Anna Nowicka: Ovula; a space for contemplation

Walking into the theatre space of Dock11, bathed in red light, I am greeted at the entrance by Anna Nowicka herself. A hug, brief and warm, exchanged with many audience members before me. Already, a threshold is crossed. Care, proximity, and presence precede the performance. At the centre of the stage hangs a vast yet fragile white textile, suspended almost imperceptibly. Silence fills the room, a silence that is not truly silent.
I wish to let my words dance on this page, and in your mind as you read them, just as Anna’s movement made my gaze dance across the space. This is my clear and genuine intention.

When we, the audience, find our seats, Anna takes a position of deep stillness, as if frozen in time: legs bent, upper body leaning forward, arms joint and extended horizontally in front of her. Time stretches as her limbs move midair. Or perhaps it dissolves, as expectations halfways. The nervous system softens, settling into the present moment – held by the red light and an almost imperceptible soundscape composed of theta waves. Though almost inaudible, they are felt: a vibration that gently recalibrates perception. Time shifts.

Theta waves are associated with creativity, intuition, deep relaxation, and dreaming states. They occur while drifting toward sleep or entering meditation. Here, they guide us into another mode of attention. I become aware of my own body and those of people around me, of hunger, of the faint rumbling of stomachs. It is dinner time; there was no time to eat beforehand. Yet, there is something strangely satisfying about witnessing art with an empty stomach and a full heart, as if being nourished by attention itself.

A drone sound emerges. Anna’s breath becomes audible then racing. Arms begin to move: joint, mechanical, precise. They throw, catch, slide, push against invisible forces. Rest follows effort. A small ball rolls insistently in place. Legs flap, suddenly, as if interrupted or as if chasing away spirits that momentarily inhabit the body. The large white textile begins to move, pulled so slowly it is almost imperceptible, like a change one only notices once it has already happened.

The body becomes many bodies. It passes through different characters, different states. Organs seem to detach and flap through the air, only to be gathered back in. Lungs appear to inflate and deflate like balloons, expanding into the space before retreating inward again. There is a constant rolling in and out of the body, as if the boundaries of the self were porous, unstable, open.

Anna Nowicka’s choreography unfolds in a dream logic: images arise not to be explained, but to be inhabited. Cracks appear, like openings through which light shines into and through the human body. The work resists yet embodies urgency. It does not rush toward resolution, instead, it practises restraint, allowing states to germinate at their own pace. What we witness is not a demand for meaning, but an offering of space for contemplation.

Ovula, named after the small fleshy appendage hanging at the back of the throat, becomes here a potent metaphor: an invitation to breathe into and to voice hidden truths. An invitation to let the body become a channel, attuned to change and transformation. Commissioned in response to despairing times, the work turns toward dreaming not as an escape, but as an act of quiet resistance. A seed planted without interference, a sense of trust that through hardships and given time, something will grow.
Perhaps this is the core of the experience: an encounter with slowness not as stagnation, but as potential. An outer pause that holds an inner movement.
In allowing the performance to unfold without urgent demand, something opens – subtle, fragile, and powerful.
Like intention itself, germinating during the dark times of the soul and stretching towards the light.