In the following, I would like to fix a first impression of a future theater production from my favorite spectator’s perspective, however briefly.
The question is: what would a production have to be in order to provoke such an experience?
The space in this production is probably labile and expands continuously, just like the light, which is wet in principle.
Let me tell the story of wet light. Without complaining, without signifying, without opening my mouth.
In the end, it will be as dark as it was in the beginning. Only those who have watched attentively thought that they could see my shadow dancing.
But on bad days, my shadow is a closed curtain and the light in my eye is made of the purest water.
Have you ever heard of the “Theater of Architecture in Motion”? Doesn’t matter. To its inventor, it’s not the most important thing.
I was sitting on a stone and looked down from one of the beautiful mountain terraces in the hillock chains of Monsumano Alto into the valley. I can't tell you how I got there or how much time had already passed, but since summer was ending in September and the sun hung slightly over the ridge of the massive mountains across from me, it might have been around ten. But it definitely wasn't later when I noticed five female figures on the bright terrace below me, hanging from the dark red sky on invisible threads, suspended over the ground at two meters or so. One couldn't see their feet, since they were covered by long dresses. A wind rose gently, so that I expected their dresses to move, but they hung without moving nonetheless, and upon looking at them more closely, I could tell that they were heavy and wet. If I concentrated on them, I could even see the drops of moisture falling dark in perfect clock time. Under each of the women, there was a metal bowl on the ground, catching the water or blood or whatever it was, creating a purling rhythm that came together with the continuous chirping of the crickets to create an almost musical landscape composition.
Soon, they began to talk, groaning constantly, and as much suffering that this whole scene seemed to convey, their voice were so fine and mellow that I began to desire each of them, a desire that embarrassed me later on. Since they were speaking Italian, I couldn't understand a word of what they were saying and felt like a random spectator and wanted to avoid detection under all circumstances. The sky darkened. The last ray of sun vanished behind the mountains, and I could see no more than a few steps ahead on the path beneath my feet when their conversation ended abruptly, as they discovered my presence. Instead of making myself invisible, I stepped from my pathetic hiding place, looked one after the other in the face until a sigh of "I love you" passed my parched lips. But the mighty applause of countless flapping owls rising around me suddenly blocked both my sight and my hearing, so that I sank back to my soft stone unheard.
A curtain fell over my eyes, and time flooded me on with the rhythm of my pulse to a rainy crossroad, along with all the other owls.
And even if others will wake from such dreams, I went to sleep in bliss.
Two men stand looking through a window.
Then, they step away from the window, and the curtain draws upon on the right-hand side. A good ending.