climax (gaspar noe, 2018)
"I'm so happy, I couldn't be happier."
In 2004 Jerome Bel conceived of a performance piece for the dancer Veronique Doisneau. She was 42 years old, and would be retiring in 8 days when she took to the stage of the Paris National Opera House for the last time on a September evening. She was alone on the stage.
She spoke to the audience about her career, about the fact that she had never become a principal, had only risen to the ranks of 'soloist' - meaning she performed with the corps (the corps de ballet is the term for the majority of dancers, often forming groups or patterns in the background) and could also take some solo roles, but never the main part. She was never the centre of attention.
This evening was her chance to talk about her career, and to perform some of her favourite pieces, but also provided a chance for her to perform one of the roles she had always wanted to play, the titular role in Giselle, something that only a principal dancer is given. Instead of musical accompaniment, Veronique created her own rhythm and tempo by humming to herself as she danced. She did this for all of the pieces she danced to that night, with one exception. In between the performance and her talking there were long stretches that consisted of her walking back and forth, doing nothing but inhaling and exhaling, the sound reverberating around the Opera House thanks to the microphone she's wearing, until she was able to regain her composure and start speaking again.
The evening ended with Veronique talking about the most difficult performance she had ever had to play - the one which would leave her wanting to scream, to run from the stage in tears every single night. It's no surprise that it's from a ballet that we've all heard of, Swan Lake, but what is perhaps a surprise to non-dancers is the fact that the root of the pain in this piece is not the movement, it's the stillness. Thirty two dancers in the corps take to the stage and provide a human decor for the main roles. They move ever so slightly, their arms fluid, elegant. And then they take a position, and stop while the principals perform the showier pieces in the foreground. Human wallpaper. For this moment in the evening Veronique asks for music to be played for the first and only time. She takes position (en pointe) but before she begins proper she turns around and asks for the music to be played louder. I don't know, perhaps agony is more bearable when it's accompanied by something beautiful, like Tchaikovsky?
Because there are no other dancers on the stage what happens is we sit and we watch Veronique Doisneau hurt herself for extended periods of time by not moving. It's captivating. She holds a position for an average time of one minute, completely still, and then moves for a few brief moments, then pauses again, lets the music play. It's a decoration. Something that was never meant to be the sole focus of an audience's attention. But that's what we're doing here: bringing the background to the foreground. Questioning the role of a performer, the idea of a role, what it means to devote your entire existence to something for so many years.
I've actually had the chance to meet some dancers recently, some of whom have also performed in the corps for Swan Lake. They have concurred with Veronique and told me that it's a very unique, exquisite pain which is hard to replicate. You have to stand there, looking graceful and elegant and beautiful, and your body is screaming, sweat is pouring into your eyes, but you have to ignore it all and hold that position. There is a strange irony at work here that we think of this part of the ballet as being so graceful, so gentle, so female.
Back to the evening in 2004, where Veronique continues this variation between movement and stillness until eventually she gives the kill signal, but only after briefly looking at the floor and then slowly bringing her eyes up again, as though she had suddenly remembered something dark and painful.
In 2004 Jerome Bel conceived of a performance piece for the dancer Veronique Doisneau. She was 42 years old, and would be retiring in 8 days when she took to the stage of the Paris National Opera House for the last time on a September evening. She was alone on the stage.
She spoke to the audience about her career, about the fact that she had never become a principal, had only risen to the ranks of 'soloist' - meaning she performed with the corps (the corps de ballet is the term for the majority of dancers, often forming groups or patterns in the background) and could also take some solo roles, but never the main part. She was never the centre of attention.
This evening was her chance to talk about her career, and to perform some of her favourite pieces, but also provided a chance for her to perform one of the roles she had always wanted to play, the titular role in Giselle, something that only a principal dancer is given. Instead of musical accompaniment, Veronique created her own rhythm and tempo by humming to herself as she danced. She did this for all of the pieces she danced to that night, with one exception. In between the performance and her talking there were long stretches that consisted of her walking back and forth, doing nothing but inhaling and exhaling, the sound reverberating around the Opera House thanks to the microphone she's wearing, until she was able to regain her composure and start speaking again.
The evening ended with Veronique talking about the most difficult performance she had ever had to play - the one which would leave her wanting to scream, to run from the stage in tears every single night. It's no surprise that it's from a ballet that we've all heard of, Swan Lake, but what is perhaps a surprise to non-dancers is the fact that the root of the pain in this piece is not the movement, it's the stillness. Thirty two dancers in the corps take to the stage and provide a human decor for the main roles. They move ever so slightly, their arms fluid, elegant. And then they take a position, and stop while the principals perform the showier pieces in the foreground. Human wallpaper. For this moment in the evening Veronique asks for music to be played for the first and only time. She takes position (en pointe) but before she begins proper she turns around and asks for the music to be played louder. I don't know, perhaps agony is more bearable when it's accompanied by something beautiful, like Tchaikovsky?
Because there are no other dancers on the stage what happens is we sit and we watch Veronique Doisneau hurt herself for extended periods of time by not moving. It's captivating. She holds a position for an average time of one minute, completely still, and then moves for a few brief moments, then pauses again, lets the music play. It's a decoration. Something that was never meant to be the sole focus of an audience's attention. But that's what we're doing here: bringing the background to the foreground. Questioning the role of a performer, the idea of a role, what it means to devote your entire existence to something for so many years.
I've actually had the chance to meet some dancers recently, some of whom have also performed in the corps for Swan Lake. They have concurred with Veronique and told me that it's a very unique, exquisite pain which is hard to replicate. You have to stand there, looking graceful and elegant and beautiful, and your body is screaming, sweat is pouring into your eyes, but you have to ignore it all and hold that position. There is a strange irony at work here that we think of this part of the ballet as being so graceful, so gentle, so female.
Back to the evening in 2004, where Veronique continues this variation between movement and stillness until eventually she gives the kill signal, but only after briefly looking at the floor and then slowly bringing her eyes up again, as though she had suddenly remembered something dark and painful.