quark and raspberry jam

bagels with quark and raspberry jam. a short black coffee. the rolling stones gimmee shelter. everything is fine.

the backs of my legs are still wet from the rain that fell sideways and almost ruined me and my umbrella. on the couch now, and the cat sleeps at my feet. i haven't had quark and raspberry jam since this time 4 years ago. it's as though melbourne housemates J & M are with me now. rain outside, coffee inside, and tomorrow we'll probably take a stroll to the markets at the collingwood children's farm. we're likely to buy cheese, some bread, and one of those trays of almonds, raisins and dried peach. but today, in my shopping bags, are 3 cheeses. some habits don't die, they just adapt to new surrounds.

last weekend i stumbled and tripped myself up. it was a drunken stumble over a man. i spent the week frowning at myself. maybe i can blame D for giving me that book which is all about a teenage boy crushing on another boy and being too shy and scared to follow it through. it could be one of any smiths songs really. 'why didn't i give him my number... why didn't i rest my hand on his leg... why did i tell him that thing about that guy...' but anyway, so what.

last night i drank beers in surry hills with S who reminded me that 'relationships' are unnecessary. he doesn't want one. most of the time i don't either. but i stumbled, tripped, and forgot myself. which is okay. because it was a moment of tragedy to write up, reflect upon, and file away for later. S says he hates all novels because too often they focus on ideals of love, romance, and needing to be with someone. it reminds me of that book, and most other books i've read in the last few years. not to mention all those films and songs. was this just me trying on another narrative?

the man was pretty lovely. there was instant mutual attraction. and someone (but not me) could write it into a first chapter of a something. i was gin drunk, talking a lot, and very much forgetting everything beyond our transaction. in those moments i poured myself into him. when he left, i was left empty. i'd attached myself to his eyes, hair, lips, everything. i was gone.

anyway, S tells me i don't need that and i believe him. nancy sinatra is now telling me about some velvet morning. i wonder if that cheese on the bench has had time to soften. i contemplate a nice hot bath, a novel, and the caress of more fictions.

Pina, a film, a review

“What are we longing for?” This is what Pina Bausch asks of her dancers. This might also be what her dancers ask of the film audience. Pina is dead, but it’s not as simple as that, and nobody here speaks of her death. This is not a documentary that recalls her life but an artwork that extends and preserves her contribution to modern dance.

This film doesn’t rely on a typical memorial narrative, and its impact comes less from what the featured dancers/friends say of Pina, than what their bodies express through dance. Dancers voice short reflections of their time with Pina, yet in these scenes the dancer’s voice is played over a silent headshot. They breathe and twitch, offering an internal monologue. And then they dance a tribute to Pina.

The film has a unique rhythm that I didn’t fall into right away. It’s not a typical rhythm, but one that jolts, sprays and falls back into itself. Much like Pina’s choreography. For me, a dancehall scene was the moment I fell. Dancers are seated around the edge of a room, gradually rising (alone or in groups) and walking to the centre, towards a camera which might double as a mirror. They push hair from their faces, show their teeth, suck in their stomachs. This is a rehearsal but also a scene of self-reflection. Perhaps it speaks of the inward gaze of dancers, watching themselves as they might be watched. This gentle scene spirals into a loud, gyrating, dance. At this point, I also let down my guard and fall into the film.

By asking ‘what are we longing for?’ we learn that Pina is about unspoken desires that take hold of bodies and express things in new ways, beyond words, or perhaps surpassing the limits of a vocabulary.

Water, rocks, nature, industry… the dance moves from enclosed performance spaces to open public space amongst commuters and other daily rhythms. Scenes from a performance (Café Müller) are interspersed with dances alongside trains, highways, and swimming pools. The natural environment is there but often constructed, with sand and soil inside theatres, as well as rivers, rocks and rainfall. Emotions climb as more water falls, splashes and spits onto dancing bodies. As a three dimensional film, the audience can’t escape getting wet.

Whilst some dancers share words about Pina before they dance, some just stare into the camera, breathing. I found the unspoken moments most affective here as this makes it difficult to read their dance to Pina. We’re reminded that these are not simply performances, but conversations; a communication between dancers, students, teachers, and friends. We’re reminded that sometimes emotions can’t be voiced, but are best worn through our gestures and our art.

A shy dancer recalls Pina asking her “Why are you frightened of me? I didn’t do anything to you”. Then we cut to her dance where there is no trace of fear; only brash, intense, flaunting. In such moments we become Pina. Watching proudly, we are touched.

The film begins with seasons, and these seasons, in the form of dance, appear throughout the film. We’re reminded of the changing environment and how this shapes expressions and uses of our bodies. Years pass with seasons, and so we have the passing of time. This film, these emotions, and these relationships (sometimes exceeding 20 years), are a passing of much time. We know from the dancers (speaking and not speaking) that this is all about Pina. And we learn that Pina is all about everyone, because she knows that in human gestures lie strange maps of emotion, honesty, and desire.

Pina asks her dancers to give honesty. They dance (for) her, for us, but also for themselves, in celebration of a lost friend. Yet any expression of loss is complicated by the fact that Pina is still very much alive in this film, and in the bodies of the people she touched.

(photo by William Yang)

deproduction

another month, another day, another week of feeling as though i haven't done enough. the demand to be productive eats into me, and then i rebel by (this week) watching Mad Men into the early hours of most mornings, and then i wake up tired, underslept, and more grumpy about my lack of discipline. my rebellion annoys me, despite such pleasures (i just finished series 4 this morning. so amazingly good).

so anyway, this is an ongoing cycle of 'self-work' that i do, trying to be productive, coming to resent this, eventually abandoning it and giving in to pleasures, and later feeling like a failed citizen. then i pledge to start over again the next day/week/month. it's boring, i know. it's a central contradiction in my current life, this not wanting to embrace neo-liberalism and its slogans of progress, freedom, individuality, etc. yet at the same time getting entrenched in my own lack of progress, my desire for accomplishment that is measurable (in words, chapters, or a tidy database), and not being able to measure the value of my weeks/days/months beyond certain structures of productivity or achievement. and so i continue beating myself over the head and promising a better future, a 'next week' in which i excel, get things done, move forward, etc. and on it goes, repeat until death.

yet, my rebellion does nourish me, and perhaps i need to take note of this. perhaps i can reflect on two hours ago when i sat in the park, in the sunshine, and wrote a postcard to JB. i laid on the grass, re-read his postcard, and wrote with green ink. the ink, the sun, the grass, his words, and my thoughts of him all conspire to make this a beautiful moment. as i'm about to leave the park J calls. i return to sitting in that patch of grass where he tells me of his travels and the books he's read, one of which he will post to me. i ask him what it's like having no fixed address. he sounds happy and this makes me happy.

postcards and phone conversations with faraway lovely people, in the park, in the sun. this is a good day. i should be glad that i'm lazy and 'unproductive'. i should see more merit in this sharing of words and time with those i most care about. why should it be that those relationships are to be fostered in 'down time', when one is not working and producing and participating in a more pervasive and dominant economy? what about economies of friendship, love, and caring? why must they be sidelined, and why do i so often accept this as necessary?

like many, i cast my values outside 'dominant cultures' (for want of a better phrase), yet i guess i don't live up to my ideals as much as i think i might. because i fall back onto a need to control, build, and progress my abilities in ways that make me socially and economically legitimate.

but arguably there is legitimacy in sitting on the grass with postcards and phone calls. when i left the park i felt quite accomplished. i felt grounded, content, and as though i have a right to be here, in a world that i am connected to, through these enduring webs of friendship.

i might do some work this afternoon. or i might pick up that marguerite duras book that i've taken from the shelf. and i'll try not to care that i'll have no visible output from such reading.