Fingers at the tip of my words

To walk the edge without falling, without it being clear where the edge is, where do I fall when the thin ice that forms the edge breaks at the first misstep? When the next step is obscured as if by fog that only gradually clears? When the next step itself is never causally related to what has preceded it, when each movement stands exclusively for itself in the trajectory of the narrow, long path, whose end behind the fogged horizon suggests a vague orientation only as a corporeal texture? Boudrillard as a medial translation into dance: the violence of dance, appropriated from photographic theory as the power that the (mass) medium of photography exerts on those who produce images. Here, the utopia of breaking out of the constraints of producing certain expected dance surfaces, of the meaningless virtuoso, of the gesture that is only at first glance emotional, yet meaningless. How the pre-shaped opinion of how dance is supposed to look is governing the bodies that practice it. This is the threshold that is attempted to wander. In the macro and microscopic, in the loneliness of a lone soloist in front of an enormous video wall that gives insight into her inner life. In the search for the language, in which the lover constitutes to the loved. The degree on which something becomes a thing without ever (or: already) being anything, in the manner of André Lepecki a Being-towards-movement.