Dear You,

Shall we start with your story?
Or should I indulge in small greetings and pleasantries first?
I believe there is no time for that.
And, somehow, I feel you aren’t the kinds either.  

I should start from the very start.
Or, are you in the middle? Perhaps, the very end?
Let’s begin from wherever you think
you aptly stand on the continuing timeline.
On this timeline of:
the shifting identity of the performing body.

But, wait.
Before we begin, let me confess:
I am consumed by you.
You! and your Body. 

Your body which has been a site of entertainment,
a site of work, pleasure, stigma, and abuse. 

Maybe, you are the custodian of dance & music, composer of finest poetry and coquettish charms. The fascinating figure of yesteryears - prolific and deplorable, sweet and forbidden. The ultimate courtesan.

Or

Are you Ibsen’s Nora - beautiful, dutiful, living within the moral constructs of the society. And, of today’s art world.
A world lauding perfection, brilliance and virtuosity. Celebrating unabashedly Roman Polański at Césars and the very many symbols of culture with power to flex & beat all our careers into shape.

But, that wasn’t Ibsen’s Nora, you gasp, “She ultimately claimed herself. She claimed her agency.”

Well, in any case, humour me for a bit, please. 

Be my muse and let me be your subject.
Whisper your story in my ears..… 

Yours faithfully, Me.