I got my haircut today, and went shoe shopping … um … then we rehearsed. Actually we wanted to get on with drinking a bottle of wine and watching another episode of The Mighty Boosh, but we had to bang our knees and elbows and give ourselves headaches first.There was one scene left to do, which was mostly what we concentrated on yesterday following the bashing of Botticelli. Which is a fine warm-up too.
Baudrillard writes about catastrophic death, “And it is true that a natural catastrophe is a danger to the established order, not only because of the real disorder it provokes, but by the blow it strikes to every sovereign ‘rationality’, politics included.” Emile has video of NASA test-destroying a passenger plane, blanket camera coverage from inside the cabin as demolition is unleashed. Together this became the final scene.
Roland Barthes’, Writing Degree Zero, and the zero degree (or maybe non-style) of language is one of the fundamental influences in my work (or more specifically, the play of language in the second half of the 20th century), a constant stripping back of habit and intimidation of the hegemony of vocabulary, be it written text or that of movement. Obviously the spectre of Derrida lurks over this, muttering “écriture et différence”, and then Baudrillard rounds out the party, pissing of the locals. But the dehumanising power of language in its construction of the world, and its constant evasion is specifically what interests me. In the case of movement, be it a codified, finite vocabulary such as ballet, or the elusive ambivalence of contemporary dance, the issue is always how to recognise the trap and how to escape.
Often for me this leads back to a nothing-ness, an absence, an un-ness, a ballet devoid of ballet, movement which is just a repetition of one thing. The one thing though is not the essence of the idea, it’s closer to being the scrap-heap of all possible iterations of that thing, the remainder stacked up upon itself until bloated enough it achieves some kind of sense. It always reminds me of the title of Deleuze’s monster, Difference and Repetition, despite the contents being largely halucinogenic.
The result of all this philosophical crapulence is currently the final scene, a slow-motion journey through the inside of a plane crash, lit in the candy colours of jet-fuel, over and over… There’s something very dark about the work now, and it’s not some juvenile satanist trip. Primarily hell follows extermination as Baudrillard’s text follows the body with its death, but if extermination was underlined with the desecration of the body, then hell is boiling with the dehumanisation of it.