Yoga + Shibari November 2014

For those of you in Berlin, Yoga + Shibari with Dasniya is on Tuesday, 25th November. And more performances of MARS ATTACKS! in Frankfurt and Zürich!

Dear Friends, Bondagisti and Dance People!

This month, Yoga & Shibari in Berlin takes place: Tuesday, November 25th.
End of November das Helmi und Theatr Hora revive Mars Attacks! in Frankfurt at Mousonturm

Come, see and rope with us!

Dasniya & Frances

  1. Yoga & Shibari Berlin, Tuesday 25th November
  2. 22+23 November Mars Attacks! at Mousonturm Frankfurt

1. Yoga & Shibari Berlin, Tuesday November 25th, 2014

Hours: 7-11 pm at:
Teatris/Alte Kantine Wedding
Uferhallen Kulturwerkstatt
Entrance B/C
Uferstraße 8-11
13357 Berlin
U8 Pankstr/U9 Osloerstr

Please call when you are in the courtyard, in case you don’t find it, or the door is locked: + 49 174 393 70 49.

Please register beforehand, then we send you the details!
General class description: Deutsch + English
Yoga can be done separately from the Shibari part. Hours: 7-8.45 pm. Info here.

2. Mars Attacks! Theater Hora & das Helmi

When: SA+SO 22/23 November 2014
Time: 8 pm
Location: Künstlerhaus Mousonturm Frankfurt, Waldschmidtstraße 4, 60316 Frankfurt am Main

When: SO 30 November 19.15 / MO 01December 20.15
Location: Schauspielhaus Zürich, Schiffbaustrasse 4, 8005 Zürich

Nasty Martians attack to torment, torture, destroy humanity in this brutal Sci-Fi classic from the 1950’s. This repeatedly censored and banned material full of (un)canny projections now forms the foundation for a surreal performance about desire, dark longings and the end of humankind.

Performance: Remo Beuggert, Gianni Blumer, Matthias Brücker, Cora Frost, Solène Garnier, Nikolai Gralak, Matthias Grandjean, Julia Häusermann, Florian Loycke, Tiziana Pagliaro, Dasniya Sommer.



We left Berlin at 3pm. Van packed in the back with scores of ropes, carabiners, slings, metal, tools, puppets, props, costumes, poles, our own personal stuff, us two in the front two in the back. It rained as we packed and rained as we left. out of Berlin along Seestr, through Westend, through Grunewald, into the Brandenburg flatness. Somewhere south of Jena we turned west, into Thüringer Wald, forested hills topped with castles. We paused every couple of hours at Autobahn rest stops lined with trucks. Back on the Autobahn doing 140kmh in a Mercedes Sprinter, a steady rhythm in the left lane blasting by pushing 200.

Turning south again as the sun goes under, Frankfurt on the skyline, around that on the west side, another half an hour and we arrive in Heppenheim at our hotel.

Reading: Steven Spier (ed.) — William Forsythe and the Practice of Choreography: It Comes from any Point

I am sitting here, in Berlin, looking across the Uferhallen and south, the Panke canal, through trees not yet budding in an unseasonably early spring, entirely because of William Forsythe. Of course, not entirely, the details and meanderings can be said to be my own, yet the impetus, the first shove, or — to use it knowing also its religious connotations — the revelation, was sitting in a theatre watching The Frankfurt Ballett, having no idea what it was I was seeing, but knowing that was exactly what I wanted to do.

An origin story always gets remade to emphasise the desired narrative over what actually happened, so to tell it like this is knowingly to omit to the point of lying. Nonetheless, it was seeing The Frankfurt Ballett, leaving the theatre thrilled and shaking, seeing and hearing and feeling what was roiled inside of me without recourse to language to make itself conscious; it was this moment that gave clarity and understanding to me. Perhaps even it was the moment itself, that time then, and to see it a few years later or earlier would not have caused this immediate, complete change of direction. Well, yes, perhaps. Perhaps is not so interesting nor knowable. So: I’m sitting here, writing this, because of William Forsythe.

I enjoy writings on Forsythe, The Forsythe Company, Frankfurt Ballet because the work lends itself so easily to serious critical and philosophical thoughts. When Forsythe talks about deconstruction, he really is using the word in a Derridean sense, and not some vacuous, lazy synonym for dismantling. There are conversations you can have with the former that are not possible with the latter not merely because there is neither deconstruction nor dismantling taking place; it is these conversations that interest me, which I think are pertinent, even imperative to dance.

So I come to editor Steven Spier’s William Forsythe and the Practice of Choreography: It Comes from any Point, which I forget where I first saw, published in 2011. It’s a collection of essays, some short, some long, some easy to read and addressing a general dance audience, others assuming at least a familiarity with post-’68 philosophy, music theory, architecture … most of it (approaching half-way in the reading) I find very interesting and stimulating, while a couple of parts I feel a weight of disappointment. More or less typical for an essay collection.

One in particular irritated me, no coincidence I suppose it was the one heavy on Foucault: Gerald Siegmund’s Of Monsters and Puppets. The fixation on the word, ‘monster’, dancers’ bodies as monsters or monstrous, uttered over and over until it became like a nervous tick or fetish, the direct line to Foucault (who turns up more than once in this book), irrespective of the validity of this line of writing (either as a critical interpretation or coming directly from Forsythe’s references to Foucault) is all a bit too easy, predictable. It anticipates as well a queer colonialism wherein Queer claims dancers’ bodies as its own because all that is monstrous is Queer. It’s not. Queer doesn’t get to claim all bodies that fall outside of the normative as queer, nor are these bodies necessarily monstrous.

An opposition to this is Michel Serres writing on bodies that move, bodies that dance. The dancer’s body as the possible, the unknown; the body that thinks and is subject through moving; a body that is not reducible to a duality, separate from mind (or thinking, or consciousness) because of this; a body that resists a ‘holistic’ integration or synthesis of the two by being already somewhere else.

Certainly also it’s not a strict opposition. There is at play here in the monstrous and queer what Baudrillard calls, “an increasingly racist definition of the ‘normal human.’” yet that is not all there is, nor is it necessarily a coherent path of discourse to describe what is categorised as not normal in the language that does this categorisation. If nothing else, it means we agree a priori the designation is correct and we’re just arguing over the details. There’s also something dishonest in naming bodies monstrous and yet not admitting there’s something sexy and cool in such an appellation, perhaps even better than the non-monstrous.

Perhaps all of this is to say, yes, even if Forsythe names Foucault as an influence, it doesn’t follow that all analysis of his work has to be the standard turning of the lights labeled Foucault, Lacan, Marx, and others on it and performing a kind of paint by numbers theorising. Who else is there? Serres, obviously. Judith Butler was and is writing concurrently with Forsythe’s work. Mainly I find it a little uninteresting to remain so narrow and predictable in the choice of philosophers and tropes with which to regard the world.

Besides all that, which was only one or two of the essays I’ve so far read – and even these are well-written whatever I might think of their arguments – this is one of the best collections of essays I’ve read on Forsythe, and it’s a joy to read about dance like this.


Secret Project Thailand Depart!

And that’s Dasniya off to Thailand at 2am via Mitfahr to Frankfurt then Colombo, arriving 30 hours or so after we stood rather cold at Osloerstr, in Bangkok. Excitement! Completely unexpected and unknown excitement for her three weeks ago also. (Shall wash the dishes, ja, ok?)


Daniel stayed the night, after our witching hour last rehearsal, and it was past 3 before sleeping. Later, after I walked to the market, sore and my throat dry and hoarse, for coffee and porridge, I tailed him by almost an hour for midday yumcha.

As I walked, the sky autumn blue and faint, high haze, a jet left its evaporating contrail, four lines bulging out then sliding together like a long fine tail etched towards the eastern horizon, where after a time they became erased, in places until… nothing.

For me the sight of these ephemeral lines reminds me of Europe, where at times a stratospheric filigree crisscrossed the sky.

Daniel leaves today. First to Frankfurt, then Berlin and, for a time, Freiburg. Sometime in winter so will I. But in-between…

My beautiful wild Daniel, I love you and miss you already.