Seen on 16 February at London’s Sadler’s Wells
Theatre
Having seen the acclaimed “The Great Tamer” by the same choreographer
last October, I felt a little cheated that “Since She” did not feature a single
person in a space suit. Not one spaceman or spacewoman.
Papaioannou’s dreamworld is quirky, sexy,
playful and yet mildly disturbing because at no point in the show do you know
what exactly is going on and what reaction (except for, obviously, wonder), is
expected of you. It is a world in constant flux, and the Space Odissey 2001-type people that appeared in one of the tableaux of the Greek choreographer’s
previous work offered me some kind of
reassuring, grounding presence.
Let’s face it, I just love space suits. Yet,
it seems that, in “Since She”, we are left on our own, without a uniformed
guide, for a reason; here, there is no need for mastering weightlessness: it is
gravity and slow sliding falling that take, quite literally, centre stage.
The only constant piece of scenography in this
new piece, Tanzteater Wuppertal’s first new show since Pina Bausch’s death in 2009,
is a mountain of black foam mats, piled up at the back of the stage. Reminiscent
of a pile of slate slabs, as the performance progresses, the mats quickly start
crumbling under the weight of bodies and other objects that are pushed down from
the top. One wonders if, at the end, the mats will fall apart completely,
leaving behind just a scattering of black lumps of earth, lifeless remains of
some funeral ritual.
Papaioannou’s first show for a dance company that
is not his own, “Since She” is clearly conceived as a tribute to Pina Bausch whose
work the choreographer greatly admires; it is therefore not surprising that the
piece invites interpretation as a meditation on life’s transience, on loss and
on the nature of art. Indeed, the title could be a reference to the
choreographer and the company looking for their own artistic independence “since”
the great master’s passing.
As in “The Great Tamer”, the image of the body
and the way it can be constructed, manipulated and destroyed using ostensibly
the simplest means (no circus magic here) are at the centre. The visual tricks
whereby a body appears dismembered and recomposed in unusual, unexpected shapes
are straightforward (only light and simple screens are used). No one is fooled
to believe that a body is actually decapitated or acquires extra feet on stage,
and yet we take the image in. We see how it is done and yet on some level we
believe it. The imperfect Galatea/Frankenstein character, fresh from his maker’s
workshop, is stumbling across the stage with long paper tubes stuck in his
clothes or to his limbs that are, in turn, stilts or additional shorter legs or serve to elongate
his body into an awkward shape to the public’s discomfort and merriment. Another
man slowly walks to a kitchen table, carrying the most precious ingredient for
the banquet, and it is the expression on his face, more than the actual object
in his hand, that alerts us to the fact that he is in fact holding his own
penis.
Bodies, whether naked, partially or fully
clothed, are just material in the same way other organic and inorganic matter
is; they are eager to melt and merge with other substances. If it is so, what
is the source of movement, what is the force that motivates bodies and other “things”
to move, to mutate, to exist? It can, indeed, be the force of gravity, the slow
melting of objects and people along the sides of the slate mountain, a glorious and
inevitable decline.
In contrast to this vertical downward movement,
cushioned and slowed down by the mats, there is a gentle but purposeful
drifting motion across horizontal surfaces. Bodies and objects are constantly
sliding, gliding, dragging and being dragged across the stage, even if often
their journey has no apparent purpose or destination. In a nod to Pina Bausch,
the show opens with a group of dancers crossing the stage from left to right,
stepping on chairs that they pass to each other, as if coming down to the floor
were somehow impossible, or mortally dangerous. This horizontal movement is
both determined and graceful, playful and purposeful to make us aware of the effort
and skill it takes a trained dancer to glide seamlessly across the stage.
The source of this movement, one may surmise,
is art. Like life, it is aimless and any curiosity, wonder or beauty it
generates is accidental; it is an unexpected gift, the artists’ reward for working
and being together, as the final scene with the golden mirror seems to suggest.
On the other hand, if a body, an image - or life itself - is a hybrid, a
construct made on a whim, so is death. Like art, like life, death is an illusion,
a play of mirrors that does not annihilate but distorts, transforms and ultimately
reinvigorates existence.
