An interpretation of “SoliiDaD”: an abstract journey to oblivion
by Carla Mostert (Guest Writer)
7 August 2019, Elizabeth Sneddon Theatre
Firstly, I write with the premise that art, or rather, the act of watching art is inevitably a subjective activity. Secondly, I confess openly that I am not familiar with Mantsoe’s work, and I realise that this impacts the interpretation that I share here. Make of this what you will. Having declared these, I can only offer my version of what I saw in SoliiDaD, an abstract journey to oblivion.
Circling hands, the placement of arms.
Movements which carve through a mostly empty stage. Mantsoe lulls us with a calculated sensibility, this sensibility is in control of itself. It is smooth.
Draped above him, spanning horizontally across are two brown pieces of rope, they intersect on my right hand side. Numerous other ropes hang vertically against the backdrop, things are attached at the bottom of them, but I cannot make out what they are. This bothers me somewhat.
Throughout the work, varying soundtracks play. I remember the sound of a tree breaking, and falling to the ground. At times, between phrases Mantsoe seems to be gathering himself up, preparing, he shakes his head, wipes the sweat from his face, resets. To me this feeling of preparation lingers, and I find myself waiting for something to happen. And waiting. And waiting still. I ask myself where the desire to see an arched structure in performance comes from. I ask myself what I think I am waiting for.
After some time, another two pieces of rope swing out from the roof, the pieces of rope are knotted at the bottom, they just about miss the floor and Mantsoe and swing to a gentle standstill. He does not watch this action; he continues to gaze straight ahead of him, towards the side of the stage.
I think back to earlier in the work, to a moment in between two sonic texts. I could hear Mantsoe breathe… It wasn’t the in and out-ness of his breathing, it was the witnessing of someone breathing in order to compose himself, the breath of someone navigating the somehow impossible task of taking a rehearsed idea and reliving it in the present while in the presence of others. I acknowledge that my own eyes value these kinds of moments, the moments in between, when one layer is taken away and we get to see what’s left, what’s behind, what’s underneath the circling hands, the placed arms.
There are things attached to the pieces of rope hanging by the backdrop. I cannot make out what they are, this bothers me somewhat.
