Twitch is a project that came from various contradictory impulses, the same kinds of conditions that cause us to twitch in our corporeal forms. First, there is the impulse to connect selected histories, with the intention of looking for common threads that might tell a story that makes sense. Next, there is the impulse to investigate those particular feelings that scatter in the air like angry birds when love starts to go in impossible and untenable directions. And last, there is the impulse to find a suitable form through which we might be able to enter into the moment directly. To throw off the loose strands of histories that no longer sing in pretty tones and enter into a historical moment voluntarily.
It's impossible not to talk about love when thinking of this work, then, and perhaps that's how it should be. Looking at the more ridiculous things that all lovers do, get jealous, act out, or withdraw, and then finding the core of these reactions through direct and indirect relationships with the material of relationships. We found, through the course of developing this work, that most of us tend toward certain hyper states of consciousness when the thrill is no longer as thrilling as we'd once hoped. We also tend to try desperately to make up versions of ourselves, new identities, that can open spaces for new directions of thought, hoping the heart might follow.
When the heart is stuck between two places, there is a twitch. When impossible histories of gender expectations meet with the possibility of writing new gender situations, there is also a twitch. This piece takes place in that in-between state, before consciousness decides to follow the directions the body has already chosen.
The images on the screen are rooted in Marie's pre-real place, where dreams are waiting to form, making perfect reflections of moments that play themselves over until they become like the best sad songs. The scenes are two versions of Marie with two versions of impossible and ridiculous loves. The live performance actions are where the heart of the myth is enacted, Little Red Riding Hood embracing and becoming her own wolf. It's not meant to be a clear narrative, otherwise we would wear our hearts on our sleeves, rather than strapping them to our chests for a peculiarly vulnerable offering, with hopes of a transformation that will lead us into sustained movements in time.
It's impossible not to talk about love when thinking of this work, then, and perhaps that's how it should be. Looking at the more ridiculous things that all lovers do, get jealous, act out, or withdraw, and then finding the core of these reactions through direct and indirect relationships with the material of relationships. We found, through the course of developing this work, that most of us tend toward certain hyper states of consciousness when the thrill is no longer as thrilling as we'd once hoped. We also tend to try desperately to make up versions of ourselves, new identities, that can open spaces for new directions of thought, hoping the heart might follow.
When the heart is stuck between two places, there is a twitch. When impossible histories of gender expectations meet with the possibility of writing new gender situations, there is also a twitch. This piece takes place in that in-between state, before consciousness decides to follow the directions the body has already chosen.
The images on the screen are rooted in Marie's pre-real place, where dreams are waiting to form, making perfect reflections of moments that play themselves over until they become like the best sad songs. The scenes are two versions of Marie with two versions of impossible and ridiculous loves. The live performance actions are where the heart of the myth is enacted, Little Red Riding Hood embracing and becoming her own wolf. It's not meant to be a clear narrative, otherwise we would wear our hearts on our sleeves, rather than strapping them to our chests for a peculiarly vulnerable offering, with hopes of a transformation that will lead us into sustained movements in time.
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