Flickering neon tubes. An industrial hum broken occasionally by squalls of noise. Frenetic, jerky movements.
‘Andropolaroid 1.1’ begins by playing with the language of horror and the effect is intentionally unsettling as Yui Kawaguchi moves through a forest of suspended neon lights on an otherwise bare stage.
Individual tubes flash momentarily to capture her suspended magically in mid-air.
Like the aftermath of a magnesium flare, the image is burnt on the retina after the light fades and though each still frame is static, the effect is one of dynamism, a living magic lantern. It’s a stunning introduction to this work, and one that has the audience absolutely enthralled.
Yui’s body control is absolute and at times she resembles a marionette, so compartmentalised are her body movements. As the performance progresses, she broadens the language and begins to move with a lithe fluidity. She slides between poses while remaining in place, presenting herself as the embodiment of both stasis and movement, and that tension fuels this piece.
The soundtrack softens, switching to urgently whispered phrases in Japanese and when a foreign object is introduced to the stage it emerges that it is the performer, not the audience, who is frightened. Her interactions with (and eventual embrace of) a red hoodie wed these two worlds, an evocation of culture shock and acceptance, driven by a performer at the peak of her powers.
Horror is compelling not because it is scary but because it quickens the pulse and thrills the mind. ‘Andropolaroid 1.1’ does both of these without relying on cheap thrills and the result is breathtaking.
