So and so everyone. An utterance, a gesture. She's taken the mic after having crawled to it, having fallen through Perspex; she's painted her body with a bright, 70s- looking rainbow; her face is half-painted black like a warrior. Rainbow warrior. With half her face painted black the reference is open. She's rotated to each side of the room like a ballet figurine in a jewellery box behind Perspex held up by two friends acting as bodyguards, completing a slow-motion Tai Chi routine to each wall—side of the box—like a preserved colonised-colonising, hyper-sexualised relic behind a museum case. Two other friends in wetsuits toss objects at the Perspex: a helmet, bandages, plastic, jeans, a book on dreams, another called Being Pakeha; nothing is extraneous. Wetsuits? Why?
Rainbow warrior.
When a New Zealand Greenpeace boat was bombed by French spies in the mid- 1980s during an anti-nuclear testing protest, someone was killed.
History.
Love me.
I remember seeing the Rainbow Warrior moored half-sunk for years beside the draw-
bridge down by the Central Auckland Viaduct Harbour—now where multi-million-dollar apartments and a boat city reside—as my mother drove me to swimming lessons at the Tepid Baths. I couldn't work out as a 10-year-old why my parents' friend, my best ballet friend's father, was the lawyer for the two French spies often referred to in New Zealand as terrorists at that time. Why is he defending them? I would ask. 'Someone has to', was the reply. 'He is the top of the top, and they don't stand a chance'. New Zealand is still ostracised by the United States in particular for its anti-nuclear stance, but as a 10 year old
child I was proud of my country.
Love Me.
So they climbed in wetsuits beneath the boat and planted a bomb. And their punishment was? Exiled on an island. No prison.
We are already exiled on an island.
And so there she is, naked rainbow warrior/dance terrorist. The body paint only covers the front, so when her backside is revealed she is white with red hair, like so many classical paintings the nude, auburn-haired muse with alabaster skin. The two friends in wetsuits they climb through and massage her body, feed her bananas, and dress her in red lacy underpants, a silver skirt, a gold sequin top bought for cheap from the Turkish markets in Berlin last year, and a khaki green military shoulder pack; all the while she completes her Tai Chi configuration to the sound of aeroplanes taking off and landing and sporadic sci-fi screeches. She is unscathed and the eye of the storm. Pedestal, ambiguous, protected? Preserved? Pampered? Revered? Hated? Is this serious or do I laugh—it’s ridiculous, right? There's spaghetti stuck to the bottom of my feet from a piece earlier in the show.
Rainbow Warrior. I have a vivid memory of how sad it was to see the Greenpeace boat half-sunk, this green boat with a white dove holding an olive branch in its beak on the stern. Little rainbow, too.
She and I fall on our face through the barrier. The small piece of Perspex left after it had accidentally snapped inches from her face on opening night without a single performer flinching. What's up with the sad vibe? Why are people so serious about nudity? I have a rainbow painted on me!
Snap. She asks the lighting technician to put on the red light and points to it at the back and gestures for the music to be turned up as well as the mic. She has total control and has broken the illusion of a performance. Or has she? No one really knows whether
So they climbed in wetsuits beneath the boat and planted a bomb. And their punishment was? Exiled on an island. No prison.
We are already exiled on an island.
And so there she is, naked rainbow warrior/dance terrorist. The body paint only covers the front, so when her backside is revealed she is white with red hair, like so many classical paintings the nude, auburn-haired muse with alabaster skin. The two friends in wetsuits they climb through and massage her body, feed her bananas, and dress her in red lacy underpants, a silver skirt, a gold sequin top bought for cheap from the Turkish markets in Berlin last year, and a khaki green military shoulder pack; all the while she completes her Tai Chi configuration to the sound of aeroplanes taking off and landing and sporadic sci-fi screeches. She is unscathed and the eye of the storm. Pedestal, ambiguous, protected? Preserved? Pampered? Revered? Hated? Is this serious or do I laugh—it’s ridiculous, right? There's spaghetti stuck to the bottom of my feet from a piece earlier in the show.
Rainbow Warrior. I have a vivid memory of how sad it was to see the Greenpeace boat half-sunk, this green boat with a white dove holding an olive branch in its beak on the stern. Little rainbow, too.
She and I fall on our face through the barrier. The small piece of Perspex left after it had accidentally snapped inches from her face on opening night without a single performer flinching. What's up with the sad vibe? Why are people so serious about nudity? I have a rainbow painted on me!
Snap. She asks the lighting technician to put on the red light and points to it at the back and gestures for the music to be turned up as well as the mic. She has total control and has broken the illusion of a performance. Or has she? No one really knows whether
this is part of the performance or an accident, not even the technician. For her it’s a win-
win.
‘So, everyone’, she says.
Garble, garble, garble. Words, nothing, nothing, something, blah, blah through the mic. Looking into eyes who say to her: 'um'. The eyes read: 'are you taking the piss out of us?' or 'it’s a bit scary for this naked woman to be staring into our eyes and talking nonsensically into a mic; what are you up to, exactly?' This is the most fun, right here, this moment.
Then as the mic goes down the dubstep goes up—loud. I, she, the beast does a backwards roll into screaming and dancing. Urban nightmare, dubstep, primal rhythm, dark, grounding and powerful, club night out? Yep, I dance like this out, too, and people also freak—minus the screaming. Give me space, people.
In the studio, this section was always transformative for me because the moment you start moving your precious body around and dancing to rhythmic music and voicing a range of guttural sounds that come out of months of explorations—'what is this thing?'— basically finding and moving through a variety of emotional states and images through the history of humanity (sometimes accompanied with movements to match), you actually go into a trance. It’s impossible not to... and, woah, where did the hours go, and what is THIS?
How it reads is actually pretty insignificant, really. This was always going to be the case because in every rehearsal what comes out is unique to that moment— which is nothing new, but what it even is is always a big question mark.
Yes, the point is that love is inexpressible in words and that it has all the shades of the rainbow and more. It is not easy or simple; it is dense and complex, and it can be ugly and painful as well as light and fun and sexy and gorgeous and absolutely uncontrollable.... Love is wild. It is gentle inside the play. Who dares come near it? What
‘So, everyone’, she says.
Garble, garble, garble. Words, nothing, nothing, something, blah, blah through the mic. Looking into eyes who say to her: 'um'. The eyes read: 'are you taking the piss out of us?' or 'it’s a bit scary for this naked woman to be staring into our eyes and talking nonsensically into a mic; what are you up to, exactly?' This is the most fun, right here, this moment.
Then as the mic goes down the dubstep goes up—loud. I, she, the beast does a backwards roll into screaming and dancing. Urban nightmare, dubstep, primal rhythm, dark, grounding and powerful, club night out? Yep, I dance like this out, too, and people also freak—minus the screaming. Give me space, people.
In the studio, this section was always transformative for me because the moment you start moving your precious body around and dancing to rhythmic music and voicing a range of guttural sounds that come out of months of explorations—'what is this thing?'— basically finding and moving through a variety of emotional states and images through the history of humanity (sometimes accompanied with movements to match), you actually go into a trance. It’s impossible not to... and, woah, where did the hours go, and what is THIS?
How it reads is actually pretty insignificant, really. This was always going to be the case because in every rehearsal what comes out is unique to that moment— which is nothing new, but what it even is is always a big question mark.
Yes, the point is that love is inexpressible in words and that it has all the shades of the rainbow and more. It is not easy or simple; it is dense and complex, and it can be ugly and painful as well as light and fun and sexy and gorgeous and absolutely uncontrollable.... Love is wild. It is gentle inside the play. Who dares come near it? What
do we even know of it, really? Power and vulnerability exposed, nothing left to hide.
Shattering even in the grace. Most powerful moment. And some people can't stand this, I
know. That's totally fine, and I include that. I acknowledge that.
When you really push an art form, you lose people and you really gain people. It’s a balance. Some people get heaps of pingers. I get to experiment.
Yep yep yep—I had to use words to explain myself here, which is the opposite of the point. But, hey. It’s just more explorations... right? Can I 'get it right'?
I've been asked to produce a short work (15 minutes, though I snuck up to 16, of course, being maximalist) for a live series for a sponsored 'producing project' for new and emerging producers to explore ways to produce. So as an experimental choreographer (self-producer) with ten years of experience who had returned to New Zealand from Berlin not so long ago and whose work, despite winning multiple awards, etc, tends to fall outside the arts administration funding comfort zone, I had an idea: I wanted to make it without producing it myself. Here I am in the ‘Love Me’ show for the live series—it was the final after ‘Taste Me and ‘Hear Me’. Keeping up the practice and deepening investigations, still part of an upcoming community. A strategic move for my career? Lol. Lol. You decide.
I don't know what other people's experiences or understandings of love ARE, but mine is not limited to romantic or sexual love. This work is about humanity for me; it’s about consciousness and awareness. It’s about where are we going, humans? What have we come from? Do we even know what love is or how to handle it? Naturally, I am generalising humanity, which is instantly flawed and ridiculous, but actually I am interested in speaking across bridges. Naturally. Attempts, offerings, actually. Call it naïve or bold. Arrogant—you name it.
'Love Me' although I am a fucking messy, crazed, power-mongering, foolish, suicidal, terrifying, whimpering, controlling, ridiculous, FRIGGIN’ HILARIOUS (like who are we fooling here?), actually pretty lovable and entertaining being, inherently capable of power
When you really push an art form, you lose people and you really gain people. It’s a balance. Some people get heaps of pingers. I get to experiment.
Yep yep yep—I had to use words to explain myself here, which is the opposite of the point. But, hey. It’s just more explorations... right? Can I 'get it right'?
I've been asked to produce a short work (15 minutes, though I snuck up to 16, of course, being maximalist) for a live series for a sponsored 'producing project' for new and emerging producers to explore ways to produce. So as an experimental choreographer (self-producer) with ten years of experience who had returned to New Zealand from Berlin not so long ago and whose work, despite winning multiple awards, etc, tends to fall outside the arts administration funding comfort zone, I had an idea: I wanted to make it without producing it myself. Here I am in the ‘Love Me’ show for the live series—it was the final after ‘Taste Me and ‘Hear Me’. Keeping up the practice and deepening investigations, still part of an upcoming community. A strategic move for my career? Lol. Lol. You decide.
I don't know what other people's experiences or understandings of love ARE, but mine is not limited to romantic or sexual love. This work is about humanity for me; it’s about consciousness and awareness. It’s about where are we going, humans? What have we come from? Do we even know what love is or how to handle it? Naturally, I am generalising humanity, which is instantly flawed and ridiculous, but actually I am interested in speaking across bridges. Naturally. Attempts, offerings, actually. Call it naïve or bold. Arrogant—you name it.
'Love Me' although I am a fucking messy, crazed, power-mongering, foolish, suicidal, terrifying, whimpering, controlling, ridiculous, FRIGGIN’ HILARIOUS (like who are we fooling here?), actually pretty lovable and entertaining being, inherently capable of power
without power over.
Powerfool>Powerful.
Hang on, Elephant in the Room. Who’s looking? Not me.
If you can't love without taking it all into account, your love is shallow. It’s not love if it’s ownerSHIP, relationSHIP, motherSHIP, friendSHIP.
I am crossing the divide, I am wanting a genuine exchange here, which is uncomfortable, between audience and performer. I am not dictating what you should feel or think. This is totally up for discussion.
Okay. So I pretend to have sex, and I stumble around looking fully traumatised (which I guess I largely am in this oversaturated, pretty insensitive, and competitive world in which I tend to give a lot and earn very little money, which this world says is a priority while selling fabricated notions of what love is to us as consumers). I pretend to give birth after having sex, my function as a woman warrior, and everyone is laughing at me. The trauma is obviously funny. It’s 'over the top'. But is it really?
It's actually quite natural. A lot of the work I make is natural but gets positioned as somehow radical. This shows how far removed from the natural world—including our own bodies and their processes—we are.
How inaccurate is this over-the-topness for daily living in even the most boring places on this planet? HOW ARE YOU FEELING AT THIS POINT IN HISTORY? Fear is sold to us and we pay for it. Drama is our programming and our entertainment. How we brush our teeth is rainbow-coloured violation.
Don't people want to scream and laugh and woop and shout and roll around like a freak and bark and fold in uncanny ways and shake and cry and vomit and wretch and curl and twirl and laugh again and celebrate being alive? With humour and no shame. Without holding back and being small so as not to upset others or some prescribed psychic social power balance?
Hang on, Elephant in the Room. Who’s looking? Not me.
If you can't love without taking it all into account, your love is shallow. It’s not love if it’s ownerSHIP, relationSHIP, motherSHIP, friendSHIP.
I am crossing the divide, I am wanting a genuine exchange here, which is uncomfortable, between audience and performer. I am not dictating what you should feel or think. This is totally up for discussion.
Okay. So I pretend to have sex, and I stumble around looking fully traumatised (which I guess I largely am in this oversaturated, pretty insensitive, and competitive world in which I tend to give a lot and earn very little money, which this world says is a priority while selling fabricated notions of what love is to us as consumers). I pretend to give birth after having sex, my function as a woman warrior, and everyone is laughing at me. The trauma is obviously funny. It’s 'over the top'. But is it really?
It's actually quite natural. A lot of the work I make is natural but gets positioned as somehow radical. This shows how far removed from the natural world—including our own bodies and their processes—we are.
How inaccurate is this over-the-topness for daily living in even the most boring places on this planet? HOW ARE YOU FEELING AT THIS POINT IN HISTORY? Fear is sold to us and we pay for it. Drama is our programming and our entertainment. How we brush our teeth is rainbow-coloured violation.
Don't people want to scream and laugh and woop and shout and roll around like a freak and bark and fold in uncanny ways and shake and cry and vomit and wretch and curl and twirl and laugh again and celebrate being alive? With humour and no shame. Without holding back and being small so as not to upset others or some prescribed psychic social power balance?
Blah, she says with respect and love. This is Freud's unconscious naturally, pushing
aside what we 'repress' and unconsciously 'desire' to be functional in the symbolic adult
world, etc. A language we speak to find power.
A friend says afterwards that they feel the whole space transform when the voice starts up. It cuts through the imaginary space of fourth-wall dancers; they 'don't yell'! They don't generally even speak. Nice, objectified fetish bodies for eyes to enjoy.
But, hey, the voice is part of the body; the body is part of the mind; and the body is heart and soul and thoughts and feelings and the barrier and interface between inside and outside—communication.
The work is about communication. Lacan. Mr Psychoanalysis Pants. She pants. Give me a French kiss. It’s the pre-symbolic stage.
I hate psychoanalysis. It’s fully sexist. And so useful. Thanks, Lacan. Mark says afterwards in the panel discussion that Lacan says that we can never really love, that we only project our desire onto the other. Interesting. Very unholistic academic theory, but yep, that's in there, too, coz this is the way the Western world is largely indoctrinated to think.
So, yay, writhing around radical feminist again, crazy friggin’ incarnated nutface goddess from wherever, unapologetic paganistic ritualistic release in your face. 2011 galatos love me. Live series. Auckland. Last two days of August. Rugby World Cup just ‘round the corner.
Yup. 'Going off'.
'Who’s with me?'
Inexpressible... I jump on the stage in red lighting. Maybe gonna do something
different? Nope, same shiz; now she's framed on the stage doing a guttural and kinda mocking dance about our control of the body and women and all that, our voice can't be heard and all that, language is more of a barrier than Perspex, the false divide to being
A friend says afterwards that they feel the whole space transform when the voice starts up. It cuts through the imaginary space of fourth-wall dancers; they 'don't yell'! They don't generally even speak. Nice, objectified fetish bodies for eyes to enjoy.
But, hey, the voice is part of the body; the body is part of the mind; and the body is heart and soul and thoughts and feelings and the barrier and interface between inside and outside—communication.
The work is about communication. Lacan. Mr Psychoanalysis Pants. She pants. Give me a French kiss. It’s the pre-symbolic stage.
I hate psychoanalysis. It’s fully sexist. And so useful. Thanks, Lacan. Mark says afterwards in the panel discussion that Lacan says that we can never really love, that we only project our desire onto the other. Interesting. Very unholistic academic theory, but yep, that's in there, too, coz this is the way the Western world is largely indoctrinated to think.
So, yay, writhing around radical feminist again, crazy friggin’ incarnated nutface goddess from wherever, unapologetic paganistic ritualistic release in your face. 2011 galatos love me. Live series. Auckland. Last two days of August. Rugby World Cup just ‘round the corner.
Yup. 'Going off'.
'Who’s with me?'
Inexpressible... I jump on the stage in red lighting. Maybe gonna do something
different? Nope, same shiz; now she's framed on the stage doing a guttural and kinda mocking dance about our control of the body and women and all that, our voice can't be heard and all that, language is more of a barrier than Perspex, the false divide to being
understood and loved. Can love in all its shades transcend words?
Can it, Lacan?
Am I sexy? Am I desirable?
Irigaray would say yes. Our lips speak as one. (Vaginal references, French feminist philosophy here.)
I search the audience. They look a bit more invigorated than last time I looked at them. Curious. They, I. Entertained rather than traumatised by objects that could bounce off the Perspex and hit them.
I choose the right guy, someone I know will be up for it. An actor friend or dancer, someone I collaborate with, can work with. I had planned people I might choose. Yes, it’s a man. It has to be. (I'm not a lesbian, right?)
I sit in his lap; he's sweet with it. Looks slightly startled; both of them say both nights, 'How are you going?' and I say, 'Oh, fine'. Reminds me of when I'm living in Berlin and to pleasantries like, 'How are you?' they all say, bemusedly, 'I'm fine.’ Who cares? It’s so English.
Big smile.
No one can hear; it’s just between me and them and the one next to them, both nights a woman. 'You up for some yelling?' I say, having tested this out in rehearsal. I'd done some more gibberish at them, and it hadn't worked to get them up, but still interested. What is communicating so body language can work alone?
Second night I grab the guy's hand and dragged him onto the stage and started yelling, so he followed suit; he screams through the mic and pulls up my skirt and yells into the mic, 'Damn you!' More cheering from the crowd, especially the break-dancer boy crew sitting up 'front' (there's no front in this dance; I face the back a lot), who were shaking their heads at him at first and laughing at me naked.
Anyway, moving on. Token audience participation moment after having already done
Am I sexy? Am I desirable?
Irigaray would say yes. Our lips speak as one. (Vaginal references, French feminist philosophy here.)
I search the audience. They look a bit more invigorated than last time I looked at them. Curious. They, I. Entertained rather than traumatised by objects that could bounce off the Perspex and hit them.
I choose the right guy, someone I know will be up for it. An actor friend or dancer, someone I collaborate with, can work with. I had planned people I might choose. Yes, it’s a man. It has to be. (I'm not a lesbian, right?)
I sit in his lap; he's sweet with it. Looks slightly startled; both of them say both nights, 'How are you going?' and I say, 'Oh, fine'. Reminds me of when I'm living in Berlin and to pleasantries like, 'How are you?' they all say, bemusedly, 'I'm fine.’ Who cares? It’s so English.
Big smile.
No one can hear; it’s just between me and them and the one next to them, both nights a woman. 'You up for some yelling?' I say, having tested this out in rehearsal. I'd done some more gibberish at them, and it hadn't worked to get them up, but still interested. What is communicating so body language can work alone?
Second night I grab the guy's hand and dragged him onto the stage and started yelling, so he followed suit; he screams through the mic and pulls up my skirt and yells into the mic, 'Damn you!' More cheering from the crowd, especially the break-dancer boy crew sitting up 'front' (there's no front in this dance; I face the back a lot), who were shaking their heads at him at first and laughing at me naked.
Anyway, moving on. Token audience participation moment after having already done
a full solo work exploring audience interaction earlier in the year. I grab the mic back ask
for someone to sing me a song and then just sing one myself out of time over dubstep.
Leonard Cohen’s ‘I'm your man’. I yell, 'Where's my man?' afterwards.
I turn away and sing, 'Ain't no sunshine', which trails into (and I turnaround) 'Turnaround... every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you're never coming ‘round...' So now those who really didn't know what I was up to, who sat with their arms folded
and asked each other if this was still the same piece ('The lights go out when its over', said one) can finally relax into laughter because they know: okay, she's joking. We get it now.
But am I?
Sitting hunched on the floor I whisper, 'And I need you now tonight. And I need you more than ever. If you only hold me tight, we'll be holding on forever...'
The track cuts out.
'And we'll only be making it right’.... Audience laughter. Is it funny? I feel real serious. I stand and smile. The music shifts to soft, loving New Age-sounding music... stolen. 'Now I'd like to invite my friends to translate for me into Japanese and German', I say,
arms up. So enter two of my gorgeous and ridiculously dressed (‘80s) friends/performers, who take the mic and huddle to translate what I’m saying. I walk to and crawl onto the stage under a spotlight.
Very earnest moment. But also not something ever done in New Zealand culture, except perhaps on a Marae or in a therapy group; we do not like to express emotions publicly, except in movies.
I explain a list of ways 'I feel' translated into Japanese and German over music. 'I feel:
My body
is all I have.
I feel
I turn away and sing, 'Ain't no sunshine', which trails into (and I turnaround) 'Turnaround... every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you're never coming ‘round...' So now those who really didn't know what I was up to, who sat with their arms folded
and asked each other if this was still the same piece ('The lights go out when its over', said one) can finally relax into laughter because they know: okay, she's joking. We get it now.
But am I?
Sitting hunched on the floor I whisper, 'And I need you now tonight. And I need you more than ever. If you only hold me tight, we'll be holding on forever...'
The track cuts out.
'And we'll only be making it right’.... Audience laughter. Is it funny? I feel real serious. I stand and smile. The music shifts to soft, loving New Age-sounding music... stolen. 'Now I'd like to invite my friends to translate for me into Japanese and German', I say,
arms up. So enter two of my gorgeous and ridiculously dressed (‘80s) friends/performers, who take the mic and huddle to translate what I’m saying. I walk to and crawl onto the stage under a spotlight.
Very earnest moment. But also not something ever done in New Zealand culture, except perhaps on a Marae or in a therapy group; we do not like to express emotions publicly, except in movies.
I explain a list of ways 'I feel' translated into Japanese and German over music. 'I feel:
My body
is all I have.
I feel
expectations and
eyes looking at me.
I can feel
my brain in my skull.
I can feel the words vibrating in my throat as they come out.’ (I touch my body in
these places.)
‘I can feel my heart beating behind my boob.’ (No laughter—damn, failed joke. Or did
they not hear me?)
‘I can feel the light blasting down on me, the darkness.’ (gesturing with hands) I climb off the stage and walk forward.
‘I feel
hungry.’ (giggles)
‘I feel like chicken tonight.’ (laughter, always, KFC ad)
‘The roof protecting us from the weather.’ (They think I'm serious at this point—
maybe.)
‘I feel understanding’ (eyeballing and gesturing one side of the room, very serious) ‘and misunderstanding.’ (same, other side, super serious)
‘I feel connection
and I feel
disconnection.’ (Are they taking it personally?)
I feel
the love. (Is she sarcastic?)
‘I feel
fear,
and I can feel sadness.’
Yes, I'm being serious.
eyes looking at me.
I can feel
my brain in my skull.
I can feel the words vibrating in my throat as they come out.’ (I touch my body in
these places.)
‘I can feel my heart beating behind my boob.’ (No laughter—damn, failed joke. Or did
they not hear me?)
‘I can feel the light blasting down on me, the darkness.’ (gesturing with hands) I climb off the stage and walk forward.
‘I feel
hungry.’ (giggles)
‘I feel like chicken tonight.’ (laughter, always, KFC ad)
‘The roof protecting us from the weather.’ (They think I'm serious at this point—
maybe.)
‘I feel understanding’ (eyeballing and gesturing one side of the room, very serious) ‘and misunderstanding.’ (same, other side, super serious)
‘I feel connection
and I feel
disconnection.’ (Are they taking it personally?)
I feel
the love. (Is she sarcastic?)
‘I feel
fear,
and I can feel sadness.’
Yes, I'm being serious.
I turn to face the back and scream, 'I can feel the laughter!' and turn back to give the
audience a big cheesy grin. Usually laughter.
Scream again, 'I can feel the earth MOVE!' Laughter. I can feel the change!
I climb back onto the stage.
I can feel (turn so people can hear) the suspension!
I pause with one arm forward and one arm behind like I’m suspended in a desert storm holding the pose for as long as I feel a New Zealand audience will wait. In Berlin a whole dance of this would be fine, but ten seconds is too long here—good—so I turn very slowly, and, oh, there's laughter—they get 'suspension' followed by a stillness too long and not facing them. Suspense. Second night, I hold it way too long.
I want the piece to hit them in this moment, to 'sink in', allowing the power of chaos, followed by silence and stillness. Slowly turning energy transferred from one hand to the other, I pause exactly the same way but facing them. I then slowly wave and say, 'ciao', which means hello and goodbye in Italian. Why is the body language as awkward as verbal language? Back to controlled and slowed—is she joking or serious? Backing out into the darkness. The translators, who have at moments moved closer to hear, are both watching as I pull my hand (also a gesture referencing the end of the Tai Chi routine) up like, ‘HI! BYE!’ I walk down the stairs at the back of the stage into the dark. Transcendence/descendence. I've done enough.
Translators are left staring at an empty stage.
Finale. Applause. Reappear for group bow. End of show.
And what's all that about?
Who can say?
How many languages does it take to be heard? And if you’re heard, are you even
understood? Even if you intend one thing, the interpreter can take it another way.
Scream again, 'I can feel the earth MOVE!' Laughter. I can feel the change!
I climb back onto the stage.
I can feel (turn so people can hear) the suspension!
I pause with one arm forward and one arm behind like I’m suspended in a desert storm holding the pose for as long as I feel a New Zealand audience will wait. In Berlin a whole dance of this would be fine, but ten seconds is too long here—good—so I turn very slowly, and, oh, there's laughter—they get 'suspension' followed by a stillness too long and not facing them. Suspense. Second night, I hold it way too long.
I want the piece to hit them in this moment, to 'sink in', allowing the power of chaos, followed by silence and stillness. Slowly turning energy transferred from one hand to the other, I pause exactly the same way but facing them. I then slowly wave and say, 'ciao', which means hello and goodbye in Italian. Why is the body language as awkward as verbal language? Back to controlled and slowed—is she joking or serious? Backing out into the darkness. The translators, who have at moments moved closer to hear, are both watching as I pull my hand (also a gesture referencing the end of the Tai Chi routine) up like, ‘HI! BYE!’ I walk down the stairs at the back of the stage into the dark. Transcendence/descendence. I've done enough.
Translators are left staring at an empty stage.
Finale. Applause. Reappear for group bow. End of show.
And what's all that about?
Who can say?
How many languages does it take to be heard? And if you’re heard, are you even
understood? Even if you intend one thing, the interpreter can take it another way.
Why use two strong, gorgeous female friends to translate into the languages of the
two WWII aggressors?
All a coincidence, perhaps?
Why not into French? Beyond the French spies, France and England fought to colonise New Zealand.
I introduce French with a third performer in the next incarnation of the work, held outside in a local bar with local central city drinkers.
English.
'Universal language', or so I was told living in Europe. Transcending difference. So I'm told.
Where do I come from? Who am I? Where am I going?
White girl born in Aotearoa. I belong here. Mostly Irish by blood; English colonised me, too.
I make ART. Real art that discomforts and uproots and questions and teases, and at moments pleases, just enough. 'Honesty in New Zealand is a no-no', says a journalist in an interview.
It creates SPACE. I am not pandering and am told I 'don't compromise'. That I 'don't play the game'. But I do.
I am told there is space inside this work and yet is it very dense with possibility. Afterward it seems to appeal to academics and general public alike, and no one can articulate why—brilliant.
The panel fumbles to speak about it. How do we talk about something inexpressible in words? Elephant in the Room is fat and spinning.
What is real love? In our disconnection and misunderstanding we draw closer to what is slipping. We are drawn to know it, to find it. To sometimes control it? We cannot bind it or know it. We can never know ourselves, says Lacan.
All a coincidence, perhaps?
Why not into French? Beyond the French spies, France and England fought to colonise New Zealand.
I introduce French with a third performer in the next incarnation of the work, held outside in a local bar with local central city drinkers.
English.
'Universal language', or so I was told living in Europe. Transcending difference. So I'm told.
Where do I come from? Who am I? Where am I going?
White girl born in Aotearoa. I belong here. Mostly Irish by blood; English colonised me, too.
I make ART. Real art that discomforts and uproots and questions and teases, and at moments pleases, just enough. 'Honesty in New Zealand is a no-no', says a journalist in an interview.
It creates SPACE. I am not pandering and am told I 'don't compromise'. That I 'don't play the game'. But I do.
I am told there is space inside this work and yet is it very dense with possibility. Afterward it seems to appeal to academics and general public alike, and no one can articulate why—brilliant.
The panel fumbles to speak about it. How do we talk about something inexpressible in words? Elephant in the Room is fat and spinning.
What is real love? In our disconnection and misunderstanding we draw closer to what is slipping. We are drawn to know it, to find it. To sometimes control it? We cannot bind it or know it. We can never know ourselves, says Lacan.
We are speechless and blind to love. We let it sit wrecked on the harbour by a draw-
bridge for children to see as a reminder of the passion of the heart for the love of it. Our
ocean. Our world, our people. We defend what? We devolve and when we evolve we are
told we are mad and the growing pains meet resistance. When we try to cross the bridge.
To speak hurts unspeakable, to heal past wrongs. In cultures, to empower ourselves to be
truthful even if this gets us nowhere. It evolves our souls and affects those who cross our
paths.
The unutterable slips through and we feel moved and we don't know why. The intention is heart.
Wake up. Rise up. From the deep.
Hallo. Goodbye. Hallo. We are slaves to a love we cannot handle.
The birthday suit is still a shockwave in the deep space, interpreted as deep sea. The
heart of our longing, a treasure chest spinning. Unearths and as much as we attempt to speak of it. Address it. It folds away and hides inside the next movement and sheds and births into something new. And when we face it and are there for it like the Rainbow Warrior, defending the very basics of it, there is an elephant in the room like the panel unable to speak directly about the work in an open discussion.
We bomb it and we criticise and wreck and sink it. We sing heartbroken songs in odes to our own loss of it. We project ourselves onto the openness of it, the liberation, the ambiguity. Are we still lovable?
Yes.
Come passion.
Express and search yourself, deep in the ocean of evolution.
Love me/you.
Rainbow Warrior. Arising in the collective consciousness, let it go. Honour it. Humanity on the brink of truly embracing itself in its entirety, no more hiding or denial
The unutterable slips through and we feel moved and we don't know why. The intention is heart.
Wake up. Rise up. From the deep.
Hallo. Goodbye. Hallo. We are slaves to a love we cannot handle.
The birthday suit is still a shockwave in the deep space, interpreted as deep sea. The
heart of our longing, a treasure chest spinning. Unearths and as much as we attempt to speak of it. Address it. It folds away and hides inside the next movement and sheds and births into something new. And when we face it and are there for it like the Rainbow Warrior, defending the very basics of it, there is an elephant in the room like the panel unable to speak directly about the work in an open discussion.
We bomb it and we criticise and wreck and sink it. We sing heartbroken songs in odes to our own loss of it. We project ourselves onto the openness of it, the liberation, the ambiguity. Are we still lovable?
Yes.
Come passion.
Express and search yourself, deep in the ocean of evolution.
Love me/you.
Rainbow Warrior. Arising in the collective consciousness, let it go. Honour it. Humanity on the brink of truly embracing itself in its entirety, no more hiding or denial
or power trips.
Peace and freedom fighter.
It is a dance, which is a speech without words.
And even in me uttering these lines, it is more because it is a feeling only those
rooms of people can share and know. The culture of that room on those evenings, what is 'mind blowing' to a friend's sociologist friend? I can never know. I don't know what he experienced, but thank you. They felt what I felt and I will never know what that is.
I can only feel what I feel. But I feel.
I can see reflections of myself all around: in the Perspex, in mammoth shadows of my naked body on the wall, in video projections of the live feed through the Perspex into the top corner of the room, in the eyes of the audience member I randomly see. They see themselves in me?
Someone afterwards says it’s funny, that they laughed all the way through. Someone else says it’s so heartfelt and beautiful. It’s more simple. No, it’s very dense—no one got it? Describing words. Someone cried. I see shock in their eyes. I am a 'dakini'—female Buddha, wild and fiery. I am deconstructing language and communication. It’s brilliant.
I feel exhausted, like I’ve been dying for a week. I don't even know what it is, this thing, that's the beauty.
How many people can say they blew someone's mind?
A slave to adrenaline, but the slave is the master.
No roles are fixed in this shifting world; get used to it, humans. Bananas.
'I can feel the change.’ However few are there, it’s into the ether.
The solo is never alone. It has friends and support and is not a solo. We deserve love and support, and all is exchange. All is an artifice yet it has some luscious,
unfathomable truth lurking.
I share to move further, toward and away. Ciao.
Peace and freedom fighter.
It is a dance, which is a speech without words.
And even in me uttering these lines, it is more because it is a feeling only those
rooms of people can share and know. The culture of that room on those evenings, what is 'mind blowing' to a friend's sociologist friend? I can never know. I don't know what he experienced, but thank you. They felt what I felt and I will never know what that is.
I can only feel what I feel. But I feel.
I can see reflections of myself all around: in the Perspex, in mammoth shadows of my naked body on the wall, in video projections of the live feed through the Perspex into the top corner of the room, in the eyes of the audience member I randomly see. They see themselves in me?
Someone afterwards says it’s funny, that they laughed all the way through. Someone else says it’s so heartfelt and beautiful. It’s more simple. No, it’s very dense—no one got it? Describing words. Someone cried. I see shock in their eyes. I am a 'dakini'—female Buddha, wild and fiery. I am deconstructing language and communication. It’s brilliant.
I feel exhausted, like I’ve been dying for a week. I don't even know what it is, this thing, that's the beauty.
How many people can say they blew someone's mind?
A slave to adrenaline, but the slave is the master.
No roles are fixed in this shifting world; get used to it, humans. Bananas.
'I can feel the change.’ However few are there, it’s into the ether.
The solo is never alone. It has friends and support and is not a solo. We deserve love and support, and all is exchange. All is an artifice yet it has some luscious,
unfathomable truth lurking.
I share to move further, toward and away. Ciao.
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