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.
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