ZEROGRAMMI

“Two teddy bears and a Barbie doll with her head taped back on amuse themselves within a surreal Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe seemingly painted by Jacques Tati.

To play seriously when play becomes the only serious thing capable of saving us from the seriousness of life.

The games of two Candides somewhere between Cochi e Renato and Laurel and Hardy, within the theatre of Marcel Marceau and Merce Cunningham, dressed like tender village fools wearing those caps with aviator earflaps from the Great War in times of peace.

Hats for flying without leaving the ground.

At most, gliding with the engine off, carried by the air — easy as a Sunday morning.

Zerogrammi: that is, a dance without weight. Light.

A dance for flying, for that flight without takeoff we have already spoken of, and then gliding once more across everyday life — the life of small things that must never be forgotten.

Remembering to breathe.

Gliding, carried by the winds of our lightnesses — or yes, let us call them frivolities too, because one breathes better that way, and sees everything more clearly when remaining just a few centimetres above the grass of ordinary days that arrive once a week and become unique within these tiny games and innocent quarrels, when one is allowed to be two clowns.

Two mimes and contemporary dancers, but also tango dancers when Bésame Mucho plays on the radio, and actors too, and ultimately simply two ordinary people with ridiculous hats and funny sweaters.

(...)

Two clowns in a performance as light as love at its beginning, as gentle as the sweetest spring evening breeze from a time when the seasons still existed: beautiful and delicate like that someone each of us has — or waits for — for moments of beauty and thoughtlessness.

Those moments without whose memory we could not survive.”

— Sergio Gilles Lacavalla