‘Of Hungary I dreamt…’

The Female Line grabs a very tangible material in this performance, and that is earth. It is the earth, on which we stand, into which we go, on which we make a living and the motherland that we are meditating about here.
Trying to be Hungarian or/against being Hungarian.
Does fried chicken or a nicely pronounced Hungarian word make us Hungarian?
None of these. We simply are, what’s more, we are women and cannot be blamed, neither take the credit for it. We are women, but we take men’s boots on our barefoot and we are silent as only a Hungarian peasant can be.

Black-veiled women, sitting like crows on a tree and cawing.
Cawing off their past and future. Who wouldn’t know the depressed atmosphere of folksong-singing, fried chicken-eating Sunday lunches. This must be cawed about, otherwise it’ll lie heavy.