Saburo Teshigawara used a Shostakovich waltz in his The Idiot production at this very theatre in 2019. Then, as now, he was in total command of his conceptual work of art. “Teshigawara has won international acclaim as a choreographer, director and performer for over thirty years.” He is renowned “in the visual arts field, with art exhibitions, films and videos, as well as for designing scenography, lighting and costume for all his performances”. His minimalist Tristan and Isolde came here in 2022.
Waltz is a duet with his regular partner and collaborator, Rihoko Sato, yet they hardly ever touch. He in black, she in white, they could be the keyboard of a piano. Waltzes, at different tempi, from whichever country of origin, are so emotive, nostalgic. Swept along by their time signatures, a smile never leaves my face—Teshigawara and Sato subtly draw us into their spiritual world.
In a world of their own, in a black and white landscape—I think arthouse cinema—in geometric lighting patterns, boxes, rectangles, stripes, circles, the two move in lengthy solos, one entering as the other exits. And Japanese calligraphy… Blackouts signify chapters or pauses. There are held silences, Zen concentration and meditation perhaps. And a childlike quality, or a senior’s retreat into his own world... And why does she collapse? Overpowered by emotion?
Footwork is light and fleet—they are like leaves blown by the wind—bodies twist and bend, her movement fluid, his meticulously precise and minimal at times. I wonder if their soft, black shoes were paintbrushes, would they create an abstract Jackson Pollock drizzle painting on the canvas of the floor?
He judders (is that the waltz’s electricity passing through his body?), arms stiff, fingers a tremble—is he a Petrushka puppet on a string or on a musical box? I wonder if Wayne McGregor has been influenced by his flexible body language, every cell in his body vibrating.
As the music speeds up, so do they in what looks like improvisation but is finely scripted. They both look as if they could take off into the stratosphere, yet are very grounded just lost in the music, they are the musical score, its scales, arpeggios, and chords.
There’s a narrative for each waltz. Whenever there’s a man and a woman on stage, there’s always a narrative, Balanchine said, even in an abstract work. There’s a surprise Tom Waits, which makes me sit up and think of Pina Bausch and her sculpted musical choices. An accordion takes me to Europe. A violin to another film I remember from the recesses of my mind. Am I responding to them or to the music? There’s sadness and ebullience and ghosts of the past.
Why is he standing head to the wall? Why is he, the only time they touch, caressing her long grey hair, draping it over his face? The answer is in the waltzes chosen, and his memories listening to them, maybe pinpointing a life’s event. And it ends abruptly—like life itself…
Only one hour, but what an intense experience. Apparently, “Waltz is a dynamic perspective on his own life” (born 1953): “I find I see my life through both ends of a telescope—with memory, experience and an imagined future sometimes magnified, and sometimes distant.”
Some in the audience are there because they like his work; some are new to the theatre and are quite taken with the crumbling building, gazing at its faded glory. The applause is loud and long. How many memories have been triggered? I am glad I managed to make it to its penultimate performance. I go home considerably lighter in spirit.