As if the body was not a boundary, as if history was not full of absences, with the certainty that imagination is absolutely essential. The revolution might indeed lie in the ability to imagine. Before, during, and after the action.
Onyx is a oneiric army of vacuum and presence, the pause before chaos and chaos itself, in the annulment of borders between political and social intervention and the creation of a dreamlike space, charged with silence, noise, nonlinear information, weight, and a fluctuation of tim through joint manipulation. There is calm and meteoric chaos, a sharing of personal archives and fantasies where the skin is intended not as a border but as a vehicle. We bring the voices of mothers into the narrative, we bring the street, the poetry of punchlines, of house, of techno, in limbos of mantras and drums. Ritual. The practice of these bodies is as enchanted as it is brutal. There is the ancestry of a potent future. It is poetic. And it has pleasure. There is confrontation, comfort, I do not know.