“If I could tell you what it meant, there would be no point in dancing it.”
— Isadora Duncan
I remember the first time I innocently let go of my developing ego and disappeared into music, dancing on the floor of the first club I went to as a high schooler.
I remember the dark environment I woke up to, with colourful lights in the distance, and one central bluish light shining in the middle of the dancing crowd, where I was standing. There was this space of light and colour in the darkness in front of me; the awakening I would compare to the one after a deep meditation. Relaxed and serene coming back into the now slightly unfamiliar reality.
Photography is often described as capturing the moment but what I've been looking for is something more present, a feeling, as something more familiar to what has been altered by the fading memories. I want to see the movement, the vibration, the presence of sensation.
When I reach for abstraction I often find the meaning more accurately but there is a distortion in removing a piece from it's entirety, abstracting it from reality, in order to make it fit more truthfully.
When I dance I feel all one. There's no belonging, there's no me and them; there's warmth, energy, intimacy and togetherness.
A dichotomy of looking for closeness in abstraction.