Weasels, trolls, anteaters, mumins? In addition, chirps, marbles, whispering - like melodic echolalia of an unknown language without speaking, without the compulsion of grammar, more like something pearly, something that grows in a vegetative pulse but never becomes a pure rhythm, more like the modulation movements of a humming ecosystem. Later, the chimella shells turn into music that sounds like the child touching time*, like repetitive snippets of lullabies of another species or perhaps more of a new entity that removes the compulsion of taxonomies - not like a snake, the skin, but like two bodies that lay down their bodily boundaries, like the attempt to do so, commented by this symphonic jazz number: Does anyone laugh at the pathos of desire to become one? So much desire at all between persuasion, bewitchment, violence and mountains of loudspeakers - a festival of survival that has nothing reassuring about it, a solidarity in the unknown that turns into intoxication, and right in the middle: oases of quiet intensities. (Four point Five: Writing on Dance)
 
 
Breathing, heaving, panting: are they pumping each other up with new breath or are they sucking all the air from each other’s lungs?
The connection by the mouth may be a communal attempt at supporting the weak in solidarity, but it may just as well be a fight for survival, with the strongest emerging victorious. They are rough, they are raw, they are fearless, sharing secrets and hissing excitedly in each other’s ears – I, too, want to hear! Wild and. The energy is high, the performers are high, the audience is high – save the man in green who has fallen asleep in the corner. (Four point Five: Writing on Dance)