“..imitators and descendants are not the same..” JOHN UPDIKE
Controversy is a control mechanism of the status quo, it’s lazy drama, passion for dummies. Stoop to it, and it’s a slippery soap disappears in your hand. What? Is possible after all? Who says. Passion in inverse-proportion is just Fear. Fear is a political tool, text from the bible and a topic that everyone’s afraid of. It’s catabolic. Mortality with a red bow. Pretty. Popular. With? Good reason apparently. But trickle-down war is still war. A vessel in lieu.
Freud said: Reality makes us feel aggressive. Winnicott said: Aggression makes us feel real, bitches!
Enter Non Edwards and Missa Kes. This was great theatre: meticulously wrought, unapologetically pleasurable, devotional doses of animalia yearnings predating along sometimes harrowing curves. These performers make the intersections into action series. The show press itself was a haunted hayride, American split-level, rife with carpet remnants, glam, faux unforgettable fools gold. We love the squeak of butts in seats. So it’s a press quote selling the pants off new nude performance. And when I say ‘nude’ I don’t care if you know what that means. This old school sell plays well on youtube.
NonKes [sic] dared past the drama for dummies and gave us credit for noticing. From opening to ending, they bowed to us, spine on high, reverent like real live artists at work. Who? Is performance for anyway? Greasing up the ballet bar, they knew exactly where they were, and why they were there. Firstly, to finagle. Then there was everything to say, in limited edition BLB- speak. Rite of passage? Check. They got low, poled, doorframed, twenty-one years out, on the platform, stair, headless if you dare, skin-in-the-game symmetry, adagio-slow and sexy – and when they say ‘sexy’ they don’t care if you know what that means. It’s not like they’re getting married.
But those who can, teach. Missa captains the gaze, talon-thrashing, threatening ministerially: a Mary Tyler Moore Charlie’s Angel refreshing in a lime green slice. Non, uncrowded by gaze, safely drapes her inner space, covering, crimson, a mohair mover bravely brandishing ambition, battling ambivalence. While Missa manages the fulcrum, Non oils the joint. They know it’s a safari out here. A body politic with an endgame. But soft! Back to the shoow. Woww.