The Latvian choreographer Artūrs Nīgalis sets a solemn scene – a rope hanging in the middle of the stage, a single white spotlight and a nostalgic soundscape.
Two characters move frantically around the stage. Only when engaging with the rope do they find a melancholy sense of calm. It becomes an extension of their bodies connected to the other, from swinging each other around to sending whip-like waves back and forth, impacting each other even from afar.
The minimal lighting, the quality of the movement create an atmosphere that draws the audience into the two characters’ world. The rope serves as a tool of manipulation, showing tension and synchronicity. It’s open to endless interpretations, but never anchors them in a clear direction – leaving the audience hanging, ultimately.
Sidney Yeo
According to the programme notes, Silhouette Letters, by Latvian choreographer Artūrs Nīgalis, deals with the autobiographical theme of a father’s absence. But it’s hard to see onstage. Does it mean the piece failed, or not?
Nīgalis enters the scene by crawling convulsively towards a hanging rope. He tangles it around his neck and head, blindfolding himself, sliding and swinging with it on the floor. Dancer Mārīte Supe eventually joins him, climbs up and helps him disentangle himself. They jump restlessly, somersault and lift each other, moving between vertical and horizontal lines, always staying in contact with the rope. Throughout, it seems to represent a disturbing reality or a problematic past, which they treat differently: he strives to escape it, and she fully embraces it. The question seems to be: will he be able to find self-awareness too?
The pastel colours and lightly draped costumes bring Renaissance paintings to mind, while the strong contrast between light and dark transports us into a Caravaggio canvas. Even if it doesn’t do everything it wants to do, Silhouette Letters stands out for the hypnotising expressiveness of the dancers and its refined aesthetic.
Marta Buggio
A rope hanging from the ceiling greets us before choreographer performer Artūrs Nīgalis slowly crawls toward its end, lying on the stage. Fearful of its serpent-like presence, he finally grabs it, wrapping it around his neck and head – an action that immediately draws a collective gasp from the audience. The rope is crude and sturdy.
Mārīte Supe sprints onstage, leaping onto the rope and swinging it until it tugs Nīgalis down. This dynamic repeats, evolving into a dialogue: waves sent along the rope, memories rippling between bodies. Is it about the lingering impact of those long gone – or the automatic behaviors they leave behind, within us?
Because the dancers are young – a man and a woman – the intended father-child narrative feels less readable. Instead, the work evokes a more ambiguous bond: lovers, siblings, companions. Yet, the images are aesthetically powerful. When a phantom memory moves us, do we need to know exactly whose memory it is?