The powder
puff: a tortoiseshell case which when opened reveals
the little mirror. There are women who at certain moments
- stolen solitary moments in the hurly burly of the street,
at work, at some party - open the clasp, look at themselves
closely in the mirror, and with the help of the perfumed
pad repair the ravages life has left traces of on their
faces. A spot of powder here, a touch of lipstick there
and the soft warm feel of the tortoiseshell are enough;
deep breath, back to the whirling present.
And there you have the starting
point for this show: an enormous tortoise powder compact
with mirror all straight lines and fugued perspectives,
where the ladies, the women, Woman, are reflected,
examine themselves, and try, time and time again, to
touch up their appearance, cheat the passing of time,
find the chemistry of beauty, and by extension, happiness.
Thus the preoccupation with make-up, elegance in clothes
and furs, the brilliance of diamonds enclosing in a
few cubic millimetres the perfection of the Universe.
It seems that youth is just one stage
on the way to the failure of old age, that love ends
up as shared loneliness, that hope and desperation
are a step away from one another, that life leads to
nothingness..... And yet, they try, they keep on trying.
They reinvent love, they wait for the telephone to
ring and for someone to come along and love them (this
time will be for real). Forever waiting. Proud and
humiliated. Always hett-up, furious, lucid, defeated,
pathetic, sublime or woeful, they wait, they despair,
and they extract laughter from our mouths like rotten
teeth; pained, freed laughter with a bloody root at
the end of it.
They wait, and as they wait, they
sing. They sing because the music is the exact measure
of their sentiment; the bow passes over the tensed
strings of their nervous system and they sing following
the pulsation of their blood and the rhythm of their
emotions. They sing, then, with their heart. And they
may dance, their dance an interior, personal, ferocious
dance. Their daily movements explode into repetitions,
thrusts, aggressions. They dance their tics, they jump,
they shake. Their dance is no search for formal harmony,
nor technical beauty. Their dance shouts and speaks.
This is a woman’s show, not
a show about women, nor against them, nor in their
favour. It’s simply a bitter-sweet funny look
at the feminine side of life, where sex and sentiment
collide and get all mixed up. It’s a show from
the woman there is in all of us. Absolutely all of
us.
Y That’s what there is.
.....
.....
Això és
el que hi ha (Just one of those
things)
Lyrics & music: Cole Porter
Translation & adaptation: Joan Lluís Bozzo
2' 52" (520k)
Edited by Discmedi, SA Dip. Legal B-5-95
Available
on CD
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