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Written by Kika Nicolela
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Friday, 09 January 2009 |
The Ghosts of the Place, by Alessandra Ribeiro
The blue light, from the alien night, the light that turns everything
into blue melancholy, melancholic alien blue light on a dark and sad
night, during which the dancing woman wanders, the ghost of the place.
Each place where there was life stores its ghosts, life traces of that
place that is gone, traces of who passed by it, traces of past stories.
The places die like people, loose their life when people’s lives are
gone and start to disintegrate. The places die, decay, like the
colonial houses of a certain Rio de Janeiro that Nature reclaims, the
mosses spreading over the walls made weeds, the green that reabsorbs
what man created, leaving only ruins behind, an empty pool home to a
sculpture by Iole de Freitas that places a giant Dora Maar squeezed in
a tight space, the nature swallowing the pool, Dora Maar, the
sculptures of the Açude Museum. There, only the ghosts are left, the
noisy silence of the place, the silence filled with glasses, forks and
knifes, parties and steps of people who no longer exist, of a time that
no longer is. Life died there. Nature lives and reclaims what had been
stolen from it. Like in Kika Nicolela’s WINDMAKER, the wind maker that
stirs the ghost of that gloomy, blue, timeless and surreal place. The
fleeing woman, who takes shape and dissolves in movement and tissues.
Dance that is almost despair. She struggles. The woman is a vision, she
haunts the place that haunts her, fearless, no expression other than
the despair of her dance movements. The woman is the ghost of the place.
The wind is made by the tissues of her long sleeved dress. The body
that twists itself makes the wind blows. The wind brings the sound, the
smells, the taste of that cold place, a humid taste, sad, heavy, but
also light and subtle. The taste almost escapes when it touches the
mouth along with the wind. It carries a sweet painful memory, of which
the ghost escapes unable to forget.
It’s the agony of the ghost of the place, of what never dies and
survives the life that once was there, of what lies there unable to
die, desperate memory of the absence. When the sun rises in WINDMAKER,
the woman, the ghost of the place, walks like a shadow in front of a
lake and mountains, frozen lifeless scenery, petrified life on an
infinite sunrise that she walks in front of. She walks and watches the
sunrise, the mountains, the pink and yellow sky. Which sunrise doesn’t
calm the nightmares, the moonlight, the alien blue? Which sunrise
doesn’t save a person from the nightmares, awakening that doesn’t
relieve the dream, a ghost that doesn’t disappear when the light is on?
The woman, the ghost of the place, is in the water, she dissolves
herself in water, she moves in the water and the water is now her
movement, her dance no longer in despair, now soft. Icy, the dance
freezes the bones, makes the day as blue and melancholic as the night,
of a soft sadness, fluid like water. Only the face is off the water, of
an Ofelia that drowns as slowly as her agony lingers, an stretched
thread in slow motion that waits for the breaking moment, the
thread/string of the cello that stretches the pain to the limit,
leaving a cry inside, that always returns with that music from
WINDMAKER. I cry with the soundtrack, a pain that aches inside,
breaking into pieces all that exists, letting only the ghosts wandering
everywhere. The ghosts of the place.
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