Repeating

Theatre is a filthy art. an art infected by life. borne by actors who cannot escape their human form, their weight, the span of their limbs, their genitals. We watch a body as it sweats, exudes its aura, attracts or repels us. Theatre is a carnivorous medium, feeding on bodies. Bodies out of control. Bodies oblivious to rules, naïvely arousing their own lust. Bodies that want ever more. Bodies, forever dangerous, seeking the bounds of the possible, defying laws and challenging morals. Bodies that constantly collide with their surroundings until they are confronted with rules.

Blind or indeed highly clairvoyant, they stumble upon limits. They are destined to be caught in this trap. Theatre is a high scaffolding from which bodies plunge to the depths below. Theatre is a filthy art. An art infected by death. Even as it comes to life it is dying. Theatre has no duration, no form that can stand the test of time. The gold and plush can never conceal the rust that so soon replaces them. Corrosion taints every figure and pulverizes it to a thread of recollection. Theatre has no weapons to fight death. Like a shadow, it hides behind the sun, the candles, the expensive spotlights. The shadow ...