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Magic Hour Pdf

[FREE] Novel Magic Hour Karya Tisa Ts Pdf [EPUB] [PDF]. Book file PDF easily for everyone and every device. You can download and read online. Novel Magic . Magic Hour: A Novel - Kindle edition by Kristin Hannah. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Use features like bookmarks . Download the Book:Magic Hour: A Novel PDF For Free, Preface: In the rugged Pacific Northwest lies the Olympic National Forest—nearly a million acres o.

Grappling with gendered systemic inequities which shape our experiences of time, alongside personal narratives of trauma, this article tells a story of one per- formance over and over again: The story of an artist; the story of slowing down; the story of the past and future melting into the present; and the story of repetition. Each story refuses to rush the narrative, coming back to the beginning of the production and taking a new perspective on what it means to refuse the lesbian rush. We have spent just over an hour in the theatre space watching Dobkin, a performance artist and theatre cre- ator, unravel a story of her childhood. Through episodic movements, she has tried and then tried again and again to tell us a story. We never seem to know exactly what it is she is trying to say.

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Photographer: Dahlia Katz narrative we are here to consume. Thick folds of pink fabric slowly open, as they pull the parachute strings, blanketing the floor in the inner circle of chairs.

The seven audience members still hold the attached toys, left holding an unknown and unnamed memory in their hands. Here, the narrative is not told at the expense of the storyteller, but rather the audience is asked to participate in a story in which Dobkin refuses simplistic disclosure, focusing instead on the performative power of gesture and performance to reconstruct memory on her own terms. Unlike a linear notion of time, which positions a static past as disconnected from the present, queer temporality actively disrupts the compartmentalizing of past, present, and future.

If there are always tasks yet to be completed, the foreseeable future is not only seemingly unattainable, but also perpetually further out of reach. Yet, as queer subjects, we also remain unsteady within the temporal expectations of the present.

Simplicity is refused in the representation. During the production, several audience members were visibly confused, unsure if they were meant to release the toys they clutched, as the parachute was lifted above them.

The uncertainty of how to hold tight to the past—or when to let it go— becomes a shared, embodied question. And it starts with two people fucking. One man.

One woman. They fuck to make children. Those children fuck to make children. And here we are. All in the family. We come from someone. From some- where. Your mother had a child. That child is a child; that child might have a child; That child will be a child and might have a child […] that child might have a child. That child will have a child. The child that comes, is thus not dependent on the child that was though they might have been.

This queer genealogy, which moves through the past to envisioned futurities, is not ultimately contingent on man and woman fucking. It is contingent on time passing towards a utopian future. Thus, refusing to rush, taking time to conceptualize a future not yet here becomes a way to question normative cycles of reproduction and kinship. Through the ghosts of her own past, Dobkin encourages us to hold the future as a question. Embracing excess in pos- sibility, the tentative and ambiguous child who might have a child queers heteronormative generational structures.

That child, whose story is told from the distance of a scrambled unformed narrative; who might seem like the unsolved illusive secret in each magic trick Dobkin performs; that child might be the child who might have a child, who brings us to the future.

Rather than rushing towards the future or recreating a linear past, Dobkin slows time through its unbinding, enabling her audience access to temporal shifts from within the confines of their embodied experience in this moment and in this space. The chrysalis. She approaches a microphone stand in the centre of the space and speaks directly to the audience. I am so glad you are here […] This is the performance art presen- tation of theatrical convention to break the artifice and spoil all the fun.

A flash of fire bursts from her hands, before she steps down and walks towards the theatre doors and holds them open for us. We enter the theatre. It is not that the show is comprised of false-starts, but rather, that time is cyclical in the produc- tion. Each new welcome and salutation is the introduction of a new affective embodiment of memory: a development rather than a correction. Dobkin returns and repeats her introduc- tion, slipping out of the rhythm of normalized temporality and slowing the progression of time, refusing the conditioned compulsion to rush through.

From inside the bag she cuts holes for her arms and mouth, and then reaches out to feel for the microphone, unable to see its place from beneath the bag. She finds it in front of her and welcomes the audience again. Hello, thank you all for coming.

I am so glad you are here. A Coffee cake. Why did the chewing gum cross the road? She is too young to be sexually active!

Magic Hour

She just lies there like her mother. Ok…I read an article in a newspaper the other day about a man paying his daughter for sex! I know, I was disgusted. What kind of daughter charges her own father? Ok…Why did the? Photographer: Dahlia Katz floor. Started to, but never quite finished.

Marsalis’ Magic Hour

In these repeated welcomes, Dobkin tries tirelessly literally running to exhaustion to possess that which she cannot return to. Childhood trauma and memory is not recollected in an explicit narrative. However, we are collectively a part of the discovery through a bending of time and cyclical repetition. It, like the repeated opening sequences weaves through history and memory, constructing them through affective move- ments; we come to experience how memory might feel, but not what the memories are of.

We may think of the repeated starts in the production as attempts to articulate trauma and memory through different performance styles and narrative approaches. The inability to use one linear narrative form to capture the past as a singular cohesive story and the repeated sequences staged to articulate this past demonstrate a pursuit to convey the complexities of that which has been and that which is not yet here.

It complicates an understanding of history and trauma as a singular event. Dobkin explains: It goes back to an assignment I gave myself when I first started writing the piece. It was a question around how to tell the story. I was playing with all of these genres. How would I tell this story if it was a stand-up comedy routine? How would I tell this story if it was a Broadway musical? How would I tell this story if it was an aca- demic lecture?

So that none of [the stories] are realized. In a way it is kind of like each one is an attempt or a start. The show keeps restarting, but never erasing the previ- ous moments. The complexity of this temporal representation points to an explicit refusal to rush and simultaneously the persistence of the everyday experience of trauma, extending past the traumatic event itself.

We experience an hour of magic, which perhaps is so magical in part because of its ability to extend the hour and to take up space for just a little bit longer.

We see through repetition and temporal swerves an explicit rejection of the isolation of past from present, a queering of straight time, in favour of a kind of lesbian pause. How might this pause be a queer refusal to rush, if only for a moment? She explains, In a way, to have the performance end in that lobby and have the space transform […] is meant as an invitation. The audience has some agency in what that space is going to be.

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