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Perhaps 40 spectators crowded around four chest-high black walls, craning forward.The opening minutes were minimalist – the score limited to the grating squeak of Chosson rubbing his fingertips upon the enclosure's rubber surface – with the occasional smack of Khan and Desclaux's hands slapped upon the floor, as if to squash an annoying mosquito.Then to the accompaniment of an off-kilter, brass-band-played march, the three dancers began to shift, in short, spasmodic bursts, one arm always covering their faces as though to conceal them from the light and the spectators above. A palpable tension filled the auditorium as men's black forms slowly dressed Desclaux's delicate frame in matching black – feeding slender limbs into sleeves and trouser legs, uncoiling a black stocking across her face.As they began to shovel black granules over Desclaux, viewers seemed to hold their breaths along with her. Resurrected, she joined her two companions in flinging black grit in the air, showers that ricocheted back on the dancers, and a number of audience members backed away nervously.
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Perhaps 40 spectators crowded around four chest-high black walls, craning forward.
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