In An Archive of Endurance by Nicholas Burry, we encounter beauty and dignity in continuance – in following what you know and have always known, even if the world has moved on without you. A catalyst for this body of work was the 1922 Franz Kafka short story, A Hunger Artist. In this story we’re introduced to a nameless protagonist who makes a living as a professional ‘hunger artist’ – a performer who starves himself for an extended period of time, for the amusement of paying audiences. Working at the beginning of the 20th century, when public interest in the spectacle was beginning to wane, Kafka’s protagonist is forced to come to terms with the growing disinterest in his art form.

Taking Kafka’s hunger artist as a central reference point, An Archive of Endurance explores dedication, offering a window into the lives of various characters engaged in work and play. There’s a focus on figures whose vocations have become, to a certain extent, outmoded or superseded – they don’t quite hold the same lustre they perhaps once did. And yet, these characters continue to strive in their pursuits, to sweat in games where the score has long been forgotten.

In A Hunger Artist, we come to understand that, for Kafka’s protagonist, these feats of starvation were never merely an act of self-sacrifice in the name of fame or money. In his public displays, he sought to have his world understood. To fast, for him, was a compulsion, a necessary way of life. His practice will continue, whether there is popular demand for it or not. And Burry’s characters share this stoicism. They too endure, in worlds that are increasingly misunderstood, but feel like home to them. These are not society’s sparkling stars. Take the figure in Athlete Waiting. Hers is not a name that draws crowds, that echoes in school hallways. As she waits in her ready position, we cannot even be sure there is anyone to race against, to blow the whistle, to celebrate her physical feats.

This lack of information is purposeful, and definitive of this series. The titles of the works guide our reading of these figures, but instead of exploring the context in which they exist, we are asked to focus on the characters themselves. Figures are cropped, environmental details are left out, characters are presented in repose. So, we focus on their plight, we read their body language. We catch them in quiet moments; moments they have experienced countless times before, that wouldn’t stick out in a retelling of their life, but which define their story all the same. Take the figure in Juggler, for example. We can assume his gaze is focused on balls in the air. Yet there is context we are not privy to – is this a performance, and if so, how big is the crowd? In the gaze of the juggler, we can feel the reverence for his craft, his concentration feels sacred. The crowds, present or previous, matter not to him, only the physical act of juggling. And it is this physicality which is emphasised and celebrated in An Archive of Endurance; the physical act of waking, day upon day, and performing in a world that is moving forward endlessly. There are signs that this existence is getting these characters down. And still they endure. There is an air of solemnity that surrounds them. The effort is evident, and yet they seem built for it. Let us again return to Athlete Waiting. Her muscles are toned; her body is a coiled spring. Her face obscured, her identity seemingly scrubbed, her body has become an instrument that will run, recover, and run again, even when we avert our gaze.

This idea of persistence, trudging against the tide of progress, feels especially poignant in a world that is careening towards irreversible societal and technological change. As our horizons expand, paradoxically, the pool of distinctly human experiences and expressions we publicly celebrate and leave space for, seems to shrink. An Archive of Endurance is a reminder to celebrate the beauty and dignity of those who remain dedicated to their vocation, even as the world blunders on without looking back.