Moving Stories: Moving Mountains.

I watched the film premier of Robert Pacitti’s new work last week:

Three screens, one person in each grey space. Each performance connected by a language of sign, sound and movement that take time and concentration to slowly register, time to decipher, time to pick up resonant threads. These are Robert’s subtle ‘depth charges’. There is intensity in the watching, a reaching out for openness and a desire to understand. A pile of earth trodden, sifted, graded, controlled. Chairs upside down, an image reversed. A spider held in a hand, hands as spikes that threaten and menace but a body fluid in dance. Arms that hug, fingers that point, hands that feel and rip and drop. A mouth that stuffs, gags and spits. But is that a scream, a howl, a stifled accusation? A face masked, a body draped. Voices that sing and hands that sign, beautiful to watch but I am left stupid not knowing the meaning.

I am the outsider (again), the uncomfortable one in my uncertainty, my ignorance, my fear.











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