Parole, Parole, Parole...

Parole, parole, parole... is not much more than a poetry rhyme. Slightly, melancholic, maybe, when it leans towards a familiar "mal de vivre" comedy, a so natural bourgeois boredom, therefore so ours.

The performance starts from the projecting potential of language. The potential to draw what we will want it to be. Real or hypothetical dialogues that try to raise utopias (individual, domestic or communitaries) and are peacefully confronted with their failure, phaticly finding comfort in the emptiness of the sentences that seek to hide the disbelief in the future (that will prematurely [or has already?] become the present). They (meaning, us) try to rediscover the illusion, to keep active on building something they intuit, not to let fade away. And constantly face the opposite - the disappointment and the inevitable collapse of the concrete materials, which doesn't mirror never that more-real reality - because more present and more lively - unfolding in their projects of a world to come and of a final realization. They watch each other like ghosts in their doing, in a paternalistic exercise over themselves. In a refusal to contemplate poetically their own death.​