last person to see the Man and he was staring at her. He still did not acknowledge the crowd but she was quite sure he was looking at her. Even later, when she confessed her eyes had been misted and her senses confused, she was convinced he had stared at her. And she’d smiled – a smile she’d been told many times was beautiful. A smile others coveted. But a smile that here, now, failed to change the inexpressive fix of his gaze. Then a hand had gripped her arm, pulled her roughly around and away.

Come on, miss, behind the line, you can’t stand here.

Nobody saw the cage and its occupant leave. Perhaps they just forgot about him amidst the disorder, leaving him behind, silent and unnoticed in the aftermath to wait alone for his helpers to return and remove the bolts, winch away the cage, return the plinth to its naked state.

Who was he?

Where did he go?

Was he responsible?

Officials studied footage – the cameras had continued to roll – but could not see whether he was there or not in those final hours. When filming stopped, when the dead and injured had been removed, when the ground had been cleared of detritus and everyone who could had gone home, nobody was able to say what happened to the Man. Study of the plinth showed no bolt holes. Yet not one provided a rational reason for this lack of visible proof that a cage, containing a Man, had ever been firmly fastened to that plinth.

However, there were many theories.