Live... from the streets of York

EYES closed, lips curled in a benign smile, Mr Yellow sits straight-backed on a low table, legs crossed in the lotus position. And he sits. And he sits. His stillness radiates its own force field. Shoppers walking along Low Petergate slow down until they are stationary too, locked into Mr Yellow's orbit.

Soon quite a crowd has gathered to watch this man do nothing. He does it well, mind. Not a twitch, not a gulp. We are all assuming he is still alive, on no obvious evidence.

The onlookers are not sure what they are looking at, or why. The longer Mr Yellow stays motionless, the more loathe they are to move themselves. After investing so much time staring at an inert man, they feel obliged to hang around until he does something. It is an hypnotic experience, enhanced by the ethereal music wafting out from under his table.

Not everyone falls under the spell. "Our Andy could d'that," is the instant assessment of a bloke in a baseball cap, before he bowls on down the street. A lad tries to break Mr Yellow's reverie by throwing a penny at him. It clatters against the blue shutter of Price Pounder, the empty shop which forms his backdrop. No reaction: not a twitch, not a gulp.

"He must have a screw loose to sit there doing that all afternoon," says a woman to her friend, after they have stood and watched him for five minutes. A teenager clocks him and says: "He looks like Brad." As the street artist is clad from head to foot in yellow, bald head as bright as a daffodil, we must assume that Brad is either very daft or very unwell.

Two women push buggies perilously close to Mr Yellow. It is enough to activate him. There is a gasp and a shriek of laughter as he opens his eyes. After the stillness, the white flash of his eyeballs makes the crowd jump.

Now we see him in super slo-mo action. Gradually, he turns his head to stare back at the crowd that has been staring at him. He is still smiling, and the intensity of his expression draws nervous titters. A little boy, clutching on to his mother's shorts, cannot take his eyes off the strange man. A young girl is equally transfixed.

In slow motion an arm stretches out, two fingers forming Churchill's V for victory. "Peace!" exclaims someone in the crowd.

A girl wants a picture. Egged on by her mates she points the camera, and Mr Yellow sticks out a long, pink tongue at her. She laughs and fumbles with the camera. Slowly he turns away, withdraws his tongue and closes his eyes. "Can you do it again?" the girl implores, but Mr Yellow is motionless.

By now the crowd has grown, its numbers including two policewomen. "He wouldn't see if I threw an egg at him," says a lad. "Aye. You get the eggs," suggests his dad. "No, I'll get a pizza from Bella Pasta!" He nods to the Italian restaurant opposite.

A boy edges towards Mr Yellow and touches him, first on the hand then on the shoulder. The eyes spring open and he jumps back, giggling. Mr Yellow gives a particularly heartfelt victory sign to the police officers, who eventually go on their way.

The police are regulars at the show. When Mr Yellow performed further up Low Petergate, in front of clothes shop Statement, the owner called the police four days in a row to have him moved on. He said the crowds were obstructing access to the shop which affected takings.

After that, Mr Yellow, whose real name is Mark Wallis, threatened to quit York for good. Now he has reconsidered. He would like to perform between Bella Pasta and Lakeland, still on Low Petergate - the best street for tourists, he says - and is seeking the blessing of the managers of both businesses. He says his crowd's attention would then be drawn to restaurant and shop, bringing them new customers.

Talking after the show has finished, Mark stresses that he has as great a need to make a living as the retailers. He has just bought a house in Mytholmroyd, north of Halifax, is supporting a two-year-old son and his mother, and the Inland Revenue takes its slice of his earnings. It seems odd to be talking mortgages and taxes with a bright yellow man, but then that's street theatre.

Despite the comments of some of the more sceptical onlookers, being Mr Yellow is hard work. To achieve that total stillness, Mark has studied Tai Chi and yoga for many years, and he uses a technique called mental affirmation to make sure his mind doesn't wander off while he's in character.

He performs for 40 minutes up to six times a day. Once he did a non-stop, three-hour stint which left him with a very stiff back and a determination never to do that again.

Moreover, Mark has an impressive performing pedigree. His great great grandmother was England's champion sword swallower in the 1870s, his granddad an elephant trainer in Paris. Mark trained at Circomedia school near Bristol, learning how to juggle and fly the trapeze, before hitting on Mr Yellow five years ago.

He loves it. "Some people don't know whether I'm a statue or a human being. I can just open my eyes and it gives people a fright."

Not far away, another street performer is drawing a crowd. Karl Mullen is a more traditional busker: his audience are enthralled by the jazz and boogie woogie he is playing on an upright piano in St Helen's Square.

This instrument has been stored in various locations (it would take too long to wheel it from Karl's Escrick home), including "a certain bank" whose manager knew nothing about it and the Roman Bath pub. It was turned away from another pub on the bizarre grounds that an old Joanna wouldn't fit in with its image of a traditional boozer.

So why does Karl busk? "It's a pretty nice way to make a few bob, and people seem to like it." Asked to name the most requested song, and his fingers instantly launch into the first bars of As Time Goes By.

He has had few negative reactions during his two years playing in the square, and thinks street performance should always have a place in York.

"It livens the place up. It's nice to see something that's not a big, organised commercial venture. A bloke playing a piano - there's a novelty."

Updated: 10:44 Wednesday, August 29, 2001