Building on the success of her mesmerising 2022 solo show Metamorphosis, dancer-choreographer Maria Caruso once again intends to captivate London audiences with Incarnation, a journey of self-discovery and reconciliation.
Similar to Metamorphosis, Incarnation also has several phases denoted by her changing of dresses. Initially in her casual wear, Caruso sits bound to a chair on stage left, her wrists tightly secured behind her back. A black gag covers her mouth as she struggles against the restraints, eerily synchronising with the rhythm of Ryan Onestak’s music.
Eventually, she breaks free, peeling off the gag. Yet, she continues to writhe on the stage as if the restraints are still there, leaving infinite room for interpretation of themes such as trauma, pain, fear of disconnection from the world, or fear of losing creativity. The restraints become an internalised gaze, symbolised by the chair. Throughout the performance, each time Caruso changes her dress, she stares at the chair as if examining her true self in retrospect.
Caruso then changes into a nightgown, starting to write letters to someone, one after another. The addressee, veiled as her lover jilting her, appears to be her other self who writes her back at the end of the show. In her nightgown, Caruso initially seems to be normal, but soon collapses into her indulging fantasy, donning a white wedding dress and dancing with incorporated elements such as flamenco and Chinese water-sleeve dance by swirling two large white cloths.
Caruso’s choreography, as a contemporary choreographer, is accessible, especially for those new to modern dance. No prior knowledge of contemporary dance is needed—just follow the flow of her emotions, expressed through her unparalleled, compelling movements, underpinned by Onestak’s melodic composition, and you are right there.
Caruso keeps changing her dresses, gearing into a self-liberation phase in a black dress, accompanied by more electric, percussive music. In a magenta dress, Caruso appreciates herself through dancing with a mirror, and she joyfully discovers a warm light ball and dances to it. At last, in a white dress, she receives her letter written to herself, signalling her ultimate self-reconciliation.
Though deeply self-explorative, striving to discover self-worth, the performance falls akin to a dance therapy session—a (notoriously phallocentric) Lacanian one, where the light ball represents Caruso’s objet petit a, the unattainable object of desire that represents what is forever elusive. It may make people wonder, for whose good is self-worth really—for the woman herself, or for a world that imposes it for its own sake?
