Mercat de les Flors, Barcelona
February 17, 2023
According to the programme note, the title of Brazilian dance artist João Lima’s Cavalo do Cão (Dog’s horse) is an expression that can refer to an insect whose sting causes excruciating pain, an indomitable person and the horse ridden by the devil. The term suggests a kind of animality in the process of transformation.
The performance has indeed a transformation. It begins in darkness with Lima producing various sounds and noises under a scaffold on which the audience sit. After some minutes of puzzlement and somewhat annoyed by his repetitive screams and barks, it’s a relief when the light softly comes on an I see him. Nevertheless, he continues to roar on the now dimly-lit stage as if testing whether there is someone beside him in a deserted place.
As nobody answers, he starts playing by himself, pointing his index finger to the sky while emitting a sound, then towards the earth and making another noise. Next, he adds another sound while punching the air, carrying on with the three for a while. Creating a rhythm, he looks to the audience as if seeking some sort of confirmation of the worth of his efforts. Some found it funny. I did not. Neither did I find specific meaning or efficacy.
Photo Tristan Perez-Martin
On stage are scattered bizarre objects that, very abstractly, might be connected to those of conquerors and the conquered: a skull, a plastic tube, two bricks, some red jelly, a glass, a piece of plexiglas, a banana, landing nets, a cloth, a flag with the face of an aborigine, a butterfly net. He looks at them, and the pink strings he wears around his neck and piece of raw wool on his head, and starts to assemble them with some urgency, creating a sort of altar. He’s like someone deranged, lost and lonely in his own world, entertaining himself with items that are his biggest treasures.
But then, something that shifts and the intensity of the show and his intention reaches much deeper depths.
Now there is a gravity in all he does. He looks at the audience and moves across the stage. He seems possessed by a higher force, by something that darkens him and makes him ready to fight. He indulges in a small tribal-like dance. It feels like a ritual or one-person celebration. Maybe he is honouring those who were there before him, who he believes are still somehow present and observing.
His expression is intense. He acts meaningfully. His stage presence is rooted in the gravity and tragedy caused by colonialism. He is simultaneously intriguing and disquieting, not least when his lips turn slowly red without it being clear how. Then, a final scene, the most striking of all, sees him start shooting at us with an imaginary weapon, spilling blood from his mouth while making the noises of murderous attackers. It is a shocking image to take away but also a most effective and convincing conclusion.
From its strange opening, Cavalo do Cão is ultimately a tumultuous choreographic attempt to show the need to reflect on history, specifically how we need to consider colonialism and its present day repercussions if we are to fully understand the present. That’s a difficult endeavour, certainly to achieve in dance, but also an important theme to keep investigating.