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Twilight falling over Fitzroy
This is a story about a magical evening. Of things turned upside down. This could only happen in Fitzroy. On the way home I see the streets differently. Where has the mundane gone? -- But to begin at the beginning. Cecil Street. We all gather, this is part of it; it is relaxed and full of people with a beautiful sense of awareness in their body. There is a light, friendly atmosphere. Paul Romano instructs us. Informally. We are told to follow a group out of the studio and we do. Even before the performance begins the mundane and the performative mix. lines of building, lamp post, footpath, alleyway, shuffling feet, chatting, anticipation We are led down a tiny alleyway, pavement, corrugated fences, overhanging purple flowers, a pile of bright red sand. Where are we? Jane A girl is moving in the corner, at the end of the alleyway. She leaps she tosses her arms Her runners scrape swish and twirl on the gravel. They create a sound score. What is happening to her? Lightness. Nonchalance. In that alleyway she could be a girl in the 20’s, playing hopscotch. She could be photographed in a sepia photograph. (When I was small this is what we did. We went through the back streets climbed over fences stole plums from trees played cops and robbers. She undoes her hair in a sudden swing - ah- she seems annoyed- She is stuck in this alleyway. She is small and grown up at the same time. She jumps on the red sand. She is told ‘5 minutes’. This is the code to finish. And so, yes, this is underpinned by a structure, a readable tradition, an established dialogue that we are in relation to- We leave her there and walk away. The light falls. The sky is a pale pink. Joey and Ann-Maree A concrete courtyard. Modern Fitzroy chic funky. Olive trees in large pots. Environmentally aware mixed with old warehouse. A man and a woman are poised, strangely. She is looking through the window. I don’t know what she sees. He is wearing bright yellow socks They begin to play- the familiar rhythm - a flow of whims. And then - something interesting emerges - And- my favourite moment- He lies down - unexpectedly - no real explanation why, but there he is- (Strange to see dancers on concrete. I feel slight unease for their bodies. ) As we go, there is an eruption of energy, they leap onto each other’s back - a moment of near flight- their bodies come together, go to the ground- Thoughts as we walk Improvisation with a particular Melbourne character. Jonathon In another alleyway, a space behind a garage. It says: PRIVATE PROPERTY A man dances and speaks to us, signaling sections of his score with self- irony: I start to long for stillness. Group This was incredible. Walking, we get to a LONG laneway. But in this context are we audience? Or are we implicated in it? I felt so part of it Close to us is our group of performers. And beyond them, the other group. Dressed in black. With their own, different dynamic. A play of synchronicity and polyphony emerges. A man is leaping from one side of the lane, one brick wall, to the other- They leap, stop, climb, turn, twirl, roll, poise, balance, catch a whim, lift it, hold it, drop it, blow it away like a piece of fluff, they move frenetically, they turn and look. They squat, they shiver, I love it There is this extraordinary framing- a depth of line which can never happen in a theatre. And yet. I don’t quite understand. I think: if on the street I saw a man bash himself into a wall, a man collapse onto the concrete, these would be shocking events. They would stop my breath. I would worry for the man. But here I am not worried. And so although this man is bashing into a wall, something is different. He is not doing it, really. And yet he is physically doing it, he is a real man, it is a real wall. So why am I neutral, aesthetically pleased? Are my senses dulled, because I see this event and it does not have its impact? I just watch and enjoy the flow of choices. Like the music of Haydn. A delicate, impersonal beauty, which draws me in, but does not grab me by the throat. I notice that the other group has a different dynamic to our group. They are mysterious. Each time we move on there is relief; a realization that the structure supports the fragility of the improvisation. Shaun, Dianne, Helen. Somehow we are handed over to a woman in a sensational green dress. Flamboyant. Red hair. Dianne. She leads our little group down a small street of picket fences. She yells at us like she is in some 19th century London street. Then she delivers us at a cream picket fence and we go quiet. Helen says: ‘you can come closer if you like’. This is slightly sinister. There is something marvelous and mysterious here. I feel like Alice down the rabbit hole. A corridor of little doors and in each is another reality – all in the lanes of Fitzroy. A man stands on the porch of the house. Shaun. He moves on the porch like he is lurking. He grabs our attention. He dances. He transforms the place, and himself, moving in perfectly shaped phrases with a dynamism, a beginning, build, middle and end. Each phrase is complete. He surprises us. He – suddenly- leaps onto the pebbles, his whole body drops and it makes a crunching sound. He lies still. It is shocking and complete. He comes to the fence and looks at us like we are interlopers. He makes us laugh. He does a Gene Kelly tap dance. He- ohmygod- turns on the tap. It’s real. There is excitement. We don’t know which way the world will turn on this strange porch. The feeling of being whirled into a new world, swept up- The feeling that even after us, he will continue this wild game. Dianne It is near-dark. In a laneway, far away, under a lamplight, the woman in the green dress. Then she disappears. She plays a game with us, taking herself out of our picture, but she knows we are waiting. She is shaping phrase, perspective, and I know she knows and that is so satisfying. We don’t go any closer because the glint of her red hair under that fading light, between those buildings, tells a story we don’t want to understand fully. It is beguiling. But then she leaps her way to us. This a story without a soundtrack. Helen It is dark now. On a street, a terrace house. Behind the dark pole of the terrace house, a shape. I am aware of how much I love the presence of experienced performers-, their understanding of shape, of how to walk, work with time, proximity, distance. All three Then all 3- Dianne, Shaun and Helen, play together. It’s funny, odd, and their theme song is- And then it’s over. But not quite. Back at Cecil Street, Paul Romano does a 30- second imaginary finale. There was something imaginary about the whole night. Bagryana Popov |