Characters

Get to know the 5 works that will bring this story to life.

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The Story

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Imagine a dance floor where these five works could either be dancing or strewn in the corner of the room, euphoric or apathetic, sweaty or dead.

The blood runs with a different pace in each of them; there is no truer logic than that which cannot be justified.

A wooden torso filled with bread (Miguel Ângelo Rocha) dances a solo waltz to the sound of an explosion in a darkened room, which could be mistaken for a constellation (Alexandre Estrela).

The torso is surrounded by the melancholic tones of adjacent characters made up of fragments of bodies, bones or letters of the alphabet (José Escada).

The dance lasts an eternity, with the torso exhibiting itself to whomsoever looks upon it. It never asked to exist, but was wilfully brought into the world nonetheless. Never before has a torso of such vigour been seen. Its muscles of bread seduce the entire ensemble.

What is constructed here is a kind of puzzle composed of an odd number of pieces. The act of bringing things together leads me to consider its opposite: the separation, division or cutting up those same bodies which have been placed here together. The simple exercise of smashing a glass and gluing it back together, piece by piece, preferably with super glue, can give us an idea of what it is like to go against the natural law of life, or to accept it. One sense is lost while another is gained.

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At the end of the night an impish puppet (Paula Rego) tries to serve drinks, which are suspected by all as an attempt at poisoning and refused. The puppet finds an evaporating head (Leon Kossoff) on the floor in the corner of the room.

It is unclear whether the head is evaporating or transcending.

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The puppet places his tray of drinks on a table and, slowly bending down, gathers up the head, lifting it onto his lap. He cradles it amid the surrounding sound of the shapeless, hysterical constellation. The head does not speak. Nobody does.

The puppet plunges into the crowd of sadly coloured bodies, tearing through the constellation of sound. He approaches the torso and presents the head to it. Both have the feeling they have already met.

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Without warning, the constellation shattering across the room desists. The speakers fall silent. There is no sound. No one dances. The head finally evaporates or dematerialises, leaving the torso alone.

The puppet leaps out the window in desperation, unable to bear the silence. All the bodies, bones and letters turn to dust.

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The torso is left alone in the middle of the dance floor. Years pass and it remains. Centuries pass and it remains. Millennia pass and it remains. Buried in the dust and detritus of the world, the torso remains impervious, as if made of bronze.

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One day, I walk with a shovel in uncertain parts. I get a sense that I must stop at this given place. I dig without pause until hearing the sound of the shovel coming into contact with an object. I see the torso. I realise it is me.