In the artificial light of a theatrical dawn, Meg Stuart's angular form and abstract choreography are in direct contrast to Phiipp Gehmacher's dance of a drunken ape. As the 2 dancers continue their wrestle centre stage, the sun, as artifice of electricity transformed into light, rises alongside the sound of lava, cracks and ticks, and a catastrophic flock of seagulls. We're by the seaside, and the beginning of an intimate relationship between a man and a woman, or, its end, is about to unfold. At rear, and malingering above the pulp of this relationship, is a projection of 2 Everlastings that have submitted to the quiet stampede of the seasons. Seed dispersed by a chill wind, summer love now recedes toward autumnal despair.
Enter Niko Hafkenscheid carrying a Gibson guitar. He parks himself beside an amplifier and extols from his instrument a rusty waltz. Hafkenscheid is alone on stage; just he, and the sound of plectrum drawn across metal... Stuart returns, wearing a faded skirt and cardigan. She carries a microphone stand, which she positions on a pedestal, and in the time it takes for this tableau to unfold, her jaded costume reveals a contempt for the intimate relationship she is embroiled within. In contrast to Stuart's New Orleans' twang, and its peculiar encapsulation of a free-associative text characterised by repetition and ellipsis, the 2 Everlastings projected at rear imperceptibly fill with colour. But the flowers fail to achieve complete revitalisation. Instead, each is suspended in an ambiguous dead zone; a pre-animated state of something that might have been, but never was, and never will be... And when Gehmacher enters once again, staggering limp and impotent, he positions himself alongside Stuart in such a way that it is impossible not to conclude that the dearth of time that consumes this relationship is intrinsic to the decomposition of the seasons. There is no escaping this irreversible 'Time of the mind', while sculpting such via performative technique is only a temporary antidote to the ever-present possibility of damnation. We live, we die, we dream, and then, maybe, there's eternity...
Ontology aside, or, a desire to disassociate the self from a quest for immortality that cannot be quantified, Stuart and Gehmacher, splayed across the now sacrificial pedestal, rise, and hold hands. It's a moment of reciprocal tenderness in the maelstrom that is love. Gone is the sustained collision between Stuart's angular presence, and Gehmacher's hairy indecision. And then, with the passing of time and its concurrent decomposition, this tenderness dissipates, and we're back where we started. Engaged in a choreographed battle between time and sexual desire, between differing points of view and the stubborn need to adopt a position. (In spite of an awareness that during any crisis of confidence between 2 people, the one element, unsuitable and not required, is an intractable belief in Thanatos, or, a self-destructive urge to dismantle all that remains good in the world).
Meanwhile, Hafkenscheid's tortured Gibson elbows its way around, and through, this fractured fairytale. But not before he downs plectrum and address' the audience. It's a greeting of sorts; the usual bullshit patronising a city and its people. Although, in Hafkenscheid's case, the humility with which he expresses his appreciation conceals a cunning theatrical device. For those in the audience who have allowed themselves to be transported to an equestrian place, or, an imaginary state where riders of the mind saddle up on mountaintops while anticipating a terrifying descent into the chasm beneath them, Hafkenscheid's intervention strikes a blow for the actual. We are in the Merlin, at the Malthouse theatre, in Sturt St. South Melbourne. During this performance, one symphonic movement has ended, and another is about to begin. But this next foray into territory once charted as 'Supernatural' concludes the choreographed battle between Stuart and Gehmacher. It is like watching a lightbulb lose its power to illuminate; imperceptible for a time, then gone. But not before Stuart parts a rear curtain, thereby revealing the intestine of this relationship. As we involved in the performing arts know, it is backstage where the true performance takes place. Sidelined by boorish crates, the temptation to exit, and the necessary baggage of too much time spent with another person, Stuart fiddles and fidgets, while Gehmacher looks on, then, she simply disappears. The death of a relationship, be it with another person, the divided self, or, during a transcendental quest, is to submit to the tyranny of time and accept the terminal embrace of nature.
Gehmacher then follows Stuart into the void. When both return, however, I'll be damned if I'll accept the proposition that we deserve another chance at life. A hint of colour has returned to 'Maybe Forever'. This time, though, the performers themselves are recalibrated. A yellow shirt and brown jacket on Gehmacher. An orange dress on Stuart that implies a neon trip into the unknown. (Before return and re-entry at a temperature of 400 degrees). Comparatively, these specks of joy are in complete contrast to the actual environment that characterises the emotional tenor of this performance. Calcified and cold, all dry and dusty mould degenerating into dust. As artifice of electricity transformed into light, a sapphire coloured sun shimmers, then dips beneath the horizon. Maybe forever..? I bloody-well hope so. One time 'round the rosy has been quite enough for me... Dusk settles, and now it's dark. Winter has come to the Malthouse theatre. In the Merlin, a cruel wind executes a path between each empty stall. In Melbourne, the season of sadness begins...
Maybe Forever
Choreography & performance:
Meg Stuart & Philipp Gehmacher
Live Musician: Niko Hafkenscheid
Dramaturge: Myriam Van Imschoot
Light: Jan Maertens
Set & costume: Janina Audick
Sound: Vincent Malstaf
Assistant choreography: Sigal Zouk
Production manager: Tanja Thomsen
Set & costume assistant: Inga Timm
Malthouse theatre, June 23 - 26, Melb.
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