At a friend's 50th recently, I
fell into conversation with a Gujarati friend of theirs about the power of the
arts. I was still reeling from Songs of the Bulbul (see previous post),
singing its praises, and mentioned Garbh, one of the performances at
Ensemble Festival, organised by Certain Blacks, which I was hoping to catch the
following day.
“Oh, you'll enjoy that,” he said,
and explained how Garba dancing is an expression of the soul of Gujarat, a
homage to the Divine Mother, the goddess Durga. Even the costume has something
in common with the whirling dervish, he told me. The skirt flares out on the
turn too. And as it turns out, Odedra’s family is also from Gujarat.
From there, the conversation kept
spinning outwards. We talked about hand gestures, including the ones a student
at school had been teaching me when we ran out of salsa moves in an impromptu
outdoor workshop, riffing to Bad Bunny. We talked about how the Romani people
migrated out of north-west India, and the gestures that seem to have travelled
with them into flamenco. Conversation with me, it turns out, has a habit of
finding its way back to Spanish, if not circus. There are pioneers out there
already exploring that Indo-Spanish fusion, like Kunal Om and bands such as Indialucia.
And writing this now reminds me that the friend I went with to see Aakash
Odedra perform is also a hispanophile. We had both agreed afterwards that Odedra
had duende, that elusive, impulsive genius at the heart of flamenco. I'd
forgotten that.
The performance of Garbh at
Ensemble Festival took place in the round, a large terracotta circle that accumulated mounds of sand. It began with a solemn procession, a body
carried in and laid down. There was a clay pot carried to the centre. I knew it
represented the womb, garbh being Sanskrit for womb, but it also
reminded me of a pot of ashes, and so somehow held both the beginning and the
end of life. The dancers dropped down into the sand and began to stir the heaps
in and around them, one dancer pouring sand over another as though anointing
them.
As the only male dancer walked
slowly around the circle, sand sieving through his hands, I was reminded of
Myles Macdonald in Kook Ensemble's Sand (Chapter 225 - click here). Gradually the others got to
their feet and began to circulate. As their skirts spun out, they revealed
seams of colour that matched their tops, each in soft earth hues of burnt red,
orange and olive green.
We are born of sand and clay,
they seemed to say.
A thought popped into my head of
a K-drama I've dipped into recently in which a genie refers to human beings as
lumps of clay. Here, those “lumps” are sheer grace incarnate, propelled by
their own version of duende as they spin freely, their arms reaching up
towards the sky. As they gained momentum, I had this sense that their bodies
were literally becoming the music, their increasing intensity generating the
energy of Shakti, the divine feminine energy.
It was joyful, celebratory and
powerful. Life-giving.
I find echoes here of another
performance from the festival, Teatro en Movimiento Callejerx's Water Silhouettes (see Chapter252 - click here),and their incantations calling upon Yemayá,
patron of the oceans, and Chalchiuhtlicue, goddess of the fresh waters. Here, Garbh was an invocation of Mother Earth. I loved that contrast in
the festival programming.
The dancers’ flick of the skirts
and the percussive palm-clapping reminded me of flamenco, for sure, with its
own deep-rooted sacredness. But there was something different here. In Garbh,
the sacred feminine seemed to be what the dance itself was invoking, as they
held us within it, mesmerised. In the circular rhythm there was also a timelessness. I think now of a Sanskrit
word I didn't know at the time, having learned it only yesterday, samsara,
the wheel of life. That was where the performance was taking us.
The sun was blistering down and,
having stood at an angle to protect one side, I moved to the other side of the
ring to even out the burn, and sat on the floor. From behind me, moments later,
a grandmother figure processed slowly out.
Durga, perhaps. Or the spirit of
an ancestor being mourned. She was certainly the embodiment
of wisdom passed through generations and carried that weight in her tremendous
dignity.
The four dancers were then in a
line, holding hands, the young girl at the front reaching out to her,
repeatedly swaying backwards onto those behind her, in surrender. Watching the
dynamic, I felt the loss in my own maternal line. I longed for my mother, my
grandmother. The stoicism of her posture reminded me of the strong women in my
own lineage, stretching all the way back to the Highlands.
As she left the scene, she passed
so close that I could have reached out and touched her. Of course I didn't. But
I wanted to, as though a touch of her hem could somehow connect me directly to
some deep maternal comfort. I realise how strange that may sound, unless you
share my childhood of Bible stories, and remember the woman in the crowd who
reaches out to touch Jesus's garment and feels that healing energy pass through
her.
The wheel keeps turning. That's
the point. There is no end really, only the passing through. That too is the
essence of samsara, the endless cycle of life, death and rebirth, the
continual passing through.
Somehow the performance offered a
harmonious way of reconciling ourselves to that. By the end, those who were not
already on their feet to applaud quickly joined them in a standing ovation. Since
then, I've kept finding echoes of Garbh. I've been sharing some footage,
and a beautician at my local salon told me all about the three-day Sagar Patel
Pre-Navratri Festival she attends every year ahead of the nine-day Navrati celebrations
in October. I saw her photos of the outfits, videos from previous years, the
colour, the sheer joy of the celebration, and found myself picturing her there
with her family, dancing in all that colour.
And that is what Ensemble
Festival is about. Bringing us all together, ensemble, celebrating the
rich diversity all around us. Finding moments of connection in cultures other
than our own and celebrating them.
Who is your community? Where do
you belong? Do you box yourself in?
Neti, neti. Not that, not
that.
We are all. We are other. We are
one.
As a languages teacher, I'm
continually encouraging students to explore other cultures and to find points
of connection, empathy and understanding.
That kinship is at the heart of
outdoor arts festivals and is the gift of Garbh too.
Garbhis coming to Greenwich and Docklands International Festival
on Saturday, 5th September.
https://festival.org/gdif/whats-on/garbh/
Dancers: Marta Beccatini, Meera Patel, Anaya Vasudha, Shahnal Shah, Mira Salat,
Shyam Dattani, Sundhiya Dattani, Anjali Tanna (R&D)
Choreography: Shyam Dattani and Mira Salat in collaboration with the dancers.
Choreographic Mentor: Urja Desai Thakore
Dramaturgy: Parbati Chaudhuri
Set Design: Simon Daw
Producer: Giulia Coti Zelati
Before I write my fourth and final post on Ensemble Festival, about Garbh, a Gujarati dance performance, I need to take a step back for a moment to provide some context and continuity. That means rewinding to earlier this summer, when I went to Sadler's Wells East in Stratford to see Songs of the Bulbul by Aakash Odedra Dance Company. It was a contemporary dance piece based on a Sufi tale of a songbird that evokes the fleetingness of life. It had cropped up on Instagram, and I was curious.
Sufism, the mystical tradition within Islam, has a habit of turning up in my life without my ever going looking for it. I first came across the term at sixth form when the progressive nuns at school brought the work of Indian Jesuit Anthony de Mello into class, a writer heavily criticised by the Catholic Church, an outlier. His books on breathing and Awareness were threaded with Sufi stories, including the world of Nasrudin in One Minute Nonsense. I loved the humour, that sudden “bouf” of the bouffon, the preserve of clowning, whether the Master gives the pupil a metaphorical or literal comedy slap in the face to jolt them out of their assumptions, from illusion to reality. So a few years later, when a flatmate asked me what I pictured a Sufi looked like I answered with utter confidence "An Indian monk sitting on a hillside somewhere deep in meditation". She fell about laughing. I had been living with one for months and had no idea. As de Mello would say, neti, neti, not that, not that. And then Sufism came to me through music. A university friend spent time out in Turkey studying the Whirling Dervishes for his dissertation as part of a Music degree, and made tapes for me, while a Spanish mentor friend gave me a cassette of the ney and a book of Sufi poet Ansari, Gritos del Corazón, that I still dip into.
Cries of the heart indeed. This year, with the death of my mother and a body that is struggling to keep up, it feels as though my heart really is crying out, what now? Where to go from here? A wise friend recommended The Conference of the Birds, Attar's parable of enlightenment about a flock of birds on a quest to find the fabled Simorgh. Birds are very much part of my life. I now have the small cushion on which I cross-stitched a pair of blue tits chirruping to their young, which Mum kept beside her to the end. There is the owl in my study that my father carved, the robin on the Common I talk to, thinking hello Dad, and the solitary magpie I salute. They each have their own character. I seem to have been collecting bird metaphors for years. An old post of mine, Bird with a Broken Wing, suddenly came to mind, so I went back and reread it. The themes of fragility, vulnerability and still finding a way to fly seem to resonate here (Chapter 16 - click here). Another recommendation was Elif Shafak's The Forty Rules of Love, the story of an unfulfilled housewife inspired by the deep love between the poet Rumi and the mystic Shams, which I listened to on Audible as a bedtime story to dream on. I don't feel remotely unfulfilled, life has been so rich with experience, but I am seeking clarity. Maybe it's the brain fog, the sense that time is running out and I can't quite wake up. But by the time I walked into Sadler's Wells East with her, I had a whole private mythology built up around what this evening was going to be and what impact it was going to have.
The stage was set with a bed of rose petals and, to the left, a semicircle of candles. The simplicity of the design and other-worldly lighting created a place for the soul to breathe and rest. I knew nothing about the actual story and when Aakash Odedra introduced it, my heart dropped like a stone.
The performance would tell the story of the fabled Bulbul, a songbird whose yearning for the divine is expressed through its song. The dance would take us on a journey of three acts, from the freedom of the bird to its capture and increasing confinement and finally into the ultimate darkness. The cage gets smaller, the light diminishes, the circles tighten, until the bird is left with nothing but itself and the essence of its song.
I am writing now, having seen the production well over a month ago, and the impression of the performance is still vivid. The fact that Rushil Ranjan's music, the album Songs of the Bulbul, is on Spotify certainly keeps that connection alive. Like the dance, the music creates a sacred space for the meeting between cultures, bringing together the sounds of Western classical orchestra with Sufi devotional chanting, and it really does sing to the aching joy of the whole experience.
What I remember from the first act is the magic of what appears to be a rag bundle on the floor suddenly coming to life, unfurling into a bird, stretching out to explore the space around it and celebrate sheer physical freedom, its feet stamping out an explosive rhythm like a racing heartbeat. Odedra doesn't mime a bird, he becomes it. His body adopts the mannerisms effortlessly, instinctively. The turn of his hands, the pecking movement. There is an extraordinary precision to it, but never a sense of effort. He can be delicate one moment and astonishingly powerful the next, and somehow the technique disappears into the character. His physical range matches the epic sweep of the music, and it is exhilarating to watch. The wild bird is captured and caged, yet because it can still see the world beyond its bars, it continues to sing with pure joy at the beauty of life, and his movement sweeps and soars like the music. As he turns, the lift of his skirt sends the rose petals flying so the air seems itself to be singing. It is intoxicating, and he captures a sense of limitless horizons through the sheer expansive physicality of grace and movement.
And yet we know what is coming.
The second act portrays the world contracting and it feels like ours does too. Heavy branch-like cylinders drop from above, like the bars of the cage crashing down. The space that had seemed limitless is suddenly a prison, and even the light has narrowed to a single shaft, like the window of a cell. The movement is still beautiful, but the shadows have grown. The bird reaches towards what is no longer there, towards a world it can remember but not see. A single shaft of light becomes almost a character in itself, something to lean towards, to yearn for, and the music shifts from grandeur into something more searching and exposed.
Then comes the blinding. I winced. There was a collective intake of breath at this unbearable cruelty, and suddenly I was transported back to the early 90s, watching King Lear at the Royal Court on a school trip, to the moment Gloucester has his eyes put out and sees, finally, the extent of his betrayal. The cruelty leading to insight. With his eyes now bandaged, Odedra's extraordinary physical control seems to dissolve into surrender to that reality, his body no longer responding to what it can see but to something deeper, feeling its way through the space. He moves carefully among the scattered rose petals, cradling little lights in his hands. The world has become darkness, but the light begins to return behind him, as though the wheel has come full circle.
And here comes the sublime moment as the bird's song becomes movement. Odedra spins faster and faster, synchronising with the zikr, the repetition of "Allah Hoo." The Hoo, as I understand it, is the breath of the prayer, the exhalation itself, so the chant becomes the breath of life and breath, movement and prayer become one. Then, with the bird's last breath, a plume of smoke escapes from his mouth, as though the soul itself were being released.
Remember to breathe. In that moment I was back at the threshold, the door at the end of the corridor I had walked through in January to say a final goodbye to my mother. She had breathed her last the night before, barely an hour after I had got back to London to get ready for work the next day. I returned. My chest constricted as I approached the door, struck by an immense solitude, and I still carry that weight between my breastbone.
And now the tears were rolling, as I sat there in the stalls, in the dark, feeling the pressure ebb and flow. This grief for the mother I am missing, alongside the beauty of the spectacle. I couldn't breathe properly for a moment, but the pressure then eased, and I did find release watching Odedra. The songbird who doesn't hold back his breath.
Through it all, the ineffable beauty of Odedra's dance and the power of the emotions it evoked were such that by the end we as an audience had moved beyond the sadness of the ending into the elation of having witnessed the beauty of the songs. Afterwards, my friend and I slipped down to the front row and scooped up the rose petals from the floor (not the stage!), throwing them in the air with sheer joy and the security guard's blessing. He watched us with such paternal amusement that it was clear we weren't the first to have had the idea.
Then, writing this today, I have done some more homework and discovered that Aakash Odedra is not, as I had assumed that evening, from the Whirling Dervish tradition. He is a Kathak dancer, working in an Indian classical tradition whose chakkars, those rapid spinning turns, have an obvious resonance with Sufi whirling. The two traditions are distinct, but they have crossed paths over centuries, particularly as Kathak developed in Muslim courts and absorbed influences from Sufi culture. Suddenly, what I had experienced as two worlds, storytelling and meditation, meeting on stage made rather more sense. And I love that Odedra himself embodies that meeting, in both his heritage and his artistic vision.
But it was digging into the genesis of the piece that stopped me in my tracks altogether today. Songs of the Bulbul was born out of Odedra's own devastating loss of his mother, Kay, and he dedicates it "to my smiling bulbul, who left her cage."
Learning his mother's name took me back to a moment at the funeral of my maternal grandmother, Granny Kay. I was in my late teens, for some reason my mother and I had arrived separately, and I saw her holding it together until she caught sight of me and our eyes met. There was a moment of mutual recognition and premonition of I will lose you too one day, and we both dissolved. That was one of the few times I ever saw my mother cry, she was incredibly stoic in life.
Suddenly the grief I'd felt during the performance made sense in another way. I had been watching a man dance his own grief for his mother, without knowing it, yet feeling it with every bone in my body. Perhaps that is what theatre can do at its most powerful. It dissolves the boundaries between one person's story and another's. Before I knew his story, some part of me had already recognised his grief.
The devotional quality of Odedra's dance had felt like a living prayer, a soul reaching towards something greater, ultimately towards liberation. Now I also see it as a shared ritual of remembrance.
And it's a funny old world, as my Dad would say, but a few weeks later, on a family outing, as a treat we each chose a book to read in the park for the afternoon. My youngest chose Maya Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. After an evening watching Songs of the Bulbul, I reckon I have a better understanding of that now. Thank you.
I'm looking for a clown at the Ensemble Festival. A Catalan clown, specifically. Why do I keep bringing nationality into it? Partly nostalgia. I lived in Catalonia for a while, and for much longer down the road in Valencia, and there is something about this part of Spain that has always pulled me back. Years later, once I was more involved in the circus scene, I was on a choir trip with my son's school and, when I wasn't at the lectern reading the Bidding Prayers in the Sagrada Familia (chapter 112 - click here), I was finding circus everywhere, whether on the street, at the training centre La Central de Circ (see chapter 110 - click here) or in the Croydon-equivalent outskirts of Barcelona, in a warehouse housing Cronopis (Chapter 111 - click here), watching a cabaret that was utterly brilliant and very fringe. But there is more to it than that. It was Barcelona, not Covent Garden, where I first encountered living statues, lined up all the way down the Rambla. Catalonia has a particular history of street arts, circus and creative self-expression that I’ve always found compelling, from the countercultural Barcelona of Almodóvar’s All About My Mother to the pioneers documented in Dorothy Max Prior’s fascinating and in-depth article, Homage to Catalonia's Street Arts and Circus Pioneers Total Theatre (click here)
So, where is this clown? Cris Clown, otherwise known as Cristina Solé, is almost hidden in plain sight. I’m practically underneath the tree before I notice her, hanging single-handedly from a branch, carefree and utterly lackadaisical. She gestures for me to come closer and take a picture. I move in. Slowly she rotates around the branch, as though physics is simply turning her, but it turns out to be a ruse. She is positioning herself to take a surreptitious gobful of water and then spout it all over me. Serves me right. Brilliantly done. Later she catches another dad taking a selfie, right on his bald pate. This time I know what’s coming and capture it for posterity. How on earth is she hanging there for so long, so unconcerned, striking up nonsensical yet perfectly understandable conversations with passers-by? She just riffs off whatever randomness comes her way, so no two performances can ever be the same. A mother wanders directly underneath her with a buggy, so focused on her child that she is completely oblivious to the stranger hanging above her head. Cris’s face is a picture of perplexity. The crowd ripples with laughter. At another point she produces a contraption made from straws joined together into one ridiculously long straw, which she uses to sip a passer-by’s beer, or lowers a little basket to collect objects for her aerial amusement.
The kids are the best. Their delight and shrieks are infectious. They have no inhibitions. One boy shoves his sister towards her. “Get her, please, will you?!” Someone else chucks an apple. She takes a bite and lobs it back. The game continues back and forth. Then she lobs it to me. I catch it in one hand, which surprises me, and then realise it is because I am so utterly relaxed watching this gentle comedy and play that my over-thinking, chatterbox mind has gone walkabout. I love that there are other performers I have seen in the crowd too. They all come to support each other. There is something lovely about that, this sense of an outdoor arts community watching and willing each other on.
The show is called U.F.A. – Unidentified Flying Object in the Feminine. I liked the wordplay, the feminine -a ending in Spanish. And there is something about seeing a woman hanging there that makes you do a double-take. It is encouraging. I remember at Chessington, once upon a time when I was at my peak in aerial fitness, there was a fairground game where two punters would dead-hang and aim to last for two minutes. The two guys manning it didn't give me a second glance as I stood right in front of them volunteering, so I had to call out to ask to join in. I went up against a man. I didn't manage the full two minutes, but I hung on for a good minute and a half before my upper arms began to spasm, to calls of encouragement from other women in the crowd. “You go, lady!” And, most importantly, in their eyes, I beat the other guy by a good 20 seconds!
So my mind boggled at Cris Clown hanging there for as long as there was material to spin from the crowd. I had to look up how she did it afterwards. It turns out the flying isn't a theatrical wire trick. U.F.A. is rigged by Accialt Flying Effects, a stunt and special-effects team more used to high-altitude film work than street clowning, brought in to let Cristina Solé hang there for real, one-armed, for as long as the performance requires.
That really impressed me. The person holding that position for that long, improvising the whole time, completely unbothered, was a woman. Nobody rigs a wire for comic timing. You rig it so a body can do something extraordinary, and then you have to be strong enough to actually do it. Cris Clown made both look like nothing.
And then it occurred to me what this performance had in common with that of Teatro en Movimiento Callejerx from the previous post. Different scale, different register entirely, one dystopian and dripping with grief for water, the other absurd and airborne, dripping water onto me and others. However, both take a scattering of strangers who arrived separately and make a collective out of us. Carrying a river together. Laughing up at the same branch together. You don't choose it, it just happens to you, and then you're part of it.
And this takes me back to the why of Catalonia. Why Domte? Why Water Silhouettes? Why U.F.A.? Because Certain Blacks' Clive Lyttle, who programmed the festival, knows what he is doing. In an interview with the Royal Docks, he talked about this year's line-up touching on identity, ritual, ecology and collective experience, with work drawn from all around the world. Three Catalan acts landing on the same weekend at the same festival is not coincidence but curation. A curator who understands what this particular part of Spain has to offer and brings it to the Royal Docks, where a crowd of strangers could walk in separately and, for a little while, become part of it too.
Estoy buscando un payaso en el Ensemble Festival. Un payaso catalán, concretamente. ¿Por qué sigo insistiendo en la nacionalidad? En parte, por nostalgia. Viví una temporada en Cataluña y, más adelante, durante bastante más tiempo en Valencia, y hay algo en esta parte de España que siempre me ha atraído. Años después, cuando ya estaba más metida en el mundo del circo, fui de viaje con el coro del colegio de mi hijo y, cuando no estaba en el atril leyendo las Oraciones de los Fieles en la Sagrada Familia (capítulo 112 - haz clic aquí), encontraba circo por todas partes, ya fuera en la calle, en el centro de formación La Central de Circ (ver capítulo 110 - haz clic aquí) o en las afueras de Barcelona, el equivalente a Croydon, en un almacén donde estaba Cronopis (Capítulo 111 - haz clic aquí), viendo un cabaret absolutamente brillante y muy de fringe. Pero hay algo más. Fue en Barcelona, no en Covent Garden, donde vi por primera vez las estatuas vivientes, alineadas a lo largo de toda la Rambla. Cataluña tiene una historia particular de artes de calle, circo y expresión creativa que siempre me ha resultado fascinante, desde la Barcelona contracultural de Todo sobre mi madre, de Almodóvar, hasta los pioneros que documenta el fascinante y exhaustivo artículo de Dorothy Max Prior, Homage to Catalonia's Street Arts and Circus Pioneers, en Total Theatre (haz clic aquí).
Entonces, ¿dónde está este payaso? Cris Clown, también conocida como Cristina Solé, está casi escondida a plena vista. Estoy prácticamente debajo del árbol antes de darme cuenta de que está allí, colgada de una rama con una sola mano, despreocupada y completamente indolente. Me hace un gesto para que me acerque y le haga una foto. Me acerco. Poco a poco gira alrededor de la rama, como si fuera simplemente la física la que la hace girar, pero resulta ser una estratagema. Se está colocando para pegarle un buen trago de agua a escondidas y luego escupírmelo encima. ¡Me lo tengo merecido! Brillantemente hecho. Más tarde pilla a otro padre haciéndose un selfie, justo en su calva. Esta vez sé lo que va a pasar y lo capturo para la posteridad. ¿Pero cómo llega estar colgada ahí tanto tiempo, tan tranquila, entablando conversaciones absurdas pero perfectamente comprensibles con los transeúntes? Simplemente improvisa con cualquier cosa que le depare el azar, así que ninguna actuación puede ser igual a otra. Una madre pasa justo por debajo de ella con un carrito, tan concentrada en su hijo que no se da cuenta en absoluto de la desconocida que cuelga sobre su cabeza. La cara de Cris es un poema de perplejidad. El público rompe en risas. En otro momento saca un artilugio hecho de pajitas unidas entre sí hasta formar una pajita ridículamente larga, con la que se bebe la cerveza de un transeúnte, o baja una pequeña cesta para que le suban objetos con los que entretenerse desde las alturas.
Los niños son lo mejor. Su entusiasmo y sus gritos son contagiosos. No tienen ningún tipo de inhibición. Un niño empuja a su hermana hacia ella. «¡Hazle algo, por favor!». Otra persona le lanza una manzana. Ella le da un mordisco y se la vuelve a lanzar. El juego continúa de un lado a otro. Luego me la lanza a mí. La cojo con una mano, lo que me sorprende, y entonces me doy cuenta de que es porque estoy tan relajada viendo esta comedia y este juego tan suaves que mi mente, esa parlanchina que no para de darle vueltas a todo, se ha ido de paseo. También me encanta que haya otros artistas a los que he visto entre el público. Todos vienen a apoyarse mutuamente. Hay algo muy bonito en eso, en esta sensación de comunidad de las artes de calle que se observa y se anima mutuamente.
El espectáculo se llama U.F.A. – Unidentified Flying Object in the Feminine. Me gustó el juego de palabras, esa terminación femenina en -a en español. Y hay algo en ver a una mujer colgada ahí arriba que te obliga a mirar dos veces. Es estimulante. Recuerdo que una vez en el parque temático de Chessington, cuando estaba en mi mejor momento de forma para el aéreo, había un juego de feria en el que dos participantes tenían que quedarse colgados de una barra e intentar aguantar dos minutos. Los dos tipos que lo llevaban ni siquiera me dirigieron una segunda mirada cuando me planté justo delante de ellos para ofrecerme voluntaria, así que tuve que llamarles para pedirles que me dejaran participar. Me enfrenté a un hombre. No conseguí aguantar los dos minutos completos, pero resistí un buen minuto y medio, hasta que los brazos empezaron a darme espasmos, mientras otras mujeres del público me animaban. «¡Vamos, chica!». Y, lo más importante, a sus ojos, le gané al otro por unos buenos 20 segundos.
Así que me quedé alucinada viendo a Cris Clown colgada allí durante todo el tiempo que hubiera material para sacar de la gente. Después tuve que investigar cómo lo hacía. Resulta que el vuelo no es un truco teatral con un cable. U.F.A. está montado por Accialt Flying Effects, un equipo de especialistas y efectos especiales más acostumbrado a trabajar a gran altura en producciones cinematográficas que con el clown de calle, contratado para que Cristina Solé pueda estar realmente colgada de una sola mano durante todo el tiempo que requiera la actuación.
Eso me impresionó muchísimo. La persona capaz de mantener esa posición durante tanto tiempo, improvisando todo el rato y completamente tranquila, era una mujer. Nadie instala un cable por el sentido del humor. Lo instalas para que un cuerpo pueda hacer algo extraordinario, y luego tienes que tener la fuerza necesaria para hacerlo de verdad. Cris Clown consigue que ambas cosas parezcan no costarle nada.
Y entonces me di cuenta de lo que este espectáculo tenía en común con el de Teatro en Movimiento Callejerx de la entrada anterior. Una escala distinta, un registro completamente diferente, el uno distópico y empapado de dolor por el agua y el otro absurdo y suspendido en el aire, salpicándome agua a mí y a los demás. Sin embargo, ambos cogen a un grupo disperso de desconocidos que han llegado por separado y nos convierten en un colectivo. Llevando un río juntos. Riéndonos juntos mirando la misma rama. No lo eliges. Simplemente te sucede, y de repente formas parte de ello.
Y esto me lleva de nuevo al porqué de Cataluña. ¿Por qué Domte? ¿Por qué Water Silhouettes? ¿Por qué U.F.A.? Porque Clive Lyttle, de Certain Blacks, que programó el festival, sabe lo que hace. En una entrevista con Royal Docks, habló de una programación que este año gira en torno a la identidad, el ritual, la ecología y la experiencia colectiva, con trabajos procedentes de todo el mundo. Tres propuestas catalanas aterrizando el mismo fin de semana en el mismo festival no son una coincidencia, sino una cuestión de curaduría. Un programador que entiende lo que esta parte de España tiene que ofrecer y lo trae a los Royal Docks, donde un grupo de desconocidos puede entrar por separado y, durante un rato, convertirse también en parte de ello.
Versió en català
Estic buscant un pallasso a l'Ensemble Festival. Un pallasso català, concretament. Per què continuo insistint en la nacionalitat? En part, per nostàlgia. Vaig viure una temporada a Catalunya i, més endavant, durant molt més temps a València, i hi ha alguna cosa en aquesta part d'Espanya que sempre m'ha atret. Anys després, quan ja estava més ficada en el món del circ, vaig anar de viatge amb el cor de l'escola del meu fill i, quan no era al faristol llegint les Pregàries dels Fidels a la Sagrada Família (capítol 112 - fes clic aquí), trobava circ per tot arreu, ja fos al carrer, al centre de formació La Central de Circ (vegeu el capítol 110 - fes clic aquí) o als afores de Barcelona, l'equivalent a Croydon, en un magatzem on hi havia Cronopis (Capítol 111 - fes clic aquí), veient un cabaret absolutament brillant i molt de fringe. Però hi ha alguna cosa més. Va ser a Barcelona, i no a Covent Garden, on vaig veure per primera vegada les estàtues vivents, alineades al llarg de tota la Rambla. Catalunya té una història particular d'arts de carrer, circ i expressió creativa que sempre m'ha resultat fascinant, des de la Barcelona contracultural de Todo sobre mi madre, d'Almodóvar, fins als pioners que documenta el fascinant i exhaustiu article de Dorothy Max Prior, Homage to Catalonia's Street Arts and Circus Pioneers, a Total Theatre (fes clic aquí).
Aleshores, on és aquest pallasso? Cris Clown, també coneguda com Cristina Solé, està gairebé amagada a plena vista. Estic pràcticament sota l'arbre abans d'adonar-me que és allà, penjada d'una branca amb una sola mà, despreocupada i completament indolent. Em fa un gest perquè m'hi acosti i li faci una foto. M'hi acosto. A poc a poc gira al voltant de la branca, com si fos simplement la física qui la fes girar, però resulta ser una estratagema. S'està col·locant per fer un bon glop d'aigua d'amagat i després escopir-me'l a sobre. M'ho tinc ben merescut! Brillant. Més tard enganxa un altre pare fent-se una selfie, just a la seva calba. Aquesta vegada sé què passarà i ho capturo per a la posteritat. Però com s'ho fa per estar penjada allà tanta estona, tan tranquil·la, entaulant converses absurdes però perfectament comprensibles amb els transeünts? Simplement improvisa amb qualsevol cosa que li ofereix l'atzar, de manera que cap actuació pot ser igual que una altra. Una mare passa just per sota seu amb un cotxet, tan concentrada en el seu fill que no s'adona gens de la desconeguda que té penjada damunt del cap. La cara de la Cris és tot un poema de perplexitat. El públic esclata a riure. En un altre moment treu un artefacte fet de palletes unides entre si fins a formar una palleta ridículament llarga, amb la qual beu la cervesa d'un transeünt, o fa baixar una petita cistella perquè li facin arribar objectes amb què entretenir-se des de les altures.
Els nens són el millor. El seu entusiasme i els seus crits són contagiosos. No tenen cap mena d'inhibició. Un nen empeny la seva germana cap a ella. «Fes-li alguna cosa, sisplau!». Una altra persona li llança una poma. Ella en fa una mossegada i la torna a llançar. El joc continua d'una banda a l'altra. Després me la llança a mi. La copo amb una mà, cosa que em sorprèn, i aleshores m'adono que és perquè estic tan relaxada mirant aquesta comèdia i aquest joc tan suaus que la meva ment, aquesta xerrameca que no para de donar-hi voltes, ha marxat a fer un tomb. També m'encanta que hi hagi altres artistes que he vist entre el públic. Tots venen a donar-se suport els uns als altres. Hi ha alguna cosa molt bonica en això, en aquesta sensació de comunitat de les arts de carrer que s'observa i s'anima mútuament.
L'espectacle es diu U.F.A. – Unidentified Flying Object in the Feminine. Em va agradar el joc de paraules, aquesta terminació femenina en -a en castellà. I hi ha alguna cosa en veure una dona penjada allà dalt que t'obliga a mirar dues vegades. És estimulant. Recordo que una vegada, al parc temàtic de Chessington, quan estava en el meu millor moment de forma per al món de l'aeri, hi havia un joc de fira en què dos participants havien de quedar-se penjats d'una barra i intentar aguantar-hi dos minuts. Els dos nois que el portaven ni tan sols em van mirar una segona vegada quan em vaig plantar just davant seu per oferir-me voluntària, així que vaig haver de cridar-los per demanar-los que em deixessin participar. Em vaig enfrontar a un home. No vaig aconseguir aguantar els dos minuts sencers, però vaig resistir un bon minut i mig, fins que els braços van començar a fer-me espasmes, mentre altres dones del públic m'animaven. «Au, noia!». I, el més important, als seus ulls, li vaig guanyar a l'altre per uns bons 20 segons.
Així que em vaig quedar al·lucinada veient la Cris Clown penjada allà durant tota l'estona que hi hagués material per treure de la gent. Després vaig haver d'investigar com s'ho feia. Resulta que el vol no és cap truc teatral amb un cable. U.F.A. està muntat per Accialt Flying Effects, un equip d'especialistes i efectes especials més acostumat a treballar a gran altura en produccions cinematogràfiques que amb el clown de carrer, contractat perquè Cristina Solé pugui estar realment penjada d'una sola mà durant tot el temps que requereixi l'actuació.
Això em va impressionar moltíssim. La persona capaç de mantenir aquella posició durant tanta estona, improvisant tota l'estona i completament tranquil·la, era una dona. Ningú instal·la un cable pel sentit de l'humor. L'instal·les perquè un cos pugui fer una cosa extraordinària, i després has de tenir la força necessària per fer-la de debò. Cris Clown aconsegueix que totes dues coses semblin no costar-li gens.
I aleshores em vaig adonar del que aquest espectacle tenia en comú amb el de Teatro en Movimiento Callejerx de l'entrada anterior. Una escala diferent, un registre completament diferent, l'un distòpic i xop de dolor per l'aigua i l'altre absurd i suspès a l'aire, esquitxant-me aigua a mi i als altres. Tanmateix, tots dos agafen un grup dispers de desconeguts que han arribat per separat i ens converteixen en un col·lectiu. Portant un riu junts. Rient junts mentre mirem la mateixa branca. No ho tries. Simplement et passa, i de sobte en formes part.
I això em porta de nou al perquè de Catalunya. Per què Domte? Per què Water Silhouettes? Per què U.F.A.? Perquè Clive Lyttle, de Certain Blacks, que va programar el festival, sap què es fa. En una entrevista amb Royal Docks, parlava d'una programació que aquest any gira al voltant de la identitat, el ritual, l'ecologia i l'experiència col·lectiva, amb treballs procedents de tot el món. Tres propostes catalanes que aterren el mateix cap de setmana al mateix festival no són una coincidència, sinó una qüestió de curadoria. Un programador que entén què pot oferir aquesta part d'Espanya i ho porta als Royal Docks, on un grup de desconeguts pot entrar per separat i, durant una estona, convertir-se també en part de tot plegat.
One of the joys of circus and the outdoor arts is that it is full of people who are committed to the world around them, and are often so bonkers they maybe should be committed. I jest. But I do think the disruptors in society are the ones who stick their necks out artistically and wake people up. Whether it’s through cattle bells or spectacles where you wonder what on earth is going to happen...
A case in point was Water Silhouettes, by another Catalan company (see chapter 250 on Domte - click here), Teatro en Movimiento Callejerx, a promenade performance reflecting on water, contamination and drought in a city that is right now experiencing unprecedented levels of each. It is set in a dystopian world of discordant music, where three figures appear like aliens, their heads in a suffocation of empty water bottles collected in netting like a bulbous cloud, sprouting royal blue T-shirts and bright pink shiny leggings. With the dock as their backdrop, a bright blue sky dotted with cumulus clouds, and the teleférico cables and passing cabins behind them, it was both visually arresting and uncanny.
The creatures moved in alien ways, legs outstretched, the odd unpredictable fall into the splits, wandering in and out of the crowd. A soundscape of alarms and urgency accompanied them via a giant soundbox pushed by a fourth member of the company, effectively invisible. The passing cabins of the teleférico added something to the futuristic landscape, going up and down behind them. Then came the divining rods, with diamond-shaped gems on the ends, accompanied by a shamanic female voice, a siren call co-ordinating their movement. Seeking water, seeking answers, who knew?
We followed them along to a square where there was a water dispenser. There were two phallic towers and pylons in the background, bright pink fences in the foreground, a multitude of pink legs, and then the heads were finally removed. There was a play with the fountain. Not much water, just a little was collected in a bottle, then out was unfurled a length, maybe 20 metres long, of royal-blue diaphanous fabric, accompanied by a testimony, an invocation of Mother Earth, well, Mother Sea.
I recognised the calling on Yemayá, the Cuban and Yoruba ocean patron, mi santa (see post 249 on Myths - click here), and another I didn't recognise. I asked afterwards and think it was Chalchiuhtlicue, the Aztec goddess of freshwater. There were personal accounts from different English speakers about the importance of their local waterways and the changes they had observed. One recalled being taught, as a child near a sacred spring in Peru, that a single drop of water added to another source lets it remember its own purity, so it never quite forgets what it is. Another told the old story of an elephant once walked across a frozen Thames to test whether the ice would hold. It did, and that's apparently why entire winter fairs, street performers included, used to set up on the river itself, back when it froze hard enough and long enough for the city to use it as a second high street. A third spoke more plainly, that this wasn't only climate, it was climate injustice, and that naming who benefits and who pays matters more than treating drought as bad luck.
We were then invited to carry the river of chiffon and process along to the other end of the Dock. It was a wonderful moment, the gauze acting as a filter over the Thames, as though signalling the potential for freshwater colour overlaying the murky reality of a contaminated waterway.
It brought back two distinct memories.
It brought back two distinct memories. The first was when I had joined Dutch friends at Chatham, sailing up the Thames to dock at St Katharine’s, and I will never forget being hit by the smell of excrement as we passed through the Thames Barrier, which lingered for a good thirty minutes. The second was six months later, when I joined friends from the open-water swimming group the Blue Tits to swim at daybreak one December morning at Teddington Lock to highlight the ongoing battle of Surfers Against Sewage (click here) . The joy of floating downstream with friends as the sun rose, clambering out for cake and coffee, combined with the sobering reality of watching the necessary checks on water levels being carried out before we could even get in.
Here, under the tissue-like membrane of the river, it felt like we were all shouldering both the responsibility and the camaraderie of caring for our water spaces, ever more precious in this succession of heatwaves. We processed the length of the Docks to where Domte (again, click here) had been showing earlier, ironically where the guy in a neon yellow T-shirt behind me would later end up being selected as a volunteer with another yoke to bear.
I loved hearing the kids around me and their delight at being under the cover, as if in some impromptu, makeshift den. Meanwhile, the voices continued over the speakers like a stream of consciousness. We set down the river and then sat on it as the performance continued. One of the plastic bottles poured out the driest of dirt onto a paving stone, while a child was invited to water the roots of a tree behind us with the remnants of water collected from the dispenser earlier, a beautiful moment that also served to emphasise the scarcity. The bottle heads now lay on the floor, like fishermen’s nets made of rubbish, and another performer in a hazmat suit came over to shake them out. A few scattered out towards the crowd and we rolled them back in turn.
The sirens blared alongside the performers’ own ululating calls of alarm. A whole cloud of royal-blue smoke billowed out, enveloping us, and I was surprised to find that it neither irritated nor suffocated me. For a moment, though, it transported me back to Valencia as a student, legging it from the police lobbing tear gas at those of us on Calle Ruzafa, there to show solidarity against a wave of anti-immigration protests. It was unnerving. Again, that is the function of performance, to trigger emotions and create collective memory.
And so at the end, as the banner unfurled “Water has memory” I found myself reflecting on how the past has a funny way of resurfacing when you least expect it.
And it’s a funny old world because afterwards, chatting to the director Ximena, it turned out that she was Chilean, and that my flatmate from my Valencia days (see previous post) had been her university theatre professor in Valparaiso, and knew her well. Valencia was where my world really blew open, both in terms of my appreciation for the performing arts and my engagement with social issues. Looking back, I think that was part of the journey that ultimately led me to my love and appreciation of circus and outdoor arts.
“There is no such thing as coincidence, Lucy,” said my acupuncturist the other day as he removed the last pin. But like those water seekers with their divining rods, I think we all seek some reassuring meaning to make sense of a world that is increasingly heading on a catastrophic course.
The following week, my stomach dropped when I saw a particularly striking photograph of the fires in Valencia, smoke pouring out from behind the Palau de les Arts. There had been smoke in the air when I was paddling there literally a fortnight before, at 3 in the morning, thick with mascletà firecrackers, normally the preserve of Fallas, set off in celebration of Valencian Ferran Torres scoring the winning goal for Spain in the World Cup final.
What struck me most was that the cloud in the image was remarkably similar to the shot I had taken of the blue smoke formation in Water Silhouettes. Water has memory indeed, but also, art, in this instance, carried a prophecy.
Versión en español
Una de las cosas que más me gustan del circo y de las artes al aire libre es que está lleno de gente comprometida con el mundo que la rodea. Creo que los inconformistas de la sociedad son quienes se arriesgan artísticamente y consiguen despertar a los demás. Ya sea con cencerros o con espectáculos que te dejan pensando, pero ¿qué está pasando aquí...?
Un buen ejemplo fue Siluetas de Agua, de otra compañía catalana (véase el post sobre Domte, capítulo 250), Teatro en Movimiento Callejerx, un espectáculo itinerante que reflexiona sobre el agua, la contaminación y la sequía en una ciudad que está viviendo ahora mismo niveles sin precedentes de cada una de ellas. Está ambientado en un mundo distópico de música disonante, donde aparecen tres figuras como extraterrestres, con las cabezas atrapadas en una especie de nube asfixiante de botellas de agua vacías, recogidas en una red, brotando camisetas azul royal y brillantes leggings rosa intenso. Con el muelle como telón de fondo, un cielo azul brillante salpicado de cúmulos y los cables del teleférico y sus cabinas pasando detrás, el conjunto resultaba a la vez visualmente impactante e inquietante.
Las criaturas se movían de formas alienígenas, con las piernas extendidas, alguna caída imprevisible que acababa en un split, entrando y saliendo del público. Un paisaje sonoro de alarmas y urgencia las acompañaba a través de un enorme altavoz que empujaba una cuarta persona de la compañía, prácticamente inadvertida para el público. Las cabinas del teleférico que subían y bajaban detrás de las criaturas añadían algo al paisaje futurista. Después aparecieron las varillas de zahorí, con piedras en forma de diamante en los extremos, acompañadas por la voz femenina de una especie de chamana, una llamada de sirena que coordinaba sus movimientos. Buscando agua, buscando respuestas, quién sabe.
Los seguimos hasta una plaza donde había dos rascacielos fálicos y, al fondo, torres de alta tensión. En primer plano, una multitud de piernas rosas, y detrás de ellas, las vallas de color rosa intenso. Finalmente, les quitaron las cabezas. Hubo un juego con la fuente. No había mucha agua, apenas se recogió un poco en una botella, y entonces se desplegó una tela diáfana de color azul royal, quizá de unos 20 metros de largo, acompañada por un testimonio, una invocación a la Madre Tierra, bueno, a la Madre Mar.
Reconocí la invocación a Yemayá, la patrona del mar en las tradiciones cubana y yoruba, mi santa (véase la entrada 249 sobre Mitos, pincha aquí), y otra que no reconocí. Pregunté después y creo que era Chalchiuhtlicue, la diosa azteca del agua dulce. Hubo testimonios personales de distintos hablantes de inglés sobre la importancia de sus cursos de agua locales y los cambios que habían observado. Una persona recordó que, de niña, cerca de un manantial sagrado en Perú, le habían enseñado que una sola gota de agua añadida a otra fuente le permite recordar su propia pureza, así que nunca olvida del todo lo que es. Otra contó la vieja historia de un elefante que una vez cruzó el Támesis helado para comprobar si el hielo aguantaría. Y aguantó, y por lo visto por eso se instalaban ferias de invierno enteras, con artistas callejeros incluidos, directamente sobre el río, en la época en que se helaba lo bastante y durante lo bastante tiempo como para que la ciudad lo usara como una segunda calle mayor. Una tercera habló con más claridad, que esto no era solo clima, era injusticia climática, y que nombrar quién se beneficia y quién paga importa más que tratar la sequía como mala suerte.
Nos invitaron entonces a llevar el río de gasa y procesionar hasta el otro extremo del Dock. Fue un momento precioso, la gasa actuando como filtro sobre el Támesis, como si señalara el potencial del color del agua dulce superponiéndose a la realidad turbia de una vía fluvial contaminada.
Me trajo dos recuerdos distintos. El primero fue cuando me uní a unos amigos holandeses en Chatham, navegando por el Támesis hasta atracar en St Katharine’s, y nunca olvidaré el olor a excrementos que nos golpeó al pasar por la barrera del Támesis y que permaneció durante unos buenos treinta minutos. El segundo fue seis meses después, cuando me uní a unos amigos del grupo de natación en aguas abiertas Blue Tits para nadar al amanecer una mañana de diciembre en Teddington Lock, para para visibilizar la lucha constante de Surfers Against Sewage. La alegría de dejarnos llevar río abajo con amigos mientras salía el sol, salir del agua para tomar un café y comer tarta casera, se combinaba con la sobria realidad de ver cómo se hacían primero los controles necesarios del nivel del agua antes de que pudiéramos siquiera meternos.
Aquí, bajo aquella membrana de tela que era el río, sentí que todos compartíamos tanto la responsabilidad como la camaradería de cuidar nuestros espacios acuáticos, cada vez más preciados en esta sucesión de olas de calor. Recorrimos todo el Dock hasta donde había estado actuando Domte (capítulo 250 otra vez), irónicamente el mismo lugar donde el hombre de camiseta amarillo neón que tenía detrás acabaría siendo elegido como voluntario para cargar con otro yugo.
Me encantó escuchar a los niños que tenía alrededor y su alegría de estar bajo aquella cubierta, como si fuera una especie de guarida improvisada. Mientras tanto, las voces continuaban por los altavoces como un torrente de conciencia. Al llegar, dejamos el río en el suelo y luego nos sentamos sobre él mientras continuaba el espectáculo. Una de las botellas de plástico vertió la tierra más seca sobre una losa, mientras invitaban a un niño a regar las raíces de un árbol que había detrás de nosotros con los restos de agua que se habían recogido antes del dispensador, un momento precioso que servía también para subrayar la escasez. Las cabezas de las botellas yacían ahora en el suelo, como redes de pescadores hechas de basura, y otra persona de la compañía, con un traje de materiales peligrosos, se acercó para sacudirlas. Algunas se dispersaron hacia el público y nosotros las fuimos haciendo rodar de vuelta.
Las sirenas sonaron junto a los propios aullidos de alarma de quienes actuaban. Una enorme nube de humo azul royal salió de golpe y nos envolvió, y me sorprendió comprobar que ni me irritaba ni me asfixiaba. Por un momento, sin embargo, me transportó de vuelta a Valencia, cuando era estudiante, corriendo para escapar de la policía que lanzaba gases lacrimógenos contra quienes estábamos en la calle Ruzafa, allí para mostrar nuestra solidaridad contra una oleada de protestas antiinmigración. Fue inquietante. Una vez más, esa es la función del espectáculo, provocar emociones y crear memoria colectiva.
Y así, al final, mientras se desplegaba la pancarta con las palabras “Water has memory”, me encontré reflexionando sobre cómo el pasado tiene una curiosa manera de reaparecer cuando menos te lo esperas.
Y es que el mundo es muy curioso porque después, charlando con Ximena, la directora, descubrí que ella era de Chile, y que mi compañera de piso de aquellos tiempos en Valencia (véase el post anterior) había sido su profesora de teatro en la universidad de Valparaíso, y que se conocían bien. Valencia fue donde mi mundo realmente se abrió de par en par, tanto en mi relación con las artes escénicas como en mi compromiso con las cuestiones sociales. Mirándolo ahora en retrospectiva, creo que aquello formó parte del camino que finalmente me llevó a mi amor y aprecio por el circo y las artes al aire libre.
“No existe tal cosa como la coincidencia, Lucy”, me dijo el otro día mi acupuntor mientras me quitaba la última aguja. Pero, como aquellos buscadores de agua con sus varillas de zahorí, creo que todos buscamos algún significado reconfortante que nos ayude a dar sentido a un mundo que parece dirigirse cada vez más hacia un rumbo catastrófico.
La semana siguiente se me cayó el alma a los pies cuando vi una fotografía especialmente impactante de los incendios de Valencia, con el humo saliendo por detrás del Palau de les Arts. Había habido humo en el aire cuando estuve allí remando, apenas una quincena antes, a las tres de la madrugada, con el aire cargado del humo de los petardos de la mascletà, normalmente reservados para las Fallas, lanzados para celebrar que el valenciano Ferran Torres, el Guapo, había marcado el gol de la victoria de España en la final del Mundial.
Lo que más me llamó la atención fue que la nube de la fotografía era extraordinariamente parecida a la imagen que yo había tomado de la formación de humo azul en Siluetas de Agua. El agua tiene memoria, sin duda, pero también el arte, en este caso, llevaba consigo una profecía.
Versió en català
Una de les coses que més m’agraden del circ i de les arts a l’aire lliure és que està ple de gent compromesa amb el món que l’envolta. Crec que els inconformistes de la societat són els qui s’arrisquen artísticament i aconsegueixen despertar els altres. Ja sigui amb esquellots o amb espectacles que et deixen pensant, però què està passant aquí...?
Un bon exemple va ser Siluetas de Agua, d’una altra companyia catalana (vegeu el post sobre Domte, capítol 250), Teatro en Movimiento Callejerx, un espectacle itinerant que reflexiona sobre l’aigua, la contaminació i la sequera en una ciutat que està vivint ara mateix nivells sense precedents de totes tres coses. Està ambientat en un món distòpic de música dissonant, on apareixen tres figures com extraterrestres, amb els caps atrapats en una mena de núvol asfixiant d’ampolles d’aigua buides, recollides en una xarxa, brotant samarretes blau reial i brillants leggings de color rosa intens. Amb el moll com a teló de fons, un cel blau brillant esquitxat de cúmuls i els cables del telefèric i les seves cabines passant per darrere, el conjunt resultava alhora visualment impactant i inquietant.
Les criatures es movien de formes alienígenes, amb les cames esteses, alguna caiguda imprevisible que acabava en un split, entrant i sortint del públic. Un paisatge sonor d’alarmes i urgència les acompanyava a través d’un enorme altaveu que empenyia una quarta persona de la companyia, pràcticament inadvertida per al públic. Les cabines del telefèric que pujaven i baixaven darrere de les criatures afegien alguna cosa al paisatge futurista. Després van aparèixer les varetes de saurí, amb pedres en forma de diamant als extrems, acompanyades per la veu femenina d’una mena de xamana, una crida de sirena que coordinava els seus moviments. Buscant aigua, buscant respostes, qui sap.
Les vam seguir fins a una plaça on hi havia dos gratacels fàl·lics i, al fons, torres d’alta tensió. En primer pla, una multitud de cames roses, i darrere d’elles, les tanques de color rosa intens. Finalment, els van treure els caps. Hi va haver un joc amb la font. No hi havia gaire aigua, tot just se’n va recollir una mica en una ampolla, i aleshores es va desplegar una tela diàfana de color blau reial, potser d’uns 20 metres de llarg, acompanyada per un testimoni, una invocació a la Mare Terra, bé, a la Mare Mar.
Vaig reconèixer la invocació a Yemayá, la patrona del mar en les tradicions cubana i ioruba, mi santa (veure l'entrada 249 sobre Mites, clica aquí), i una altra que no vaig reconèixer. Vaig preguntar després i crec que era Chalchiuhtlicue, la deessa asteca de l'aigua dolça. Hi va haver testimonis personals de diferents parlants d'anglès sobre la importància dels seus cursos d'aigua locals i els canvis que havien observat. Una persona va recordar que, de petita, prop d'una font sagrada al Perú, li havien ensenyat que una sola gota d'aigua afegida a una altra font li permet recordar la seva pròpia puresa, així que mai no oblida del tot què és. Una altra va explicar la vella història d'un elefant que un cop va travessar el Tàmesi gelat per comprovar si el gel aguantaria. I va aguantar, i pel que sembla per això s'hi instal·laven fires d'hivern senceres, amb artistes de carrer inclosos, directament sobre el riu, en l'època en què gelava prou i durant prou temps perquè la ciutat el fes servir com una segona carrer major. Una tercera va parlar amb més claredat, que això no era només clima, era injustícia climàtica, i que anomenar qui se'n beneficia i qui paga importa més que tractar la sequera com a mala sort.
Ens van convidar aleshores a portar el riu de gasa i processionar fins a l'altre extrem del Dock. Va ser un moment preciós, la gasa actuant com a filtre sobre el Tàmesi, com si assenyalés el potencial del color de l'aigua dolça superposant-se a la realitat tèrbola d'una via fluvial contaminada.
Em va portar dos records diferents. El primer va ser quan em vaig unir a uns amics holandesos a Chatham, navegant pel Tàmesi fins a atracar a St Katharine’s, i mai no oblidaré l’olor d’excrements que ens va colpejar en passar per la barrera del Tàmesi i que va persistir durant ben bé trenta minuts. El segon va ser sis mesos després, quan em vaig unir a uns amics del grup de natació en aigües obertes Blue Tits per nedar a trenc d’alba un matí de desembre a Teddington Lock, per visibilitzar la lluita constant de Surfers Against Sewage. L’alegria de deixar-nos portar riu avall amb amics mentre sortia el sol, sortir de l’aigua per prendre un cafè i menjar pastís casolà, es combinava amb la sòbria realitat de veure com es feien primer els controls necessaris del nivell de l’aigua abans que ni tan sols poguéssim entrar-hi.
Aquí, sota aquella membrana de tela que era el riu, vaig sentir que tots compartíem tant la responsabilitat com la camaraderia de tenir cura dels nostres espais aquàtics, cada vegada més preuats en aquesta successió d’onades de calor. Vam recórrer tot el Dock fins allà on havia estat actuant Domte (capítol 250, un altre cop), irònicament el mateix lloc on l’home de samarreta groc neó que tenia darrere acabaria sent escollit com a voluntari per carregar amb un altre jou.
Em va encantar escoltar els nens que tenia al voltant i la seva alegria d’estar sota aquella coberta, com si fos una mena de cau improvisat. Mentrestant, les veus continuaven pels altaveus com un torrent de consciència. En arribar, vam deixar el riu a terra i després ens hi vam asseure a sobre mentre continuava l’espectacle. Una de les ampolles de plàstic va abocar la terra més seca sobre una llosa, mentre convidaven un nen a regar les arrels d’un arbre que hi havia darrere nostre amb les restes d’aigua que s’havien recollit abans del dispensador, un moment preciós que també servia per subratllar l’escassetat. Els caps de les ampolles jeien ara a terra, com xarxes de pescadors fetes d’escombraries, i una altra persona de la companyia, amb un vestit per a materials perillosos, es va acostar per sacsejar-les. Algunes es van escampar cap al públic i nosaltres les vam anar fent rodolar de tornada.
Les sirenes van sonar al costat dels propis udols d’alarma de qui actuava. Un enorme núvol de fum blau reial va sortir de cop i ens va embolcallar, i em va sorprendre comprovar que ni m’irritava ni m’ofegava. Per un moment, però, em va transportar de nou a València, quan era estudiant, corrent per escapar de la policia que llançava gasos lacrimògens contra els qui érem al carrer de Ruzafa, allà per mostrar la nostra solidaritat contra una onada de protestes antiimmigració. Va ser inquietant. Un cop més, aquesta és la funció de l’espectacle: provocar emocions i crear memòria col·lectiva.
I així, al final, mentre es desplegava la pancarta amb les paraules “Water has memory”, em vaig trobar reflexionant sobre com el passat té una manera ben curiosa de reaparèixer quan menys t’ho esperes.
I és que el món és ben curiós perquè després, xerrant amb Ximena, Ximena, a càrrec de la direcció, ere de Xile, i que la meva companya de pis d’aquells temps a València (vegeu el post anterior) havia estat la seva professora de teatre a la universitat de Valparaíso, i que es coneixien bé. València va ser on el meu món realment es va obrir de bat a bat, tant en la meva relació amb les arts escèniques com en el meu compromís amb les qüestions socials. Mirant-ho ara en retrospectiva, crec que allò va formar part del camí que finalment em va portar al meu amor i apreciació pel circ i les arts a l’aire lliure.
“No existeix tal cosa com la coincidència, Lucy”, em va dir l’altre dia el meu acupuntor mentre em treia l’última agulla. Però, com aquells buscadors d’aigua amb les seves varetes de saurí, crec que tots busquem algun significat reconfortant que ens ajudi a donar sentit a un món que sembla dirigir-se cada vegada més cap a un rumb catastròfic.
La setmana següent se’m va caure l’ànima als peus quan vaig veure una fotografia especialment impactant dels incendis de València, amb el fum sortint per darrere del Palau de les Arts. Hi havia hagut fum a l’aire quan hi havia estat remant, tot just una quinzena abans, a les tres de la matinada, amb l’aire carregat del fum dels petards de la mascletà, normalment reservats per a les Falles, llançats per celebrar que el valencià Ferran Torres, el Guapo, havia marcat el gol de la victòria d’Espanya a la final del Mundial.
El que més em va cridar l’atenció va ser que el núvol de la fotografia era extraordinàriament semblant a la imatge que jo havia fet de la formació de fum blau a Siluetas de Agua. L’aigua té memòria, sens dubte, però també l’art, en aquest cas, portava amb ell una profecia.
EQUIPO ARTÍSTICO
DIRECCIÓN/DRAMATURGIA Ximena Cañas Abell INTERPRETACIÓN Lara Renard Anna García Parès Ximena Cañas UNIVERSO SONOR Joan Cot Gaia Leandra DISEÑO INTEGRAL Lucía Valenzuela Chacaltana ASESORIA ARTÍSTICA Sergi Estebanell ASESORIA EN SOSTENIBILIDAD Joan Vendrell ENFOQUES PARCIALES Simón Díaz PRODUCCIÓN Teatro en Movimiento Callejerx
