During my student years, I was fortunate enough to be taking a course at LondonMet run by Helen Mallinson that was symbolically named Forgetting Of Air. Even though marginal to my “professional” career path and education (why such an obsession with “professional” these days? Amateur or dilettante can be exciting too) I loved every moment doing this course. The course focused on philosophical readings, provoking images, history and mind blowing films that all critiqued and questioned what architecture was about. Most of the discussed subject were impalpable and hard to grasp. Such was air too. Thin, vaporous, non present substance on which all life was based on. The air topic had many depths to it, but even taking its most banal meaning, the subject (to my understanding) reminded us of air and how we forgot to breathe it.
Parallel to this was my fascination with nudity in art form. Starting from teenage years, when I would get aroused by seeing nudes, I appreciated nude in any art form. Exposed and bare, the nude offered a contrast; strength and fragility creating a very powerful and articulated figure.
Some time ago, I went to see Dave St-Pierre Company — Un peu de tendresse bordel de merde! at Sadlers Wells. Sadlers Wells theatre used to be a good place to see good dance performance, but it has started tending to more mediocre audience that gets shipped on a bus from Essex or somewhere for a “good night out” or some “culture” in London. There are still shows that are worth seeing, but more and more it offers “culture” easy to consume and digest, something pleasant to talk about at dinner parties. Dave St-Pierre Company piece, a bordel of shit, was dealing with nudity. I have subjected myself to nudity and many provoking subjects before and I was interested to see how this piece dealt with nudity and delivered the message across. The show started with bare naked male dancers squeaking like little pigs, jumping all over the audience and burying their bare hairy arses all over people’s faces. That day, I was tired. I worked hard in the office, my brain numb from “professional” life and duties, and all I craved for was a little catharsis, soul awakening that would bring me to life and provoke my mind. Rimming someones arse did not provoke my mind. It made me sad to think that I came to learn and see something, only to discover that spectacle and shock are still considered as a tool to create an art form. The next scene was a lady in a dress preparing a picnic on a stage with her romantic lover. When presented with a cake, she changes her behaviour, sits on a cake with no underwear, lifts her dress up and starts stuffing her vagina with the cake. That’s when I left the show; me and few “housewives” whose sensibility could have matched mine, all consoled that we were not shocked by any of this, but saddened that the artists were incapacitated to find a way to use nudity and express themselves. Maybe they did, as vagina full of cake and licked hairy arses did lead somewhere. I did not stay to witness it.
But one artist did it. And he did it brilliantly. The images are still fixed in my head and I cannot and do not want to rid of them. Three days ago I went to see Fearghus O’Conchuir – Cure at The Place. And I am still seeing it. It is hard to be a solo artist. Especially a solo dancer. You need to be in command and accept total exposure whilst audience watches you perform. Fearghus came shyly and almost reluctantly on stage. Stage itself was not staged. It only had things, tools, Fearghus would use during his performance: a pair of trainers, few chairs, blankets, a wrap with something inside and a perfectly marked square. It was bare but you could sense something was going to happen and each of the “requisites” would be used at a time during the performance. Simplicity is rare to find these days. Not a forced appear-like simplicity, but simplicity that derived from necessity and clarity. By purely marking a part of the stage with the masking tape and creating a square, Fearghus created a space for himself to start to perform. This space had volume and had a person interacting with it. The dance if you were to read some of the reviews, summarizes the topic by exploring the idea of failure and then going through recovery. The piece began by Fearghus dancing somewhat clumsily within the square. He would attempt to continue the movement or dance beyond the boundaries, but he would always fail or would retreat to repetition of the same movement as if he would not know how to develop from there. He was struggling and it was not only visible but also felt by the audience. The struggle was intense and resulted in his collapse. He was crawling and touching the floor more than he was vertically expressing the movements. He broke out of the square and went to sit in the centre of the stage. He began talking and asking us to focus on the air we breathe. To think of the world we breathe in and the feelings we breathe out. We stopped seeing, and with our eyes shut, we focused on ourselves. I felt calm and happy to acknowledge the familiar substance going through my nose and mouth thinking at the same time how shallow my breathing is sometimes and how I even forget to breathe in or let the air our whilst fulfilling my “professional” duties. Fearghus started getting under my skin. I wanted more. I wanted him to show me how he sees things and what he can deliver. He then went and brought the blankets to the centre of the stage. Without a spectacle, screams, change of lights or a cake for this matter, he undressed himself. He was naked, constantly staring at us, not losing a single moment with his audience. He wrapped himself in blankets and started his recovery performance. His naked athletic body appeared small and weak, yet tough, enduring our persistent gaze. He walked back to the centre and symbolically held his hand near his penis to show how hard it can be to expose everything but how necessary it is at the same time. He quickly dressed himself and put on his trainers. The video projection in the background was showing people walking. Walking very fast, running, sounds of panting and gasping for the air filled the theatre. The video sequence started to slow down, the frames per seconds were reduced and people were close to stand still. At the same time, Fearghus was dancing very energetically, more freely and vigorously. I was deeply immersed in the scenery. I forgot where I came from, what I belonged to and I surrendered to Fearghus’ world. His performance grew stronger and more and more confident.He took all the chairs and positioned them within the square. The chairs appeared to be occupied and Fearghus was violating each of the chair and space between them. The aggression suggested a communication struggle within the chairs, marked square and performer. When the piece finished he went and neatly put away all of his “belongings”. He then went and picked up a wrap which he opened and covered himself with salt like substance. As he danced the white powder was shedding from his body revealing rigorous and clear movements. He took the wrap and formed a perfect circle pouring the white powder and creating his circle where he continued performing. That circle was his protection zone, a world within a world, where one could exist and express themselves. I wanted to be in one of the circles. He then stepped out of the circle and reached for a piece of cloth. A shroud which was neatly laid on the floor. He stripped down and laid on it, imprinting his body onto the cloth. The cloth became a sole record of his existence, like shroud of Turin allegedly imprinting Jesus existence. He then covered himself with a shroud and started suffocating. His own skin was suffocating him, and the dance focused on ridding himself of the skin and exposing flesh underneath. We could almost hear faint sound of him struggling to breathe as he laid down on the floor. The shroud was peeled and Fearghus stood up, holding the imprint of his own self in front of him. We could not see his naked body anymore, only a piece of cloth being gently shaken and slight silhouette facing the imprinted cloth. The cloth dropped on the floor and light went off.
I shall remain incapable using written language to describe the strength, clarity and depth of his performance. I could only hope to see him again and would recommend anyone who has ever pondered upon such matters to go and see this remarkable artist.
Bravo!!!
decorum 