Our experimental space reduces itself a bit more everyday. In a reaction movement to formatting, specifically the body’s image, Bine questions its most permanent representation: the television’s image.
The body is under glass, as in a display window. Separated from ourselves, it’s one of these objects we spy in their fixity, memory of a lifetime remainders, ruins of its own capacity to move itself in new spaces. Nothing moves, nothing really changes, everything is alike.
Place the dancer’s body at this exact spot, in this television’s image formatted space and attempt to redefine its possibilities.
By breathing at its best in this reduced space, lively loaded by Charles Pennequin’s poetry, the body experiences its dimensions against the sides by throwing itself in an attempt to move, charged with its own stigmata.
Before our forces diminish, our will wears out and our body definitely congeals.
it’s dead here. or almost. it’s almost dead. there’s not much time left. somewhere else, it wasn’t that . dead. but here, if you want to go out, it’s dead. stay home. but even home it’s dead. the tv’s dead.
you go out through tv. you want to spend a nice evening. but it’s the tv that wants to spend a nice evening. so it says it’s dead here. it spends the night somewhere else. who knows where. some
know where it spends its nights the tv. I see people going out. they say they go out to make an effort. to say they went out. and after they come back in. some died this way, coming in and out for nothing. experts will tell you: don’t go out, especially if it’s dead everywhere. no unnecessary ins and outs. stay home. even if it’s dead. all the experts say it on tv
Charles Pennequin, La fin des poux (Lice's end) – editions: "L’Âne qui butine" - 2011