​Lisa Bufano - lovely inspiration for Lina

I spend a lot of time waiting. At least it feels like that. Hurry up and wait. Go to work. Make rent. Feed the cat. And wait for that thing. What is that thing? What am I waiting for, and why isn’t it here yet? I ask. That’s not what life is supposed to be, at least this is what yoga says. This is what Suzuki training says. You are here now. It starts now. You are in it now. It has already started. It is already moving. You are still, and it is moving. It is always turning and turning inside of you.

But, no. But nothing’s happening. But I’ve come this far. But if it’s turning inside me, if it’s moving inside me, why am I not going? Why haven’t I progressed? And if I’m supposed to, where is that place?

I feel like I’m traveling down a long trail and it’s years and years of walking at a steady pace. Watching the trees. And then…

And then…

And then. There’s maybe a small town. And you stop at this town. And you pick up a menu. And drink something refreshing. And eat something nourishing for once, instead of beans. And you meet someone who wants to talk about poetry and laugh. And spend the whole night celebrating something. Anything. Celebrating the walk. Celebrating the steadiness. Celebrating food and laughter and love and life. And you finally get a good night’s sleep. And then, you get up and keep walking.

I think this is how it feels to love something like theatre. To love something that you feel so rarely comes to you. Or, maybe the kind of project that just opens a door and invites you in, instead of you having to knock. It’s elusive and rare. It wants you to find it, and then gives you its hand. And you feel like, maybe the only reason I’m walking at all is to have one night like this one.

Lina. Lina. Is the first play that has been written just for me by someone who knows me not at all. She’s holding her hand out and I, with such gratitude, unburden myself and follow her in for some tea.


LBR

Click to view my Pinterest page research on Lina, formerly known as The Woman with No Legs, part of the four-part Stories of the Body by Andras Visky. An easy, visual element to the process.

​LBR

Exploration for Stories of the Body: The Woman With No Legs
"Vientulais Engelis" by Peteris Vasks, violin by Alina Pogostkina

​LBR

Early stages of research for Theatre Y's next show, Stories of the Body: The Woman With No Legs.​

​I've always worked from my feet, my legs, and my background as a dancer and athlete. But it hasn't been until this play that I've realized just how heavily I rely on my legs in creating work. My fear in this stems from a worry that I'll be unable to create without my roots; that without my legs, I've lost my physical intelligence. Just in the beginning phases of this rehearsal process, there's so much I want to learn about what the legs mean for freedom, for movement, for connecting and what taking them away does to a person.

Here is a section from Cloud Gate's Bamboo Dream to Arvo Part's "Tabula Rasa: Silentium," a song present in The Woman With No Legs. In this piece, I'm curious about the woman's expression of agency and freedom, especially through her legs and feet, as she's manipulated and guided wholly by the man.

More about Theatre Y's Stories of the Body and The Woman With No Legs here.


​LBR