Dear Marco,
When I enter the Theater of Vanves in the south of Paris, I see a stage framed like an A4 paper, with a 90-degree folded header made of light panel. Indeed, it is a letter from you to “Dear N”, brightly illustrated on the header. You appear on stage, talking to us casually and timidly about a few intriguing letters probably from your research, before elaborating Wendy Houston’s last one to Nigel Charnock.
Then the light over audience turns down; Your monologue – Houston’s letter to start with – is then punctuated with one raising arm or another stretching leg. Speed up, circle back, repeat, switch language (French or Italian), insert singing…you dramatize further the letter with your vocal. Simultaneously, the letter, word by word, is shown on the glowing header. In addition, you entertain us with accessorized performance: black cane, red carpet, confetti popper, to name a few. I can tell your sincerity of saying “Dear N, I wanted to be too much too” yet I see several times your unease or hesitation.
The multitude of sequences and the blankness of letter content turn the one-hour show relentless despite a few scenic moments. My favorite is when the header starts dimming as black tears rolling over human face, till full black. When you turn the microphone to the audience before leaving the stage, I have difficulty in singing the refrain (something like “You died so I could live and dance”) as I still haven’t known who Charnock is and why he is dear to you. Back home, I do get the sense of “too much” after watching a short extract of One Dixon Road on YouTube.
Best regards,
Hang
Dance Visa 