a struggle. a meeting.


When in some light the body moves, with a tired worn grace, it marches towards a future unmet with weary footsteps; and in this solo we begin to see the ‘ I’ emerge.

But who is this I? the endlessly moving figure pants and sweats, only moments of grace will ever emerge and in such moments we are fooled with deception, for the hours of toil and endless struggle is now concealed.

What do we want to see? We are paying audience. We demand to see something that is ‘ worth paying for’ the man in the suits says as he sits reading the program for the magnificent evening of ‘unbeatable’ performance.

She had no fresh make up on. She was naked. She was cold. She has goose pimples on scared exhausted skin. The black under her eyes was made worse by an unwashed face of last nights make up which had not been washed off properly and left rivers of diluted product as crevasses in her cheeks.

Yet she stood tall. Her muscles were still strong and the bright stage lights allowed us to see all. She was somehow endlessly beautiful and watching the form hurls herself around the dirty grey stage; allowed enchantment.

The man was not sure what he was seeing. There was no set, no music, only the uncanny noise of her grunting and sighing as she hurtled and hurt herself to an exhaustion he would never feel. Yet somehow, he felt an empathy, he saw something in this figure, quite unlike his own, that he felt every morning; an odd seemingly necessary struggle; towards a goal which no other would ever fully grasp.

What did she do? How did she move?

A friend asks the man why he was so moved and how such a tired performance could ever allow him such an epiphany as he routinely described.

She ran, like she was fighting some demon that no one will ever see, yet that haunts all. She jumped so high, like the dusty grey floor was burning her toes, she twisted herself into the smallest and most complex shapes that no one could ever imagine; as though she sought to see inside her own soul and yet knew despite all her bravery that she never would.

The body as a strange; unknown place; that in moments of complex lamentable expression comes to express the darkest moments of our soul. Sociologists may describe this as an understanding of the life world, dancers may call this a successful improvisation; but such categories seem utterly without point when we come to the moment of when we are watching this form unfold.

Her goose pimples are like his. The same which he feels each morning as he dresses like a soilder to journey through some labyrinth of space and time that will never quite be universal for all.

They somehow will never know quite how alike their spirits are; yet when he watches; he can sense; she of course does not see him and perhaps never will.

The curtain falls. He claps. Less eagerly than one would imagine and creeps back into the city night.

form ii

~ by beatricejarvis on January 15, 2013.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: