MÁRCIOCUNHA 
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FRIDA-Me

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Review: TAYIO JEAN OMURA- 2015

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Performance: "Frida-Me"

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Review: TAYIO JEAN OMURA - 2015

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As I walked up the stairs to the mezzanine—part of a line—I noticed a layer of smoke in the air before even reaching the hall outside the door. That caught my attention—or perhaps my senses—in such a way that, for me, the performance had already begun. The hardest part was shedding the images, sounds, and stories we already carry with us regarding these mythic artists—as you put it. Looking back at your dance work, it seems to me that the ideal approach is to go in with an open mind, perhaps even without knowing the artist beforehand. There is, perhaps, a certain expectation—based on images we already hold—of seeing specific things. But *Frida-Me* reminded me once again (much like *Corvos e Girassóis* had done) that this is always an encounter between Márcio (and, in this case, Ana) and Frida. And what we experience is an encounter *with that encounter*—not an encounter with Frida herself. The "me" in *Frida-Me* seems to convey exactly that: Frida-as-me. When the theater door opened, a sound—a continuous noise—emerged and immediately caught my attention. Of all your dance pieces, this one seems to explore the sonic element the most. While the music in other shows—*Tela*, *Vermelho*, *Fase*, *Corvos*...—was more "traditional" or even classical, here in *Frida-Me*, it felt more experimental. It seemed to me that the sound itself was dancing, too. Upon entering the theater—which was filling up with people—I found even more smoke, creating a somewhat womb-like atmosphere. Braids, entrails, dolls, skulls, chairs. The red of blood. Ana, positioned behind the dress. I sat on the left side of the audience, at floor level. From there, through a gap in the curtain, I could see a figure moving back and forth—perhaps you, Márcio. And for me, that movement stirred up feelings—anxiety, perhaps. You also tend to begin your dances by creating a space for the gaze and the imagination to wander through. I find that very important. It is a living space that comes into being, and one can almost sense everything that has passed through it. It is imprinted there—in energy, in sweat, in human warmth. Even though it was a reasonably cold night outside, inside that space there was a womb-like warmth. Something was about to be born there. The lights go out, come back on, and there you are in the chair. Ana has vanished. I love that kind of magic. It was essential to explore that magic—vanishing, disappearing, shrinking, multiplying, as Alejandro Jodorowsky puts it—extending the imagination through the four basic mathematical operations: addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division (a man with two heads, a headless woman, a woman with twelve wombs, hands and feet with lives of their own)... Then, the sound. Using distorted guitars, working with noise, deep bass beats, and scrambled sounds—it was unlike anything I had seen in your other dances. Perhaps there is a connection there involving tensioned strings that scream: vocal cords, braids, guitar strings. If the body opened its mouth in a macabre grimace and the scream was silence, the soundtrack did the opposite—it was a silence full of body, one that pulled an invisible grimace. One could also let the imagination travel through the gestures. The first sequence of movements—while you were still seated in the chair—opened up a different kind of surrealism for me. Especially something you did with your fingers—a wriggling, worm-like movement that was truly unique to watch. It was possible to let one's mind wander through those two bodies as well. Who was Ana? Who were you? There was a theatrical element there, stories being told. One could easily get lost in Frida’s personal history—something I did at the start—but later, I preferred to let my imagination drift elsewhere. The sound of the streetcar, the accident, the images of Frida’s turmoil... a suicidal urge?... I liked seeing the doll. That moment was truly significant. One can sense the quest for a dance that traverses various moments, feelings, and sensations—avoiding confinement to just one of them. Marking moments and spaces. Dramatic variations. I found myself thinking about the lighting within the squares—how it created a game-like atmosphere during the heavy rock sections and the more aggressive dance movements, especially when the squares flashed. Something akin to a board game. Yes, perhaps that’s it; maybe those marked squares reminded me of board games. There were more stories there. More scenes. More theater. Perhaps the breath work made this clearer—or the facial expressions. Sometimes I grow weary of the "neutral" face often seen in contemporary dance. But in *Frida-me*, you explore something else—something more interesting. It feels like a journey through moments of a life, through Frida’s paintings. Yet, above all, one sees the image of an artist throwing herself into an abyss composed of those life moments and Frida’s works. That act of throwing oneself in continues, and it seems you have adopted it as a principle, a process, a motto, a method, an inspiration: joining hands without fear of death. Ana seemed truly happy to be dancing there; she was completely immersed. It was a delightful discovery—after all, we were classmates at Unirio, and I found her very entertaining and talented even back then. It is always a pleasure to see your work, especially after a long time apart. Because it is always different, yet always the same. Always a different repetition of the same abyss. It isn't Van Gogh, It’s neither Klimt nor Frida—it’s always Márcio, yet never Márcio. That’s what I love about your dances. It’s about plunging into the abyss right there with you, in that very moment. Beautiful dance, beautiful team, beautiful partnership; Ana is truly lovely—what spirit! I’m already looking forward to the next one... and it’s never the artist I imagine. That’s better this way.