Column | Who does not hate that. It marches.

In Oslo in June A GIGA FESTIVAL In honor of 'our' Jirí Kylián. There is nothing yet, but the trailer is already there. There I hear the choreographer say: « We dance all our life, from the moment we are born until we« . Beats. Living is moving, moving is dance. The dance of birth is perfect, every movement is good and gold. We are launched from the womb.

Our chest box rises, we breathe. Eye members vibrate, lips make an O. We fold our arms open, pull our knees.

I walk to the Operahuset, the festival will live there. What is that with modern opera buildings? Architects go crazy, from the Elbphilarmonie in Hamburg to the Opera House in Sydney, all light madness. And in Oslo? Also. The white marble -dressed Operahuset Echoot with its corners and slopes a huge glacier. It is a radiant place, an excellent landing site for angels.

And that works out well.

'Wings of Time' will be called the Kylián festival. The time passes on wing strokes. Many people see ghosts. Jirí Kylián sees Engelen. He catches them in choreographies with titles such as Wings of wax and Falling Angelsactually always. His angels do not fly, they are dancers and they do what dancers do: they provoke gravity. They are not biblical angels. They are not heavenly, and they have nothing to do with 'der Wrake'. With screaming and fright.

They depict the people who have continued to dance since birth. That requires courage, even if everyone can do it. Not dancing is a choice. Whoever hates, he doesn't dance, he marches. Marching is walking in the size that someone else hits. Oh well, look around you, the world understands. Dancing decides her.

And Kyliáns Engelen? They are the desperate angelic.

But this is Oslo, I now want to go to Edvard Munch, to the Nasjonalmuseet. His paintings get deep, with the shocks, the frightening colors, the pain, death, the depression. With the fluid traces when he had thrown a cloth in despair to get it out of the snow later. There Scream. Scream is 'Skik' in Norwegian.

I meet Jirí Kylián, he was in the Innasjonal Museet yesterday, he says. « Did you see this? » I expect Munch, but appears on his phone The wounded angel from the Fin Hugo Simberg from 1903. A soul -dying angel is worn by two boys. Three desperate angelic.

Back in the Netherlands. I flee into the cinema, I choose the movie Grand Toura hallucinatory film, a compelling dream trip, with always death in the offing. But also with a street scene in Saigon. An der Schönen Blauen Donau Sounds, scooters rolling in slow motion. That is possible. There is hope. Really and truly.

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