The scene is hung with white sheets, the walls, the floor and the clothes are white too. Round, twisted, plump, colourful forms, stretch and move on a table. It is a forest of organs, entrails, intestines, viscera and hearts, made of plastic – cleaned and tamed. A woman is lying underneath them; she writhes and sways herself free of her interior jungle.
She controls her movements with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. She dislodges the innards, one by one with delicate and subtle movements. The pieces fall to the ground like the end of a love story. A man gets up. He has been waiting for this moment. He approaches, picks up the flayed objects and methodically attaches them to hooks on the wall, as though they were trophies. He is organized and disciplined, tending, handling and ordering these fetishes, with an archaeologist’s care. He aligns them in their plastic perfection, his collection of placid flesh.
The fluids and bloody masses, the internal monsters and pathos are absent. In their place, the irregular sculptures are fixed in a timeless solidity, an aesthetic mineralogy. Incorpore[o] plays with the contrast between the antiseptic and sanitized whiteness of a dissection room and the baroque nature of the viscera escaping from the table.
It describes a strange ballet, the outline of man’s age-old fascination with inner worlds. Excavating the body is one of man’s passions. To discover is to peel back the outer layer, to reveal, to undress, to show what is hidden, to expose, to penetrate, and ultimately to find and understand. Incorpore[o] is seen as if in a dream, an out-of-bounds space where the imagination does not restrain its senses, its muscles, its obsessions.
It plunges into the fantasy of seeing the unseen. Slowly, deliberately, it moves towards the desire to control the underside of the skin, to construct a gentle and intimate anatomical theatre by way of a fertile allegory. Not a single word is spoken by the man, or the woman, silently accomplishing their missions, their roles. They don’t look at each other, don’t notice each other. Only the vessels, the arteries, the viscera link their gestures and their beings.
Throughout, an organic music track envelops the atmosphere, covering it with jerky, unpredictable, digestive sounds. It circulates, bruises, flays, and tears itself. It adds interior sounds to the scene: the murmur of the heart, the clashing of sensual jolts.
Video screens broadcast the performance as if the obstinate collector and the dancer emptying herself were in a hall of mirrors. An impenetrable and secret world lives below the skin. Incorpore[o] imagines it and brings its creatures and fantasies out of the depths.
Julie Estève, June 2010