Sunday, 24 January 2010

At Once and clothes

Different experiments in phony clothes.
I am trying to find the right costume for my adaptation of AT ONCE. There is so much joysorrow in phony for me.

Tuesday, 12 January 2010

Once upon a time

Some imaginary light fades and puts her in total darkness. One second later, the imaginary lights come up and she imediately begins a wonky, irregular walk, taking miniscule steps. A curl at the end of this charged walk. As she stopped, she momentarely embraced the ridiculous situation she just put herself in. There’s no going back now. That curve can’t be undone, a curve that invisibly marks the path she took to get there. A voice from a distant past must be wise. She doubted this one. A song with a jazzy touch makes her voice clearly loud. Her body dances only along the song, then it listens. Her work is like a soda pop as well as a demostration of beliefs in recognising meaning without needing to identify it. Complexity is a sensuous dance for her skin and covers, inside, she is detached from feeling. She destroyed a mall by spinning it too much. The mall fell on the floor and her malefic laughter arised from forgotten depths. She’s so evil and twisted, she twists again, evil? What is it? Gone. She forgets.
A fan in karate-tai-chi-like arms and legs, a tanning machine, an old radio that sings a jazz song. Metronome for vortex. It stops, it stops. The attention in the dissolving of a fake american-indian chant is priceless, magical. She is left, she is left alone, after many visits. She remains there, all that came is washed away.

Sunday, 3 January 2010

Going At Once, willingly, slowly, in high velocity, towards a trap.

Text extracted from NOTES FOR POSSIBLE AT ONCE- AT ONCE is a Solo by Deborah Hay, adapted by Mariana Tengner Barros. Photos of me and my mother, by my father. Memories that come at the same time to the same place, exploding joy and sorrow simultaneously.

She walks slowly, in a contained manner, carefully placing her feet that go inside her soft shoes, in the cold floor of a winter. As she stops in front of a chair by the wall she notices that she had come from that exact place she is facing now. She is surprised by an old voice that pays her a visit. Her body softly waves inperceptibly as the voice explains things that only she can get. She turns. The turn feels like a cut, a release, an opening. Everything is now more than she thought. An immense Joy invades her being and as she realises this her face almost organises a smile. It’s too much. She cannot take so much, so a huge sorrow glides through her skin, making it impossible for Joy to totally manifest in her outsides. The outside of her, the lines and shapes that she can see and that others can see even better, her outside now looks like a morphing face on a restrained body. Joy and Sorrow dance inside this look. The dance is what she looks like. The dance comes from what she sees and what she cannot take at once. A song arises from the depths that she didn’t even remember existed. Her all, her from then, now.

She’s a crier, a regular believer, a hopeful, a judge, a player, a singer, a faker, a jogger, a joker, a bullshitter, an illusion lover, a party crasher, a soap watcher, a magnifier, a pacifier, a money spender, a time passer.