04/05/17 Recalling a performance, Nolo at Tangente, Eve
'Nolo: Curating the Body' by The Uncollective
Tangente Danse, Montreal
4-7 May 2017
It’s something about the start.
That vertigo feeling before diving off a mountain into the ocean from a great height, except when I glance sheepishly to the side in search of reassurance, someone secretly whips away the endless volume of water that is contained underneath its rippling top layer, and replaces it with something unknown, something other, and it could be totally better than the deep swallowing sea but it could be a lot fucking worse like a spiky dagger carpet. It’s terrifying and tempting, the best and worst.
It’s so naughty, I take the dive.
The word naughty is making me feel like the world is problematic.
Plunging through the sparkly ocean top layer, it’s startling to be met with a sickly parallel world of my own performance. Some chairs in a circle doing ‘the round’, lumpy bodies on top of the chairs, a pink plinth on its side, a glass bowl of water, some lighting. An unsettled presence. Sedated drippy expressions seeping out into the milky viscous space, making it almost impossible to get a grip. Gripped and gripping on.
There’s a ferocious galaxy surging beneath some (my) meek bony ribs. Sickly and sick, horny and disgusting, fragile and weepy. Little spiny child fingers doing all the fingering.
I’m experiencing deception.
Time feels up for grabs as though I could steal it. I’m stealing your time and thrusting it into the pockets of my kappa trousers to finger my ego with later on. Who’s paying for this with their Canadian dollar?
I’m experiencing responsibility.
Deeply tying to be so precise with all the imaginary objects. Everything is so bare and revealing. Big fat fraud. The pretend bike is presented to the round. I present myself presenting others whilst presenting a pretend bike. I feel submissive. There is a power play so attractive, like the powers of self objectification, addictive, complex and controlling, that make me want to parade this pretend bike around the room for six whole weeks until everyone is recoiling with boredom and anguish and the drippy space is congealing into a saliva blob dragging us all down lump by lump until no one can take the edging anymore and my clothes burn off and everyone feels trapped and confused by a mutual desire to make sense of things before it stops and we’re all released into the boring wild.
Things come out and sometimes I’m scared by them.
When it’s all over there is a thick residue that drains out of me leaving a shaky hollowness. I don’t remember performing ever feeling this vulnerable. There’s a strange sense of hope.
Everything and this writing feels more dramatic than anything ever. Insecure and want to bury in the right people.