Dressed in a monastic white robe, arms by their side, and masked by a hood, the first dancer resolutely walks onto the stage and begins repeating a simple sequence. They cross the square diagonally, exaggerate the bump into the central point, turn left to walk along the square’s outer side, and cross a new diagonal – repeating the sequence again and again. At a certain point, the blue dancer joins. Then the red. And finally, the yellow.
This was the beginning of “Refracted Sound” at the Southbank Centre, an event that brought together Samuel Beckett’s experimental television plays Quad I and Quad II (1981) with Morton Feldman’s For Samuel Beckett (1987) in a fertile interdisciplinary amalgamation. The production required the collaboration of many forces: the London Sinfonietta, early career musicians from the Royal Academy of Music Manson Ensemble, conductor Jack Sheen – who also co-directed Quad with artist Rowland Hill – and dancers Sandy Hoi Shan Yip, Mary Sweetnam, Timea Szalontayova and Kaya Blumenthal-Rothchild, affiliated with Trinity Laban.
It was particularly exciting to watch Beckett’s plays performed live rather than in their utopian televised format, and it paid off. There was something hypnotic about seeing people perform such a straightforward task. Perhaps it’s the compelling mathematical simplicity, exposing and even sterile to some. It felt all the more Beckettian when one dancer slipped slightly while approaching a corner, making the whole performance feel profoundly human. The stomping of the dancers’ feet, accompanied by minimal percussion, served as an effective counterpart to the theatrical drama unfolding in bold primary colours. The performance of Quad II committed to the original TV production by replicating its slowed-down, black-and-white aesthetic. Somehow, it didn’t feel bleak enough, maintaining a subtle sense of humanity.
After this, Sheen’s smooth conducting felt more like a continuation of the choreography than a standalone performance of one of Feldman’s shortest late-period compositions, though the monochrome atmosphere persisted. It appeared even more surreal, as the music didn’t seem bound by the regular pulse of the score, instead flowing smoothly and organically. Much like Feldman’s other late pieces, it began as if it had already been sounding for hours. The instrumental layers drifted in and out of focus – highlighting low, middle and high frequencies – with whispering strings, neutral horns, faint oboes and bell-like harp weaving the patterned texture together. The tuba’s muted low howl was particularly striking, reminiscent of an alarm you keep trying to snooze.
The musicians’ playing was impeccably crisp yet understatedly delicate. All the clichés used to describe Feldman’s late style – entropy, feeling scale instead of form, or reaching a singularity where time stands still punctuated only by immersive kaleidoscopic shifts – would aptly describe this rendition. However, it was unfortunate that such fragile material felt slightly too quiet for the Queen Elizabeth Hall, failing to fully envelop the space with sound. Instead, the source of the music remained clearly localised. Towards the end, the gorgeous silence imbued by the rests provided much-needed respite from the ever-shifting palette of sonic hues. In a strange dialectical reversal, the coughing, the dropping of personal belongings and the creaking of bodies against chairs became music, beautifully juxtaposed against the instrumental stillness. The insatiability of Feldman’s work became apparent as soon as it terminated; its true value manifested as soon as it absented.
This well-curated, sold out event not only demonstrated how adventurous programming can foster artistic cross-pollination and enrich the unique qualities of individual works, but also highlighted the strong demand for such concerts. It also invited audiences to engage more deeply with the intersections between music, theatre and visual art. We simply need more quirky curation-as-art and art-as-curation.
