Improvisation in the Now I

Few things are as healthy as being present. Feeling with every inch of skin how the sense of the moment seeps through, reaching the deepest parts of our soul, and from there, listening attentively to its soft, clear, delicate whisper. To be present - both in silence and in full voice - because presence, after all, is an invitation to embrace all the colours of our existence.

I am writing these lines at the peak of a warm autumn day, surprised by a few drops of rain now falling onto my notebook. Writing outdoors, by hand.

[I’d like to invite you to pause for a moment and do the same. Step outside and write; pause briefly before continuing to read. Step outside and observe. Let reading offer you a few moments to listen with every pore of your being. Close your eyes or open them wide to explore every corner.]

I play at watching the drops of water blur some of the words emerging as I write. I pause.

[I invite you to pause.]

To dive into the water, to soak ourselves in who we are. We are water. Rainwater, tears, sweat, waste, cleansing, and nourishment. The sound of the raindrops on my notebook transports me to the island I imagine when I think of Ílhavo.

Improvisation in the Now II

The story has been transformed by the weather of the moment. My gaze rests on the words on the paper, partially blurred by the effect of the rain. As I revisit the first improvisation of this text, they now appear to me as a key that unlocks the code brought forth by this moment:

raindrops

dive in

we are

water

Raindrops that appear by surprise, expanding the experience, grounding and submerging you. Drops that multiply, transforming into an ocean and enveloping you. The present is water, and water is health.

Let us return to the beginning.

Few things are as healthy as being present. Opening up to one’s own identity and exploring one’s voice - not without fear, but with desire and excitement. The raindrops are fading, and the sky seems to want to clear. I check online and see that it is also a rainy afternoon in Ílhavo, as it will be on the second day of writing, during which I now find myself rewriting and expanding this phrase. Times blur and stretch. Ílhavo is the place where, on a pre-pandemic August afternoon, I stepped out of the car and found myself startled by the powerful, awe-inspiring presence of its sea. That memory struck me suddenly when I began preparing to participate in the upcoming edition of this festival, LEME - a key and cornerstone of this vessel that is encounter, pause, and conversation.

Conversation is the ebb and flow of the elements.

[Take a moment to play with earth, with water, with air, and with fire. Repeat it often.]

Improvisation in the Now III

I set my mobile phone to track the weather in this place that speaks to me of a past that is also a future - is it mine or that of its people? Words expand on the paper, as do time and, now, the characters themselves.

What is water if not health? I ask myself, this time as a question, then add: what are outdoor arts if not waters of presence, of connection, of relationship? What are they but a time to pause and observe, to rethink and free expression, a space to give oneself over to the senses that spark our inner drive? What are outdoor arts if not an open invitation to experiences that await us in some familiar corner of our identity? What are they but a possibility to stumble, even unexpectedly, upon moments of pleasure, awakening, and stirring?

[Stir the blood, dance to the beat of the drums, turn somersaults, and hang upside down.]

Outdoor arts are like the ancient waters of our ecosystems. Their vital signs reveal the code of who we are, the names we hold, the languages we speak. Our speech shapes the geometry of the waters around us, and in turn, the water speaks to us. The cycle of this rhythm, still present on this third day of writing, takes me once again to Ílhavo and its streets, its food, its traditions, its landscape, and its people. To its Now. A now that holds all times at once, with which LEME invites us to embrace our roots. To root ourselves in order to be, to exist, to take flight.

[Fly.]

To fly, one needs a calm nervous system. And for that to happen, we must raise our voices to demand economic and social policies that support us and allow us to live with dignity. For if those in power willed it, we wouldn’t speak so much about wellbeing because being well would simply be the present. And yet, in the meantime, let us not forget that, by being present, it is harder to deceive us, harder to keep us preoccupied or catch us looking the other way. Harder still, if they find us united and together.

[Go to Ílhavo. Let us go to LEME. Let us seize the now of its waters as an agora where we can share writing, play, dance, passion, and flight. Let us fly to gain perspective and return once more; to spin and see the world upside down.]

From a moment of stillness, it is easier to listen to oneself and to dare to reveal the unique harmonics hidden within our voice. A suspended time, from which we can perceive the code. Once more, soft clouds gather over my city and over Ílhavo. Improvisation and presence will help us find the code.

Eva Marichalar-Freixa

Eva (La Fochs) is an artist, language arts and performing arts lecturer at secondary school and university, focused on dérive, outdoor learning, site-specific processes, and contemporary thinking. She is a co-founder at Deriva Mussol and L'Estrangera, and a co-creator of the research and stage writing piece WEFEAR. She authored the methodology named aragrafia.