ENTRANCE TO A CAVE - by Elizabeth Torres and Heiki Riipinen

ENTRANCE TO A CAVE
Elizabeth Torres & Heiki Riipinen

ENTRANCE TO A CAVE
By Elizabeth Torres & Heiki Riipinen
Red Press, 2022
ISBN 978-87-94003-11-7
Copenhagen, Denmark
Den Danske Scenekunstskole
MFA in Performing Arts
Performance project done collectively
by Simon David Zeller, Clara Sindel,
Elizabeth Torres and Heiki Riipinen
at HC Andersens Hus
Odense, 2022
All poetry, photography, video and art
by Elizabeth Torres
(Madam Neverstop)

“I’d like to know – do you really deserve to
have someone run to the end of the world just
for your sake?”
- Hans Christian Andersen.

By Elizabeth Torres, Simon David Zeller,
Clara Sindel, and Heiki Riipinen, 2022.

“This is an intervention. A message from that
space in the margin that is a site of creativity
and power, that inclusive space where we
recover ourselves, where we move in solidarity
to erase the category colonized / colonizer.
Marginality as site of resistance. Enter that
space. Let us meet there. Enter that space. We
greet you as liberators.”
-bell hooks, Marginality as site of resistance.

ENTRANCE TO A CAVE
On sensual poetics, intimacy, and human connection
By Elizabeth Torres
The drawing is called Entrance
to a Cave. It is an illustration
in brown ink. The landscape
is filled with leaves, branches,
large rock formations, a perfect
moment in autumn gone
completely unmemorable, were
it not for the part of the darkest
area of the drawing, which
attracts the attention of the
eye, an invitation to visit that
which is forbidden. It is indeed
an opening, an entrance, and
after that, darkness, possibility.
Who if not a poet, who if not
H.C Andersen and his mind
which always sought out
mystery, would focus on the
dark spaces of such a peaceful
place? The drawing is from
approximately 1845, although it
doesn’t have a specific date in
the book I hold in my hands to
show to my colleagues, while I
read out loud that it is actually
part of the HC Andersens Hus
collection. The book is an entire
treasure on its own, a cherished
item in my collection, for it
is a catalogue publication of
another exhibition, which took
place at the Irish Museum of Art
almost 15 years ago, titled Cut-
Outs and Cut-Ups, celebrating
the work of Hans Christian
Andersen and William
Burroughs, an admired queer
transgressor, multimedia artist
and poet, whose influence
in my work is notable due to
his introduction of the cut-up
method, a technique in which
one collages words and pieces
from daily life to turn them into
new connections of text. The
book explains the pairing of
these two creators:
“Both artists were highly
attuned to the close, symbiotic
relationship between the visual
and the written. (…) Andersen’s
books contained compilations
of printed imagery, texts and
drawings, as well as his own
distinctive cut-outs. (…) in the
combination of handmade cutouts,
drawings, texts, and massproduced
images, Andersen’s
picture books comprised an
early example of modernist
language. He used his scissors
to connect contemporary
events to mythical times cutting
and pasting so as to excavate
hidden treasures from quotidian
materials.”

We’re sitting in the museum
brainstorming on ideas to create
work reflecting on the permanent
exhibition at HC Andersens Hus
in Odense, where we have been
asked to create performances
with a non-existent budget
and limited time but great
enthusiasm, in hopes of them
commenting on the modern
displays, the audio guides
and fluctuating landscapes,
the fancy architecture and the
labyrinths that celebrate the
mythical and the real of HC
Andersen’s story and legacy. But
instead, it is something else that
attracts our attention; It is the
collection of letters, the objects
hidden behind “glory holes”,
the dried flowers and other
trinkets that the poet namely
collected as souvenirs of his
affairs and romantic friendships,
placed in the hallway right
before the fairytale main area
of the museum, where big
letters explain that he was not
very successful in the love and
romance department. Could
this be because he was queer?
Was it because he wasn’t good
looking? Did he really have
no sexual drive? Is it true that
he wrote down every time he
masturbated? But if queerness
did not exist 200 years ago, (we
well know that even Burroughs
had to go to the supreme court
for his own queer literature a
century later) then who are we
to decide whether or not HC
Andersen was or not successful,
if he was loved, if he knew
of intimacy? …does intimacy
require touch? Is it something
that requires proof?
My colleagues Simon David
Zeller, Heiki Riipinen, Clara
Sindel and I, decided to face the
subject head on, also inspired
by our own queerness and
fluidity, our own understanding
of sensuality and intimacy, as
well as of neurodivergence, and
moved by the invasive feelings
of peeking through the private
life of a stranger, while being
followed around the museum
with an audio guide in our heads
whispering in various voices
maniacally and contradicting
itself… which led us all to wish
for an intimate experience that
would persuade people to
disconnect themselves from the
headphones and seek secrecy
connection and deviance.
Personally, I thought of my own
ideas of intimacy as that which
is corporal and mental, physical
and spiritual, that which does
not require tangibility. Citing
Azaldua, Robert Gutierrez-
Perez speaks of writing as a
shamanic transformation, a path
between the ethereal and the
physical:“The ability of story
(prose and poetry) to transform

the storyteller and the listener
into something or someone
else is shamanistic”. It is an
aesthetic or an orientation to
the page that does not “split
the artistic from the functional,
the sacred from the secular, art
from everyday life”. Shifting
into an artistic orientation to
the page, performative writing
utilizes “the imagination to
impose order on chaos; she
gives psychic confession
form and direction, provides
language to distressed and
confused people… a language
that expresses previously
inexpressible psychic states and
enables the reader to undergo
in an ordered and intelligible
form real experiences that
would otherwise be chaotic and
inexpressible.”
Our idea of a transgressive
installation and performance
was very limited in its delivery
due to the specifics of the space,
but we insisted on the subject
of a darkroom. We requested
also a velvet tape to seal an
imaginary area’s entrance and
exit, with uniformed bouncers
who would supervise the access
of an exclusive audience who
would be invited and individually
guided to experience something
that would peak their curiosity,
in one-on-one performances. A
sign next to the bouncers, right
in the middle of the fairytale
area, explained what was
happening:
”In seeking to speak of the
sensual poetics and intimate
connections threaded within
Andersen’s stories, the
Danske Scenekunstskole MFA
performance artists Simon David
Zeller, Clara Sindel, Elizabeth
Torres an Heiki Riipinen, invite
you to experience a one-on-one
exclusive performance. (18+)
With your consent and
imagination, discretion and
intention let our bouncer guide
you to a surprise you’ll cherish
in secrecy. (1) A dark room
or darkroom – also known as
a backroom, blackroom, or
playroom – is a room, typically
at a nightclub, sex club,
bathhouse, or adult bookstore,
where patrons of the business
can engage in relatively
discreet sexual activity. Dark
rooms usually have little or no
lighting, possibly incorporating
blacklights or dim, colored
lighting to establish an
atmosphere of twilight and
secrecy. – Wikipedia.”
The Cave was less of a cave and
more of an elevator entrance
hidden between two curtains,
but we were able to transform
it with red light to use it as our

darkroom, our transgressive,
queer sacred space where desire
and sensual poetics run free. In
this case, through a drag queen
reading stories by the famous
poet or writing love letters,
or maybe by a fortuneteller
reading the tarot to her guests,
or instead by a young heart
learning children songs from
strangers, or, in my case, by a
poet hungry for new secrets to
write about on a typewriter.
From the collaborative aspect
I learned to push myself
in ways where I step out
of my comfort zone while
simultaneously remaining in a
safe shelter of intimacy, which
is a very contrasting, impactful
experience, and which was very
challenging for all of us. It was
also quite delightful to speak of
queering up a museum, pushing
boundaries, testing limits, but
doing all of this with secrecy,
elegance, artfulness, with
respect to the space and to the
history, as well as to one another,
forming deep connections with
everyone involved, no matter
how brief these moments of
intimacy and connection lasted.
From an individual aspect,
challenging myself to seek the
shamanic psycho confessions
through dreams, fears, desires,
and other intimate conversations
with strangers, led to a fast flow
or poetry flux that allowed me to
quickly make new connections
and create poetry as an
immediate artistic response and
performance simultaneously
with a typewriter- poetry objects
which I could then sign, fold
and give to a stranger, forming
a moment of confession and
connection unique to them and
myself, something I definitely
plan to continue exploring in
the near future.
Bibliography
Cut-Outs and Cut-Ups, 2008, Hans
Christian Andersen and William
Seward Burroughs, edited by Hendel
Teicher, Irish Museum of Modern art.
Greta Gaard, 2018, Identity politics
as comparative politics, Borderwork.
bell hooks, 1989, Feminist
Theory: From Margin to Center /
Marginality as site of resistance.
Robert Gutierrez-Perez (2019):
Theories in the Flesh and Flights of
theImagination: Embracing the Soul
and Spirit of Critical Performative
Writing in CommunicationResearch,
Women’s Studies in Communication.
Anzaldua, Gloria, 2015, Light in the
Dark/Luz en Lo Oscuro: Rewriting
Identity, Spirituality, Reality, Edited
by Ana Louise Keating, Duke UP.

ENTRANCE TO A CAVE
A love letter, a critical thought, and a loving thought...
By Heiki Riipinen
I. A love letter...
Hi Henrik,
I have to come clean.
I’ve had a secret affair. His name
is Hans Christian.
My dead man of choice has
always been you, Ibsen. We have
had an intimate relationship
going back to childhood. Both
of us come from the same
place in Norway, both of us are
interested in the modern human
and we fight societal norms. Yet
Hans has always found his way
back into my life, as my fairytale
Danish lover.
Our first encounter was through
Ariel, the Little Mermaid. But in
a watered down (pun intended)
Disney-version of course. My first
professional meeting with him
was in 2017 when I was asked
to direct a street performance
for the HC Andersen Festival in
Odense. Not really knowing his
work I decided to go fishing for
clues in the city and collective
conciseness of its inhabitants.
I walked the streets and asked
random people to retell the
stories, and it quickly became
clear that even in his birth town,
a lot was forgotten. The little
pieces I got I gathered in an
absurdist retelling juxtaposed
with an actor interviewing
his grandma on the power
of memory. I left Hans there,
deeming it a fun time, but not
something to build a serious
relationship on.
The second time we got together
was in 2019. I was working
as a dramaturge-assistant at
Deutsches Theater in Berlin. We
were doing the Ugly Duckling,
or at least that was the title. We
were also doing the mermaid,
and goose came by, and three
Berlin drag queens told their
own stories. Again Hans invited
us to use our own imagination.
This is when I truly got to know
the queer side of Hans. I learned
about his love letters to men,
about how he probably never
had sexual intercourse, but still
through his diaries I knew the
exact dates he masturbated.

I felt we got closer this time,
but again I left him there. I just
wasn’t sure what to do with a
dead wanker.
The third time we again met
in Odense. As part of our
MFA we were asked to make
a performative intervention in
his museum. I walked around
trying to find the Hans I knew,
the queer Hans that invites us to
write on, but all I found was a
single letter in a hallway.
We formed a group and decided
to take action, our intervention
would center the queerness of
Hans in his museum, if only for
a moment. In the middle of the
fairytale room, we would create
a realistic contemporary queer
space, a dark room.
A place where I could meet
Hans if he lived today, where we
finally could have our adventure.
...But then the fairytale ended.

II. A critical thought...
Reflecting on collaboration in
this project in particular requires
peeling through layers. The
first layer is the collaboration
between the students and the
school. It raises questions of
power dynamics as well as a
bigger narrative; What is the
MFA? Who defines it? And
what role does it play in the
field of theatre? The second
is the collaboration between
the school and the museum.
Who initiated the project? Is
it an equal relationship, or is
it an exchange with a giver
and receiver? Finally it’s the
collaboration between us
students. The collaboration
between the school and
students had been wearing
thin at this point, leading the
school to give the students
more choice in when and where
to rehearse. Our team was split
between two cities, we didn’t
need choice but recourses
to be able to share time and
space. So we were left with only
a few days of actually working
together. The inner workings
of the collaboration between
the school and the museum
are unknown to me, but it led
our group feeling that we were
met by an institution under the
impression that they where the
providers of an opportunity,
while we felt we where providing
them with free art.
So the conditions for our
collaboration were a group
divided in two cities, with a
common feeling of not being
appreciated for our contribution.
Under these conditions we felt
that the only thing we could fill it
with was solos based on already
existing skills. We proposed
a darkroom, and asked for
resources to have it built. We
had two weeks. First the school
declined, and then the museum.
Two days before the opening we
had nothing.
Still, the darkroom was always
ment to be a container. For me
this meant getting in drag.
We found a corner, hidden
behind some curtains, but
insisted on having our entrance
central. In the middle of the
museum’s biggest space, the
fairytale room. From a simple
red velvet rope we would follow
the audience to our improvised
darkroom. Without a box that
itself could carry meaning,
we formed an explicit text
explaining what usually happens
in a darkroom. And we got a
stand for it, mounted to the floor.

III. A loving thought...
As a team we found our ways
of living within a structure that
was not built for us. Just as
queer people do in society. And
even though we met resistance,
or maybe perhaps because
of it, I felt proud of what we
accomplished and my own
contribution. I wrote love letters
in the corner. Behind the curtains
I met unexacting guests, and
together we conversed about
sex and language, about gender
and body, and about love. Me
in drag, them as whoever they
wanted me to imagine them as.
We gave love. And we gained
love. We gave intimacy, and
gained intimacy. We got people
to take off their headsets,
and live in the moment. Most
importantly, we gave them
something to talk about as no
one got the same experience.
And together we learned that
no institution is a fairy tale, but
they can be an entrance - but
you have to carve out your cave.
Oh, yes. Henrik, would you
consider being in a polyamorous
relationship with Hans and
myself? I might need some
magic to balance the harshness
of reality. It will be challenging
for sure, but I will hold your
hand. You see, all of us love the
theatre, and as theatre people
we know the art of negotiation
and collective responsibility. So
if anyone can do it, it is us.

Photo by HC Andersens Hus

ENTRANCE TO A CAVE
POETRY IN FLUX
by Elizabeth Torres

Written as part of
the collective performance
with the same name
for the daring audience who shared their
dreams, desires and fears
with me.

I
Once there was a cave
that looked more like an insatiable mouth
ready to devour everyone’s darkest fantasies
their kinks and passions
their burning secrets
and that image
in the corner of their mind
they would never dare let out
for a walk.
So they built a museum around it
to hide it and keep it closely guarded
and around it they built a labyrinth
with objects of unrequitted love
stories of unhappy lovers
trinkets of broken hearts
and poems so sad
they don’t dare to look up
anymore.
But all the cave
really wanted
was some intimacy
a reason to come out of hiding
from the world of monotony and repetition
into the fairytale garden
it could see from the corner
of its eye.
-Let me come out to playit
pleaded in their dreams.
But if it comes out
what will the museum walls say
what, about secrecy and morality
what, about queerness and love?
...And how will we explain it in our catalogue?
What will the others saaaaay???

II
Once there was a dream
so slippery
so liquid
it kept sliding from bed to bed
through the nights
unable to be remembered.
The secret, said the star
reflected on the lake
at the edge of the cave
is not to attempt to reach
immortality...
But to shine
laugh
exist
hurt
burn
feel
give
shoot
come
let go
allow it in
become
in full intensity.

III
Once upon a time
deep in the jungle
the rain fell so strongly it sounded
like an orchestra of hearts
running in multitudes in search of love
crashing, falling, breaking
never knowing
the secret location of the poetic moment
within
that produces love.
I do not know these secrets either
but I like to dance barefoot in the rain forest
listening to the songs
my own heart whispers.

IV
Once there was a rock
so afraid of the world around her
so absorbed in that inner itch of waiting
that all she could do was dream
of throwing herself into people’s skulls.
When I entered,
I picked her up
and hid her under a river
where nobody else would hurt her.
Go to this river
whenever the world seems hostile.
We are all equally petrified,
but love reigns.

V
Once upon a time
in a museum that celebrated the work
of a mysterious poet
a woman found a secret entrance
to a cave
where mystical beings created new dreams
for all
who dared
to be curious.
She wanted a poem of wildflowers,
mostly white,
for her granddaughter
and kind animals
and happy endings
to accompany her in her life.
So now she has this spell…
a poem
of good fortune, love,
and always
magic.

VI
There is a sea
of people
in this path we call life.
Everyone is running
but no one remembers why.
Sometimes people run away
from their troubles,
their past,
their nightmares…
And other times
they run towards fake mirrors and gold.
But there are some
who run in search of happiness
with tears in their eyes
because they’re the ones who’ve truly heard
the call of life.

VII
We think we came to this cave
to speak of big cities
with tall buildings and multitudes of people
running underground
eating one-dollar pizzas
attending crowded concerts
looking for jobs or love
or for something fun to do
over the weekend.
But no
the big city
holds greater secrets:
People, who like wildflowers
bloom in silence
looking for a connection to the universe
a dream to keep them going.
This is a poem about the city
that never sleeps
written for the one whose dreams
are of and for this city.

VIII
You know?
They say dreams
are not just visions
but vessels
so we can remember what it takes to be free,
to be alive,
to let the magic in…
the things poets talk about.
In my dream,
I often visit a great body of water
called the Grand Rapid of the Americas
it takes me precisely
wherever I want to go in the world.
Today, for example,
on this vessel of togetherness,
This cave of intimacy and tenderness
we are in,
I too can see
the sun reflecting on the calm water
the great black rocks reaching to the cosmos
and you and your family
swimming joyfully
while I observe
from the peacefulness of a rock
with this typewriter.

IX
A dream within a dream
is not a mind’s illusion
but an opening
between realms.
Matters of the heart
are not to be explained scientifically
nor studied with sterile lenses
but shared in twilight’s intimacy
piercing letters that evaporate
when we open our eyes
still with the sensation of love
on our tongue.
Turn me into blue
say the lyrics of a song repeating in your head
the coded palpitations of this dream
breathing and dancing magic
into our daily world.

X
Once I had a dream
of fresh flowers and wild animals
who frolicked at the entrance of a cave
right by the water fountain.
Within the cave there is an altar,
with small crystals filled with dew water
everyone who drinks from it has an answer
directly sent to their heart.
Expectation and desire are liquid too
they take many shapes and as much space
as we allow them to.
Enter this dream, this cave,
whenever you are uncertain
and drink from your heart’s own wisdom n
for there is no wrong choice
when you seek with love.

XI
I heard of a place in a tall mountain
where dreams have taken the forms of people
they build houses and bridges
plant gardens
and at night tell stories of their visions
but their favorite part of the day
is talking about us
how we change through time
and pass on our stories
to our children
and them to their children
in an eternal cycle
of love and wisdom.
This, they say
is how dreams are kept alive.

XII
Just like wines
There are all kinds of people
emotions and experiences
places and memories
to come in and out of.
I heard there is a cave
at the entrance of a dream
where wine tastes
like fresh caresses on spring days.
909 is the label on the bottle
and everyone who drinks from it
comes out with eyes filled
with new desire.

XIII
There are parts of ourselves
waiting in the depth
of our garden, to bloom
to devour
to shift shapes
take and give of us
what is needed.
Each morning, the door opens
and is it up to us to seek
which petal will heal
our longing.

XIV
You thought
this poem was going to be
about a cave
or a dream
about a fountain
or some sort of fairytale
reminiscent of a poem
worthy of a place
such as this…
But no,
the poet
is unable to write
about such things today.
All these keys
want to write about
are your hands
how kindly
they moistened the entrance
of the cave
how delicately
they removed your clothes
when you entered
how elegantly
they applied the lipstick
to your mouth
before you dared to speak
and how now
precisely now
in perfect balance, now
they rest upon the pink fur of the cave
to pet it
with the same kind movements
one tames love.

XV
One day
the hummingbird began its daily ritual
but quickly found out
with panicky flutter
that all the flowers
had lost its petals
and perished
all around the garden of paradise
even at the entrance
of the cave
where it then laid, in silence
until its heart, too, withered.
Now in the cave
in the place where the hummingbird’s bones
became one with the stones
there is a fountain
of turquoise light and bright crystals
where dreams come to drink
to renew their belief.
It isn’t out of love
the world keeps spinning, darling...
it’s out of memory
longing
and unfulfilled desire.

www.delegationforthefuture.com