First a gauze veil between us and the performers.
Then our heads popped through, and craning and twisting to see. Heaven forbid we miss something.
But we always miss something, or misunderstand, or don’t understand, or can’t understand.
But we can try.
The four ladies on plinths could be authorities, or teachers, or parents. They point, wag fingers and scowl.
The others are below them, like us. All voiceless, but still standing. Gesturing, defiant, proudly present.
Some of the audience know the gestures, recognise them. They use Irish Sign Language.
Some of the audience know the context, know that what we are seeing is inspired by Teresa Deevy’s The King of Spain’s Daughter.
Some of us have neither.
All of us connected by something fine, and transparent and delicate. Something other than words.
Aíne for DRAFF