It is a European project. A partnership between "dancing with the difference" and other similar groups of different artistic areas. It was an invitation from Germany with the participation of Lithuania, Estonia and the scenarios were in charge of Poland. The result was a unique show and I took a peek at the last rehearsal. Join us.
We enter in the intimacy of the group always noticed at the beginning, but soon, forgotten, since the attention of the dancers follow a unique presence, a voice, Henrique Amoedo, who calmly talks about what he expects from this rehearsal. They created a circle around the choreographer that states the last positioning of the various interpreters. The sound of his waving voice is almost the only sound, as a female voice transmits the same advices in a English version at the same time, the show is multicultural. A quiet excitement fills the space. They clap at the end, the rehearsal starts... The bodies rub up in random rhythmic movements, expanded thru the stage, clamoring for attention. The voices are warm up, sounds, echoes are perpetuated by the stage and without notice, appears a black figure, slender, hunted by a mist, stands out from the crowd with the following verses of the Muse: Our Love Could Be forever. And if we die, we die together, and I, I say never, 'cause our love will be forever. Attracted by the music, all dance, lost in endless gyrations and turns until the last accord of a reality in disguise.
A screen remembering the past separates us from the artists. It's the echoes of a beautiful world, which will be lost among the fog caused by the bombs, the thunder of cannons, and the drumbeat of the patriotic rhymes that hide the screams of pain. Those remain no longer live in the enclosure that represents their bodies. It is the raw that inhabits them. Endlessly they try to clean-up the blackness that they carry in the skin. The Sadness. The disgust. The filter that separates us, gradually disintegrates until a body is vaporized, a dark angel appears through a rail of silk into the crowd, seems redemptive, but looks are deceiving. His touch catalyzes the energy that is concentrated in the figure in a wheelchair. They tumble one by one, men and children, without mercy. No destination. Hope fades away, what rises is a deep sadness, only broken by the screams of a soldier.
March, march, 1,2,3.
The marking settles. The lines cross each other. Melt. Some undead succumb to fatigue. The clothes go out; they strip themselves of these skins that are no longer theirs. The gas ends with the rest, even the black angel falls, fell in this jumble of arms and legs. Those that remain wake up from this extremely violent nightmare that burned everything and consumes itself in the flames. The history of this suffering was marked on the body and that is endless...
