CRASH, a pause, and then another crash echoes around the courtyard at La Friche. At first this does not seem odd, as construction of one kind or another seems to go on almost constantly here. The source of this current disturbance, however, is a strange one, even for this site. Four or five people are gathered around a silver Renault, crouched and ready for action. After a signal from their leader, an intense-looking figure holding a microphone and a tape recorder, the gang ram the car into a wall.
This time the director of this staged crash, sound artist, Conor Kelly - one of the four Irish artists who have just completed a residency as part of the Project visit - seems to have what he wants and the little party breaks up.
The purpose of this operation becomes clear after a trip inside the darkened expanse of La Friche's main exhibition space. About the space, a disused car park, Kelly has several interlinked sound works. One of these features the sound recording made in the courtyard. A car engine can be heard moving along a chain of hi-fi speakers, until it reaches the last one, and a heavy, dull thud is heard and the sequence starts again. "It is sort of about compulsive behaviour," Kelly explains later.
Kelly is not the only Irish artist who has helped to boost the noise level at La Friche. For his part in the show, Peter Kennedy has built a pair of full size robot cars, which chug noisily as they blunder around the space, every now and then crashing into the roof supports.
And if that were not enough to weaken the building, Tina O'Connell eventually managed to convince the centre's administration to let her drill holes through the ceiling, opening a passage between the sky and mirrored glass puddles which she had installed in the space. "At first they weren't all that keen," O'Connell explains, "but they are good Marseillaises, they know the importance of the special kind of light that the Mediterranean brings to the city."
After so much noise and destruction, La Friche must have let out a collective sigh of relief when the final Project artist, Rachel Joynt, announced that all she wanted to do for her installation was build a giant steel wheel and print a lunar calender in rubber across the concrete floor.
Outside the office of Ferdinand Richard somebody else has set to work with a drill. Art might be happening, or construction work, but one way or another the noise punctuates our conversation. Richard, director of the musical policy, and one of the driving forces at La Friche is obviously used to working his way around loud noises. He raises his voice to a near shout every time the drill bites. "In France we are very good spending money on buildings," he roars, pulling his pince nez down his nose a little. "On the other hand, we are very bad on the artistic vision."
Richard's "we" is simply the diplomatic rendering of "they". He is charged with constructing a music policy for Marseille's biggest arts centre. "What we have to do here is focus on the way an artist can develop their own language, their own way of speaking . . ." Richard begins to say, but before he can finish, from somewhere in the vast complex outside his window, a very, very loud bang is heard.
