hard, then soft

“since I’ve been boxing I think I have become more aggressive,

confident and classically masculine”

out in the cold, on a gravel-gridded roof in central auckland, three men enacted a triptych of testosterone, submitting themselves to a gruelling routine, rotating between sets of skipping, press-ups, sit-ups and miscellaneous forms of physical exercise. each action demonstrated a rigid, masochistic and narcissistic athleticism. these acts were punctuated by an air horn and alternated with olfactory equivalents ritualistically applied. lynx spray deodorant, old-spice smelling talcum powder, hairspray, ice, hair gel and sweat, they all contributed to the smell of men.

though beloved of boxers around the world, the art of skipping complicates matters, though masculine it is also quintessentially girlish. josh rutter and his performers embrace this contradiction and it then forms the crux of this piece. by exerting themselves, by skipping, at first conscientiously, then manically, then dreamily they playfully pull apart predominant assumptions about masculinity.

rutter’s extended cast of butterfly-dream-boys create synthetic rites and hybrid ceremonies that fluidly navigate between primal, bestial becoming-animal to graceful, joyous and unabashed exuberance. besides athleticism and virtuosity there was flesh gone soft with neglect or wiry with age. bleeding before us, rutter’s men demonstrated camaraderie, tournaments, slap games, a packing-tape duel… a gestus that was a silent scream through a mask of shaving foam… a playful wrestle became the act of crying upon a mate’s shoulder.

there were great ejaculations of energy drinks, there was a sculling back of swappas, there was the sharp scent that is the burn of scuffed sneaker rubber. folk-masculine-pseudo-liturgies took place manifesting yearning. transcendence was sought in a large ruck and in upwards clutching gestures, a grasping for respect, understanding, love, god or perhaps a rugby ball. here choreographer became ref, coach or dj. at one point the dishevelled tribe were assimilated into white-boy shuffles beneath strobe lights, sometimes battling each other for supremacy.

after erecting a giant plastic phallus, rutter’s boys crawled inside it like retrogressive sperm, chanting, howling, hooting, then sinking down, post-coital, spent, curled within what resembled a flaccid used condom. it felt as though a new masculinity had been realised. it looked like bloody hard work, but it was wonderful.

josh rutter

'dance like a butterfly dream boy'

february 22-23

new performance festival

aotea centre, auckland