Through sudden, small eye contact? A glance at the ground? A smile? The hesitation in how someone moves or scratches themself? Can we sense each other even without being aware of it?
When I entered the space, I saw a circular stage. A row of chairs and small stools closer to the stage. In the middle, a performer was sitting, she was sometimes looking at the audience, sometimes into the distance, she was casually touching her clothes, her skin… the way people do when they know they’re being observed.
She sat alone, though there were two places to sit. Sometimes she glanced toward the empty space beside her, as if aware of the absence. Then Trajal Harrell stopped this moment from out of the circle. He welcomed us to Asbestos Hall, and invited us not to applaud at the end. This, he said, was not a finished performance. The creation was still happening. If we felt moved to applaud, we could do so at the end of the festival.
After his introduction, the performer began to greet us by meeting our eyes one by one. Soon, a second performer joined her. She joined her movement. They didn’t ignore one another, but they also didn’t fully acknowledge each other yet. Still, I noticed a brief, shared smile — a flicker of recognition.
Trajal Harrell’s Visit #1 made me think about what it means to feel togetherness. Why did I feel it? Was it simply because they looked at me? Because they acknowledged I was there?
Sometimes the feeling came when they approached closely, only centimeters away. At other times, it came when they closed themselves off, when they created invisible doors. They were unreachable even though they were physically near. In these moments, they seemed alone, unaware of our presence.
Their faces reflected that freedom. They became strange, funny, even a bit embarrassing. At times they mirrored each other, or responded in ways that were impossible to interpret. Other times, it seemed like they had simply let their facial muscles move without control.
But when they did acknowledge each other, clearly and intentionally, their bodies shifted. Their posture became bold, elevated. They walked on their toes, looking from above. They became sharper, like they were paying attention to how they looked. But other times, they didn’t seem to care. Sometimes they appeared confident. Other times, they were small, insecure.
This experience made me wonder: What changes when I am being watched, and when I’m not? I hope not much. I hope I can still be myself when I’m being seen. But maybe letting go completely, not controlling anything, is also a kind of freedom — a quiet relief.
Perhaps this wasn’t a performance, but a moment in the creation process, shared with an audience. Still, the theme was already there. The effort to communicate, to connect. The dialogue we try to build — and the one that exists without us trying at all. A silent, sometimes unaware exchange. A dialogue that seems absent but is always present.
At the end, they bowed only once. And that was it. What stayed with me were the portraits of these two people, searching and finding their own ways of being together — with each other, and with us.
This wasn’t a spectacle. It was an encounter — something between rehearsal, ritual, and shared space. If you’re someone who’s drawn to performances that hold intensity in subtle ways, that offer more questions than answers, then Visit #1 is something for you to experience. It gives you space to reflect in your own way. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.