Just to the right of the cellist, the young man dressed in hiking gear stands with his back and palms flat against the wall. He appears to be made of coiled springs, ready to launch himself across the floor. Which is what he does as the cellist slowly slices his bow into the next melancholy bar of music.
His body unfurls like exhaled smoke across the tiles in sweeping arcs before contracting back into place with smooth elasticity. His movements are equal parts Tai Chi and modern ballet, beautiful and fluid and strong. They appear to be the random gesticulations of a crazy person but are too precise and controled to be untrained improvisations.
The entire time, the dancer’s eyes are intensely locked on the cellist who seems unaware of his presence as he saws through the sad, sad notes of his own private melody.