Imagine you’re at a club. You came to see the klezmer bands and dance to some music. Suddenly a woman grabs your arm. She’s talking in a Russian accent and what she’s saying seems at first to make no sense, but she appears to be deadly serious. Painted on her forehead, between two perfectly ordinary eyebrows, is a monster of a uni-brow, like some kind of runaway moustache once belonging to a swarthy Cossack in the hairy wilds of some long-ago Steppe. She’s trying to get you to do something, and before you know it you’re being tied into a bright blue cardboard flat-pack tractor and shimmying along duct-taped track lines after escaping cabbages.
Introducing The Friends of Gagarin: A post-postmodern performance collective
Imagine you’re at a club. You came to see the klezmer bands and dance to some music. Suddenly a woman grabs your arm. She’s talking in a Russian accent and what she’s saying seems at first to make no sense, but she appears to be deadly serious. Painted on her forehead, between two perfectly ordinary eyebrows, is a monster of a uni-brow, like some kind of runaway moustache once belonging to a swart
28 Nov 2007 12:00
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