A climactic duel between two would-be lovers. There’s also an octopus. And a lot of clear plastic. And a LOT of water. What’s going on? 

Dimitris Papaioannou’s newest performance, INK at Sadler’s Wells, marks his return to the stage after 10 years with a climactic duel between two would-be lovers. There’s also an octopus. And a lot of clear plastic. And a LOT of water. What’s going on? 

This was my main question throughout this piece. Papaioannou (an erstwhile painter before his illustrious career as a director, choreographer and performer) creates beautiful images, awesome tableaus onstage before allowing them to crumble, or in this case melt away. The stage is set under a fair few inches of water which keeps coming for most of the show. Papaioannou, as the Dressed Man is sat contemplatively, spinning a bowl of water, allowing it to spill out again. Eventually Šuka Horn crawls on as the Nude Man and disrupts this peaceful, soggy solitude. What follows borders on erotic, tender, loving and eventually violent, traumatic and sad. Outstanding sound design from David Blouin and intelligent and effective lighting from Lucien Laborderie and Stephanos Droussiotis illuminate the performance which verges on the edge of contemporary dance without ever plunging deeper into it.

As someone who only intermittently attends any contemporary dance performance, I was aware that there are times when the meaning to be gleaned from these is a subjective venture, and that a lack of clarity does not necessarily speak to a lack of insight. However, while the ideas behind Papaioannou’s work were demonstrably very specific, this did not translate to any through-line in the performance itself. It should not be necessary to study the programme for a performance to be able to gain any insight into the thinking behind it, and unfortunately in this case it took a good deal of reading before any of the ideas began to merge into one cohesive whole. If the prevailing lay opinion of contemporary dance performance is that they are beard stroking ventures for initiates into an exclusive club of Establishment Intelligents, this did little to dispel that. 

Nevertheless, the performances themselves are worthy of a special mention, if nothing else than for the sheer strength of their human endeavour. So too, the pictures themselves presented where beautiful and tender and disturbing, wonderful, funny and weird in parts. Some of Papaioannou’s work in this show was breathtaking in it’s ambition, and while I was unsure about what the meaning was of what I saw, fundamentally it was an enjoyable, thought-provoking evening that pushed my boundaries as an audience member. I might see it again, if only to figure out what on earth the octopus was doing there.