FOREWORD: (Buenos Aires, Argentina) Fuerza Bruta, according to their badly translated website, is “…a phenomenon natural and inevitable. The result of millions of years…[it] doesn’t have a purpose. It is.” If it wasn’t for a recent conversation in which a friend and I marveled at the sequence of events that allowed our words to fly from our mouths into each other’s minds I’d have pegged this theater description as artsy fartsy filler, like excessive adjectives wrapped around a humble merlot.
Luckily, the conversation prepared me for an Argentine theater group’s evolution-of-fun (non)concept: as long as crazy, technical, purposeless entertainment is possible humans will bend it to breaking point, delimit the limitation and press on, not because the human race’s survival depends upon the advancement of perfectly syncopated strobe lights or because in the art world retreat is defeat, but simply because backward is boring.
The Fuerza Bruta show is everything but boring: it confuses the mind in the most innovative ways. Depending on how much purpose you try to pull from the purposelessness, questions begin to pile upon the bass line: what does it mean?; what does it mean?!; what does it mean!?! Below each of the following videos I filmed during last week’s show I’ve attempted to transcribe my exact mind confusions at that exact moment they took place—my brain in real-time! Trippy, yeah?
Check out the Fuerza Bruta official site here.
…We run without movement, without purpose, we sweat until it seems we’ve accomplished something. This goes on for years, from childhood until that golden age of adult when all that running and so little attaining begins to click, click, click, then pause—a long pause, like a failed mechanism—and some subtley walk away, slowly this time, unharmed; for others, it hits like a hammer coming down, a bullet, and they continue, sweating purposelessly, their entire lives. Funny, so many differences wrapped in similar skins, clothes, equally measured strides. When a real triumph—the trust of someone special, the warmth of two bodies—crashes accidentally into our aloneness, our horizon-bound gaze can’t pause to see that the non-movement, the silence, the stillness is actually a built-in mechanism to hold us in one place long enough to love. We ignore this because it doesn’t click like a machine….
…I’ve walked the world in three languages and picked a handful of dialects from the gutters, yet I know nothing: the world would still be flat if fate had thrown me to a past century. The world may be a computer program, a space station, when I’m born two thousand years from now. Anything is possible—we float on a rock that floats on nothingness. Ah, the perfume is thick here. Why circle back to the beginning?…Women know nothing of men; men know nothing of women. They float on the flat side of each other’s tiny worlds, upside down and opposite each other’s tiny moves; our feet trace each other’s gravity but each half of our wholeness steps its weight, its lifetime of momentum into the skin, a little too hard, a little too soft, mostly forcing disasters….
Walk across the Atlantic or tunnel through the Amazon? Fish feet or ant hands, boat flight or submarine drive?…What is this!?…Can fish see the sky too? Do they think clouds are cotton candy? (No, they know nothing of cotton candy). Are satellites always the bug-that-got-away? Flies die the worst deaths, swallowed, sucked dry. Spider, you’re not evil but why don’t I believe you?…Vortex!? Time doesn’t exist! I was once the size of a dime in a place like this. Then I expanded, screaming at the world. Skin is not sound proof…Shine the light on loneliness. Shadows are alter egos. Is this what it’s like to be famous, a thin layer between the masses, faceless hands reaching skyward, perfect faces treading them like water? I want to be famous, I want to look down from above, swing from the rafters, slide across the waves, fly without checking the bank account, be touched, then read a book before bedtime with the lamplight on.