I feel like a blindness is incurred when we talk about dance in this utopian, clear-cut, way. Asking ‘which is better?’ obscures ‘how could it be better?’
Content associated with Musings
Writing doesn't take space. Writing makes space.
It's essentially an opener: of other thoughts, of other writings, of other doings. It makes room for things where before there wasn't. It can seem to tread on things but really it opens new paths.
I like this.
I wanted to address something that has been bothering me about The Experiment, organised by the Female Choreographers Collective (FCC) and performed last week at Laban.
Dance world and opinions is a tricky balancing act when we invest ourselves in the work we make and somewhere in the creative and production process, our egos mistake the work we make for us.
It’s 05.58am. I’m listening to Cherry-Coloured Funk by the Cocteau Twins under neon white light. I’ve napped a bit but there’s only so many ways a body can fit over two train seats without some limb or hip joint going numb. My eyes are not heavy but they know, in their stingy dryness, that they should have been shut for longer. The train is stopped in Plymouth.
Watch a short film about The BELLY of the Beast, BELLYFLOP Magazine's programme of dance curated for a Sadler's Wells Wild Card event at the Lilian Baylis Studio.
Performance clips, talking heads... the lot.
Film by Ben Harvey.
I came across this on Facebook (where else?)
A tumbler glass is handed to each audience member as we enter the intimate studio theatre space. An orb of light spills into the centre of the room. The seating fringes this moon of light. Eight barefoot, plainly dressed men stand in front of a large projection screen, each holding a drum. An army of drummers.
What are our eyes on now?