Sometimes shadows mean as much as things:
take Maria Kowroski, dancing in
"Variations pour une Porte et un Souprir,"
as a woman who is a woman
but also a door and also perhaps
a spider. She dances in murky gray light
and behind, her shadow looms. The perfect
lines of it, rhythm of neck, rhythm of hips.
The man, dancing as the souprir, which
is to say, the sigh, throws himself on the floor
or else whirls, low to the ground, his shadow
black below him and then gone, covered
by his torso. Also there is the motion
of silk, yards and yards of it, a diamond
attached to the ballerina's hips,
floating as she pivots slightly to the left, slightly to
the right. And there is, throughout, the sound of
creaking hinges, which seems also like
jackhammers, also like pipes clanking.
Overdetermination, as in a dream,
with sound and motion joined, each
in the other's shadow.