“You still angry?”, she asked.
“No, I was never angry.” I replied without explaining there is a difference between angry and outraged. But don’t let me spoil this for you.
Let’s start from the top.
First of all, I really think we should get some money together in a fundraiser for air conditioning at CND. I have literally melted in my seat. So, what is the fuss about? Four naked people step on the stage, into the dark, one is carrying a light bulb and a long plugged-on power cord. They are regular people, apart from Seguette’s their bodies are regularly difformed. They write their names on the black wall behind them: Edison, Stravinsky, Haenni, Sequette, passing the a piece of chalk. Edison is holding the light bulb, nothing else needs to be added. Well, he is in fact a fat old woman, but that is a poetic license. Same with Stravinsky. Pelozuelo is probably the first perfomer to be casted as a soundtrack, which is about the only artistic effort I have perceived so far in Bel’s staging of events. Slightly we get some action. By this time we have learned regular people need asl-like identification. For instance, he is in debt, she has some savings. First they explore their bodies and play with skin. I assume she is unhappy with hers. She manages to make a buttwhole out of her belly button. He is licking himself, and, finding moles, he starts showing them to us. Fascinating! I am melting in my seat with boredom. Things get more animated when the two start playing with each other. And with lipstick. Some members of the audience decline this quality. He is using her hair as his own: on the head, under his arms, around his genitalia. I did this when I was five. I did not need to express “it” in a performance. Good for me. More members of the audience leave. Well, this part was amusing. Anyways, the show must go on to culminate with him and her pissing on stage. Nothing new. It has been done before. Probably even before 1995, Romania is a bit behind with things, we get retrospectives as the novelty. And I don’t have a problem with pissing on stage. Only a little bit bothered by the smell of piss. The piss is then used to wipe off some of the letters. Now I am bothered. The letters could be erased in a different manner, no need for the performers to play in their own piss. Or that is exactly the message?! If so, then I really think we have the exact measure of this performance’s value. Well, everybody is free to do what they want. Call it the freedom of expression, if you will. I won’t call it art. But the enfuriating thing comes at the end: a new character, fully dressed, Eric chante Sting, will be the only one left on stage. And the public is clapping. I am not clapping. I am outraged with the monster of conformity the public is: they are clapping, they are appreciating, they are liberal. My question: where is Bel, where is the cast, why aren’t they on stage facing the public, enjoying the applause? Rethorical question, of course. It’s difficult to appear dignified after you have just played shit. I mean piss. So much for 1995 avantgarde. This is my last Bel, having patiently lost another hour.