A long hard fall through the looking glass has me longing for absinth, for dreams like white haze and a fog thick with the smell of opiates. Another century. Out here I am no longer aware of my surroundings; I am lost in the movement, the pose, the sudden whims of gravity as it pulls bodies off the floor — the Dance.
One frame; two frames; If I could deconstruct it all. Catch figures in the act of melting & unravelling. I want dancers spilling onto the stage in their slow, prepared combat, to lose themselves in the maelstrom of war as music blasts through the hall. Arms and legs intertwined, eyes stilled and locked in a beautifully frozen pantomime.
I close my eyes and see Nijinsky — Moving under a black and white sun.