To penetrate in the form and the silence Borja Ramos

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Rare and precious, those occasions when the choreographer speaks in musical terms, to make things easy for you. Usually, when he tells you some ideas he gesticulates, extends his arms, dances for a moment in the middle of the bar, or perhaps remains motionless and enigmatically silent; other times he tells you stories that you understand only in pieces.

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You look at him with a strained face, since you should know how to interpret what the hell he meant by all that, and then transcribe it in some way and give it back to him transformed into some organized sounds. The choreographer usually listens to your work with his whole body rather than with his ears-which is just the opposite of what we musicians usually do, we often have quite a deaf body. Sweetly condemned not to understanding each other too well with words, we quickly feel that we have to take action on the stage.

There we can appreciate how sometimes, more important than what he does is what he doesn't do, what is not enough with his gestures because he already touches with them the ceiling that calls to your work. To contemplate him in a corner of the rehearsal room constructing his material absorbed and concentrated, or to witness his silences of recollection, is sometimes more enlightening than many hours of well-intentioned talk: the character of his movement and his physical presence are the root of our work.

Because the dancer, in some precious moments, emanates something that he even doesn't know, but he is capable of convening; a strange bird that passes through him, which the musician has the duty to bring out. If this is not the case, the best thing to do is to let him do in silence and to continue to look at him engrossed.

Every second that we advance together, as we develop the details, we come across with a thousand twists and turns that can take our work to other places much more remote and subtle than those proposed at the beginning. They are places that are neither in dance nor in music, but in the common perception of both, in the way they weave together to construct form and silence, penetrating in their own mechanisms like in a fresh orange.

Because in essence there is no possible matter; that is to say, the only matter for me is dance and music itself, the result of a process that occurs in/among the artists and that is fed by all kinds of stimulus and information that is stratified in them. This matter is the matter of life and how we face it, how we assume changes, how we decide to run sometimes or to stay to contemplate something, how we absorb problems or look elsewhere, how we make from something casual something fundamental or not, or how we return to a place we liked, even if we are no longer the same. And, in short, how we face everything that comes in our way in a course of events that we cannot stop.

It's all about decisions, and these decisions are our true materials, those with which we compose our work to give a certain structure to death.