What do an AI generated picture of a sexy clown, Ravel’s bolero, and dinosaur kale have in common? Well, they were all featured within SCOOP festival, amongst many more astonishing goodies. For it’s first edition, the two days program initiated by Copenhagen based DANCE COOPERATIVE was put together in collaboration with their sibling organisation in Amsterdam Jacuzzi. Independent from large dance institutions, SCOOP is produced, curated and performed by and for local artists: an inspiring example of putting ‘we’re all we’ve got’ in practice. Inviting the audience into an unpretentious and yet highly cared for space, the festival offered a fresh take on contemporary choreography where friendship meets DIY meets decades of combined performance practice.
I follow my friend, choreographer, performer, and SCOOP co-organizer Andreas Haglund into the belly of Christianshavns Beboerhus: a concert venue which, over the course of the next two days will become a dance studio, a cabaret stage, a dark cave and a canteen. For now, the performance hall is buzzing with racks of costumes, stacks of face paint, and bejewelled Jacuzzi choreographers, getting ready to host their Dragimpro workshop. I introduce myself as ‘the writer who will awkwardly observe from the side’ to one member of the collective, who gently but firmly lays out the rules of the space: “yes, yes, you can write but you must get cute with us first. Drag up! You have 20 minutes.” This sets the tone for the entire festival: it’s an all-hands-on-deck endeavour, where everyone is responsible for making the space what it is. I put on my big girl pants (which in this case consist of a semi-Harley Quinn Halloween costume and a blue plastic wig with tags still hanging on) and join the crowd.Made-up performers deliver a quick warm up before inviting us to dive into a 45-minute-long open improv. A delirious and delicious trip where participants in leather gloves, bunny ears and sequins dresses run around the room, converse with plastic plants and lip-sync to a curated playlist of chaos: think disco remix of Putting on the Ritz and more lawless classics.
In what will soon become a cherished ritual, I leave the space at the end of the workshop, only to come back and find its atmosphere completely changed. Perhaps the corridor leading to the bar is a portal of sorts. This time as I return, dim lights, pillows and blankets are pulling me in. Performance artist and climate activist Linh Le invites me to lay down on the floor and get comfortable. In her guided meditation Becoming Bat: Ascending into the night, she cultivates alternative methods of attentiveness to shift away from anthropocentric perspectives. Using gentle touch and subliminal messaging, she proposes an embodied understanding of the nocturnal bat species. “You are hanging upside down” she repeats. “Your fingers are longer than your arms” she whispers, as she strokes my limbs away from my ribcage. I end the practice fully cocooned, cradled by the hypnotic sound score, wrapped in my imaginary-wings-blanket and feeling that extra little bit closer to the flying critter.
And then we leave the performance space. And then we come back.
The place has shifted again to a circular seated arrangement, basking in an artificial sunset glow. In SPF 69, several protagonists cohabitate, including a multi-bodied non-human entity in the form of deconstructed fruit nets. It’s hanging across the ceiling. Resting on the red dance floor. Containing loads of plastic packaging. Frolicking through this shared wasteland for 30 minutes, Paolo De Venecia Gile and Amalie Bergstein Nielsen get entangled, enmeshed, held together by a never-biodegradable thread. In the stage iteration of this project which they started back in 2018, the two friends interweave virtuosic moves with a sense of playfulness that can only exist when people have shared intimacy for a long period of time. The duet comes to an end (or rather, a halt) as a “to be continued” paper sign is pulled out of one of the performer’s back pockets. A promising glimpse into the future.
In opera or classical theatre, an Intermezzo is a short and light instrumental composition that connects larger acts. Similarly, Emilie Gregersen and Lydia Östberg Diakité’s homonymous piece stands as a campy interlude within the festival’s condensed program. Dressed in demure grey, the two hosts wheel in a metal trolley full of cake. With cheeky grins, they serve slices to a selected few audience members, while never missing a beat of Riri’s only girl (in the world), the saxophone instrumental version. They continue cutting and teasing, grooving together to Sade’s kiss of life. They leave most of us hungry for more, and more is coming right away. Out with the trolley and in with the choreo: merging tight unison with high femme drama, they twirl around the room in a repetitive sequence while constantly shifting directions. Hair whips, hip pops, double pirouettes, they are synchronized without ever looking robotic. A hint of Rosas’ Fase, but with queer joy. The cake is vegan, gluten-free and nut free. The dancing is butter smooth. Both very much feastlike.
And then we leave. And then we come back. And then we eat delicious green tomato stew. And then we leave. And then we come back. And then the room is a niche noise club.
“I’m gonna start again” announces Fascia, as she returns to her beginning point at the back of the darkened room. A metaphor for what is impending in the form of a false departure: porous vulnerability, gritty glitches, and bold artistry. In her concert, the electronic composer, instrument designer and digital artist uses technology as a prosthesis, expanding the edges of her body and blurring the borders between where her skin ends and mine begins. Bass heartbeats, strobe for eyes, a phone camera becomes a tongue and teeth. Drenched in twilight blue, she turns amplified tumbling rocks into soothing crystals. A fast-forwarded sky is projected behind her: eclipse after eclipse after eclipse, a tide of melting arctic fungi under the full moon. Hand-picked sentences overlap, “in the shape of herself kinda bitch” “she looked at me, I looked back” giving a distorted voice to her multisensory sonic poem, in line with the subtly electrifying overload of this first festival day.
From the cave to the kitchen: Day 2 begins with a cooking workshop. More specifically, a guttering which, amongst other multitudes is a food lab, a lecture, a performance, a diner and the name of a collective composed of choreographer Ar Utke Ács, chef Sal Reis Trouxa and artist and horticulturist Sarasvati Shrestha. The room is furnished with three tables, some chairs and heaps of kale, herbs and salad that need washing before tonight’s diner. But first, the hosts invite us to grab a vegetable, to observe, touch, smell, and taste it while learning about the origins and cultivation of the plant, as well as the challenges sustainable farmers face when taking care of soil in an ever more pesticide-filled environment. We clean the kale and save some slugs. We chat while scrubbing off dirt and cabbage fly eggs. A snail tries to escape. When we sit down to stem the leaves, researcher Lisa Linn Dunbar steps on the stage to presents her witty lecture On the menu: a worker informed critique of the restaurant industry. From the military origins of the kitchen brigade system to the racist history of tipping, she cuts through the social shortcomings of the Danish restaurant industry. The smell of thyme and sage fills the air. “I hate this shit” exclaims Lisa, between two hilarious memes and an informative pie chart. A baby crawls around, chewing on parsley leaves. After we are done, we clean up the space for the upcoming night of performance. Emotional intelligence meets academia meets reproductive labour all at once. Key ingredients to a great workshop. And a great salad.
The evening starts with Blue Swallowings by Beck Heiberg, a solo dripping in spit, sweat and tears. From sensual dances to frothy drools, the performer flirts with the limits between epic and abject, visceral and artificial, delicate intimacy and over-the-top voyeurism. Bringing drama, drama, drama to every spine undulation, he morphs fluidly from crybaby to boy band heartthrob. At times slowly undressing, gracefully waacking, or plunging his fist down his own throat, Beck takes ‘making you gag’ literally.
And then we leave. And then we come back. This is now a running gag between spectators and hosts, who have come to expect the perpetual metamorphosis of the space.
This time, as I re-enter, two Trojan horses are awaiting. They have way too many legs, are made of grey fabric, and contain a multitude of practices ready to burst and spill into the room. For their CAVALCADE, eight members of Jacuzzi collective gallop through glimpses of their individual worlds, patchworked together with the help of Copenhagen-based co-conspirator alex blum. Wearing matching dresses and with guitar cases on their backs, Charlie Laban Trier and Noha Ramadan tackle Maurice Ravel’s majestic Bolero. Part indie-pop duo, part Salavador Dali painting, they crawl and melt in unison through the relentless crescendo. The more grandiose the music, the softer and more grotesque they become: a yielding counterpoint where virtuosity meets surrendering. Up next, sad clown Clara Saito invites the audience to an embodied group therapy session where everyone is encouraged to scream, feel their feelings and make space for collective grief. Raoni//Muzho Saleh continue with a lamenting-growling-wailing song, supported by a choir of softly beaten chests. Taking us from hypersensitive porosity to hypersensual tactile bliss, Elisa Zuppini follows with a dance, or perhaps it’s a 3D sci-fi movie. A somatic super-hero in black plateau crocs whose power is to zoom into the body and pour out of it simultaneously. And then, the horses’ grey skin turns into projection surfaces for setareh fatehi’s intervention, a cross-temporal teleportation practice to “be mobile, not mobilized”. Reached via cables and Bluetooth signals, dancers in Tehran move through phone screens, a glitchy moment of radical togetherness. Finishing with a literal bang, the 8 acolytes smash broccoli florets to dust, creating a chaotic carpet for Fernando Belfiore to climax into a fake-blood/fake-brains/real-time explosive puppy party. They close with a collective song, a tender ode to being a team.
(Astronomically speaking, Pegasus the famous winged horse constellation has a baby pony sibling constellation called Equuleus, a faint gathering of stars whose Latin name means little horse or foal, located just north of the celestial equator. The two horses always mirror one other across galaxies but keep their unique shape. One shines very bright, the other is more subtle, both interstellar stallions. Orbiting together, in cosmic space. Something like that.)
And then we leave. And then it’s time to eat.
Split in 4 groups by the guttering team, the entire audience is instructed to unfold tables, lay cutlery, decorate and bring out the food. Within 10 minutes, the room is turned into a restaurant and plates are filled with luscious kale salad. Before we dig in, our hosts Ar Utke Ács, Sal Reis Trouxa and Sarasvati Shrestha propose a prayer: not a traditional religious blessing, but rather a queering of the tradition, a moment of gratitude for all the hands that touched this food. We thank those who planted, harvested and prepared the meal in front of us. We acknowledge our connection to the lands we live on, as well as the interconnected struggles of indigenous populations worldwide fighting for theirs. And then we feast. A fragrant root vegetable and bean stew. Stacks of bread. Perfectly seasoned leafy greens. Ice-breakers in the form of somatic or performative scores are scattered atop the tables on colourful cards. Pass the initial awkwardness, mouths salivate, tongues untie, and conversations begin to flow. By the time everyone has licked their plates clean, we are no longer strangers.
And then we fold the tables back and put away our chairs. And then we leave. And then we exit the building and gather outdoors.
Y2K purse holding ghosts in Rapunzel black wigs sway in the darkness. Gliding through the night, they approach the building. The grudge-like duo crawl onto the stairs and split the mass of mostly amused yet slightly spooked out viewers. They advance through the bar and lead us back into the performance space, which has now become a bass pumping mosh pit. In forever on all fours Sigrid Stigsdatter and Klara Lopez’s hot horror dance make heads spin 360 degrees. Free-falling backwards into each other arms, lip-syncing punk lullabies or languidly pulling one another by the hair, they wrestle the slippery edges between racy, brutal and furiously gentle.
One last time, we leave. And then we come back to interdisciplinary and performance artist Camilla Lind, perched onto the bar. Part sensational striptease, part perilous parkour, Bad Economy shines a blinding spotlight on the precarity of freelance labour in late-stage capitalism and questions whether sex sells all that well anymore. Constantly toying with her customers skyrocketing expectations, Camilla pulls all the tricks in the book from glitter canons to body paint, to splits in silver heels, throwing in a few action rolls for good form. With impeccable timing and generous buffoonery, she reveals the mandatory absurdity of selling one’s skills, body and expertise to the ever-more-greedy gaze of the art market.
As I exit the room for good, I’m in awe at the resilience, adaptability and boldness of the SCOOP organizers and their accomplices. In the words of day 1 collaborators PAOwMALIE, the festival fully highlighted “the joys of dance and its potential in an otherwise shitty world”. Despite injuries, weather changes, and an ever more unpredictable political climate, DANCE COOPERATIVE managed not only to throw together a radically wholesome event, but to extend the invitation to nearby colleagues, and to a full house of implicated, well-fed and hyper-entertained audience members.
Scoop Performance Festival 27th and 28th September at Christianshavns Beboerhus
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