Shen Wei Dance Arts responds to Ernesto Neto's anthropodino, with FLUX Quartet and special guests

Interesting capitalization all over. Impossible not to read too much into the ups and downs, but look at the old iron ceiling, the old iron bars. The unique sameness of it all. Smatterings of getting pantsed in dogeball class once upon a time even though the old iron clock and long stopped ticking by the time that, or any, idea became relevant.

Fortunately, all this precedes time. Natural? No, one could not call it natural with it's synthetic hole punched walls and its plastic and its children. But the dripping is familiar, despite being stopped at an arbitrary moment, or a moment not so arbitrary but perhaps selected out of one thousand and one possibilities by a mind that percolates randomness itself. The crying sweetness comes from that the liquid froze without changing form. The laws of liquid still apply but not the laws of gravity maybe, or just, we're dealing with another set of laws here that we don't have names for because we're only discovering them right now. Together and no one's allowed to take pictures so how are we going to present this to the academy? Fluidity without a medium. Supercooled this and quantum that, whatever, but the ineffable feeling of the best of nature without so much as an approving nod from that sexy old lady brings up something like relaxation, but less settling. Least settling of all is at the finish the contortions that are at once what everything before settles into and at the same time the least restive moment.

There's never been life like the life embodied in those dusty dead bodies. One with black eyes selects me and is close enough to touch and then is gone and I can not follow her. I can follow her but I am afraid to see her return to her grave. I can move but I am not sure that my muscles belong to me. My limbs have grown so light that they have turned to gas and taken the shape of their container. My organs have leached out and been fossilized; stockingified. This whole thing would have been shipped off to make parachutes for the allies, but, luckily, this war doesn't count and so there's room for the wailing of mountain instruments and just the cutest little hipster chick on bassoon. My brain is full of turmeric and clove and the sweet smelling crowd can overwhelm me anytime,

although i don't like it when i get told i'm not allowed to interact in certain ways. The holes in the walls are one size fits all, exactly with space for your arm or my arm and the idea of not putting an arm through them is simply unrealistic.


The greater chills come from a simple lift resembling something humans would do, but without the connection humans would have to have. Would have to. The grave illusions lead each other to ground. The one with black eyes breathes the cold air of the future on all her inevitable quarry and then washes her face and forgets herself and herself and herself and me and herself and herself.