Macabre

In the realm of vocal and physical expression lies a profound stuff:

 the body serves as a vessel for unfiltered communication, often revealing impulses that evade verbal articulation. What emerges, unbidden and raw, demands acknowledgment—even if discomfort, pain, or toxicity accompanies its unveiling.

Dance, in its purest form, transcends sight and sound, embracing silence as its medium. It is fractured, erratic, yet through its chaos, a language emerges—a language of revelation and ecstasy.

For me, the body has become a conduit for sound, echoing the resonance of decaying flesh, its weight and fragility. Like a sacrificial offering brought to the altar of ritual, the body must first undergo the flames of transformation before it can emerge anew.

Dance, then, becomes the crucible of metamorphosis, where movement purges the impurities of existence, leaving behind a trail of ashes—the remnants of a soul purified. And in the depths of this transformation, the throat resounds with primal calls, echoing the primal essence of being.