Elektra

We were preparing a concert.
Electra is the guitar string we have all tugged in our lives.
Electra is the voice that has often been absorbed by our inner being.
Electra is nothing more than our repressed will to do something, our helpless glance from a tram towards a green park.
Electra is our own mantra of helplessness.
Electra is the light that shines through the windows of churches at certain hours, flooded with a certain scent of flowers.
Electra is the walk through a railway you fear to cross without your earphones in your ears.
Electra is the sound of knocking next door, only to have the door opened by your own life, and not knowing if you will be let in.
Electra is the meditation app you subscribed to but never opened.
Electra is your warm bed, next to which you learned to pray with your grandmother.
Electra is the wind hitting your motorcycle helmet on a highway passing by a rapeseed field.
Electra is silence from which a gaze begins to sing softly.

The best of Elektra comes from the encounter between the director’s ultra-poetic imagination, the performance space bounded by the pulsating, soft, vibrating leather walls, talking about life and often delivering death (set design: Dragoș Buhagiar) and the hypnotic visual trails & hypnotic auditory tufts (light design: all Botond Nagy; original music & sound design: Claudiu Urse). There, in those scenes flooded by eerie lights and contextualized by inexplicable sounds, the actors’ enunciation is just right and their gestures draw memorable images. In those scenes, revenge and forgiveness, courage and cowardice, love (of brother, of sister, of mother) and hate (of brother, of sister, of mother) lose their contours and merge into that enchanting quality we have learned to call poetry. In those moments, Elektra puts forward poems in the form of living paintings/performative installations.