Like a Moth to a Flame
I saw Hearth twice this week and now I’m sifting through the notes I made on my phone. Some moments stayed with me, others have slipped away. I go through my list of words: all fours, wax, fluorescent, vent, smile, voice, twitching, warm… to recollect and meld together the things I saw and the feelings I felt.
Magdalena, you started the performance in silence – watching, observing, reading the space you were about to engage with. I could hear my stomach growling, attuned to the room’s breathing. I held my own breath while watching you wait, and you watched the others wait. You gazed up at the ceiling; everyone followed. You are the focus of our attention, you are guiding us at your tempo.
At this moment of waiting, I think of your chosen title Hearth. What is hearth again? A few minutes ago, on my way to the TQW studios, a safe space in the heart of Vienna, I reread the Wikipedia entry on “hearth”. Hearth derives from an Indo-European root, referring to burning, heat, and fire. A hearth is the place where a fire resides in a home. Hearth and home, home and hearth – a place of warmth, cooking and comfort.
Comfort is a good word to begin with. I felt and could see that you were settled, drawing attributes and references from other pieces of yours that I know and have learned to love. But somehow, this time, it felt less like experimenting, pushing boundaries, and more like being in place. Grown up even, if I may say so. I felt comfortable. Your way of activating a space, your way of dancing solo, your way of seeking contact, makes me melt.
Your sense of play and humour surprised me at times. A smile here, a funny position there, the sound of a flute everywhere. I could hear the audience laughing the first time I saw you, but not the second. It felt like you were testing us – me, them. I could see a flame flickering, carrying the contradictory weight of being aggressive and vulnerable at the same time.
Looking around the room, I recall the images from the Wikipedia entry and begin to recall the various archaeological features of a hearth. In the centre, I see a large vent structure. A vent, a reference to breathing, an opening that allows air, gas or liquid to pass in and out of a confined space. A confined space. This is where we are. On the floor, a mint-green wax platform sits beneath the metal structure. Untouched the first time I watched you move across it. The second time – carved, scratched, dented. You have left a mark.
I have watched you toy with this idea: disappearing and reappearing, showing perseverance and fading away. Veiling and unveiling your body through the heavy curtain that surrounded us. In the moments when you were hidden, you allowed the space to exist on its own. Giving the surrounding objects a presence of their own. Sometimes these objects were activated by your touch, at other times they vibrated, moved or even lit up of their own accord.
In the darkness, I can hear cowbells echoing and a slow drum of hooves moving across the space. The sound of hooves on the floor is sharp and rhythmic, a steady “clack-clack” that echoes with a hollow resonance. It’s a crisp, almost metallic sound, like a small hammer striking wood or stone. On the wax floor, it dulls slightly, becoming more of a muted “thud-clop”. The rhythm carries a sense of movement and purpose, evoking the image of an animal in motion, deliberate and grounded. The light turns on and we see you wearing a pair of metal shoes and holding a second pair in your hand. I can sense the weight they carry, there must be a story behind these shoes. I just remembered, you grew up in a family of blacksmiths. Home is metal, hot and cold.
I could hear my breath again and again in the moments of silence as you walked heavy-weighted towards me, us, her. I stared at the shoes you made with your brother, the second pair you dropped on the floor and pushed towards the person on my left. You whispered to her: “Can I put the shoes on?” and I thought “Why did you not pick me?” I need to vent. It was sweet and daring all at once. I watched you tie the shoes on, step by step, making sure they were secure. Lifting them carefully, playing a sound with your mouth from the tip of the shoe. From a bird’s-eye view, I watched as you created a warm, low, dark sound that echoed through the space. I swallowed.
I must admit that I am overwhelmed by the thought of remembering, recalling a sequence of sounds. Let alone attempting to decode what I heard in this composition and write about it. But watching you engage and disengage with it reveals that it is in fact, a duet between you and the noise. I know how important sound is to you. The thumping of a heartbeat keeps returning. I turn around for a second and in the dark, behind the sound deck, I recognise your close collaborator Milena, carefully following every movement of yours. I’ve seen the two of you perform together, tear up and be close. Hearth is a melting pot between body and sound, between relationships, between the collective and the individual, between you and me.
Hearth and heart, hearth is heart.
I keep watching you – dreamlike. You in a push and pull. You in a hit and fall. Staring at a fire, calm and in deep relaxation, brings us all into a moment of presence. Watching you dance – the gentle warmth, the soothing crackling sound – feels hypnotic, becomes a primal experience.
I am in a drift. We are in a collective drift. I feel a sense of belonging to you, like a moth to a flame.
Anna Hugo is a curator. She currently runs the Visitor and Public Programme at Phileas – The Austrian Office for Contemporary Art. She holds an MA in Critical Theory and the Arts from the School of Visual Arts, New York, an MA in Fine Art from the University of Applied Arts Vienna, and a diploma in Fine Art and Design from the Edinburgh College of Art. She has worked with the Independent Art Fair, the New Museum, Gavin Brown’s Enterprise and Gladstone Gallery, New York, as well as with KUNSTVEREIN GARTENHAUS, Vienna, PW-Magazine and as a curator and consultant for private art collections internationally.