sanama

The dilated eyes of nr. 8 in the lobby of the police station. The mosaic tiles of a round space carry the echo of an air conditioner. My hands feel sweaty as I observe the nervous presence of nr. 8.

8 has memories, that this institution can’t find about: a dimly lit area in another period of time, a scene imagined like film noir. There urges are solidified into deeds. Actions, that terminate and spark blocks of time, entire lives. It makes no difference, whether changes are seen as ends or beginnings, for every cut in time finds a continuation in the past or the future.

Confused, 8 follows the movements of my hands. Seems like 8 hasn’t yet fully arrived in the mosaic lobby. Do they feel lonely in the space with a round-ish plywood table, a pair of hands, a church bench and a yellow-tinted light? Are they concious about the situation?

The audience is waiting in a room, that one can’t see from the lobby. 8 straightens their back and looks into the hallway next to them. At the hallway nr. 17 is waiting for their interrogation. I have never seen 17’s face, only a hazy reflection through a closing door in front of me. I get to know 17 through 8’s gestures. 8 starts pounding the heavy glass door, as if it would be an ordinary practice before a hearing. They cup their hands on their ears to listen to the ocean. Arms spread aside, raising their shoulders like they would gather wind under their wings. Fly off. The lips are sealed with a zipper, the secret kisses.

For a moment I end up in a room with a police officer. The light flowing in through the large windows caress the smooth facial structures of the officer. I’d like stick my nose through the gillette-smelling neck. As I’m about to ask, why their muscles are shining like that, the officer introduces themselves as ”Amore” in a manner that makes me think of a video with a dozen of Vin Diesel- lookalikes. Electricity in my fingers, a storm in my veins, until I remember the function of this violent machinery. The impatient audience. Somewhat disappointed, I return to the lobby.

8 has begun to dance. Perhaps their consience can’t tolerate the corruptive thoughts. Maybe they are dancing in order to create the physicality of criminal ideas into this deserted space. The rhythm of squeaky shoes. The sleeves flow in waves with the movements. The mosaic floor seems to be partly breaking. It sounds like knäckebröd. The holes reveal an edge of duration, through which the history and coming narratives enter the room. Tears rolling down the pale thighs of nr. 8.

A bored officer enters the stage. They open the dialogue by asking 8 about yesterday’s game. 8 wrinkles their whole body as a reaction to the interruption. The performance was just about to hit the climax. My interest in this situation evaporates in a matter of seconds. I switch on the buzzing green halogen lamp and tell the audience to get out of their hideouts. The exit door of the station takes 47 kicks before it opens.