Photo by Angel Origgi
Congress, was performed at RedCat during New Original Works festival 2024, Nov 14-16 Directed by Ajani Brannum, Performers: Ajani Brannum, with Héctor Alvarez, Cory Jones, Juniper Jones, Azwaw Medkour
congress (n.)
c. 1400, “a body of attendants; also “meeting of armed forces” (mid-15c.); the sense of “a coming together of people, a meeting of individuals” is from 1520s; from Latin congressus “a friendly meeting; a hostile encounter,” past participle of congredi “to meet with; to fight with,” from assimilated form of com “with, together” (see con-) + gradi “to walk, step,” from gradus “a step” (from PIE root *ghredh- “to walk, go”).
“Poetry is the highroad of freedom”
René Crevel
It starts with a dim light. The ghost light. The last and humblest instrument of theater that keeps its magic of illusion running while everyone is gone. Because if the theater goes dark, politics close. Because if the theater goes dark, it is the night of the world. Of this world. This description of the world at least. The end is near so the light is clear, out front and not in the back, concealed from the audience. The ghost light has come out to shine a light on us, the viewers, who are, at the end of the day, the final instrument of theater. Because without us, like without the light, theater disappears.
It all starts with the light shone on us, so dim and yet so bright that it’s hard to see past it, see the stage engulfed in darkness––doesn’t that resonate?––see the performers, the elements around that compose the scene. One can discern a person sitting on the stage right, another one at a table on the stage left, yet another one on a chair towards the center, and a final one at dead center, past the light, standing up, facing us. Watching us with the light. Watching us watch, or trying to watch. Who watches the watcher controls the description. Who watches the watcher holds the potential of the situation. For better or for worse. They command the space and can stir the fluid of our attention. It can be sincere, it could be a ruse. Perhaps a bit of both. And the most important part is, somehow, the sincerity with which manipulation is used or abused. Because every story is moving, or so it should, if it wants to perform its magic.
Ajani Brannum starts by talking. First to one of their collaborators to start “time”: our time together, the container they command and where we are meeting, which is finite. Then they talk to us. There is no pretending that we are not there, there is no fourth wall. We are the reason they are there. We are acknowledged. We are doing this together. “How is everyone doing tonight?” they ask and some responses emerge from the audience, timid but audible. The body and its movements––emotions and feelings––are called into the room. That other material of theater. The texture of politics. The movements that the image orchestrates. Ajani introduces the darkness of the end of an era, the era of “the baby split in half” and the monopoly on violence, with a poetry that flies the song of meaning. “Please make a sound that embodies how you are feeling right now. At the count of three, let’s do them all together.” Their voice is calm. The way they talk to us is like a friend, or a benevolent pastor, or a therapist, but aren’t those somehow three versions of the same, the only thing that changes is their rate?
“Three” arrives off their mouth and the room is filled with all kinds of sounds: exhales, hums, shouts, shrieks. All emotions and not a single word. “Thank you for that” We are ready to start. A song is sung. Sans words. The incantation has been made. Now that we are all present, “theater” can start. And the lights go on.
The theater lights go on and we can finally see everything on stage. Juniper on the left is weaving the live music with their computer sitting at a table. Az is keeping time sitting on a chair on the far right. Cory is a bit more towards the center but still a bit to the right. Ajani stands in the middle. All dressed in black. The curtain––sparkly and pink––goes up in the back. The set is presented to us. Ajani grabs the microphone, walks towards Cory and sits with him like one would with a friend or at a talk show, and asks him to share the story he has brought for us. Cory takes off one of his socks and puts it over his hand, his hand now a little puppet. A visual aid. A miniature theater within theater. Cory shares a story as ancient as theater, as old as this description of the world we inhabit. A story about female domination by the rule of father, and of female compliance and subjugated acceptance of that brutal score of social and self destruction. While Cory reads his story, socky puppet turned to maiden in his hand, Ajani improvises their movements about, Juniper sets the tone with their music, and Az keeps keeping time.
Once the story has been told, Ajani returns to the center, to the mic, and they talk to us. We are here to look at patriarchy together, they share. With poetry but also without doubt––the baby split in half. They ask us, the audience, to think about what patriarchy means to each one of us, to turn to the person beside us in the audience and, in a few words, share what came up. “The illusion of control as domination” I said. “Domination enacted by the rule of the father and men” I heard. “Do you think that what came up for you resembles what came up for the person beside you?” they asked. I think so and at the same time not at all. Ajani shares that this has been the central question of this performance, of the inquiry they have embarked on together, their answers forming the parts that compose this unexpected symphony of artful improvisation and rehearsed intimacy––because intimacy can only exist if rehearsed, it doesn’t emerge without care, and care requires intention and repetition. We tend to call that commitment.
Hector Alvarez is summoned into the room. Summoned because they couldn’t be there in person, so their story, their presence, is manifested through the form of total absence that is the moving image. A screen comes down from the ceiling. All eyes on it, like moths to the light, because that’s the score of the screen. They evacuate all attention of our surroundings, from one another, of what is actually happening so we can concentrate on its shiny surface. Hector & Hectorina––two locus having sex––walk us through frustration and anger––its corollary––to end up reaching Love, which is its antidote, and while we look at them chairs move, Ajani transverses the theater, its belly and drops, without most of us seeing it. The world around us changes and we are stuck on these projections. After Hector’s intervention, Ajani asks Az how much time is left. Each time a different time. Each time time runs differently.
Az does his thing: a dry, dark, poetic and concise description of the causes and effects of that illusion of control as domination, of the brutal score of the rule of the father. Not just for the ones subjugated by it, but for the father himself, whose life is scarified for the enactment of this ancient play of power and pain. While the words fill the space, Ajani and Cory dance. Each on their own, however not alone. Each with their moves––the trained dancer escaping “technique”, the queer punk crawling through the mosh pit. Time is up. Alarm goes off. It’s time to wake up, exit the stupor of theater. We have made it through. Now what are you going to do with this? That remains a mystery. What I know is that theater was revealed, transformations occurred. And honesty came through. Through and through in this ritual purification, dream of a different time, of a kinder, most tender, description of the world.
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Clara López Menéndez 