Our first sight of Sabine Molenaar finds her upstage and upside down, an abstraction of flesh and bone lit from the side to a soundtrack of chimes, thrums and hollow howling. After her long, pale, erect legs sink to the floor she embarks on a rather prodigiously physicalised journey with an indeterminate end. This may be because what we’re seeing is adapted from a full-length solo. Somewhat swanky in a black gown slit up the side, Molenaar is a blank yet highly elastic human canvas that scuttles and slows, folding and unfolding like origami or rolling in spirals across a starkly lit or dusky bare stage. Jochem Baelus’ warped, surreal music suits her quirky, pixilated machinations and yoga-like contortions. Although this motion-filled work didn’t feel like an eternity, it seemed an overly internalised, under-illuminating demonstration of the fine line between the mysterious and the remote.

Upstage is a statuesque body, inverted and still, bathed in soothing amniotic light. Another world has been entered, a place of disorientation but also of safety. External sounds are muffled as though through viscous fluid, and as solo performer Sabine Molenaar begins to stretch and shift perspective, she appears liquescent too. The lights brighten and she seems newly-born into a human body, shielding her ears from harsh, painful sounds. She tests the potential movement planes of her joints, exploring the softness and stretch in her muscles and learning new ways to drift across the bare stage.

Returning to her twilight world Molenaar seems to be falling through gentle air. Willowy arms and feet are held aloft, not out of any desperation but in peace. Like a toddler she folds forward, grasps her feet and rocks herself to sleep. It’s a gentle introversion of perspectives.