A four-star spa hotel somewhere in Croatia. For fragrances and flutes, turn to ‘La Chiicha’ (Loto Retina) in their towel-cum-robe dress. They play melodies beneath hanging bones, so the notes drift upward through their crevices. For itineraries, ask Le Gac, who addresses us in French (with translation). Or maybe don’t: you’ll be none the wiser. 

This spa exceeds a spiritual self-care excursion, veering into a reality without an exit. Like the Elvish language devised by Tolkien, the level of detail renders the spa’s existence indisputable, an excellently considered lie. 

Le Gac raises a white sheet, onto which ridiculous, almost sickening images of digital symbiosis are projected. Animals morph with vegetables, sprinkled with chaos as a key ingredient. Le Gac’s eloquent French beside such absurdity is so impish, we can only laugh, and sniff our complimentary bagged grass.

The audience are lured into the space by cushions and ginger drink to witness La Chiicha on a drum pad, conducting Le Gac, who taps her heeled feet upon a wooden board with military precision and breathless concentration; this spa turned cult nightclub screams less let loose and more keep up with the beat or else…

Are they high? If I were, would I understand this? Does the success of the piece require my surrender to it? As Le Gac herself explains, we must repress the desire to ask any questions.