You have to listen a lot to understand the
reasons for refusal.
Endure immobility so that the need for movement comes, lose
yourself in order to find a trace of yourself again.
There are spaces where you shouldn’t stand.
There, nothing grows in us like the common of the movements.
There are chosen lands, off the beaten paths. There is no map of
these places; they are secluded, humble, overlooked, lands of the
damned. They seem to be hopeless, devoid of riches.
Sometimes it’s good to wander there.
These are violent lands, left to the dust, on the fringes of
everything, lands of outcasts.
Those who live there did not choose it. They have been driven
there by the combined waves of destiny and history. They have
been deprived of the raft that is language, to which we are
anchored in order to survive our shipwreck.
Left behind on the banks of time, they send us signs.
These are dances.
They come from the dawn of time, from worlds beyond the reach of
our distracted gaze.
These worlds form a kingdom devoid of king or subjects, without
hope or renown, disinherited. It contains the poor, the vulnerable,
the slightest gesture, the fragile articulation of language, the clay
of our humanity, its only treasure.
No power can weaken its might.
This strength is crowned with movements promptly thrown into
oblivion. It is pure presence and surrender. It is a merciless
struggle for verticality.
It is a dance.
It speaks as it silently withdraws from the clamour. It is the force
that drives us, lords of nothing, masters and dancers in our mighty
kingdoms.