There is no political manifesto but a political will exists from the moment a group of individuals gathers in the name of freedom, a resistance to any form of oppression, be it so mundane people are no longer aware it is part of their existence. Kronos has trodden the streets and walls of this city under foot and fires still rage in the hearts of those who bite the dust. Goya’s black paintings and Bosch’s Inferno infiltrate the back alleys, the caves, they possess the clandestine and the alienated, and we arrive unexpected, thrown into a minute space to open the voice box of a collective unrest. It all happens in the encounter the nature of which oscillates between discourse, pantomime and protest. This is about story telling, about reversing destinies, about the barricade and the banners, about people talking back, taking a stand, allowing themselves to create a different kind of history. The poets rise in the smoky evening, the lanterns light up the ceiling covered in paintings, an artist approaches someone in the audience, there is a frisson in the air, a connection, a flash, taking the flame from a tired monarch, Prometheus spreads the word of art.
Mnemonic City: Madrid (3/4 November 2012)
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