(first meditation on solitude in dance)
There are two suggestions that have guided me in the realization of this show and in the human transposition of the concept of chrysalis.
The first concerns my profession as an artist, that of dance. The second concerns that of personal life.
The CRISALIDI (chrysalis or pupa) precedes the adult state of the butterfly. The shell of the chrysalis cleaves and the butterfly begins to laboriously come out. Butterflies live an average of one month, but some species die after only a few hours. The chrysalis can live up to 30 years before emerging as an adult.
I believe that the condition of the dancer is similar to that of the chrysalis.
He spends his whole life in a chrysalis condition, during which he forms, struggles with himself, tries to grow and improve. Sometimes he loses this battle, sometimes he succumbs. It is a hard, incorrect battle, constantly fought with a sense of inadequacy that sometimes results in a very strong sense of solitude. Loneliness that sometimes makes us forget that we are not the chrysalis, but the butterflies within.
Yes, the dancer prepares for a lifetime to become the butterfly, then beauty, then poetry, which will last, hopefully, a month.
The second suggestion came from the figure of my father. My father is a man who lived his entire life in an area of 10 miles², in the sense that he never moved from where he was born. After finishing school he started his work in a post office and stayed there for over 37 years.
Surely the conception of life farther from mine, since I am a nomad, constantly looking for a stimulus that serves to nourish my need for art, always with a backpack ready, always looking to be able to do art and dance especially in the most popular unlikely of the world.
My father was a tough, brusque man, always ready to smile with strangers few times inside his house. It has always been clear to me that something in his life had hardened him, even though I never really understood what. In short, one of my few certainties when I was a boy was that of not wanting to be like my father.
As I get older I find myself looking more and more like him, especially physically. In the morning it is a shock to me to meet my father’s face in the bathroom mirror. I wonder then is it really possible that we are so different even in temperament? Am I really sure that my father lived the life he wanted to live and that in reality he didn’t have the same instinct as I do? An instinct altogether of adventure, and of opening to the world.
Could it be possible that my father lived a life that maybe he didn’t want? I begin to intuit looking at his things, remembering in the light of maturity that surely an unease was present in him. Probably the hardness he expressed was only a sense of profound dissatisfaction with life.
Is it possible then that that 10 mile² space, those 37 years in an office, were nothing but the chrysalis that enclosed my father, from which he never managed to get out?
But the thought that tortures me and at the same time fascinates me more, but if he could get out of his chrysalis what would he have become?