Thursday, 13 February 2014

Playing a writing game

2 shows/ 1 evening. Them / us / some other them / me.
The first (What remains) was in reality a film screening with a support act of two dancers slow dancing across the stage. The dance was pushed so far into the background it was either washing the dishes in the cellar (not to be snuffed at, for if we are to believe Down and out in Paris in London there was a time George felt almost privileged to soak his hands for hours on end for half a loaf of bread and a few bottles of cheap plonk) or was dangling on hanger number 512 at the very back of the cloakroom, while the film took a leisurely stroll down the red carpet, pausing every now and then to smile for the slightly flabbergasted paparazzi. It all seemed a bit like advertising a screening of Battleship Potemkin as a concert by Edmund Meisel (both exceptional in their own way, but their positions and relations seem quite clear from today's perspective, unfortunately I have no idea how it was perceived in 1925). 
And I think I wrote all my clever (I know, the reality is that it is middle of the road rambling at best) ideas for the first one of the evening, so not many of my brain cells remain in working order to write about the second performance of the night (What happens when you touch it), which was more a game, an exploration in which the dancers toyed with movements, bodies and body parts, synchronization, sounds... But you know, as I always think (and say less often, but always when asked): Go and see it for yourself, you never know when something you see will collide with those strange, fragmented, slightly damaged and hard to reach memory fragments in your brain and inspire you to do something inspiring of your own. 

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