“Dancers of the Dome, dancing free, just as Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence — fine dancers, across membranes, porous zones and coupling surfaces…” — Rodrigo Garcia Dutra
They emerged not from choreography, but from combustion.
From frottages made of coffee and Tody, traced over bark that had witnessed centuries.
They were not drawings, but shadows.
Not portraits, but residues.
And now they dance. In red.
The Domo Dancers — sinewed, radiant, sometimes awkward in their grace —
are reincarnations of silhouettes once seen pressed into vegetal skin.
Those bodies hidden in tree bark, caught by night in rubbings of pigment and vernacular breath,
return now in daylight, wearing red swim briefs
as if performing a forgotten ritual of exposure and joy.
Each movement echoes a ghost we met in graphite.
Each hip-thrust answers a rift in the wood.
They are not dancers of discipline,
but of desire — exuberant, defiant,
dancing not for display but for return.
They come from the frottage-surface,
from the language of Drome,
from what was almost lost to memory:
the pleasure of being body without shame.
Not spectacle, but resurrection.
Not parody, but possibility.
The Domo, then, is not a place.
It is an interface, a porous threshold,
where what was once erased comes back in rhythm.
And the red of their garments?
Not uniform, but signal —
a chromatic scream against forgetfulness.
Nietzsche wrote of eternal recurrence.
But here, recurrence is not eternal — it is erotic,
a return not of the same, but of the once-censored, the queer,
the wildly sensual, now dancing with agency.
Each “red sunga” has a memory.
Each breath, a choreography.
Each step, an incantation:
We are back. We were always here. The bark remembers.