Romeo and Juliet


Juliet dances and shows herself off. Juliet knows very well how to use the light the sun bestows upon her. Romeo says nothing. Juliet goes out by day when the light from the Sun can play across her body adorned with cornices, pediments and scrolls. By day Juliet lifts her faces to follow the Sun, exhibiting recently restored shades of time-honoured voluptuousness to recapture poise and self-assurance. Romeo says nothing. Romeo looks on and adores her. Romeo waits. Juliet is somebody. Romeo is nobody. Romeo waits, hieratic, impassive, as cold as ice, generously reflecting all the light towards her. She knows how to use it, to channel it through the gullies of her sensuality, taming it as she twists and sending it to sleep in her refuge. For Romeo it is enough just to enjoy the spectacle which every day and any day performs upon Juliet. After the unintelligible, wild light has played across her body, it is transformed and bounces back in the form of audible words.
Romeo is waiting his turn, which arrives as night falls. As Juliet runs out of fabric to weave her tangle of seduction, Romeo takes on a more central role. Adieu Sun, welcome the night. Romeo is sombre, pure, he emits a light which looks out timorously from beneath different masks. When the Sun abandons its place in the sky, light has to be created. Romeo undertakes to provide it and in doing so, he reveals himself to us. While Juliet swirled, he had to content himself with just watching her, but now he makes himself heard, emitting beams of light which reveal his essence in layers. Since Romeo is mere air, light from between curtains and from amongst stones of marble, which fruitlessly try to capture such precious light as night falls. It all slips away. Luminous clouds cross wooden surfaces, translucent across marble, unravelling themselves to meet Juliet and ask her to enslave them, offering themselves as a sacrifice to invoke the rebirth of her voluptuous display which they long for. Their endeavour is as enthusiastic as it is futile, but they know an impossible outcome will not stop them from trying. The suicidal light throws itself out following the capricious trace of the vines, explodes across the marble surface and emerges diffused from the water, flowing from shallow depths. It is all in vain. Juliet only dances beneath the Sun and knows not what to do with such a crazed outburst from Romeo. The only way she so sweetly responds is by letting herself be loved.
Romeo is nobody. Romeo is simply a longing to communicate with Juliet, a desire, the submission of a grateful observer of her display.
For Romeo is the interior, light trapped in a maze of marble, crystal glass which tinkles, cloths which swirl and wood which caresses visions. Something which was a lifeless muddle of textures filters into an ephemeral hint of fleeing light. Romeo is generous and reciprocates Juliet’s daytime display, but in his own way. He seeks to draw her closer, entwine his arms around her shoulders and embrace her. Beneath the enchanted waters of the lakes, Romeo glides across to find her and to brush against her tiny feet, though it may be the only thing he manages to do. Oh Juliet. Romeo whistles little sparkles which in turn whisper to the scrolls, cornices and borders as they slumber, whisper to let them know the day will return tomorrow and they can shine in a frenzy once more. But for now they must be patient and let themselves be loved, though it may only be briefly. And she accepts, not moving her feet away, and discovers her shoulders to feel the touch of his tendril-like hands. For Juliet is mischievous by day, but silent by night.