Waves crashed on the sand and ambient beats wafted from the DJ tent. Rainbow flags marked a sacred circle on the beach: beyond the luxurious summer homes and expensive restaurants, a brave queer oasis for experimental art emerged.
For us, the dancers translate a shared archive into movement.
I hope Putin understands “Fuck War” in not only Russian, but Estonian, Latvian and Lithuanian as well.
maura re/members with george emilio sanchez’s “In the Court of the Conquerer” & zavé martohardjono’s “TERRITORY: the Island Remembers” – audio version link available at top of post
“…one dancer’s hands on the foreheads of the other two, leading the paths of their movement; a dancer leaning on another who was kneeling on the floor, using them as an anchor, stability; the soloist connecting with the floor as the other dancers stared into her…”
Question everything. Laugh often. And be proud as peacocks, amoebas and hominids—you’re alive, and it’s June!
If performance is an intersection between the realness of live embodiment and the fantastical suspension of reality, then this is true performance.
I put my arms around the dry branches, sunk my face between the needles. I remembered holding you like this before you left. I remembered when we did this without thinking.
I’m interested in setting myself as big a challenge as I can when I’m writing, saying to myself, “How can I love you?”
What is the body if not your closest, most concrete tie to blood lineage? It’s a mirror, a translation, a vessel for parallels and repetition across oceans and decades.
“I aim to be a balance between a healer, a dictator, and an anarchist” – Sophia Cleary
Paper. A tongue? A face? Hands, elbows, emerging body parts. Two bodies. Questions. Who are they to each other? Will they ever come out from behind the semi-translucent wall? Conceal and reveal. Discovery. Peekaboo, peep show, peeling back wrapping paper; pulling the curtain open in a stranger’s house to see a familiar smile.
