“The eye of the storm. Or perhaps a jet engine or battlefield under attack. Clicking heels, agitated steps in the dark. Or perhaps rather the beating of a drum.
Nocturnes like those of Chopin. Perhaps, but if so without the piano. The eye and the ear alternately, with unwavering exactitude, between appeasement and outburst. The crackling of old records when the light comes up. Or perhaps it is the wall that’s cracking; paper being torn, a stale biscuit being bitten into – or why not some chips that someone will really have to eat, back to the wall, one idle evening or because there’s nothing else that can be done. Words to express humanity. Or perhaps only the beauty of languages; Europe disbanding, new roots taking hold, from North to South. Perhaps it’s not a problem if we don’t understand them all. Perhaps the names written in graffiti are only a handful of examples among so many hundreds of others.
Blackness sown up with lights, who is hiding behind those panels? Perhaps it is a sombre storm, the obscurantism of past centuries, dappled by brief glimmers of light like many splintered fragments of humanity. Perhaps the light punctures the darkness – or is it the shadow that absorbs the light? Perhaps this is the very image of balance. Dancers miraculously in tune with a mad pandemonium. Or perhaps they are flesh and bone memories, fragments of humanity acting out the minuscule puzzle pieces of life in a noisy and shapeless maelstrom. Perhaps they are dancers or perhaps they are rather electrons within an aesthetic dramaturgy that seeks itself within a “total” performance.
A metonymy of light and shadow. Or perhaps there are, in spite of everything, connecting lines drawn through the invisible. Perhaps these
haphazardly thrown stones confound infinite juxtaposition by leading rather to accumulation. Perhaps the faces reflected in the mirrors or
brandished in the photos refute anonymity through their pursuit of the individual. Perhaps the white hands placed repeatedly on the wall – in opposition of all erected walls – are imprints that will endure through the eternal night…”
Extract taken from a text written by Manon Ona, published 11 October 2012 on lecloudanslaplanche.com
Photo: Loli Hidalgo