Wednesday, April 16, 2014


Foofwa d'Imobilité


Utérus, pièce d'intérieu


Close to what we talked about a couple of years ago, close to the real (no planning at all) improvisation. The only thing is that, over the two and a half months of work spread over four months, we developed a certain culture, a certain fertile ground around certain themes (sickness, dying, death, falling in love, birth, baby). but at the time of the dance, we "forget" every thing and allow anything to happen... here is how i describe this approach/technique:




« être ici présent », « the being here present » :

one being's appearance, emergence, arising, occurrence, surfacing of anything at any moment


« listening » to oneself

being as close as possible to every instant

being as permeable as possible so as to allow any manifestation, appearance  of one's being : movements, sounds, voice, words, desires, rejections


trying not to judge what comes out

trying to be as close to possible to the emergence of things, and as close as possible as what and how they are arising

trying not to order the manifestations in a way that seems reasonable, or known

trying not to build choreographically or musically or esthetically

trying not to stick to a certain mode of expression

trying not to think and judge as an audience member would do


allow for things to remain or change at any moment

able to search, explore the state present, allow for mistakes, trial and errors

come into the (scenic) context – others, lights, sounds, etc. : allowing it to influence one's state or action without forgetting to always « listen » to oneself

allow one's personality and own culture to arise at any moment

allow things that were worked together for the piece to occur without having to stick to them : they can happen in any way they might emerge



for the creation of the lighting design, the music and the costumes, i told the people: "do whatever you always wanted to do and never dared or had the opportunity of doing" and "do the creation you would do if you were to die in a month", whether or not it had anything to do with the title, or our dance.



Utérus, pièce d’intérieur

First performance, in its entirety but in fast forward (2min40sec):

Close-up of the third performance (39min01sec):

WIde shot of the ninth performance (38min39sec):

Short excerpt of the third performance (2min07sec):




Murat Nemet-Nejat










Monday, April 14, 2014



mez breeze











Mairead Byrne








Liz Solo


I Will Dance

You will fail
And I will grow wealthy

Your hair will drop out
And I will laugh all day long

Your house will fall into ruins
And I will sunbathe in my garden

Your children will run away and beg to be given to foster families
And I will feed my grand babies crumpets and jam

You will be lonely and friendless and even dogs will avoid your door
And I will flourish and grow flowers

You will choke on your own bloated rage until you pop an artery and keel over
And I will write songs of celebration

You will die and be buried in the dirt where you belong
And I will wear a velvet dress and dance



agnes pratt

my mother has a black eye
they called on the phone
they said there was an accident
they said a bottle of hair conditioner
flew out of someone’s hands
during bath time
and hit her in the eye
they put makeup on it
to try and hide the bruise
but it does no good
the bruise shines through
purple and mean
brown around the edges

my mother is propped up in the bed
her hands are rigid
yet trembling
clasped in front of her
on the royal red bedspread
hands that were once
always working
sketching and making
sculpting and painting
pulling landscapes and faces
on to the blank page
filling emptiness
with secret messages
and flower gardens
and moments captured
in graphite
and watercolour
daily chronicles
in oil and clay

next to the bed
are esther’s lotions
made from newfoundland berries
and essential oils and essences
extracted from native plants
you can smell the forest
the juniper and the moss
the chamomile
it creates a shield
against the cloying stink
of the agnes pratt nursing home

i work rose geranium
and lavender
into her hands
pushing them gently open
her fingers still narrow and fine
her skin
thin as paper
her veins
narrow faded threads
pink and fragile

today her hair is down
she says
when it was being brushed
she looked up
and her mother was there
holding the brush
running it through her hair

i massage the clary sage
onto her forehead
rub her temples
smooth out her worry lines
stroke her cheeks
and wipe the cheap drug store makeup
from underneath her eye
apply a cold cloth

she is looking over
into the other world
she is not sure
it is me who is here
but she knows
i am someone to her
someone close

she starts to tell me stories
and her sentences trail off
but i know that the endings
to most of them
will tell of the bad man
who torments her at night
and the woman
who sabotages her meals
and puts glass in her bed
so that she can’t sleep



heart murmur
the edge is in front of me. the edge of the world. whatever lies beyond is enshrouded in a shifting grey mist that shimmers with mysterious glinting light. i can taste salt. sweat dribbles down my back. there is the sound of the cold ocean churning far below.

you and i stood here many times, on the edge of these cliffs. we’d climb up here along the bluffs, after hours spent exploring the length of the beach. a favorite old pass time. i would pick up white beach rocks when they shone among the round grey ones, collecting them as they led me in a meandering path along the shoreline. white rocks for healing. sometimes I sought black rocks to bind my enemies, or coloured ones to amuse the kids, or rocks with fossils or formations that contained magical symbols.

we walked along many other beaches, too - all those summers when we did long tour runs. before you became old overnight. before you gave up. before you were not there anymore. back when we were still fearless. back when the people would come from miles around to see the shows, and when, on our precious time off, we would follow unknown roads to find out where they led.

we discovered many shorelines to wander over those distant summers. there was a beach where big hunks of lime coloured talc had been strewn, out of place on the grey rocks. there was the beach of only red rocks and one of pure white sand and another with small polished ovals of grey and green. we walked the coastline of the island, exploring every nook and cove and bay.

one afternoon we traveled through three rock cove and lourdes and winterhouse to a rarely run road at the edge of black duck brook and we decided to follow it as far as it would go. we travelled for miles along a headland until reaching the end - the bottom of a steep gravel hill.

there we found an abandoned cove where fishermen sometimes lived during the crab season – a few grimy work gloves hung on lines strung between the bowing shacks. rusted out crab boats listed on the grumbling harbour, and we got out of the car and sat on the rotting wharf and smoked. the beach was a pile of jagged maroon shards and you named the place he cove. driving up out of the deep incline, the wheels skidded in the gravel and we couldn’t gain traction. we feared we might have to spend the night in he cove until finally, haltingly, we lurched up and out and made our getaway into an orange-purple sunset.

isle aux morts, the isle of the dead. margaree. foxes roost. st luniere. griquet. englee. great harbor deep. bear cove. savage cove. cape ray. burnt islands. rose blanche. bay d’espoir, bay despair.

we drove past scores of derelict villages and towns, each with its own church and graveyard still standing, defiantly marking the places where generations had come and gone. we walked among the headstones, looking for clues etched there. we visited the ruins of the viking settlers, their reconstructed grass houses lining the plains by the wide ocean. we searched the flat shale beaches for the ancient fossils preserved there and walked together on the rim of the pre-historic seabed.

that night i dreamed i was a great queen, dressed in gold, set upon a high seat and holding a crystal wand. it had been so real that i felt strangely different about myself the next day. it’s a sign, you said. maybe a past life or a vision to decipher. you said you were sure it was significant and i did not doubt that you were right.

when we saw the rainbow we hopped into the car and decided to follow it, to see where it began, or ended, to see what was really at the end of the rainbow. we drove madly, criss-crossing roads, chasing the rainbow for a half an hour. when we finally found the end we drove underneath it and the colours dissipated above our heads. i looked back and thought i could see the rainbow's edge bathing at the lip of the ocean. we got out of the car and tried to see the colours, to touch them, but only the mist caught the light and made our faces glisten. make a wish you said and i closed my eyes and wished for money.

we walked the shore for hours one afternoon and found a hidden beach where all the stones were in the shape of ragged hearts. a lost beach of distorted stone hearts and that day we devised a magic spell to drive out old hurts and dispel bad things. we casually wandered to our own separate places and i picked up a stone and hurled it into the water. then another and another, eventually filling a dozen knurled rocks with my aches and casting them away. down the beach i could see that you were doing the same.

on the way back up the path to the road a bright red rock stood out in the mud. i picked it up – a small and perfectly heart-shaped stone, symmetrical and light. it had been flung up from the beach away from its misshapen relations. i washed the dirt off in a puddle and it grew soft and pink as the water evaporated from the surface. that one is for you to keep, you said, and i put it in my pocket.

now i am standing in the clouds. seagulls bawl and plunge into the haze, their voices rising in long melancholic wails. i am holding the perfect pink heart and warming it between my hands. I breathe on it and the surface blushes slightly and i know that it was never for me to keep. no thing is for keeping. i open my hands and throw the stone up into the glittery mist and watch it arc and fall out of sight.


Saturday, April 12, 2014


Chris Funkhouser 


VORTEX III or IV (IV)
HAZE [HAS A] RODE [DUO REDO] SWEAR [SWEET SWEEP] THERE [OTHER ETHER] OUT [OUTLAW OUTLET] OAK [BOOK LOOK TOOK COOK HOOK NOOK ROOK KOOK]
NATTY [NAZI NATION NATIVE ANTE] OPAL [ORAL OVAL ANAL TONAL ZONAL] WHEAT [WEAR WEAN WENT WIT] HERS NERVY COMO [CAME DEMO] UNTO [UNTHAW UNITY] OLLY
PESTO [POETS MIST MAST MOST MUST] MONK [MOON] BE [EBB]

ZAP [ZIP] ARIZONA
SUISSE [SOUSES] WAR REND [REAM] ORE SHUN TERM [TARDY TREND] ONCE RIBBON [ROB] MOOR OBESE [OBO OOZE ORB] RISK [IRKS ARKS RASP RUSH RISE] HIGH [THIGH]
NORTH MOTTO [MOTOR MATE] NEWS TERN CHESS [CHEST CHEFS CHEW] TREE [TIRE TORE TERSE] ASTER [ASSET HASTE] RANCH [RICH INCH] ESTE RUES [ROWS] MONT GEOMETRY
EASTER [EASE] RUMOR [MOM] NO [INTO] MERRY [MERCY MARRY] UPPER BUCKS [BRICKS]
PETS [PRESTO] CONFAB [MONGER MONKEY]

WANT [WENT WIND] REST [ERRS] ROMP [FORM OR] ETCH [ARCH BATCH CATCH LATCH MATCH PATCH] INFER [INNER] FACT {FEST FELT FETCH FEAT] FROM LATE TUESDAY DARN [DAWN DEN DENY] LIGHT [MIGHT RIGHT FIGHT SIGHT] THROUGH
WED [WAND WIND] SEDAN [SAD SEA SODA] AFT [DAFT RAFT YET YURT] ERGO [ENRON] ON

THIS HAS A [HAZEL] ROD [ROUT ROE] SWEAT [SEW] THEIR {THE THREW] OUTLAY OKAY [HOOKY COOKIE] SOAR [SORT STORY SORE SPOOR SCORE] NORTH [NOT NORM] HORN [HERON HERB] NEW
JEERS [JARS JETS] YON THAW [RAH] SENT [SET STUN] EWE [WEE] RYES [ROSY RESIN RELY] EAST CENT REAL [RAIL RAP RALLY RAN]
PEN SYLVAN [SLY] ANIMA [ASIA] NOTRE HEARS [HEATS HEAD] TEEN [THEN] NOSY [SLY] VAIN [VINE VANISH] AND [SAND HAND BAND] SOOT [SCOUT SHOUT SNOUT SPOUT STOUT SOUGHT] HEALS [HEWS] TEN NAYS VENIAL

DAY ON ETHICS SIFT [SOFT SHAFT SALT SAFE DAFT] RENO OMEN DONE [DOWN] TIGHT

HAZARD OUST [OPUS OUTS OURS] EARTH [EAT EACH DEATH OATH] ERIS NOTE EXPECT [PECK SPECK] TEA [TIDE TOAD TREAD] THIS [THIN TIE TETHER] SLIME [TIME STAMEN]

DAYS [DEIST DAISY] WORTH [WITH WOOT] ROUGE [ROUGH RUG] HOSE [SHED EVE] ENTER [INTO NET END] ESSAY THRU [MYTH] BOUGH [OUCH OUGHT] SEND [SOUND SUN SUNG] AYE

PLEA SELL [SAIL SELF SOIL] STEM [STUN STERN] TONE [TOO] AWE [AWAKE AWARE] ACHE [BATHE] READ [ROAD RID] DOOR [YOUR BOOR ION POOR] GOT [GOO GO TO GROTTO] WET [WHAT] HERD [HERO] OVEN THE
INTEND [INTENT INTERN] RENT FORM OREO FOR [NORM] MATE [MAT] NAB [ONE OAF] OUTS [OUST] HEFT [HOOF] LOW [ALLOW PLOW BLOW FLOW GLOW] NIGH [INCH] AWARDS

WANT [WIN WING WINK] REST ROMP [OMS OR ARM] ITCH [WATCH]

SPOTTED [SPUTTER SPATE] RIND [RING RIFF] ROAM TIN STAT EMEND [EVENT CEMENT MEANT MEET]

SPORT [SPOTS] ERA [ERECT] DIVA [TRIVIA] TON IS NO [ICON SIN] TEXT [TAX TAP TIP TOP TARP] EKE [ACTED EXCITE] DATA [DATE DRAT DITTO DITTY WATT] HITS [HOST HEIST HOIST HISS HATS] TIME [ICE IRE LIME]



$$


Listen:

Friday, April 11, 2014

Joel Weishaus


Your Name, This Net
for Alan Sondheim


Traced against the empty, traced through the header, it's a waste of the essence, of the body of canons.

Everywhere is artificial,
a
waste of depth,
nothing
works in depth.

Wrap, don't desire (Spinoza). Quantum tunnels are ghosts crossing over to the Other.

Outside my window, nothing is named.
I
look through and know there
were
lovers in those ashes,
traced in memories that hold the door open.

I cry over the threshold, "It’s all empty!"
Dark angels fly past wrapped in bodies of glass.

Look for your name in the depth,
in
the darkness, in the rapture
of
nothingness.

-Joel Weishaus


Tuesday, April 8, 2014


Jon Woodson



The Battle of the Archers


you don’t even stand up in your day,
you shift your stance, winding from
foot to foot, making yourself low
and slight, trying to slip around what
they loose at you, the spare darts they
will allow, their recompense. some
pull takes away the weakness of the eye.
they are dancing in the line of the ridge
with the orb of the sun at their backs.
they are taunting with their songs and
twanging with their taut bowstrings.
we know them, they are our cousins
or something more distant. more distant
now. they have teeth on their darts—
white and sharp. not really teeth—
more like voices with dangerous words,
pretty things that put you in pain
if you listen. there is no magic, only
that string of gut that takes on the strength
of the bow. they will not stand there long.
they are thirsty. they are tired. they want.
they want to drive at us and to know our flocks.
you don’t stand up in your day. you crouch
and you bend so that you appear
to be dancing if anyone is fooled
by appearances, but you are making
yourself into a bird or a sidewinder,
anything but a friend or a brother.
nothing is more kindly than a dead man,
he gives you everything that he has.
he smiles as he lies down to surrender
his flocks, his stream of water,
his weapons, his magic up under the cliff.
you don’t even stand up in your day
unless you want to lie down
in that shadow and never stop giving things away.


John Rawls at Hiroshima


Hiroshima by moonlight was clinical and lunar
and secure enough, if not civilized.
Subsequent heavy rainfall, then persistent showers,
had washed away some of the residual radioactivity.
Records indicate that troops occasionally
patrolled the destroyed area of the city.
Everyone else is better off than they would have been
under some lengthier form of campaign.

Arriving autonomously by jeep, the ignorant vehicle
driven by autonomous driver, universal
implications were at rare intervals lopsided in the landscape;
little was rational or reasonable.
The approximate perimeters of total destruction from blast and fire,
like everything showing, demanded an equal indifference.
Everyone else is better off than they would have been
under some other regime of fairness and flame.

There were contours of long-term danger and shame
that suggested we keep this field of imperfection
to sit in while making our pitiless picks in the future.
Death makes us uncomfortable, desolation
makes us want to rebuild, to veil
what abstraction reveals in the muster of frays.
Everyone else is better off than they would have been
under some other plan of disintegration.

The mistake is plain. The bare-persons are gone,
and they ought to be here,
but not in the way that they are shadowed now.
The jeep idles, the intractable night is full of potential.
He will drive off and defend the good,
placing life between the pillars of slavery and the atom.
Everyone else is better off than they would have been
under some other average utilitarianism.

[Harvard University professor John Rawls, a leading figure in moral and political philosophy, was the author of The Theory of Justice.]


Aviation in August

Over the bay the C 130 banked like an osprey
coming down for a strike
at the surface. The tide was ambiguous, and I thought
of some Frost—neither out far nor in deep: research
supports the idea that most thinking 
is a recombination of previous thoughts. No troops
birthed from the slow body, no spiders on wind-threads,
no dandelion fluff. Just flight practice. Around. Around.The perfectionist OCD of war. No waves today, 
and pebbles underfoot. Then an apache gunship lines along 
obsessively, and from my companion
I get a monologue on the logic of wanting
to be a door gunner. To be able to have the danger
in your wallet like a credit card with 
some fantastic limit—if you don’t get
shot out of the sky. It’s a dead language going across
the sky and meaning nothing here “at home,”
the only grammar apparent, a young girl stuffing 
an overdetermind breast into the flimsy chute.


Why I Am Not on the Money


I have heard that Oprah Winfrey
is on the kwacha in Malawi

I have heard that Madonna
is on the pula in Botswana

I have heard that Kanye West
is on the dirham in the Emirates

I have heard that Paul Anka
is on the rupee in Sri Lanka

I have heard that Cher
is on the franc in Niger

I have heard that George Clooney
is on the franc in Djibouti

I have heard that Justin Bieber
is on the franc in French Polynesia

I have heard that Beyonce
is on the krone in Norway

I have heard that Barak Obama
is on the florin in Suriname

I have heard that Mick Jagger
is on the franc in Madagascar

I have heard that Scarlet Johansen
is on the manx in the isle of Man

I have heard that Tiger Woods
is on the dollar in the Solomon Islands

I have heard that Steven Spielberg
is on the som in Kyrgzstan

I have heard that John Bon Jovi
is on the lira in the Holy See

I have heard that Lady Gaga
is on the pa’anga in Tonga

I have heard that Leonardo DiCaprio
is on the loti in Lesotho

I have heard that Angelina Jolie
is on the lira in Italy


Why I Am Not an Ice Dancer


The things that I reject are the things that define me.
I know the popular wisdom says
that we should be shaped by what we embrace,
but they just say that to get the word embrace
into the room. I am not going to go around
embracing anything. In fact, if I go around
it will be because the world is undetectably circulating
and I am fixed up so that I go around
even though I am lying in my bed perfectly still
trying to wait until the vertigo passes.

The part that disturbs me is the habit
the ice dancers have of going in reverse
before they do something colossal. Who wants
to back up to the crisis, or play turn about
with the moment of truth? Like the sky divers,
I want to go at things head first, joining
hands with the other Icaruses and then lighting
those flares, so that we make trails kiting
the whole way down. All the ice dancers make
are ugly scratches on the ice, by the way.

So, there’s another heartfelt demerit set
in my black book of estimations. Now ballet
fakes weightlessness with feathery clothes
and fragile women on their toes, but truly
falling weightlessly to the ground
is pure and simple and realistic. Which reminds
me of the sentimentality of water ballet—
half in, half out, need I say more? Buy hey,
I know it’s hard. I know it sounds like sour grapes.
Ice dancing. It’s just that it’s philosophically inadequate.


Why I Am Not a Woman


I am not a woman because
I am a massive brooding humpback
of testosterone ice hurtling
out of intergalactic insolence
zooming toward collision
with the Earth on a trail of vodka
and optimism at twenty
or thirty times the speed
of child support.
All the way down the path
of my descent,
I knew my destiny.
All the way along the curve
of my trajectory
I had a sense of my
ultimate purpose.
But then I was confronted
and I had to stand up
before the thermal
intake window of forasmuch.
When I couldn’t make up
my mind, I slapped a stack
of credit cards down on the counter
and requested all three
moral bypass operations.


Why I Am Quiet and Keep to Myself

Nikola Tesla was quiet and kept to himself
Walt Whitman was quiet and kept to himself
John Lennon was quiet and kept to himself
Ralph Waldo Emerson was quiet and kept to himself
Thomas Edison was quiet and kept to himself
Karl Marx was quiet and kept to himself
Mikhail Kalashnikov was quiet and kept to himself
J. Robert Oppenheimer was quiet and kept to himself
Louis-Ferdinand Céline was quiet and kept to himself
Charles Baudelaire was quiet and kept to himself
Vincent Willem van Gogh was quiet and kept to himself
Alexander Fleming was quiet and kept to himself
Ray Bradbury was quiet and kept to himself
James Baldwin was quiet and kept to himself
Ramana Maharshi was quiet and kept to himself
Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci was quiet and kept to himself
Wernher von Braun was quiet and kept to himself
Walt Disney was quiet and kept to himself
Samuel Clemens was quiet and kept to himself
Daniel Boone was quiet and kept to himself
Roger Williams was quiet and kept to himself
Joshua Slocum was quiet and kept to himself
David Livingstone was quiet and kept to himself