Sunday, 26 February, 2017, 21:00
Associazione Culturale Menomale
via Pepoli 1/a (near p.zza S. Stefano) Bologna, Italy
Texts by C. Wolf (Cassandra), S. Quasimodo (Uomo del Mio Tempo), Alda Merini (Sono Nata).
The Trojan war is the myth.
And where is the Truth?
And where is the Truth?
In this theatre piece I'm engaging the whole body in a mixture of dance,
actions, subjective mime, spoken word and singing. In an empty space and with a
few objects I create my world.
I'm pursuing a theatre that can provoke, that doesn't tell a story, but
reveals, in which the performer can be natural, without being naturalistic;
where the spectator doesn't watch, but lives and thinks. [Anna]
Sono nata il 21 a primavera,
ma non sapevo che nascere folle,
aprire le zolle,
potesse scatenar tempesta.
Così Proserpina lieve
ma non sapevo che nascere folle,
aprire le zolle,
potesse scatenar tempesta.
Così Proserpina lieve
vede piover sull´erbe,
sui grossi frumenti gentili.
E piange sempre la sera,
forse è la sua preghiera.
sui grossi frumenti gentili.
E piange sempre la sera,
forse è la sua preghiera.
[Alda Merini ]
Feedback
silky traces of
resinous milk etch my ears with images
of women - queens, martyrs, sibyl - she
kept in a room hung with complex tapestries
made from ritually exacted entrails
not only did she bite a crisp apple
she also swallowed a heavy jism,
and sipped blood-flavored poison
All to intensify her vision ...
Never and forever imprisoned: a sailor's priestess
And then there is the question of the visionary femme who has wrapped so
fine a cloth around her glowing Leib.
A cloth woven of the threads of inaudible shrieks of witness - threads
that never snap in your articulate fingers
storyteller # 1, 2 ... and 10.
of women - queens, martyrs, sibyl - she
kept in a room hung with complex tapestries
made from ritually exacted entrails
not only did she bite a crisp apple
she also swallowed a heavy jism,
and sipped blood-flavored poison
All to intensify her vision ...
Never and forever imprisoned: a sailor's priestess
And then there is the question of the visionary femme who has wrapped so
fine a cloth around her glowing Leib.
A cloth woven of the threads of inaudible shrieks of witness - threads
that never snap in your articulate fingers
storyteller # 1, 2 ... and 10.
[Cecile Rossant, writer]