It may be Britain's coldest winter in ten years, but Londoners are a hardy bunch, and nothing would stop them from checking out the hottest events in town.

So it was on a Thursday evening, when a hip and classy club held a live art performance. Located on trendy Hoxton Square, Zigfrid is a club that manages to be both homely and uber-cool. You wouldn't come to Zigfrid's in your tatty old jumper, boring shoes and without doing your hair and make-up, yet the atmosphere is relaxed and there is none of the snootiness that can sometimes accompany chic bars and clubs.

It is downstairs, though, where things happen. Zigfrid's basement is known as the Underbelly (which to me, conjures up forbidding and exotic images that are far more interesting than a mere "basement"), and this is space that can be played with and manipulated by those who hire it.

Live art

What though, is a live art performance? The live art website defines it as "temporary works of art that span a range of disciplines and discourses involving, in some way, the body, space and time". This was all very well, but what did that exactly mean? I wasn't too sure, but I kept an open mind. I didn't have long to find out - the performance had just started when I arrived.

A stage had been set, and on it were two big canvases, a table full of painting utensils, splodges of paint and bits of screwed-up paper on its floor, and two artists. A DJ was playing some music (of the mellow dance type) and bright lights shone upon the stage.

As I walked in, the two artists were painting. Big deal, I thought. So this was live art. Being something of an art philistine, I wasn't too sure what the paintings were supposed to represent. Pastoral scenes, portraits, Dali, yes, these I could relate to. But splodges and lines? Well, if truth be told, I have never been too impressed with abstract art. If I knew colourful blobs on canvas could pass as good art I would have gladly taken the subject during my SRP and SPM days! In any case, whilst one of the artists was dabbing paint on her canvas, the other was drawing very precise lines on his. In fact, what he was creating reminded me very much of someone's hair parting.

Ten minutes went on. I found myself quite fascinated with the process, even if I still couldn't work out what the end product would look like. Both artists had different styles. One was more free flowing; her art looked as if paint was simply streaming from the ends of her fingers or her brush onto the canvas. In contrast, what was emerging from her colleague's hands was much more structured - his lines flowed, but it was obvious that he was creating an easily identifiable pattern.

It is often compelling watching someone who is good at what they're doing, and these artists were of no exception. Though I had no idea what their art was representing, even I could see that they were good at what they did. They had a vision, and they were doing their utmost to bring that vision to fruition. The two were lost in their own worlds; they seemed oblivious to their audience. Occasionally they would stop and stare at their canvases from a short distance, and then recommence their work - sometimes feverishly working the canvas as if afraid a precise vision would fade into nothing if it wasn't captured on canvas quickly.

Then, both artists switched canvases. That was interesting, and for me, unexpected. Of course, it was common for artists in the old days to paint over an already painted canvas (one only has to read about recovered Old Masters to know how common this practice is), but painting over someone else's work, in full view of that person and an audience? That was different.

Free flow

It was riveting watching a free-flowing style imposed on a structured piece of work, and vice-versa. At the end of the twenty-minute period, both stopped. Ah, I thought. They're done. Sure enough, both of them walked off the stage. The music was pumping on. The spotlights were still on though the rest of us were in darkness. Was there more? Perhaps it was time for the main act to come on. But I was wrong. The artists hadn't finished.

Stage two commenced. Two more artists started work on the two canvases. Again, both had differing styles. I started wondering if perhaps these two would somehow destroy the two works. Occasionally it looked like they had added a welcome twist to one side of the canvas, only to spoil it by adding some fussy detail on the opposite side. But I was to be surprised again. The finished products, in the end, were something that I would not hesitate to hang on my wall - even if I still couldn't work out what the paintings were meant to represent.

Then the lights came on. The two artists were done. The audience could get up and take a closer look at the paintings. There was a short fifteen-minute interval whilst the stage was set for the main act, and then up-and-coming Malaysian artist Aris Yaacob took centre-stage.

Aris had two canvases to work on, both hanging from the ceiling and secured with strings taped to the floor. He faced the audience through his transparent canvases, and we could clearly see every move he made. He eschewed the use of brushes throughout his performance, using only his palms, fingers, (masked) forehead and a length of plastic attached to his body to paint.

It was a bold performance. Aris moved sinuously with the music. Sometimes it seemed as though it was the music that was directing him, and his art. His performance somehow reminded me of something - yes, it was like watching wayang kulit. Only, instead of puppets and a tok dalang telling a story, a man was creating an astonishing piece of work based on a vision tempered by his immediate environment.

I came out of the performance feeling that I'd learnt something new. I may be able to dab some paint and draw lines onto a canvas, but it takes a lot of skill to be able to magically transform blobs of paint and what appears to be aimless lines into something wonderful and challenging.

Photos: Lucy Harding

FARAH FAHMY is a new bride. She lives and works in London.