I Leap
Written by Moa Gustafsson Söndergaard arranged by Elaine Grainger
I see you from across the room. You are bending your body, falling into a position. Reaching, filling a gap with your fingers. Slowly stretching before the next cue. To begin again is to remove your hand from the wood. Fold your body towards the floor. Placing weight on your back. Feeling the concrete. Resting is a transition between movements. I move towards the edge, a wall. I am creating a route to communicate. You are still in between stages. Your body is glued to the beginning. To the first score. To concrete. I am mapping the alternatives. Letting my hand slowly follow the textures of the wall. I am closing my eyes, trusting my hand to guide me. You are not a passive observer. You pick yourself up, extending your body, reaching your hand towards the sky. Looking up. I am rethinking my position hitting the edge of the architectural outline. What's next? Do I dare move the structure of this space we have created? It is only wood. Looking up also means letting the gaze wander. Your body is open, open to the possibility of it being closed. Your hands are touching the particles of dust that are flying all across the room. You feel completely free as you watch me in slow motion pushing the wooden structure to the ground. Everything that was slow, repetitive, becomes a fast decay as the structure falls to the ground. You are not trying to stop me, somehow you know the rituals that dictate this space. For something to restart again it needs to have a proper ending. An end that is open, open to the possibility of it being closed. To begin again from the exact same viewpoint but with a different outcome. So. I see you from across the room. You are bending your body, falling into a position. I leap.
I leap, falling into a position. You are bending your body. I see you from across the room. It begins again from the exact same viewpoint, but with a different outcome. There was an end, an end that was open, open to the possibility of it being closed. For something to restart again it needs to have a proper ending. You are not trying to stop me, somehow you know the rituals that dictate this space. A fast decay has happened, a structure has fallen to the ground. A repetitive movement, a loop was broken. You are feeling completely free as you see me moving in slow motion. Your hands are touching the sky, the particles shimmer in the light. An immediate touch. Your body is open, open to the possibility of it being completely closed. What's next? Do I dare to move the structure of this space we created? Looking up also means letting the gaze wander. Looking up. I am rethinking my position leaping off an invisible edge. You pick yourself up, extending your body reaching your hands towards the sky. You're not a passive observer. I am mapping the alternatives. Letting my hand slowly follow the textures of the wall. I am closing my eyes, trusting my hand to guide me. To concrete. You are still in between stages. Your body is glued to the beginning. To the first score. Resting is a transition between movements. Reaching, filling a gap with your fingers. I move towards the edge, a wall. Feeling the concrete. I am creating a road ahead, a way of communicating. To begin again is to remove your hand from the wood. Fold your body towards the floor. Placing weight on your back. I see you from across the room. Slowly stretching before the next cue.
