Windows, doors and hindsight
The black box, with its four walls and confined space, has always been intriguing to enter. It creates a sense of separation from reality, temporarily transporting us to a different world. Despite its size, the black box has a way of shaping our perception and setting expectations for what is about to unfold.
In this particular black box, the seating is unconventional, resembling an abandoned warehouse. As I enter, a feeling of longing washes over me, evoking memories of a place I have either been or wished to be. Reminiscences of the 1980s club scene displayed around the space reinforce this sentiment. With a huge lamp in one corner of the room and a silver-golden fabric floating above the audience, it can be compared to entering a photo-shoot set.
As the lights dim, excitement fills the air as the performers make their entrance. Each enters with a distinctive gesture, and one notable movement that is the act of placing their hands in front of their eyes. This gesture can be interpreted as either hiding from or actively choosing not to see what is happening, consumed by their own personal worlds. The haunting sound gradually enters the scene, surrounding me in its ethereal embrace. As it gently approaches from a distance, a sense of doubt begins to creep in, causing one to question one’s own perception. The hypnotic, almost silent nature of the sound engages the senses, evoking a profound surge of angst. With each moment, the intensity builds, heightening awareness and immersing one in a captivating experience.
Although each performer begins their journey alone, there is a sense of unity among them. They not only share the same movement, but also wear matching costumes, much like a subculture with a common purpose. This reminds me of the current political climate, where people often find solace in not acknowledging or accepting the reality around them.
For me, this unveiling of the hidden is a glimpse of the apocalypse, not in the Hollywood sense of an extraterrestrial invasion, but rather as a disruption of the manufactured reality we have constructed. The instinctive reaction to cover our eyes goes beyond the hampering of vision; it symbolizes an inner struggle that holds us captive. The show progresses like different chapters or scenes, with moments of openness and building tension accompanied by the soundtrack.
This journey through the chapters is not only experienced by the performers, but also felt by the audience. Some heads bob, bodies move, and smiles appear, creating a sense of collective engagement within the black box. It feels like a rupture or disruption of the space, and my body is flooded with nostalgia, yearning for memories of vibrant club scenes with great sound and shared catharsis.
As I reminisce, flashes of my personal memories surface. I remember my first encounters with Philipp as a dance student, mesmerized by his duet with Meg Stuart. The following year, I witnessed lan’s solo in the same space, a white cube, and marveled at his ability to inhabit and disappear within the space.
In the midst of my nostalgic voyage, I am confronted with the notion of the aging dancing body. Society has constructed an illusion of the temporality of the dancer’s body, but I admire those who continue to hone their craft and push the boundaries of longevity, not only as individuals but as a collective. Could this be the starfish, the symbol of regeneration?
Mzamo Nondlwana is a queer, non-binary performing artist originally from Johannesburg, South Africa. Their work focuses on marginalized bodies and an attempt to subvert colonial fantasy. In 2006, they completed their dance education at MID (South Africa), and in 2014 at SEAD (Austria). They have worked with Michikazu Matsune, Doris Uhlich, Magdalena Chowaniec, Needcompany and Michael Turinsky. They are also one half of Bicha Boo Collective, an audio-visual performative collective, active since 2017.