umm… Supermodels. Catwalks. Shopping lists. Hate. Ambivalence. Whispering. Not whispering loudly enough. Microphones. Costume changes. Love. Happiness. Drugs. Music. This song is stuck in my head. Dancing with legs tied. 1 hour of live mannequins…
I think a lunch break.
Being posed with Ivan by an audience of everyone, a slow real-life stop-motion adventure story.
Not rehearsing in WUK. Instead off to the VolksOper rehearsal rooms, huge with vast windows, much light. Peculiar to work with natural light. One last meal at Deewan before it closes for summer, a couple of weeks only but for us, it is forever.
It’s Sunday now. I didn’t get around to writing this on Friday night, nor yesterday so it’s a rather large blur of… I think we did this, things were said, maybe these things, things were done also, maybe some of these things.
Saturday night, ImPulsTanz’s 25th anniverary opening party at Kasino am Schwarzenbergplaz. I discover Ivan and Estelle just arrived. Warm and sweaty, loudness. Later much dancing. A vast room full of drenched, wild bodies, half the space is raked seating, the other the stage, one side faces the other, bodies grinding in pale blue light, boys in dresses and makeup, a girl in blue underwear or bikini, skin glistening with running sweat, the walls almost leak, madness and hysteria, things go into slow-motion and yet more frenzied. I fall into bed after a nightbus ride at 5am.
We were to build the set somewhat today. The theatre was a cesspool of spilt beer, stale cigarettes, chewing gum, noxious odors and mess. Three and a half hours later after a quite obsessional effort with buckets, mops, brooms, and large yellow beetle that sucked up goo and regurgitated cleaning fluids in a rather loud high-pitched whine – soothing on ears bashed by compressed treble banging techno and house, oh, and a hose. Maybe two. … we have something cleanish and go for Chinese, no Turkish, no Pizza, no walk, tram, Chinese, no Kebabs… oh Vienna you so fail to seduce me with your all-close-on-sunday-and-go-to-church attitude. Milchreis really is milk-rice, rice pudding. mmm slippery tastiness.
Return. It’s 4:30, Ivan is contentedly or methodically finishing the far corners where the stage once was. We now have a rather vast empty space and quite a lot of stuff. And so to assemble tents and lean-tos and a badminton court and kitchen, bathroom, lights, other things, hours of hammers and nails and gaffer and scissors and string and…
Around 6:30 I become insensate. Sugar won’t help. I go home. Tomorrow we do something with this all.