Thursday, March 26, 2009


In Body-Scan, I walk naked towards the audience and stand there being seen, seeing and try to find a dance that comes out of these sensations.

In Brest, when we premiered the piece a year ago, I used to stick my fingers into my pussy, reprising a moment from earlier where I am riding the curves of my inside space as much as the curves of the outside space. In Montreal, when we remounted it, I took out that detail, feeling like it was a mask and a crutch behind which I was hiding.

This change threw me into an existentialist crisis about dance. It felt like I had made myself confront the ultimate question: what does it mean to dance, really, when stripped of our identity as defined by clothes and actions.

A wonderful crisis, really, to be in. A terrifying crisis.

But I bailed.
Just before I left for Paris, Jason gave me a gift - a brand over my right breast - to give me courage.
As I stood there naked, with my death mark made with love, I realised that that was a marker of identity too.
Then, yesterday we made adjustments in that section and now I have something to do in my nudity.

Maybe the fact is, dance is meaningless in and of itself. It is merely a transition.

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