Or both, as Christine Borch’s The Body That Comes suggests: in this
contemporary performance, the dancer experiments with her limits while wearing
a heavy-looking, long, thick cord wrapped around her neck, hiding her face,
making her breathe in a desperate and demanding way. Her movements, her
posture, her airless lungs mirror how much exposed she is to the force of
gravity: she is dragging her feet along the floor, hardly for a minute can she
keep the vertical distance from the theatrical chasm of the floor, she can only
walk slowly due to this weight, this chain of oppression. She places her body
weight on her hips, making this dance of helplessness somehow feminine,
sensual, inviting (which tiny aspect could be extended into its own
socio-cultural study).
But what is this cord wound up around the performer’s neck? For the very
simple fact that I am into literature and tend to consider myself a writer at
times, I usually interpret dance pieces according to the contextuality, the
hidden meanings, the metaphors they convey for me. Thereby, my associations
might not have much to do with the artist’s original intentions, with what the
dancer was displaying in her dance. Should my shamelessly diverging conclusion
be of disgracing value to the very existence of contemporary dance – I’m sorry.
My body (and mind) simply come in another way. They must be going backwards.
So the questions, the possible meanings I thought of regarding the issue of
this cord-cage are the following: does it represent illusions? Self-perfeption?
Misperceptions? Bodily misfunctions? Errors? Baggage? The body itself? Another
body? The gap between two bodies, may they belong to the same owner or
different ones?
After the performer gets rid of this extra weight, this all-consuming
jewellery, she is trying to adjust to the new circumstances; like a newborn who
has just left the security of the mother womb, she breathes harder, she
stumbles, she strives to stand up. This dance of inconvertibility lets the
audience see the beauty of body mechanism: the desperately working muscles, the
dancing skin, the sweat shining from the inner fight (why the author is so
attracted to this aspect of dance might be a subject of a completely different
kind of piece of writing).
Despite the struggle to adapt to the new circumstances, the honesty of
pulling herself up by her hair to show her face, the newly won freedom from the
cord-cage, the dancer puts this extra piece of cloth back on her, as if this
dragging force had grown onto her existence, as if she felt too naked without
it. Can she not function without this? Is she a prisoner of pleasure-pain
principle? Has she got used to this suffering to such an extent that she does
not know how to live without it?
But my own Freudian mental twinge made me misread reality.
You can also read this critique of mine on the blog of L1dancefest:
http://l1dancefestival.blogspot.hu/2012/09/written-thoughts-by-adrienn-pasztoy1st.html
Photos were from the website of Kővágó Nagy Imre: http://kni7.wordpress.com
Photos were from the website of Kővágó Nagy Imre: http://kni7.wordpress.com
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