Presented at the Festival de Marseille, choreographer, performer and singer Kat Válastur’s solo is a deconstruction of contemporary flamenco, yet has all the makings of a great show.
The first image is a masterpiece.
We discover her almost robotic, lost. She sits on a chair that seems animal-like, resting on a large wooden circle – a semantron, a percussion instrument – surrounded by earth and cabling neon lights. The sensation of being in an abandoned garage is total.
She hides her face behind her blond hair, her body clad in vinyl jogging suits. She begins. She hits the floor in a stroboscopic, random, elliptical halo. It’s a heavy one, especially when you start to understand what she’s up against.
Without ever getting up, she arms her hands like a toreador in the arena and spreads her legs like guitarists marking the compàs. She swings her hips and knees, from left to right, in an impeccable horizontal spin.
But then, just when it should have stopped there – holding a gesture as new as it is powerful – she continues, hesitating between repetitive dance and figuration.
What should be hypnotic and heady slides towards our disinterest, until it reaches a climax, a false ending where she rises… only to begin again with less power.
Above all, its scenography is totally unused.
She certainly knows how to create grandiose backlit images. But why all this earth, placed there without ever being activated? And why entangle all these cables so as not to denounce anything? A fine gesture, then, but the writing is too fragile.
Visual: ©Dieter Hartwig