Three men, masked, frozen at the rear of the stage (fear of contamination), silently taking on a dream of hygiene and protection. Amidst these impassive witnesses, a car, crushed, perhaps by the weight of years (how many of these automotive carcasses Wolf Vostell carted around, vehicles of modernity, outsized coffins). A chorus of men and women, with a few vacuum cleaners to the fore. And then, the orchestra leader, the guide, the musician and visionary kindly assisted by a dog, man's best friend. A piece for four paws, X violins, five sopranos, four lumberjacks, four hundred spectators awaiting the Fluxus event, countless screens, and a few oboe-trombones. Far from cynicism, the melancholy murmuring of the world and heavenly voices. The stage divides, separates, gives way, for an infinitely renewable moment, to a few passages, opens upon a symphony of the object, of reality 'in itself'. The cry is the grating of the saw, the penetration of a draught, the friction of one material against another, of one body against its environment, it is the result of a crash, a paroxysmal collision, the final result of a search.

Stéphanie Moisdon
Translated by Phoebe Green