jacquievandegeer

[jacquievandegeer]

The love list of a bourgeoise

I like a man to open the door for me I like a man to kiss my hand I like a man to pay my dinner in the restaurant I like a man to carry my bags I like a man to smell nice I like a man to hold my hand during a scary movie I like a man to dress me up I like a man to write me letters I like a man to drive me around I like a man to  be sweet to animals I like a man to seduce me in an endless foreplay I like a man to put out the garbage I like a man to make me beg to come inside me I like a man to be on time I like a man to listen to my stories I like a man to make me laugh I like a man to be emotional but not too much I like a man to dance with me I like a man to bring flowers I like man to be somewhat religious I like a man to book a secret weekend holiday I like a man to cuddle with me

I like a man to dry my tears I like a man to shave clean I like a man to hold me tight when my world seems to collapse I like a man to have a dozen ties I like a man to make me feel precious I like a man to howl like a wolf I like a man to wash himself every day I like a man to remember his youth I like a man to be quite handsome I like a man to honor the dead I like a man to be polite I like a man to prepare sushi I like a man to stand up for older ladies in the bus I like a man to dress up the christmas tree I like a man to earn his own money I like a man to wander around in nature with I like a man to be playful I like a man to be friendly I like a man to protect me from harm I like a man to be compassionate towards the weaker ones I like a man to be firm in his opinions I like a man to be more than reliable I like a man to vacuum-clean the living once in a while I like a man to scrub my back I like a man to help with the dishes I like a man to be my best friend

[jacquievandegeer]

A letter to Alessandro

Buon  giorno  Alesssandro,

By now,  you are preparing for the big travel over the ocean tomorrow and you will be soon re connected on your beloved island Ischia. Here in Montreal, I am feeling the loss of a promise, I am recovering slowly but surely. The romantic dream is over. I am awake. I like to know how your decision was made, so I can learn from it and compare it with my thoughts and feelings about the short but intense time of our courtship. Was it a courtship? I am not sure, I felt pressured to give in to soon to a certain type of sexuality. That did not feel like courting. I want you to know a few things. I am in the process of healing from a sexual abuse I suffered in childhood, every tuesday I have therapy. It is an art therapy in a small group of women, I am blessed to have this support in my life. Finally.

I learn so much about myself. Love for instance. I am bad in setting boundaries when I am 'in love’. I find myself hooked, instantly attached, it is scary, unsettling, exciting, touching. I feel trust, pleasure, curiosity. I suffer, uncertainty and doubt. I am a pleaser. Difficult to stand on my own ground. When I get some information, I map it into a strategy to keep the person close. You told me you do not want people to ask you questions. I immediately stop asking questions to you. I had a growing amount of questions inside me, trying to burst out.

The sexuality, I felt pressured to give in, way too fast. I feel overwhelmed, anxious, compared. A failure. I am a romantic, my brain is not linear. The last three years I have not allowed myself to follow attraction like I did with you: immediately in the loft I felt it, it was like a cord between you and me. I decided to give it a go. I tried. Trauma bonding. That is a name for it, or chemistry… I am such a pleaser. I am not like you I realize, I do not like having sex without attachment, it is risky on an emotional level for me. Now I know. I feel good though, I am digesting our ‘courtship’ and I let live guide me. I hope we can develop a friendship but I doubt it.

Still, I wish you a bon voyage, be safe,

Jacqueline

[jacquievandegeer]

A second letter for Masha

Dear Masha,

Today I feel to write to you in English, my third language. I am in the library of the MUAC, a prestigious institution of art in Mexico City. I don’t even know why I am here, but I like it a lot. New territory.

Never thought to be here but yet, here I am. I looked up some pictures of the performance I did in Cyprus, when you and Petr were also there. I see myself in the dress, I am with the people and it is not very clear who is having the lead in the performance. I love that so much, so much, mucho mucho mucho mucho.

Remember the pure joy we had there?

On the pictures I see the people dancing, laughing, exchanging stories, making coffee, translating the horoscope in a news paper from way before Cyprus was divided in two.

A well orchestrated chaos.

A free choreography.

What an adventure. It seems I am drawn to places that are divided in two to have that history.

Berlin, Prague, Cyprus.

I love to experience Poland, Romania, Hungary and many other eastern European countries.

I love cultures were emotions are welcome, laughter and sadness a like. I learned to cry now. Finally I can do it.

For decades my tears were drying up in my throat area, hardening my heart, suffocating my brain and I despised my self for having these tears, and later I was scared to death for letting them go, I was convinced when I would start crying, I would never been able to stop! Result of a lower class upbringing, where tears were seen as useless and shameful.

I let the tears clean my soul. I let the tears water my interior. I am not afraid of tears anymore. Bless my tears. Bless your tears. Bless sharing our tears together when needed. Bless the water running out of our eyes because we have to acknowledge our pain, acknowledge our sadness, acknowledge the sour, cruel, unfair aspects of life.

This war.

This dirty war. All these dirty wars. It seems I have been growing up carrying on my shoulders the tears of many. The war has always been close to me. For others it might be colonization. Or immigration. Or something else. Or maybe even nothing. It so happens I am related to this old war and feel feel feel feel it deeply. I remember when the Netherlands got involved in the war wit Irak Masha. It was written with big letters in the news paper: black on white.

Bold printed letters, hovering on the main page. It was a time where there were still lots of paper papers, in the kiosk in the streets, in the tobacco shops, on tables in the library.

We are in war with Irak!

The Netherlands join the war.

As if that was something good.

I remember I started to cry. It felt stupid but what can you do when the tears run? With this war, I am blessed to be sharing tears with my wonderful Ukrainian friends Julia and Ohksana. I was in an artist residency in Prague last summer.  In the Meet-factory. An old factory bought by David Cerny, a beautiful artist, a generous and timid man of great value. Not the kind of famous artist that you see a lot, like nowadays artistst are walking business cards sometimes. I remember him crossing the stairs and greeting him, he responds reluctantly with his long black hair, hiding shy brown eyes.

Never had a big artist ego it seems.

Anyway, I was there, working on the theme of femicide, a sad theme but what can you do in a world were women are still being harassed and stalked and murdered on a daily basis because they were involved in toxic romance? Did you know dear Masha that in my country of birth, the Netherlands, every 8 days ( yes eight!) a woman is victim of femicide? It is a small country you know, in three hours by car you cross it, horizontally, vertically and diagonally.

Statistics.

Strangely enough, me who never was good with math and numbers, was spending weeks on statistics on femicide. Eye opener, these statistics, numbers don’t lie. Today I feel like crying a lot. Crazy how sometimes one little event triggers the stream of water Mashaleine.

I saw an announcement of Woyzeck today, it will be in Spanish but I want to go see it Saturday evening. I am sure you know the play by Büchner because of your education in the old world.

A classic.

Apparently the text was found by Franzos, who had quite some trouble deciphering the microscopically handwriting, it is crazy how we still need to see this play about this lonely soldier, who murders his beloved Marie because she slept with the drum major, while he was undergoing medical experiments.

For today I let you go of my writing hook Mashaleine,

I have to make a list of what I have seen in my life during the 64 years, if I think you will like it, I will send that too,

See you tomorrow here in the writing,

Much love

And thank you so much for being in my life, spassiba,

Jacqueline

[jacquievandegeer]

First letter to Masha

Dear Masha,

Yesterday I wore the same dress I was wearing in Cyprus when we first met. The dress still fits me, my stomach is a bit rounder now that I'm older, the fabric stretches. I remember the photo series: me with you, me with your husband Petr. I remember your little house on the island. The summer weather. I remember the sidewalk step we sat on. I remember how nice it was to discover that we were programmed in the same building to offer our performances there. My performance was based on memories, on what we remember through time, and especially on what we have as a cultural past in our respective countries of origin. Your performance was a variation on this theme. We all played with memories, old objects, souvenirs, photos, etc. It was very hot on the island. My hair was tightly braided and your hair was still very long and wild back then. Loose. Peter had a long beard. Does he still have a beard?

I believe you were still living in Moscow at the time. Later I understood through the photos on Facebook that you had settled in Siberia, in a small house in a small village. It looked rough with a lot of snow and ice. It also had a certain allure, the white icy cold world you inhabited then. I never thought we would meet in Berlin this winter. It was glad to see you, your hair is shorter. The reason we could see each other in Berlin was sad. The war. The dirty mean war. The border that was closed just after you fled your homeland with your dog. Petr is still in Istanbul. Waiting for a visa. Your dog too. Has that changed now? He had been waiting for more than six months. This war, a year now. Who would have thought that a war would be raging at this time in Europe? I remember the wall. Yes, I live long enough to remember that Europe was organized differently. No European Union. An Iron Curtain, Russia was called USSR. A large territory. Many countries annexed. Everything had started after the second world war, a war with a huge impact on how the world was divided after the signed peace. I wasn't there then. But my parents did. And my family. The stories and of course the huge impact on Rotterdam, my hometown, bombed flat twice. By the Germans, while the Netherlands had already capitulated. By the English, a mistaken bombardment.

Now I read daily in the newspapers about the bombing in the Ukraine, it feels strange and sad, powerless too.

Oh my dear Masha, I have friends there, they are all fantastic artists, just like you two.

I don't know how to express the sadness I feel inside me. Sometimes I cry in the morning, like a child that has lost its mother in a crowd. Masha,  I am so thankful that you are all still alive. It has become a diaspora again. You are now studying in Halle. Small student town in the vicinity of Leipzig. Leipzig, former East German city full of punks, trees and art. Halle with her Wunderkammer. This Wunderkammer, have you already visited it dear Masha? All colonial souvenirs crammed together in a tiny show room. Sawfish dried, hanging in space. A very popular souvenir at the time, the sawfish were already extinct after a few years. That's how it goes. We travel and take things with us. Collect.

Today I started an artist residency in Mexico City. It is International Women's Day today. I admire the solidarity of the women here, a big demonstration is being organized this afternoon in the center and many institutions are closing their doors for this afternoon. I remember my first women's day, long ago in Rotterdam. All women took to the streets in solidarity. Now the women's day has become a small celebration there. It seems that the need is no longer there. I doubt that: there is still so much to do, what to think about femicide, rape, sexual deprivation, women trafficking, inequality in pay for work, the areas where women are still married off and have no education and training, cannot walk around without male guidance etc. It all seems so okay in Western countries, but we are not there yet. I think. I feel. Dear Masha I am writing to you and by writing to you I am actually writing to myself. I will be 65 this year. Sixty five years. A whole age. It feels strange, this number. It is the year in which many retire. Or start thinking about it. An age that cuts many off from the bustling life: in the eyes of many, being senior means no longer being seen, no longer being heard and filling your time with family, grandchildren and, above all, doing fun things.

Help. I don't want to retire, I love my job, I don't have small children and I live far from my family. I'm already doing fun things. Help. I know I'm exaggerating but still…I still feel young and strong and actually I'm only now feeling a little better about my aging skin. That is confrontational. The body that ages and timidly shows the first signs. Difficult for me, because I've focused so much on my body since childhood, the almost anorexic time since I was fourteen. Always think about being skinny enough. Never been really happy with my body, my skin, my face, my hair and now suddenly I realize that what people generally say is true: Jacquie you are beautiful. I am beautiful. Finally.

I am beautiful with my wrinkles. Yet I still buy the creams that promise me that this process can be stopped, and sometimes I look in the mirror with surprise in the morning. How did this happen? Millimetre by millimetre, gravity does its job. Still, I think I'm more beautiful than when I was so much more. My veins swell, my hands show a river landscape of blue swollen veins, they twist anarchically on the back of my big white hands with her long fingers. My hands are a combination of my parents' hands. The size is my father's, the shape and length of my fingers too. And the nails are sometimes on my father's side and sometimes on my mother's side. But my middle fingers definitely belong to my mother: crooked at the end, yes, the last part is definitely crooked. With her middle fingers too. My mother is no longer alive. Neither does my father. I am orphan. Only child. Alone on the world. I realize that I am next in line: I live on the way to my mortality, death, which awaits me. I get it out of my consciousness but it's quite difficult.

My right leg has all that my mother had: the veins teeming lush and blue, fine network, interspersed with larger veins on the surface of my skin. They sometimes knock a warning sign to me: 'Yes, we are already here, enjoy every day, know that the time you have left is precious.' Time. I was so young and of course never thought about the time. Whole days, whole weeks even I faltered. Smoking. Staring into the distance. How were you dear Masha when you were young? What was it like growing up under communist rule? I was in a family who were immensely grateful to Canadians and Americans. My parents who had been through a war, had known hunger, and they met during a dance evening with music from a dance orchestra: Glenn Miller's In the mood, American music was popular. The music I grew up with: Peggy Lee, Fats Domino, Tommy Dorsey, Ella Fitzgerald and the Ink Spots. A little later Tom Jones, big sex idol, from my mother. The black and white television with two channels. Tom Jones singing on a catwalk, screeching the women and tugging at his tie, leaning benignly over to let them do so. Mama was glued to the tube drooling and I, as a little girl, was so amazed at all this excitement. Later, also on television, Frank Zappa in concert, with groupies showing their naked breasts, my mother laughing on the couch. The years of the sexual revolution, the man with long hair and the women on the anti-conception pill. I timid and prudish. Times of great change. Working women. Birth control. Nudist beach. Pop music. Youth culture. Study possible for the working class. Traveling with the Magic Bus, without a toilet, rocking and sweating to Portugal, three days on each other's lips. The news from all over the world on a small moving black and white square in the living room. I remember the moon landing, I was still young and already in bed. My father woke me up. “You have to see this,” he said, I sat on the chair in front of the television, drowsy. A vague image as it was then. We didn't need sharpness and pixels yet. A man in a white suit, an inverted fishbowl on his head and stumbling through the landscape of the lunar craters with a flag in his hands: stripes and stars. I think the USSR planted a flag there too, didn't you dear Masha? I can google it for us. Google knows everything.  I used to think that if it came to the year 2000, we would stop eating fruits and vegetables and bread and cheese and nuts and so on. I thought we'd get three pills a day on a plate and robots would be all over the city, silver shapes with angular movements. haha. The robots, the future as it was visualized at the time. Wi-Fi. That's it. Computers everywhere. The first, plump plastic beige cube with a gray screen and strange sounds. Even weirder what you saw, I couldn't imagine it. Incomparable to the slim stylized lab-tops we know today. The cell phone. I still remember the first time I saw someone with a big piece of plastic in his hand, screaming in the street, it seemed to no one. I thought, "Oh dear, this gentleman needs help, a psychiatrist or something." But no, it was progress. It seemed like a failure to me, this project of communicating without a cord anywhere in a telephone screaming. Intrusive conversations, way too loud. I couldn't imagine people would want this, it would certainly quickly disappear from the street scene. Hahaha. I spend at least a good three hours a day on my phone or computer Masha. You too? And now we have the white chunks of plastic in the ears, cellphone in hand, eyes fixed on a hazy infinity. Sight and sound shielded. What will follow? It is clear to me, probably one day I will stop following all the new technologies being developed. That's allowed, as an excuse I have my age, hihihi. Or not. Who knows. I’ll write you more tomorrow dear Masha, I'm going to find our photos and hug you from afar, you in Halle, me in Mexico City.

Until then!

With love,

Jacquie

[jacquievandegeer]

Valencia te quiero

I arrived in Valencia with the bus from Benidorm, it was a noisy travel.

Music, loud and a woman talking in her phone , louder and non stop. On my way to the room I had rented in Valencia there are lots of cars, and also lots of smoking people. Lots. Actually too much. Not sure if I will like Valencia.

I see my street, a small narrow street with some trees, a tapas restaurant and a young Arab man smiles at me. I smile back at him and I try to call the person who will hand me the keys. He asks me if I want to call Sandy. Yes, that is her name, Sandy, like the star from Grease. He says: I will call her, she rents rooms to everyone here. Meanwhile two other young Arab men leave the house. Sandy comes and shows me the apartment, which I share with three Arab young men. Oh dear, I think, I am in Arabia.

I smile and say hi and I am happy to see the apartment is clean, the room is small but clean, only the shower and toilet are on the balcony outside. It reminds me of my time in Prague last summer, where I also had to cross outside on the balcony to do my things.

That night I have the courage to go to the tango, two metro lines away from here. The three Arab guys are watching television, it is loud and they look serious. I sneak outside and discover Valencia. I arrive in a working class neighborhood and I find the tango place, the music is lovely and the walls are deep red, decorations all over the place and soft lights to finish of a kind of bordello look. Only a few couples at the small tables around the dance-floor. It might be an evening where I will only watch, I think. Then the teacher is nice enough to dance with me, I follow his  heavenly steps on heavenly music. Oh glorious tango music: Fresedo, di Sarli, Pugliese… Later I dance with a French man and as a dessert I share a wonderful tanda with a young Venezualean dancer. Mission accomplished!

I return to the carer Jardin and find my way easy to my Valencian home. I love it when cities are easy, I love to travel with the public transport. When I enter the house, Arabian music blasts loud, rai music, so that is not so bad. Still, I do hope they will tone it down but I do not want to ask. We’ll see, I think when I open the door. I say Hola! The guys look scared, as if I am going to be angry or something like that. But I smile and say that is really nice music. Then I go to my room, unwind a bit. Within ten minutes it is quiet and when I go to the balcony to brush my teeth, the lights are out and all the young men are in their own rooms. Sweet, I think, that is really sweet of them to be so considerate with this old lady. That night I sleep like a baby, I feel safe and cared for, just like I like it.

The next day is Saturday, the weekend day. Art-galleries, exploring the city center on my own. In the evening I am sharing a meal in a restaurant with my Valencian friends Andrea and Vincent. I met Andrea in Leipzig, she is a super sweet, a bit crazy, a very small but feisty dancer, she speaks German and her speaking is wild and slightly exaggerated. I love it. She thinks I am a queen. Vincent is a writer and works often in Madrid, she cries when he goes there for a few days. He is as lovely as she is, calmer but witty and intellectual, I can dig deep with him in conversations, I love it. Digging deep.

In-between my Saturday activities I return home. I am freshening myself up for the evening and Yassin sits at the kitchen table. We had a small talk this morning, he studies for one year here, electricity or something like that, he misses Marocco. I guess they all do. Far from home, studying hard. He likes me. All of a sudden, before I head out , he asks me if I want to go out with him tonight. To show me the city. I am touched but I also think: Good heavens, you must be twenty three , can’t you see I am old older oldest? I decline with lots of tact, explaining my plans. A part of me is flattered though, it is always nice to get an invitation.

The evening is good, we go after dinner to the museum night and I meet some of the friends of Andrea and Vincent, we drink rioja wine and we discuss art and such afterwards on the museum terras before each of us head home. I outplayed the guys, it is past three and everyone is already in bed, I quietly sneak on the bathroom balcony before jumping in bed. Valencia, I start to warm up to you!

The next day Andrea and her dad and her cousin take me downtown, explaining lots about the history and architecture of this city: Roman, Arab, gothic catholic, Spanish, barok etc. a kaleidoscope of styles. The cousin does not speak English and is shy. I kind of love shy people, for me they spread an authenticity around them and they bring a calm that is rare to find these days. He has a bracelet tattoo around his wrist and I ask him what it is. Imagine, he says, do you know the song? Wow, how nice. When he looks at me, he looks for real into my eyes, we dive in each others eyes. Soft penetration. Sweet.

That evening I go to tango, but this time to another place, by foot, it is only twenty minutes away from me. This place is at a gym, there are no red walls and decorations, it is a big room with a very basic interior. This time a lot of couples. Again I dance with the teacher, it is dynamic, big fun, with lots of unexpected moves. We laugh and I get a compliment, you dance very well. Sweet. I see a man who I would love to dance with, when I watch him dancing I notice that his abrazo is full of care and he oozes protection, it is a big man, older than me, bearded. I dance with some other men and it is nice. But I really would love to dance with the bear.

I decide to help luck a bit. Going around the dance floor to get me  a drink, I pass him and I say Hola! He looks up and I smile, he smiles back, that is a relief. When I am back at my seat, I gaze from time to time in his direction and yes! He picks up the signal and he asks me to dance a tanda of waltzes. It is heavenly, just as I thought it would be. We start very simple, one tango we are only walking, which I love, we take time, figuring out each other’s weight and adjusting our abrazo. Then he takes more risks with me and it complicates the dances, he guides me into lovely turns, make smaller steps in staccato rhythms and then I have to follow a lyrical swaying, ending by him inviting me to give all my weight in the dancing. Connection. The tanda is over, we smile, he speaks Spanish. His name is Juan. We go to our own spots. I know he is going to ask me again. And he does. And again. We dance the last dance. Then it is over. Shoes are changed and I walk home. I wonder…if I would have lived in Valencia, would I have danced with Juan again, I guess so. This connection. Tango can make this happen, strong, real, immediate.

I do not see the boys anymore. I visit the cathedral on Monday before flying to Malaga. Catholic churches have such a strong visual attraction for me, their marketing and business model was really good, the statues, the gold, the architecture, everything is so impressive. Over the top and yet a realness in the emotions of the saints and off course Christ. Taking Ryan air to Malaga , arriving midnight and my cab driver is a sweet Nigerian young man, Peter. Beautiful smile. He takes me home, the home in Malaga.

Tidal sleeps already but has send me a small video in which he shows a little box with keys. He magnets it under the fire alarm. Cool. It is one of these buildings where you can enter without needing a key, you only need a key to open the door of the appartement. I take the elevator, tenth floor. I feel under the fire alarm. Check! The box is there! I try to open the box, but it is really difficult, oh my god, I do not want to ring Tidal out of his sleep. I get on my knees because one way or another it feels easier for me. Stay calm, I think. Then the door opens and Tidal stands there in his pyjama. Come in, he says. Was I noisy? No, he says, I slept but then woke up and I sensed you. Connection. The box is really difficult to open, I say. I know, he answers, I go back to sleep now. I hug him and sneak into my room. I am blessed, I think, I am blessed. With connection.

[jacquievandegeer]

She’ s late/ A circus show

She's late - A Circus Show is a theatrical adventure with Nien Tzu Weng and Camille Lacelle-Wilsey also known as the Double Fantasy collective. The public is welcome to walk in and out the room of La Chapelle from 18.30 on wards until the pause at 20.00. It is a wonderful invitation  to visit the universe of Double Fantasy.

Nien Tzu and Camille exhibit their performative structures, a colorful and imaginative world where they perform random actions in an exciting installation on the stage of La Chapelle. We, the audience witness their actions, we are having the freedom to have a chat with each other and we can even enjoy a drink, the atmosphere is chatty and intimate while the installation on stage is in a constant transformation. At 20.00 the ’official’  performance begins, we are invited to watch an experimental circus, in which the performers are linking the ideas of physical performance, exploring impossible tasks, leading us through a circus parcours that often leaves us in laughter! Nien Tzu Weng and Camille Lacelle-Wilsey become soft clowns: they are very welcoming and highly amusing, on top of that they guide us into the joy of experiencing moments of complete absurdity. A giant orange balloon is one of the circus acts that stands out. The performances are often vulnerable and at the same time hilarious. Another highlight is Nien Tzu climbing up while Camille has a duet with a water filled red balloon. If you like absurdity and surprise, you will love this experience!

Camille Lacelle-Wilsey is a contemporary dance artist originally from Tiohtià:ke/Montreal and newly based in the Eastern Townships. After graduating from Concordia University with a BFA in contemporary dance, she continued her choreographic research, focusing on interference, transformation and sudden change of state. Nien Tzu Weng is a Taiwanese-Canadian interdisciplinary dance artist and lighting designer based in Tio'tia:ke-Montreal. She aims to build bridges between disciplines, pursuing an experimental approach to contemporary performance, and a laboratory based approach to lighting design. As both choreographer and lighting designer, Weng is curious about the relationship between movement and new media practices, and plays with the balance between reality and fantasy.

Performers + Creators Collectif Double Fantasy Costume Designer Marie-Audrey Jacques Sound Designer Dae Courtney Light Designer Jon Cleveland Set Design Étienne Plante Technical Director Darah Miah Artistic coach Sylvie Tourangeau Supported by Danse-Cité + Conseil des Arts du Canada + Conseil des Arts de Montréal + RURART - art contemporain en milieu rural + CASJB - Centre des arts de la scène Jean-Besré + LA SERRE - arts vivants + Ranch Cheval de Soie + LOL Festival

She’ s late/ A circus show - La Chapelle, Montreal, 15, 17, 18 march.

Photo’s Maroushka

[jacquievandegeer]

I miss grandma so Sad-Francois Bouvier at La Chapelle

Interdisciplinary Contemporary Circus, 20, 21, 23 february 2023 La Chapelle Scènes Contemporaines, https://lachapelle.org/fr

I miss grandma so Sad is the story of The Guy who buys a new smartphone. When we enter La Chapelle the show has already started it seems and we see Francois Bouvier, The Guy, lying on his belly, his head hidden behind a speaker, is he sleeping? Is he dead? It takes a while before we hear a voice telling us the story about The Guy who bought this smartphone. The voice of the soundtrack explains to us that a smartphone is a device originally derived from the idea of a phone, it has a screen on it, you swipe your fingers and… a lot of it is related to the self. Who is this self that bought this device?

It seems one of the key questions of the story, in which The Guy gets up, undresses himself, smacks himself hard, manipulates lights and plays with projections and appears and disappears. We follow this journey of Francois (The Guy)  during an hour of pure wonder, starting when The Guy is at the beach in Barcelona, lying in the sand, the phone on airplane mode, relaxing. Then suddenly there is loud screaming and shouting and The Guy sees people running in all directions. Why? We will never know what happened there, the soundtrack is cut of.

Francois leads us through the scene, a scene filled with stuff: a television, a gymnastic mat, pieces of cardboard with written words on it.

Francois is moving frantically and smacks his body hard on the mat, hiding his face behind his hair, disappearing once in a while, leaving us alone. And returns. The sound track as well returns once in a while.

The story seems to continue: The guy is on a plane now. He’s on a plane for Hamburg. There’s a noise, again screaming and shouting, the guy undoes the airplane mode, looks if he’s got any messages…seeing a few likes on his Instagram account. Then the story is cut off again, we find ourselves in the darkness, witnessing Francois’ white sneakers walking on a tight wire, mysterious.

Absence and presence determine the pace of this strong yet fragile experimental performance. The hour is filled with poetry, desperation and wonder. An unusual and surprising experience!

About the artist: Originally from Gatineau, François Bouvier has practiced acrobatics since the age of 5 and has a practice of experimentation with the body. He often having it interact with different kinds of spaces and technologies. François is interested in staging the fragmentation of bodily presence by composing with delay and interruption, doubling and disappearance. François’ work is imbued with humor and follows catastrophe closely as an ignition-event for storytelling. In his most recent work, he is interested in what emerges when different elements—the acrobatic body, landscapes and digital imagery, personal and collective stories, poetry—are invited to cohabit a space. Working through improvisation, François collects encounters between these elements, weaving a network of relations and repercussions, transforming objects into images and the body into a story.

#credit David Wong

[jacquievandegeer]

Vivek Shraya How To Fail As A Popstar

06-02-2023

A show about what it means to not have your dreams come true. Presented at the Queer Performance Camp at La Chapelle, Montreal.

https://lachapelle.org/fr

Queer Performance Camp aims to create new ways to connect, grow and build community, while supporting the development of queer artists through workshops, gatherings and shows. Intentionally nestled into the dead of winter, QPC brings love, light, and queer self-care to a cold and dark time of year.

Yesterday I had the immense pleasure to see Vivek Shraya’s debut show How To Fail As A Poster. If you’re tired of success stories, relish this one that celebrates failure!

Vivek Shraya is an artist whose body of work crosses the boundaries of music, literature, visual art, theatre, and film. Her album Part-Time Woman was nominated for the Polaris Music Prize, and her best-selling book I’m Afraid of Men was heralded by Vanity Fair as “cultural rocket fuel.” She is also the founder of the award-winning publishing imprint VS. Books, which supports emerging BIPOC writers. She is currently adapting her debut play, How to Fail as a Popstar, for television with the support of CBC.

The stage is almost empty: in a circle of light we see a bar stool, a microphone and a guitar. Madonna sings when we take a seat in La Chapelle. Vivek Shraya welcomes us, dressed in a gold glittery outfit and starts the show.

Slowly but surely she draws in her audience, singing, dancing, sharing her story from being an immigrant child in a traditional family to where she is now: a writer, an artist in her own right and poet. She takes us back to her childhood where it all began. Having a beautiful voice, she would sing in improvised Sai Baba’s temples in sport hals.

She participates in the numerous talent contests in Edmonton’s shopping malls. Without success, she sings popular covers and tries various hilarious outfits. Shraya began writing her own songs at the age of 13 and released her first album, THROAT, in 2002. An expensive adventure in her quest to stardom, this album is the start of a series of hilarious chapters of an artist finding her own voice eventually at the cost of failure.

With cheeky humour and vulnerability, she shares her journey to 'not quite' pop music superstardom. A reflection on the power of pop culture, dreams, disappointments and self-determination, this astonishing performance is a triumph in finding one’s authentic voice.The play includes original songs written and performed by Shraya.

Play and original songs written and performed by Vivek Shraya. Composition by Vivek Shraya & James Bunton Directed by Brendan Healy Set and costume designer: Joanna Yu Lighting designer: C.J. Astronomo Associate lighting designer: Imogen Wilson Sound designer: James Bunton Choreographer: William Yong Photography by Heather Saitz A Canadian Stage production

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Claudia Chan Tak- Au revoir zébu

13-02-2023

Au Revoir Zébu is a solo on mourning.

Madagascar, July 22, 2018, the date of the death of Claudia’s paternal grandmother.  An important date.

That day, Claudia promises to offer her grandmother her next dance. When we enter La Chapelle, we see a circle of multi colored fabric, covered with sparkling paillettes. Claudia Chan Tak enters the stage, carrying a big mask, which she places in front of the circle. Then she places herself in the middle and starts to circle, slow and hypnotizing.The circle transforms slowly into a dress, which she puts on, continuing her hypnotizing circular movement. She wears the dress on which she worked alone for a year, all by herself, thus creating her own ritual of mourning. The lighting by Catherine Fournier-Poirier accompanies this first solo part, mysterious and dark. Then the atmosphere changes abruptly and in the second part of the solo, bright lights almost blinds us, and Claudia steps out of the dress. Jackson Jaojoby plays his guitar and sings while Claudia opens up the reasons behind her mourning ritual to us, now using another dress, a dress covered with flowers, which was made by a large group of people, a community sharing the mourning of a beloved one.

A vulnerable performance, worthwhile to see, at la Chapelle 13 and 14 february!

https://lachapelle.org/fr

Claudia Chan Tak is a multidisciplinary artist based in Montreal. She graduated from Concordia University in Intermedia/CyberArts, Department of Studio Arts in 2009. Three years later, she obtained a BA in contemporary dance at the Université du Québec à Montréal. She recently completed a creative thesis in the framework of the master’s degree, the subject of which questions the possible links between documentary genre, cultural identity and dance.

[jacquievandegeer]

in the waiting room

thinking, waiting, writing, breathing

breathing in and out

counting footsteps

living

playing

a door

opening

only in my mind

waiting

wishing

country song in my head

ukulele sounds floating there

eagles and arrows

flying free

wow

scalps meeting each other

hawk eye

pigs tale

trading

sweet love songs

butterfly songs

walking

left in the darkness

threw away the key

the door needs to open

where are we?

breathing

a bang on the door

loud

over and over again

crooning

swallowing

my pride is sobbing

nobody knows and nobody cares

neighbors

suburb

planning

plan b

 time

another time

realness

jump

do not stop

decide

credit kimura byol

[jacquievandegeer]

food

crossed arms. hands reaching out. chocolate, dark, creamy, sweet, dripping dark chocolate, white cream.

pimples, regrets, afterwards always, stomach, pain and shame.

bakery, ordering four cakes for the party.

a party with one guest, me.

choking in whipped cream.

fast food from the bakery.

washing hands.

why do i feel lonely?

cream cheese now.

spoons with peanut butter as well.

night food.

nobody notice.

i feed myself.

one must have a great body.

no belly allowed.

fat.

i feel so fat.

my bones stick out.

killer legs.

my legs.

dieting.

i have broad shoulders, like a man.

my big toe is like a penis.

ugly.

grease.

i need glasses.

i have teeth like a graveyard.

how dare i smile, laugh, show?

thick blood.

streams out my vagina.

ugly.

i suppose.

i have a great nose.

my eyes are beautiful.

my hair is thin.

horrific feet.

too big for a girl.

short nails.

pores in my skin.

i am beautiful, classy.

i smell good.

like fish.

i have a nice butt.

i am a weird woman, ready for the asylum.

in drag.

camel toe.

old fashioned and poor.

hurt.

i cut my blood stream.

a matron.

lace.

dress, tight, dieting again.

zip up.

it is pretty, it must be said.

i am fainting now, my sexy legs collapsed.

i am a fish out of water, trying to get some space to swim in a small fishbowl.

round and round.

[jacquievandegeer]

frog

lust.

pleasure.

submit yourself to the senses.

in this shape i feel like an ancient frog waiting to jump out of a louis quinze clock. crying, weeping and pleading.

for revolution to come!

kiss me.

i will still be a frog.

accept my jumps, my big eyes, my slime,my green skull, my lack of ears, my big toes, my swimming frogging jumpy legs.

let my eggs be your hilarious breakfast today!

halleluja...

Back to the clock. a clock ticks only when there is a frog inside.

behind time is another time and behind another time is real time.

it is obvious nowadays we do not care anymore.

golden curls design miracles.

I am shaping my inner frog now.

that is me jumping in the real time.

a world made of crystal mud, bubbling mud.

like champagne.

like holiday inn.

filled with sharks. a dark shade around the rocks.

under sea level.

your senses.

the priest yells.

do not stop the time!

joy.

lust

pleasure.

submit your soul to the senses.

it is one o’clock.

afternoon or night?

depends on the light.

silvery moon.

a machine defines our time frame.

in between the silvery moon and the machine the frog is lost.

i am waiting to become a prince.

i am not just a jumping fuck creature.

fucking in the bubbly mud.

will i become a real timer?

mud does not do it for me.

i prefer golden curls.

i am an ancient frog.

isolated inside this louis quinze clock.

writing for red squares.

cover the mechanics of time.

lost in misery.

waiting.

and so on and so forth.

sun is shining.

blinding my slimy eyes.

the earth.

paralyzing my long green legs.

the moon.

barking frogs, seducing my frog ears.

listen and respond.

mud is bubbling forever now.

a prehistoric nightmare.

together we make revolution.

the shape will take care of the world.

frozen forever.

mass.

time will not exist anymore.

it is only ticking.

i am everywhere.

watching the world from inside.

[jacquievandegeer]

fat

a lot of fat, scolding, pretending to protect.

pig

i am a hidden pig.

tofu turkey, soy saucers

i stuff myself and while doing so i am prepared.

oh swimming pool, here i am, i am covered with rescue fat around my waist.

lots of rescue fat around my rib cage too.

right.

fat as well in front of me.

i feel my fat undulating under my soft white wale skin like rubber.

i am a rubber dolly.

an old version from the factory.

where is my butcher knife?

swallow.

swallow and live on grain, bird eggs and planting fire.

where?

my intestines let gravity travel, leaving a trace in the bowl of bowls.

i have a desire.

for once in my life i want to be skinny.

a fish bone.

a stick with muscles.

no sponge.

digest.

digestion.

sauer stomach.

penetrating everything i swallowed with my dirty mouth.

air.

penetrating my tongue teeth bones stomach

waiting for you.

a dark bag

i am surrounded by mysteries.

secret weapons of desire.

outside inside

inside darkness salpeter

burning digesting collecting

excluding

outside white pink pigs skin

soft fat rubber boat

let me float away.

i want to throw things in the air

like fat beautiful balloons

soon i will be dressed

outside inside

why is not everybody vegan?

hide and seek

i am not able anymore to milk the cow, to kill the pork

i am not part of that.

i am a beast, an ex patriot.

i want to live in peace.

i want to live.

inside.

outside.

bride.

groom.

the groom ran away through the intestines.

lots of green is swallowed.

giving pleasure.

he wants to feel lust.

he grabs a fat ass.

out.

fat hair, my feet are cold.

he is pissed.

arguments.

kisses.

his mother and her mother are looking for the pink button.

we dance.

we touch.

we find each other.

find each other.

the dog barks in the basement.

let’s go.

[jacquievandegeer]

Dubai fantasy

Dubai. The place where the sheiks put their sisters in a toaster. I am one of those sisters. I am roasted  in the toaster. I am a hen, my eggs are frying on a hot plate. My sisters and me, we all pray for more eggs to come.

The future feels near. We fear the future, every day we rip off a sheet of the calendar. We ask for meaningful information, google proves to be not almighty. We know about rituals. Our crowns are flushed in the toilet yesterday. Now we have halo’s above our heads. Green aura’s shine.

The city is lit by us. Dubai is green and shiny. We are the roses without thorns. We are crushed and so we smell bitter sweet.

We know that every thought in life counts. Thoughts are breathing within us, they are hot yoga for us. The yoga of the future. Why is our ambition dangerous here? We ask ourselves, in secret off course. Questions every day. Numbers. We are surrounded by big numbers of money.

Healthy thoughts stick in our heads. Sin, social security, police, ambition, freedom...The sheiks wait together in caves, they have their hockey sticks ready for the game, they want to win. They seem harmless to us. We make them hot tea. Tea provides relaxation. Boiled water. A Chinese kettle. Lady Grey.

Lady Grey was beheaded when she was only fourteen years old because she wanted to be a queen.

Why is our ambition considered to be dangerous? We manage to live with this question here, we crawl, we feel insecure, we follow the rules. We are onlookers. We fall on the floor. We feel secure. We sing and undress, we close our eyes, we feel so good, silence...

Numb, exposed, poetry in our heads, scatter, all day long. We are runaways. We shine bright now. The sheiks yell: We want you to stay! We are the leaders.

We prefer the kindness of strangers. We stand with our eyes closed and we are somewhere else. We leave Dubai, we cross Jordan, we rise up, hands connected in a circle. Time traveling. In our heads.

Then we switch roles.

Finally and for ever.

A happy end.

[jacquievandegeer]

a sunday poem

I am a cherry blossom. I feel available. I need a man.

I am pregnant . I feel happy. I need a cigarette.

I am the full moon. I feel like a meditation. I need a hammer.

I am in a prison. I feel lonely. I need redemption.

I am a queen. I feel nothing. I need a balloon.

I am horny. I feel guilty. I need scissors.

I am a cunt. I feel great. I need money.

I am the revolution. I feel pain. I need dollars.

I am a lentil. I feel rejection. I need to be cooked with care.

I am the frontier. I feel checked in. I need lots of freedom.

I am sophisticated. I feel odd. I need to lay drunk in a gutter.

I am sorry. I feel terrible. I need a break.

[jacquievandegeer]

City, a story of war

So here is the story of the destroyed city. An urban prostitute. Scars. Grey. Mud pumping in my brain. The moment you arrive with the fast train you see nothing is fast anymore in this city. The city is a grey concrete desert. A grey construction, no flashy muscular buildings. Not one building that sizzles, like a fancy miniskirt. My city of my youth. I am a tourist now. Tender memories in a scarred bombed city. War zone. Liberation. Too late.

The tiger is killed. We are proud. We do not need anger. No punishments. War time is here. The hospitals are filled with souls, doctors await us all wearing enormous masks. Winter. Sleep. Remember the streets where you played as a kid. Cowboys. At the square the murderer hides in the darkness.

You are dead. No I am not. Yes you are. I hide. The game of war. It is like a dance. Are we hero’s? Are we spies? We hide under the blankets. In the gardens. The mothers are crying. Help us. Please. Help us to win this war. We are the good guys. I am not ready to die, not yet.

Fear. A white drape. We fight fast. We want to win always. We want our piece of the cake.

Why is our city so invisible?

Where are the gods to protect us?

[jacquievandegeer]

Family stories

War has always been present in my family, on both sides, war is installed in me still. Craving for peace. Memories. The doll is a birthday gift, she is called Katinka and she is black. I love her, she still is with me, with a toy my mother made when she was carrying me in her belly.

In my mothers belly I feel tense, it is like a worm is eating all the cells around me. I do not care about that, I kind of like it, I have just enough space to turn around once in a while and the cells were actually in the way. My mama starts yelling: Get out! But I prefer to stay where I am and grab her uterus, tight.

I remember the picture, the girl naked, running through the fields, napalm, she was big front paper news, how could I have missed this? 1972, I was 14. What a mess that war. Who cares about that picture nowadays? We kill, we play, we eat, we shit, we fuck, we piss, we read it all, we see it all, we google it all, we swallow it all, we decide which direction to look. There is no pride.

Less an less. Less and less sunshine yellow. More green, army green. Degeneration of a generation. Nice rhyme. We are always together, dead or alive, it does not matter. Connected. Inside me I feel all the hidden ones, I feel all that were guided away, in trains with a suitcase, as if they were going somewhere. The secrecy of shame. Where were you in the war grandma? Where were your neighbors? Sunshine yellow. Stars. My parents saw them.

My grandmother standing behind the window. The bombing. She stepped back, a split second before the window was hit. Just in time she stepped back, by instinct, like an alley cat knows when it has to hide.

We are all together. We are in a garden, it is summer. We pick wild flowers. it is a wild garden. We were hoping for tulips or roses. We make herbal tea. We do things together. In the garden. Those were the days.We raise a white flag. We are free. We laugh. Hahahahahaahaaaaa...Peace is there. Peace is nice. peace is hollow. Where do you put peace during war times?

My dad was 12 years old. The bombing of Rotterdam, the first edition, by the enemies. To rub it in. He found himself under a pool table in a cafe, he did not remember how he got there. Flames, fire everywhere and tigers, escaped from the zoo were walking on the streets. A painting by Dali.

Old patterns, great past. Past of pasts. The world of my grandparents is my world too. The crisis during the 1930 ties is my crisis too. The anger in my family about injustice is my anger too. The unborn baby in my belly was my grandmothers baby. Solitude. Dead leaves. Trees loosing their leaves. The death of spring.

Open the mouth, I am crying, cut me from my brains, my memories, their memories.

We are all dolls, we need to play or be played with. I only want to play with my doll now. Her name is Katinka. She looks at me over her shoulder and sings me popular songs. We pick flowers and we take a step back. We watch history, together. We know we are all in this together. Family, related. What a story...