Jennifer Bonn

Dance creation

JE PENSE COMME UNE FILLE ENLÈVE SA ROBE
("I think like a girl takes off her dress", Georges Bataille)

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Concept and Choreography : Perrine Valli
Performance : Jennifer Bonn / Perrine Valli
Sound creation : Jennifer Bonn
Light : Cyril Leclerc
Scenography : Marie Szersnovicz et Perrine Valli
Decor, costumes and accessories : Marie Szersnovicz
Stage manager : Marie Szersnovicz
Video projection : Akatre / Frédéric Lombard
Film of the piece: Frédéric Lombard
Administration and communication : Tutu production
Collaboration : Jennifer Bonn

Production : Compagnie Sam-Hester
Co Production : Festival Faits d’Hiver, Théâtre de l’Usine

Support
DRAC Ile-de-France, ADAMI, Ville de Genève – Département de la Culture, République et canton de Genève, Ernst Göhner Stiftung, Pro Helvetia, Loterie Romande.
This piece has received tour support from Pro Helvetia and was chosen "+ des PSO"

Created at
Mains d’Oeuvres, Micadanses, Théâtre de l’Usine

Première
January 20th, 2009 Festival Faits d’Hiver, Mains d’œuvres, St-Ouen

to watch a video excerpt, go to Perrine Valli's site and click on video

Description
text by Perrine Valli

Since 2005, my work has been an abstract choreographic research. I would now like to confront my work with new issues and open other lines of research.
This piece, a dance and voice duo, deals with the prostitute's body. This implies a different way of working : I chose a social issue that is important to me, and confronted it with my work. The subject is dealt with from three angles:
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- A reflection on sexual identity : Using the quote taken from Georges Bataille "I think like a girl takes off her dress" as a starting point, I asked myself to what extent a man can think like a woman. Can he appropriate her body and her thought ? The prostitute's body is seen here as a mirror through which man and woman see each other and question each other.
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- A reflection on nudity : In prostitution, the naked body, even more than a body without clothing, is a body without limits, accessible to anyone. What does it mean to undress ? Can a naked body be neutral ? What limits hide behind this nudity ?
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- A reflection on masculinity : For centuries, the prostitute has been an inspiration for litterature, painting, and poetry, questionned by the arts, sociology, politics, etc. But the authors are generally male. And whether they are men or women, prostitutes are at the service of -almost exclusively- men. Without the male, the prostitute doesn't exist. Can one treat this issue without talking about the second body, the man's body ?
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The theoretical research has guided the choreographic research, thanks to multiple parallels drawn between the subject and movement : The space of the prostitute's body is often minimal (window displays, cars, beds...), so the dance pieces are also placed in a limited space. I've worked specifically on the horizontal and vertical positions which represent, from waiting to working, those of the prostitute. The client's body is often also viewed an object, so I have confronted my body in a brutal way (emotionless) with the objects on stage : a "table-bed" for example. My work is inspired by the relationship both passive and active between the prostitute and the client. The object is both an obstacle and a support for the body, the body can hang, slide, fall off, lean on, hold, push off of...

For the vocals, we first based our research on different texts dealing with prostitution (Billie Holiday, Nike Cave, Aragon, Cocorosie, PJ Harvey etc.). How does language deal with the body ? What do we imagine based on these words ? What can they say that the body can't ? This work is performed live, accompanied by the soundscape which is made up of sounds from both the imaginary and the real world of prostitution : body sounds, car motors, high heels, breathing, etc...

Text written and performed on stage by Jennifer Bonn

black out nothing but the double searchlights of roaming vehicules cutting through the silohuettes of trees all around trees both frightening and reassuring which are my hiding place which are my prison cell I cannot leave here until and already I can hear the strange sounds of muffled cries laughter and moans amongst the rustling of branches and of bodies against the dirt and the tree trunks of cars jostled on their tires and the low music that sometimes filters out through the crack of an open window
I am the pale tree that stands out amongst the dark trunks branches bare as can be with only a shiny trinket or two hanging from a twig here and there to better catch the light of the low beams that sweep into view along the roads that lead them here here to cleanse themselves of their dirty thoughts and my body is the receptacle of their most intimate confessions I am indulgence and our unwritten contract states that I must forgive you for what my body hears of your guilty desires for which I am the image and the tool
when your gaze is lowered and I am lowered to your gaze and I have retreated into the wordless solitude of the transaction taking place no more than a flow of silent words before your towering surveillance of my devoted execution but with every breath you are further away and I am further from myself and I no longer feel your eyes on me for they have ceased to see and I have become a rhythm as intangible and transparent as the cool night air and the soft breeze which you have forgotten along with me.
But as your limits unfold and disappear and you stand wide open on the edge of the loss of all control you begin to remember that I can see and that I can see you and that you are vulnerable and in case I had forgotten you will show me that I myself am weak and naked far beyond your own display and you interrupt my silent words and take possession of the power I have given you and throw it back at me onto the hard ground which receives my body which receives yours and I am free to look at you for you will look at everything but my face for I must be nobody and anybody and this is to be our common ground.
I am the same woman that shares your bed I am the mother of your children I am her image in the looking glass but you have only enough courage to speak to this mirror and would deny to your last breath that this reflection may already exist in what is reflected but she cannot reach me nor I her for this is my place and that hers and you are the wall between us we exist in the world you have built up around us using your ideas and you must protect us for we are weak in this world which is the very cause of our weakness and if only long long ago we could have been so shallow as to believe that there was competition between you and us but you were not so naive and have divided and have conquered and now she waits for you at home and I wait for you in the dark woods
when your work is done and you are empty and I am full of your emptiness lying on the ground which once was soil and which now is only dirt a few ragged bills crumpled into my palm with which I am to dry my tears long since run dry and I have already forgotten your face you are nothing but a slow burn extinguished by the cool night air and the dampened ground and I look up at the vertical black lines of the tree trunks against the sky their silent judgement their silent compassion their silent complicity with what here takes place and already I must stand for this my lament is but the first refrain of the nightlong song of a chorus of pale trees for a house of invisible men