Mariagiulia Serantoni: From warble to wail: On “The electric body” by Mariagiulia Serantoni

The voice stays with her, yet it is detached from her body. A disembodied voice. In the words of environmentalist thinker Emanuele Coccia: “Every time we pick up a phone or computer, leave a voice message or write a text, we turn material reality into a demonic presence, into a form of subjectivity that no longer has an immediate and isomorphic connection with an anatomical corporeality.” (Emanuele Coccia, “Hydroreflexivity”, Eflux Oct. 2023). Mariagiulia’s voice seems to possess her. Perhaps she is channelling Coccia’s “demonic presence”: her voice – this voice –  can move anywhere, everywhere, away from its source. It’s a voice that can even interrupt the body, rupture its pathways. Like Coccia says, “there is nothing immediately human about it”.

CRASH
 
After following the sonic-somatic journey of her disembodied voice to its conclusion, new sounds erupt. With loud crashes her body resounds like an industrial machine shutting down after a long day of labour. Back and forth she jaunts and jolts, as if trapped by previous echoes. But the crashes continue and bring her along a new route. She moves across the stage as if gripped by an external force. Is she actually virtual? A puppet? A character in a computer game? Each sound brings her to a new universe, where different rules apply. Back and forth she jilts. Next room. Forward and back. Next player. She is surrounded by invisible walls that keep folding in on her. Back and forth. Change of scene. Forward and back. In shifting through these imaginary spaces her journey is each time re-routed through her body. Each movement, though subtle, feels just as significant as entering an as-of-yet unexplored playground.

GROWL
 
Slowly the sounds morph into a deep rumbling. Her voice and body follow, growling, roaring, as if summoning a mighty monster – from within. Medusa awakens and she is fierce. There is not much left of the structured, grid-like choreography, rather, she has entered an organic space. Driven by emotion, saturated by rage. The growl turns into a cry – a confirmation of power? Or a scream for help? Perhaps she is alone, in a vacuum. Perhaps she is surrounded by invisible enemies. Perhaps she is in a state of transformation, a painful metamorphosis, churning at her organs, her lungs, her stomach. Then she dies. A gradual death. A low-pitched fading out.
 
 
FLUTTER
 
Then the fluttering begins. Just the eyelids. A beginning of a new cycle. A reset by means of letting light in, in flashes. Taking in the world in fragments. She is accompanied by a clicking sound, stemming from the clicking of her tongue. Like an insect tapping at the inside of its cocoon. She is lying supine on her back. Maybe it’s the familiar clicking of a typewriter and she is re-writing the narrative. Ever so gradually, the rattling builds into another crashing dance. This time her eyes, her tongue, her sensations have led her towards unpredictable movements. Her limbs flail in chaotic bursts and as her body is exactly aligned with the sound, there is a hint of the comical – is she being thrashed around or is she doing the thrashing? She begins to show off, exerting an air of prowess. She’s loving it. It’s all in the legs. From synthetic to energetic. She lives out the pent-up energy, beating at another self-contained crescendo. On the crescendo, Mariagiulia says: “The crescendo is a desire to go all the way / to see what is behind the painting / to climb walls / to open doors / to feel the work of the journey.” The journey can be felt.

WAIL
 
As the crashing meets its natural end, Mariagiulia climbs the speaker positioned towards the far-left corner of the stage. She swings her legs over the top of it, as if perching on a mountain top. She has found the source of her disembodied sounds, the belly of the beast. She sits in silence. Peace at last. Then, emerging from a bouncing of the pelvis, harmonic strands percolate. There are frequencies we haven’t heard yet, closer to the human voice. Or the bleating of a goat. She sings, she howls, she wails. She stays seated, while the sounds travel, circulating around her in colourful waves. It’s musical, emotive – is she crying or laughing? Laughing crying? Her voice is multiplied like a choir, calling back to her as she calls out. The sound is melancholic, discomforting, beautiful. There is joy there, hidden behind the loneliness. Perhaps she is not alone after all, the sound she emits has been her partner all along. She lets it ride out, hopeful. She sits quietly, softly gazing at her surroundings, and listens.