The art is there, where you are. Robert Filliou
CUVO
They are: Lydia Lunch, Esther Planas, Sonia Gómez-Pere Faura, Miguel Noguera-Anamor-Ramón Guimaraes-Christian Scharmer. Your show.
These people come from BCN and in cuva in Madrid.
Specifically, the cafe-theater of the English Ships of Legazpi Slaughterhouse.
District Southeast of America, where until recently the cows were turned into food. Today is a contemporary art center. The blood is renewed and liquid space gives way to the sophistication of new technologies and, of course red velvet, and undefiled, a few barstools. In the atmosphere, red igualmentre. Rubber in strips which separate the hands of visitors to squeeze through, without permission, the spirits of the old killers. Slices sprinkled with powdered bone.
I love the change of space. Keep its name makes it even more stimulating: SLAUGHTER. This certifies the illusion, but the breaks and recontextualizes to demonstrate that it is. Imago-mundi's all part of a story that could change at any time. That is changing every moment. MediaTIC vital performance, let's see.
As said CUVO. For that, the six faces of a narrative object in 3D.
Lydia Lunch, subject gestural difficult to define (now not so much, you repeat it whenever possible), throws us face the ghosts of Civil War and leaves, making a mental fuckyou mother who has to scold finish children. Acknowledge having been through it. To see the monster. To see how the Jewish suburban Rochester, NY, which unnerved me so much when I read Paradoxia. She groupie out the side, the scoundrel. Ready to sew me but did not understand verbal spat iota, I thought that would translate: I will not. Only one part, and by order of the diva. Or so they said. Like it did not matter much: the ecupitajos arrived with rab / /. Ia modulated. Lydia is recharged from the toe as if to throw himself on the public, then retracts, and returns to withdraw sheds on the heel. Is militarized against everything that deserves to be, and heads roll at the site. The has already filmed his now are ours. And nothing, look at it. I will not continue speaking its really just because I like it. It would be fair to her.
Anamor serialkiller us who is also a television presenter in psychotherapy from its prison and a stronghold: the slaughterhouse. Summary: good, but I have seen. Great voice.
Miguel Noguera tells the paradox of thieves who steal to get out of Zara with new pants in a bag [the story is good for someone who has never lived in Latin America], "and that inside?, because two identical dolls them. Although it may seem comical, Noguera intoduce us in the tragedy in a pas pis. It must be tragic, I say, that of seeing himself in the stolen property. Be stolen. And not only so, but what you unten for the soul as a joke. To think about it.
Sonia Gomez removed the patches and strips up and down, dancing, writhing and offers us his eau de chichi no action (think) trigger. Summary: have seen, but recommended for men and women Sapphic. A show where the concept is relegated to aesthetics of a woman's body dancing-lighted by a large, large flashlight. Very cool, as illustrated in the program, and therefore snob. I'm not criticizing, I feel fine, although perhaps I have no need for a more original. We already know that exercise should be twenty times a day, the pubococcygeus and the movement is similar to that of an annelid. As for the expo-chichi: Valie Export has been taken in Genital Panic, Vienna, 1969, and was stripped again, because all they discovered was its chichi . Gomez's attitude, however, is that of a female Iberian [Catalan maybe she would, but for me, I just puberty in this country, will Iberian]. Too much flirting breaks the concept (if any) and this issue has been going as least fifty years in the lineup.
This corresponds to Pere Faura, version yan. And when we say yan, is that it is extremely yan. Yan strongly by the way, because there is no other reason than it kick ass cultural militarization end. Thus, Faura is prepared in the plateau with a background of military march: left-right-left right left. We see him get some air and take a ring of gymnastics at the waist. Here the issue is resist. But resisitr not resist, but fuck for resist. Be 15 minutes on stage fucking host all the rhythm of an unlikely gay couple Vivaldi + resisting. Near the end we see that he lacks nothing Faura get into the siding and roofing fuck the slaughterhouse. As I said, the issue is resist. Show that ... "Prove what? Show a show. The big show. Competing against each other. The com-penetration itself, no matter who the partner, with me as the only public sexual gymnast who does not care if there are voyeurs, because the only important thing here is fuck. No matter with whom and against whom ...
fuck fuck
fuck fuck fuck
to self-annihilation. Faura
gets it: just want to get on the plateau, giving a pat and say come, boy, give it up we've understood. However
not over. No, because there is still a boom, bicolor red-yellow flag, the finishing touch to crown the climax and gives meaning to that fight body against body, the heading, enter and defined as a myth we have to sustain, and So break. Summary: brave. And I work up a cigarette.
Esther Planas does reverberate recent years of history between the 5th string guitar and a tube of metal. Hardly move. Moves, we suppose, between NCB and London with the tube, guitar maker CUVO atmospheres in the trunk of his car. She gives that appearance. He is humble and silent. Or is CUVO bone collector? Viewing the images coming out the back makes one wonder. When you hear it I think of Sonic Youth-Evol-then I find out who collaborated with them. We know how this is: psychotropic drug. Summary: very well seen, and at times shocking.
Each is presented by Ramon Guimaraes that mask on his head and drag-queen platforms mourning, it reveals the puppet. Is demonstrated la obcenidad de la máscara. Su revelación nunca fortuita.
Aplausos.
Voy a por los créditos: ¿dónde puedo conseguir el texto de Lydia?, le pregunto al curador. Es parte de su libro Arenal. Muy majo, el tío me deja su tarjeta. Allá vamos.
¿Cuánto tardarías en andar hasta morir?
¿Te dispararías en la mano para beber tu propia sangre
si te vieras abandonado en un infinito arenal en el que el único vestigio de vida
fuera lo que queda de ti?
Escape is essential.
fled to avoid capture
to avoid punishment while
can I try to calculate the distance miles
separating past from future
a futile attempt to manipulate time
that I will, forever stranded in a permanent limbo.
Freedom is a state of grace alone
an oasis shining somewhere in the twilight horizon
where the chains that lock has been blown to smithereens
shot by the gun a submachine gun.
But who is truly free
if one can not escape your own shadow
if you can not extinguish his most unsavory fantasies or delusions more brutal?
A theater for insomniacs, states of dream and nightmare.
haunted by an army of wandering ghosts and invisible enemies lurking
and ruin everything in their path.
The desert speaks to the fugitive who is in me.
a wicked shooter. Isolated. Solitaire.
twilight hell I created for myself. Forever on the prowl.
a mysterious apparition who longs eagerly
wipe out everything and everyone.
An individual Holocaust infinite destruction.
that makes blood red landscape
but burnt sienna paints it: a patina that evokes
the absence of color, the absence of life.
hollow empty shell eternal
A barren landscape despoiled of life. Plane
desolation, desert and death.
A man, a murderer himself. Imprisoned in his thinking. Beset
like a plague of locusts, a stupefying roar,
deep underground rumor.
A lifetime of secrets forever infamous whispering just
which no longer reaches the ear.
I am that man. That ruse, perdition. I'm shattered.
A great disaster. A mirage is located well south of where there north.
In this tempting devil winds wrap
if you appeared before this I really like
could not see me because
would no longer be ne
have vanished.
evaporated.
would dust again.
and spread on a deserted shore.
This field of battle in which I confront myself.
and reproaches against my own memories
my brutality and other vacuum I
of this siege is not derived an uneven resting
No rest. Only unclean break in which I tremble.
Prisoner of trivial of malice, aggression.
Exhausted and numb. Waking
and again
for the sun to fill with sores I
sand to consume me
and abandoned in the battle against my shadow.
How quickly would go to death?
Do you shoot on hand to drink your own blood
if I saw you left in an infinite sand where the only trace of life
whatever it is you?
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