Ringside

A circus for one, Ringside gives you your own personal trapeze show – and it’s a superb examination of the ways in which we watch. By paring back the performance event to its bare minimum—somebody watching somebody else—Ellie Dubois’s one-on-one piece reveals the dynamic between audience and performer afresh.

Alone in an animal autopsy chamber, a meat-hook hanging from the ceiling, a chalky hand takes yours. Cory Johnson, dressed in skimpy, sequinned shorts, guides you inside, inviting you to take in the trapeze above. She stands you below it, then performs a slow, shifting routine overhead, meeting your gaze throughout.

It’s both generous and uncomfortable – a gift from performer to spectator and a challenge to reflect on the act of spectating. When you make eye contact, there’s no escaping the situation: two people in a room, nowhere to hide, no safety net. Each pause begs a question: who’s going to perform, you or her? Do you offer a leg-up to the bar? What do you do with your eyes? With your hands? Do you clap?

This close, you see everything: the make-up, the callouses, the sequins and strapping. You see muscles and wobbles and toes wrapped round wood – all signs of somebody working for your viewing pleasure. Inevitably, there are hints of a lapdance—you’ve paid, don’t forget—and Johnson hangs, head below heels, like a limp piece of meat. However, the power shifts every second, and soon she’s peering down from above, towering overhead. Who, you wonder, is performing for whom? Impeccable.