Whenever I encounter dance in a gallery setting, I’m haunted by Mårten Spångberg’s writing on ‘museum dance’ and his argument that one should stay home if our intent is not to challenge dance itself. In Agata Siniarska’s Museum of the Anthropocene, part of the Generation After showcase, the audience is welcomed by a naked body on a white floor, surrounded by seemingly stereotypical contemporary sculptures and installations. A wave of exhibition-opening performances runs before my eyes. 

Rather than trying to unpack what the work is ‘about’, I found myself playing with its format, turning the questions and frustrations it stirred in me into an imaginary conversation between a visual artist and their friend from the contemporary dance scene. 

Maybe it’s the opening week. The exhibition is starting to find its form: pieces are creating meaningful compositions, the room is no longer empty and there seems to be space for dialogue. The artist looks around, seeing it all come together for the first time. At last, there is room to breathe, and to think. What could be organised in this setting? Hundreds of possibilities come to mind. The artist picks up their phone and dials a friend with whom they’ve had multiple half-drunk conversations about potential collaboration.

A growl is growing in Siniarska’s throat. It sounds primal, less like speech or singing than something from deep down. It bubbles from the gut to the tip of the tongue as she slowly finds her limbs and balances on them. She holds the audience in intense eye contact, a shrill screech escaping her lips, every muscle drawn taut. It’s so close and high I feel it in my head. The noise bounces off the back and side walls, up to the ceiling and down to the floor. It’s overpowering. Or is it just in my left and right ear? Oddly, it all seems to lead to a composition where Siniarska’s head sits between a pair of horns exhibited on top of wooden posts.

It’s the next day or the day after. Doesn’t really matter, because all time loses its meaning before the opening. The friend has arrived wearing a trendy hoodie and holding a cup of take-away coffee. They take a sip and ask: ‘So what did you have in mind?’ The artist: ‘Well, you know, all my work is so tactile but in a gallery setting it’s only possible to look at it. It’s such a pity that the visitors can’t see the works “come alive.” Take these goat’s horns, for example. Just think about their history and what potential they hold if they were activated.’ The friend takes another sip and looks around: ‘It’s true. Nature in a gallery setting could keep on living.’ The artist: ‘Exactly! Then I thought about how much I like your practice. How you so effortlessly move from one state to another and how it would make a great link to mine.’ The friend: ‘Mmm.’ The artist: ‘And I thought you could maybe create a character that would engage with my installation. You know something a bit eerie, edging on dangerous and fun. And I think you could interpret all the pieces as you wish, and I mean honestly just go for it. Nothing too complicated or long but you know a nice jump start and a BANG end! Like we’ve always said, the two fields should collaborate some more. And maybe…’

Siniarska keeps piercingly squealing as she finds her way to the most appealing piece of art, a heavy rug with colourful threads intertwined with twigs and plastic. She effortlessly crawls underneath it to emerge as a moving hut that has a secret life of its own. Like in a grim fairytale, blood starts to seep from inside the hut. A trail of dark red follows wherever it moves. The offering, the sacrifice, whatever it is, has been made. Wounded limbs appear from beneath the rug. Covered in blood, Siniarska lies down for her final rest, only her prosthetic, hand-sized, skin-toned tail winking at the audience.

‘And you see this piece there, the rug? It took me months to complete. I think this should have its starring moment. Like, a culmination, or whatever the word is. You could totally climb underneath it…’ The friend begins to warm up as the artist keeps on going.

I just wonder, has Siniarska ever been frustrated by the often superficial way dance appears in galleries? If so, then this was one hot take. If not, then the Spångberg lens made it much more fun to look through.