Mae’n ddrwg gen i, mae’r cofnod hwn dim ond ar gael mewn Saesneg Prydain.

Subjective Reflections on Rosalind Crisp Practises of Disarmament…

By Anushiye Yarnell



A partial lecture about a partial history 
an unfinished dance by a saturated body 
an ongoing practice exposed

Rosalind’s meticulous distillation of perpetual actions….materialise in her performance. Framed at once by immediate incremental intervals… and over the history of her dance reaching into other dance worlds and practices.

Films are shown as a windows into different fields of her work- the fluid electrics of her nervous system seems interconnected as other instruments of attentiveness ….perceptual apparatus.

My daughter sits on my lap and laughs as Rosalind enacts a live commentary on her actions- a self reporting journalist. Each moment and action swallowed up by the channelling of next event. The struggle between words and forms shaping and shedding..dressing and undressing of destinies… shedding of destinations.

She speaks about the dancer being carried away by the dance- like a babe in arms. Perhaps she speaks of marriage- of fidelity rather than faithfulness. I feel the meaning… yet I fail to remember the vows….the vowels without consonants…constants. Perhaps she is speaking about different types of love, liberty and dependancy…all intrinsically, synchronistically intertwined.

There is an ending…She speaks of riding through forest, as a girl on horseback…and the revisitation to the devastation of the wilderness she once was carried by and loved. She shows film of herself dancing, moving in the bodies of felled trees- laid waste.
It is stark and hopeless in its endurance and truth.
Her humanity exposed and stranded between animal and machine.
She is a helplessly human visitation in a scene of natural devastation. Yet she is dancing. Dancing somehow feels like an authentic activism- where there is no graspable solution.

I am writing this over hearing a conversation between the waitress at the Old Boys Club and a customer:
It is about animal life and meat.
It is about the value of life in the face of death.
He says to her, “At the end of the day…When the animals are going to die anyway…Whats the point of them being happy and living a good life?”
It is also about ourselves.

My dear friend has given me… hand inked in lovely italics…a sign…


Hope is more convincing in French…because I don’t speak french.

Rosalind’s incantations and dances are untampered by representative justifications. Somehow her work channels with a truthful and disarming delicacy, with apparitions of specificity- a commitment to the beauty and mystery of the world- of existence.

Fidelity to incrementals of uncounted time.

She speaks of hands being at the end of your feet.
Being carried by the contact we have with the earth..
The natural world… Out of sight…Out of mind… Out of our hands
But still resounding through our feet
turning us on the world’s surface/skin- through our animal universals, rather than our human specialisations.

Perhaps we live in an age…where salvation must be reconfigured an act of disarmament…

A shedding of Humanity’s Survival-
A shedding of Humanity’s aesthetics governed by its fears an desires.

Perhaps this is a dance- as much as anything.

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