Noemie LaFrance's work of genius begins at the top of a clock tower, as 12 hauntingly beautiful dancers invite us down a 12-story spiral staircase and deep into the psyche of the domestic goddess, where scenes of daily life reveal the desires she dares only dream about. One dancer carries a slippery fish in her apron, others string lines between floors and hang their laundry to dry. One clutches a pillow; when it bursts open, others reach into the goose-down snowstorm, hoping to catch a feather before it falls. They hug the banisters, push against them, bend precariously backward over them, caress them, cling to them for dear life. Creaky floorboards, slamming doors, and women's groans drift from Brooks Williams's eerie electronic score. The dancers chime in, giggling and whispering to each other; it's as innocent as a sleepover and as erotic as a secret love affair. The hour we spend defies the boundaries of time; it could be centuries ago, yesterday, or tomorrow that these domestic ghosts move among us so effortlessly. We wonder if we imagined that last scampering footstep, the nightgown disappearing around the corner, that flash of naked flesh or waft of perfume.
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