A lady stands encircled by the flickering lights of faux
candles in a darkened box theatre past midnight. Third in line and following
two named and known performers, she waits patiently as her mic stand is being
fixed, barefoot, she is elegant, graceful, lithe and pixie looking. Long
fingers, long neck. Sharp nose, delicate eyes and a delicate face. She is
mesmerizing. A scarf gracefully encircles her black-clad frame much as theatre
performers dress, with the goal of not distracting from expressions and voices.
Taking the time given, she raises all 10 fingers of her
hand, telling us that we are going to make it rain. Intrigued my first thought
is, voodoo? Rain dance? Before embarrassingly, begin to clap. One finger
against a palm. Two fingers against a palm. Three and four fingers against a
palm. The box theatre echoes to the rhythmically flawed pitter patter of
fingers on palm much like the droplets of scattering rain and I begin to be
aware and delight in the aural sounds emanating from such a simple exercise.
The men are ordered to stomp their right feet and thunder is then produced
before the dying droplets echo and we return to silence.
She follows the rain with an interlude of an old tale. That
of a sick grandmother, a loaf of bread and a hunters daughter. Ending doesn’t
quite follow the tales of yore though, a rather Maleficent twist-Game of
Thrones ends up being the conclusion of this prelude before she launches into
the final tale of the night. No reading from the sheets of paper or ipad for
this one, no, everything in her mind. Hands fluttering to convey the sense of a
Moghul’s palace bedecked for a wedding ceremony, hands slitting a throat and
hands riding a horse. Hands graceful as a traditional Indian dancers, voice as
elegant and expressions as beautiful.
I am intrigued and inspired, storytelling has been elevated
to a level I have never seen before and reminds me yet again how intertwined
the arts are, between visuals, aural, rhythm, imagination. Between stories,
dance, music and writing. The arts may often be cast aside in favour of their
less imaginative counterparts, the math, the sciences and the facts, but
nothing can grab your imagination more than the beauty of a simple rhythm, the
swoop of a silk clad, heel shod boleo or the sounds of a voice telling you a
beautiful. Story.
