the beginning was the breath. That of a flute player, Michael Schmid. He stands in front of the stage, approach the mouth of its instrument of his nose, his fragile and as irresistible and mouth, and starts a note, one, serious. And keeps it for 10 minutes, a more than impressive circular breathing technique, making it very slowly climb to the highs. From my seat in the third row, I take all that noise punctuate this epic minimalist air intakes in the nose by small strokes faster and faster, then the expiry noisy sound of the flute and whistling harmonics ronronnantes. Finally, having reached the end of the journey, he lets out his arm and let out a sigh strong and liberating.
Then comes a singer on stage, a capella, which runs the old French of a poem about waiting suffered as a test accepted.
And finally, the eight dancers, sometimes, but rarely accompanied by three musicians playing the ars subtilior this music extremely learned from the late Middle Ages.
One might think that crosses the line right replaced the large circles of yesteryear, with Rosas. But these simple steps from one side to the other shelf are probably not so benign. Their rhythmic breakdowns seem complex, suspensions, times acceleration, it would not surprise me that it is a transcription of music not played not as a "fictional music.
This complexity is also reflected in the choreography for groups, which aggregate into magma filled with lines of force, which makes me think of the body repeatedly scattered a raft of the Medusa.
But the high point is a male solo, I guess by Bostjan Antoncic, a force, a subtlety of a magnificent fierceness, which amazes me and leaves me breathless. Best male solo since Nefes Bausch in 2004 ...
Apart from that, the stage naked (except for a strip of land that will be more or less impetuously swept through the feet and fly to the forefront, forcing a little girl just wrong height to protect themselves from projections by refuge under the mantle of his mother ...), lighting which consists of a single row of lights that go out late one after another, unable to recreate the magic of the outdoors and Evening descends on a place well chosen. There are games on clothing (and a naked man in the dark near final) that I hardly understood. And lengths, even if nothing insurmountable.
Strangely, critics fell the emotion of the piece, a sense of nascent humanity, especially when I hit the subtlety of the figures, and the feeling of being overwhelmed by the intelligence of the choreography, which should become a tribute to the ars subtilior ...
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