The clothes of the first string are gathered to make way for the grey, plethoric dress, which opens itself to dance. A dress that calls for a body. A body for dance. It asks to be filled with the right lightness to follow the rhythm set...
After a long time looking at it, I can only think of this one word....
I always imagine them being washed by woman's hands. Never by man's hands. Perhaps in self-defence. I would wash them for her, by hand. A delayed warm soak with a slight ouch! of detergent. Then a rinse, rubbing there and there if necessary. Then hang them out to dry. In...
Surrender, you cars. You are surrounded! Come out with your windscreens cleaners up!...