If time were our friend, how many things could be achieved in life? But time deceives. Time slips away, is lacking, silences, and scares us. Growing up means discovering that time is our enemy; we barely chase it with work, we give it meaning, but that is not enough. In Il faut que je, the choreographer wanted to break codes and mix originality, physicality, and musicality to tell a story, the story of a chase, the story of an ideal image that renounces its own value and richness in order to survive time. The rhythm of life is marked by the constant obsession and search for perfection, with an endless trajectory toward “victory,” where satisfaction is always denied by time. Time saves art and kills the artist, compressing them into their own body. The music of Leon Afterbeat fits into this context like the strings of a puppet, capable of winding around the artist’s wrists and ankles and making them dance on command. A constant ticking, frightening silences, and surprising pauses. In this sense, the music becomes a metaphor for the biological clock of every individual. The march, the attempt, the vain hope, the inertia, the stubborn will give form to a conceptual solo, but one that is direct and impactful.
IL FAUT QUE JE. If time were our friend, how many things could be achieved in life? But time deceives. Time slips away, is lacking, silences, and scares us. Growing up means discovering that time is our enemy; we barely chase it with work, we give it meaning, but that is not enough. In Il faut que je, the choreographer wanted to break codes and mix originality, physicality, and musicality to tell a story, the story of a chase, the story of an ideal image that renounces its own value and richness in order to survive time. The rhythm of life is marked by the constant obsession and search for perfection, with an endless trajectory toward “victory,” where satisfaction is always denied by time. Time saves art and kills the artist, compressing them into their own body. The music of Leon Afterbeat fits into this context like the strings of a puppet, capable of winding around the artist’s wrists and ankles and making them dance on command. A constant ticking, frightening silences, and surprising pauses. In this sense, the music becomes a metaphor for the biological clock of every individual. The march, the attempt, the vain hope, the inertia, the stubborn will give form to a conceptual solo, but one that is direct and impactful.
