5 September 2008 10:30 pm
Last Saturday we went to see a dance show. I was a bit nervous because you can never be certain how an event will turn out and I can always be certain that one of the boys will have a major breakdown. (All the good stuff happens right in the middle of naptime. Perhaps there is some sense to the birthday party we have been invited to tomorrow which initially seemed odd, occurring from 10-12.)
We went to see the dance teacher, Jacques, perform with his group. It was a free show at the Cultural Center of Congo- fancy name, fancy-ish place. Either it could be more or it used to be more, probably a bit of both. Small audience, simple performance no costumes, few props. I had no idea what to expect and could never have anticipated anyway.
The show was, not being a dance critic, a ‘modern- interpretive’ style, I suppose, if such a thing exists. I found myself at once moved and uncomfortable by it. African art is generally filled with dramatic pauses that go on too long for Western senses and music that is too loud and overbearing. I brought so much of myself to this show that I couldn’t really be sure if what I was feeling truly came from the dance or from me. I spent a bit of time trying to determine if my background knowledge was the right ‘set’ to be using to evaluate the performance.
It was punctuated with moments of blaring horns and convulsive body movements. All that I’d ever read about torture and prisons filled my head. All the biographies I’d read about journalists and young women, college students, and small boys fleeing for their lives only to be captured and imprisoned for simply being, caught up with me. It went on for a long while.
The dance included some Western ballet, puppet- like and domineering (Belgian influence perhaps?), followed by a moment of African freedom with traditional drums and dancing. This moment of hope quickly led back to discussion and confusion, yelling and accusation accented again with convulsing and twitching, violence and intimacy interspersed with moments of searching, “Moi?, Moi?” the refrain.
Finally, there seemed to be death, as several dancers fell to the floor and their partners tried everything to support them, to raise them again to life, eventually succumbing themselves to grief. A child jumped down from his perch where he had remained throughout the entire show. He regarded his people and addressed the audience, “Moi?”
I could never tell if I liked the show. There was clearly some talented dancers and drummers. There was clearly a powerful message. I felt so overwhelmed by a country at war for more than a decade, a powerless people living with violence and despair. I saw poverty in a way I had not truly seen it before. I felt it. It was there with me, a living breathing thing in the room.
Like the show or not, it was art- authentic, expressive, effective. Impossible not to be disturbed.
After, we went to the river to walk behind the embassies. It was breezy and beautiful though hauntingly so. The war was just behind my eyes.
