Thus posed, the question of theatre must awaken general attention, it being understood that theatre, through its physical aspect, and because it demands expression in space, the only real one in fact, allows the magical means of art and of speech to be exercised organically and in their entirety, like renewed exorcisms. […]
That is to say that, instead of returning to texts considered as definitive and sacred, it is above all necessary to break the subjection of theatre to the text, and to recover the notion of a kind of unique language halfway between gesture and thought.»
There are places where truth is not performed, but where it undoes you. It may be that true theatre tells nothing: it seizes you, yet at the same time withdraws you, and, without your feeling anything in the moment, it burns you. There is a threshold that occurs without a sign. There, as in the garden of the Moon Child, one does not pass through symbols—one is passed through by them.
– Who is the Moon Child?
– Patience…
The two companion parrots have resumed their dialogue.
– No one emerges unscathed from a place that cannot be understood, yet transforms you. It is not a staging: it is a birth. Listen to him speak!
– This theatre that burns resembles it… but… is not an allegory. It is the event itself, says the Moon Child. As in that garden where man does not stroll: he loses himself there in order to be truly born.
– He speaks well… but where is he going?
– The fire of the narrative is not an end. It is the light of origin, that which precedes language and consumes everything that claims fixity. The theatre is a mouth. And we, the thinkers…
– Oh! You go quite far! We? Thinkers… that leaves me wondering…
– See how fragile our presence is
– We are always on the verge of being “swallowed”…
– I sincerely hope… that you are mistaken… and first of all, I feel somewhat lost… Where are we?
Aucun commentaire:
Enregistrer un commentaire