Letting oneself still float is an exercise in intimacy. An exploration of the body’s materiality, as matter, as body. Whatever a body may be. Nothing more, nothing less. A body known-unknown. Disoriented but not lost, since it comes from nowhere and is heading nowhere. It doesn’t want or seek anything. It simply is, there, left still, floating, and at the same time bearing a clear weight. Weight, fold, tone, texture. Soft-floating. And that is the only intention. It has no other purpose than simply to be, which is already a lot in times like these. It moves and takes up space as a body does, even if space is not surprised by its presence, nor it by the presence of space. It doesn’t signify. That body does not carry meaning. Its gesture is transparent. Empty, or at least without any desire to be filled. Everything in it is form. Nothing but surface. And if someone says it is this or that, that’s up to those who claim to know everything. That body knows but doesn’t know. It seems to be passing through itself. One that lands in itself every day, always still for the first time. Ellllllleelelellllalalalalaaaaaalllliiilonononon. A body without a tongue. A minor lalangue. A tongue without a mouth to house it, in any case. But oral, yes. Drooling. Babbling dance. There is no assignment in its movement. No. To bite the dance. An unresolved question, and one that remains unresolved because there’s nothing to resolve. Its hands: a piece of matter. The same goes for its arms, head. But what is a body—where does a body begin and end? One? A cuir-body, that much is true. Is it? It doesn’t behave like a man, ghost, mime, or shadow, although it may be all of those, may seem to be, or at times act as if it were. Nor does it behave like an animal, and much less like an individual—though that doesn’t mean it isn’t. It is one, yes. Simply one. A simple. Full stop…
Photography: Raúl Tramarinos
