Everywhere else, my work is made of single things — an image, a document, a body, one voice dissolving on the page. The plays are the first place you could walk into: three of them sharing one world, where children rise from the earth, a girl of mist and tears is always glimpsed and never reached, and an offstage voice answers in incantation under green snow, two moons, and leaves that fall in spring. They give my work what it never had — many voices at once, bodies moving in time — and they gather the two inheritances my whole practice grows from, the painted icon and the opened body: the icon weeps, the tree-man drains, a girl’s tear kills the flower it falls on — grace and death, the same gesture. Icon, anatomy, theatre, and me in all three rooms at once.
