(Simone walks up the ramp holding a red cloth)


Sung as a preface:

Here, this narrow road, where does it lead?

Perhaps we are circling quietly around a "flower."

1. Body Ascends

Flux of a Performative Body: movement of walking holding a long red cloth.

Everything is subjected to movement and change. There is true reality and reality as it appears to us. Everything is dependent on certain conditions and we are simply a manifestation of them.

Deconstructing makes it sound like a deliberate act of the intellect, but I think the motivation for performing comes from somewhere deeper, from the fundamental creative instinct.

I'm not the same now as I was then; yet, I'm not somebody else.


2. Things Move

(Simone wraps cloth around table and begins to push it)

Flux of an Object:  movement of pushing a table

There's no other way but the way of existing in space rather than organizing space in order to exist. In the transient nature of a loading dock, bodies and things are in constant flux. Narratives vary from time to time. Moods and feelings matter more than details and progression.

Horses are nude. I wonder about what kind of small roads are under the shadow of white happiness....

(Simone unwraps cloth from table and begins wrapping around guests)

Flux of Other Bodies: movement of weaving and pushing bodies. New relocations.

The experience is physical. Different sorts of connections emerge from the intimacy of the material, from creating new spaces.

Spaces recede.

Spaces expand.

Materials take different forms.

Your experience is now bound to this place and therefore it can never be setup in exactly the same way again.

We are in a state of flow.


3. Things Go

(Simone stands on dock while Martha wraps he and takes her out of the dock)

Red Body:  The sleeping hollow is where all things become red.

I repeatedly circle back to geometry.

Alice, iris, red horse, red castle

Isis, stone, squirrel,

Rabbit, universe, of enormous silence!

Loup, loo, white wolf, from far away, faintly audible, the voice of reality comes to us.

(Text by Simone Couto, Yoshimasu Gozo, and Rádhildur Ingadóttir)