Nijinksy went mad and his wife took notes: not The Afternoon in The Life of A Faun, but Freud's least successful patient (if possible) and best dancer - how do we both be best and worst and somewhere in between? Duncan traveled to Greece, try to keep up that toga when our history gets tangled in tank treads like long scarves in automobile wheels (croak [gratuitous choking noise here]) and yet I have to admire the insistence on classical forms as much as I scoff, because back braces and elbow shards don't support leaps of logic and lifts of reason when the drama of sitting and standing is never exhausted: Barishnikov still dances in his fifties, New York lofts his new studio; next to come, an itinerary of urban spaces...an architecture of discarded furniture? a catalogue of structural remains? or a choreography of exhaust pipes and assembly lines, where we punch in and punch out, words of want, punch in, whisper, out
posted by judy j @ 12:20 PM
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