There is something very civilised about starting class at 11am. Even if it is a Saturday, it’s lazy, depraved in a bourgeois kind of way, and only encourages still managing to be late. Not me, who was coffeed and stuffed on bananas and croissants by half past nine, ready to go back to bed by five to eleven.
Nigel took us for class, so it was our introduction to what his angle is. plenty of rolling about on the floor, lots of swinging around wildly, fast jumps ending splat on the ground, even a couple of stag jumps – the post-modern irony move of contemporary dance. But secretly we love it.
A bunch of tasks for the afternoon, many of them blind-folded, all of them extremely physical and interfering with each others limits. Forcing someone to love you, dragging each other around by different body parts, and just lying there while everyone does whatever they feel like to you. In another week, we’ll all end up humping dogs. Some voice work, which I am not a fan of. I dunno why, maybe I just need Ivo here to scream at. Voice stuff always seems to get primal and important, getting to the essence of yourself. Bullshit, there is nothing there to find. Either way, all the tasks put the physical in Physical Theatre and I need a shower and chocolate.
Oh, and we went shopping too. we each got 12 francs and set off to the supermarket to spend it on something we could use during the week. I wasn’t seeing anything, was considering oil, or wine, or flour… smash some plates?… nah… eat chocolate and fill Smurf moulds with the goo?… another nah. Then I saw it: five kilos of black as hell charcoal, visions of cancerous black frostbite creeping up fingertips, lips, nose and eyelids, hands and arms rigid and burnt by the icy crystals, legs, torso, face, whole body crushed by the insidious creep of frozen death. Mess everywhere. I bought some oil too.