We are all made of stardust. Almost every element that combines to create our earthly bodies has been through several supernovas – exploded, transformed and recreated into something utterly unique.

Perhaps this is why the experience of having a body, of being an immortal and infinite soul trapped in a prison of flesh, blood and bone, can be so painful. Perhaps this is why the experience of trying to understand and be understood by another human, whose elemental essence was forged light years apart from our own, can be so impossible, so painful. 

These musings and feelings were elicited in me by Ctenophora Co’s contemporary dance work, Only the Stars Know Where I’ve Been. A duet in which two dancers contort, contract, writhe and glide their finite bodies into expressions that speak to the human condition, that give a glimpse into the deeper workings of the soul. 

They enter majestic, one borne upon the back of the other, who toils below voluminous skirts, invisible – a naked metaphor for power and control which percolates through the piece. From that place of pride comes the inevitable fall. 

There is love as well as suffering, but ever are the two entwined – as in life. Tender togetherness juxtaposes with the tortured, frenetic intensity that comes with co-dependence. And as in life, over these two people just trying to live their lives, the patriarchy looms large. Personified by a dark, square shouldered overcoat, in contrast to the ethereal and angelically white clad dancers, there is a heaviness to it, as though there are stones in its pockets, weighed down by the burden of societal expectation, the pressure to conform. 

Though universal in its appeal, the piece particularly speaks to the experience of queerness, of otherness, in a world that likes to keep people bound within strictly defined lines. Pain in pleasure in equal measure comes both externally and from within. Our characters wrest both with society and the turmoil of figuring out who they are, when the dominant culture would prefer that who they were did not exist. 

In the moments of harmony there is a triumph – mutual support and love as a means of resistance. Yet even then there is an undercurrent that questions the dynamics of power. What does it mean to come into relationship when the shackles of outdated gender roles still weigh us down? Or deeper still – who am I if I have come to define myself in relation to you?

Layers upon layers peel back to reveal deeper meaning, should we care to look. The piece requests a level of introspection to be perceived in its totality, but on its surface has a raw beauty, a consummate skill, to touch the most prosaic heart, though they may not know or care why. Yet all who bear witness leave with hooks in the tender flesh of their thoughts and feelings. Freshly questioning, yet illuminated by the memory of starlight that once shone through every fibre of each being.

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Only The Stars Know Where I’ve Been presents the entanglement of two beings in a mesmerizingly vast world created by Director Jake Starrs.  The performers reside in this world, fabricated by the hypnotically dreamy sound composition by Hugo Butler, as well as the serene lighting design by Grace Bella.    

As individual beings, both performers radiate in their unique performance qualities.  Stella Grace Seawright has a dignified and stately aura in their stage presence, sustaining this composure whilst executing mystifying contortion and shapeshifting.  They display an unwavering strength through a contrastingly vulnerable and fragile movement vocabulary.   

As for Sydney Magnus, a stunning visual scene of their strikingly subdued emotion anticipates their highly athletic solo movement.  Sitting in solitude, they exude a deliciously deep expression of, what I would class, despair.  This is followed by a series of calculated and precise fast-twitch movement patterns, reading like a language I cannot understand, yet can comprehend.  Both dancers execute their movement with such clarity and conviction that they construct an otherworldly language, one that is only natural in this extraterrestrial landscape, enticing the viewer to empathise with them; longing to understand them.  

A real star of the show is the ability of the two performers moving together.  They create engrossing creatures and visuals with their unconventional movement, interweaving limbs and bodies as if they share one subconscious mind.  Their uncanny beings emanate the elegant beauty of obscurity.  Moreover, their movement language between each other is intimate and sacred, often concealing their faces with intricate hand patterns.  Their encounter holds riveting tension amidst tenacious sensitivity.  

Likewise to the performers’ entanglement with one another, the costume design, produced by a collaboration of Starrs, Seawright and Jane Smolira, intertwines within the beings themselves.  Ribbon and frills do not just adorn the dancers, but they are one with the performers’ bodies, lacing directly to their skin.  This wardrobe feature may add greater depth to the act of sharing a ribbon.  It could perhaps symbolise their remaining influence on one another despite their disentanglement.  

The performance left me with gratitude to have witnessed the ethereal billowing of unity, intimacy and the concluding dissipation.  In its mystical dreamlike nature, it ends soothingly despite elements of vast loneliness.  I am left asking if we, the audience, can now be considered one with the stars?  

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Only the Stars Know Where I’ve Been is an ode to questions of youth and tangled webs of being. The work reimagines becoming as an un-linear and diffractive queer goo. Strange imaginings, otherworldly atmosphere, and dream-like remembering’s punctuate its fabric. The dancers enter from the house as if one creature, stalking hauntingly and inhumanly, then methodically unravel from their collective beast. One dancer disappears behind the ominous doorway that is obscured with a velvet curtain.

Choreographer Jake Starrs carefully builds the mystique of the unseen space beyond the mysterious doorway. Hands in black gloves extend like tendrils to pull props in or out, dancers disappear to reappear transformed by their unseen and unarticulated experiences, and large gray trench coats that present the idea of regulation and normalization appear from its velvety depths. What exists beyond the door feels normal, upsetting, restricting, and grown up, while what exists on stage is expressive, dreamlike, liminal, and just childlike enough. 

Sydney Magnus dawns a grey jacket (pulled from behind the magic doorway). The jacket has been modified into a puppet and creates the illusion of dancing with a partner when worn. One of her arms manipulates the jacket/puppet, and the other is still her own. Magnus beautifully and skillfully performs two simultaneous characters, the authoritative and invasive suit-hand that presses and pushes against her autonomy, as well as the white clad protagonist curious and uncomfortable. In the hypnotic ‘duet’ it is easy to lose track of reality, as the “suit hand” manipulated her “real hand” and the “real hand” began to feel more like the true puppet. This was a standout moment by Magnus and choreographer Starrs!

During the artistic process the chosen score could have been useful for creating the right atmosphere. The repetitive echoes were referential to the liminal space-y ness of the work, and at points provided necessary reinforcement, but they turned monotonous and apathetic in their continuous use. I would be interested to seeing how a more dynamic use of sound could still maintain the atmosphere of the current score while producing greater intrigue.

Frequent transitions in blackout wittingly and willingly took away the liner building of ideas. A solo full of nervousness with slow meditative questions punctuated by jittery anxieties, then transitions in blackout to a duet, both dancers rhythmically dragging themselves from stage right to left. This is a clever device that encourages the audience to witness the choreography through a queer temporal lens and see each section as a distinct-yet-connected moment. 

I wonder if the queer structure might be easier for an audience to grasp if some images had continuity throughout? Like the return of the ribbon that originally appeared (strikingly & stunningly) laced down the back of performer Stella Grace Seawright? It was clear Jake Starrs was already thinking about refrain from a choreographic place, as movements reappeared in different contexts to build the language of the work – but extending that to more images, props, and situations could prove useful. Nevertheless, I urge the audience to enjoy the process of pulling themes, patterns, and inferences from across the joyful tangle presented. There is an intentionality and thoughtfulness to this work that directs your gaze to disparate ideas and pulls them together into a larger conceptualization of our many past selves and relationships. 

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