Ex Tenebris Lux, or ‘out of darkness, light’, is a contemplative piece that begins in pitch darkness, marked only by the percussive rattling of matches in their boxes, and ends in jubilant celebration. It is in part inspired by the bronze sculpture of the same name, created in 1937 by Ernest George Gillick, which was clambered over by countless children when it sat, heavily oxidised, outside of the Robert McDougall Art Gallery, but which was later housed in the mezzanine of the new gallery (a strictly ‘do not climb on the works’ type of environment). The sculpture is a woman in classical garb, holding a lamp and with a book open on her lap, expressing the shift from the darkness of ignorance to the light of knowledge.

This allegory and the image of the woman herself act as a point of entry to a story about Mnemosyne, named for the Greek goddess of memory and played with dignity by Mary Davidson, who loses her son and must come back, piece by piece, from the darkness and emptiness of grief. Davidson is joined by actors Jamie Spyker, Beth Alexander and Beth Gallacher, and musicians Chris Reddington, Nicole Reddington and Jeremy Roake, on a compact stage that is dominated by musical instruments and lit by candles.

The piece draws from a number of traditions, including classical mythology and the Tenebrae, the service at the end of Holy Week, in the lead up to Christ’s crucifixion, in which every light is snuffed out. Here the Tenebrae is reversed, so that we begin in darkness and emerge, slowly, into light, working our way through grief and loss. This anabasis, or ‘going up’, combines liturgical material with quotidian detail that rework the praises and lamentations with personal and local flavour, and it develops in movements much like the ritualistic steps of the Tenebrae itself.

These slips between the mythic, the ritual and the local are compelling, especially as the piece itself in quite complex, combining voice, dance, movement and live original music. The opening, in particular, is quite beautiful: a canon unfurls slowly and its variations become more complex as the lights (designed up Simeon Hoggan) come up, and it then stops, abruptly, as the actors speak for the first time, boldly declaring a series of humorous psalms about daily irritations. Small details, likewise, speak loudly: the statue’s book of knowledge is transposed as a family album, highlighting the personal nature of memory and reconciliation.

One of the strengths of the piece is that it leaves ample space for reflection, something I’ve also found to be the case with directors Tom Eason and Holly Chappell’s other devised works and choreographer Fleur de Their’s dance pieces. As Mnemosyne grieves for her lost son and slowly emerges from the foggy forgetfulness of grief to reconstruct herself through memory and repetition, Oblivion (Chris Reddington) snuffs out the candles that hang near the back of the stage and insists, to the perturbation of everyone else, that thoughts of the afterlife are fairy tales for the fearful. (This reads as heavy-handed but it’s pretty funny, thanks mostly to Reddington’s sardonic delivery and exasperated eye-rolling.) The piece leans, joyfully and optimistically, towards the light, but its complexities and gaps leave more than enough room for interpretation.

Ex Tenebris Lux works more successfully as a collaboration between musicians, actors, directors, visual artists, actors and dancers than anything I can remember for a while, and it has an admirable clarity of purpose. In places the delivery of the text is much too earnest for me, especially near the end, but that’s a matter of taste and certainly not a problem with the show. In any case, it’s all delivered with such honesty and integrity that I still find it to be utterly charming. I hope it has a life beyond its limited run with The Body Festival.

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