Von Autor Jon Seymour:

‘Dappled, its surface irregularities balanced; the strong side light suspending this luminous crescent in the dark stage blooms into a full sphere. This cosmology of concentration will open collapsed-time before our eyes and enfold us in a dance work whose beginning has not so engaged since E=mc2 from the 1980 Edinburgh Festival. And what is the music of this sphere? We will remain on the surface of sound; that is not the clue, it is the substance.  A trance has begun and will continue for more than twenty minutes; blink and you will miss it. First to change is the perceptual dimension: are we being drawn in or is this sphere in metamorphosis? It is changing in size without an interruption of stages; it is becoming as it grows. Then it is sudden, and so is our brief smile as a hand tickles out, then opposite a foot, a balanced imbalance of our memory of what is human. A leg shoots out atop at ninety degrees. The enclosure has burst. What squirms out is a tightly enwrapped form we know to be human, but made from the vibration we hear; so abstract it seems a living cell. It’s livingness is that most basic; an enraptured flesh slowly extending and unfolding. Form is content, a quasar of surface pulses into an eventual elongation that is at once the miracle of the human body and a singular luminous brush stroke of light painted in the dark. For the viewer, there are pleasures of a rippling musculature and spine which shake the shadows: here is mollusc and angel. Elisabeth Schilling; her name in six unfolding syllables, holds life out for inspection, suspending with nothing more than a rigorous physical discipline, our own selves and beginnings. And then in slow return, disappears as if all was only a stupor, leaving only dark and breath.’

Bild: Bohumil Kosthoryz