SHORE: PERFORMANCE | Part 3 of 4 Oct 19, 2015

by Natasha Marin

Something is shaken out and up from the earth. There is a beat that is beyond our ability to hear—a stirring, a shaking, a clear PULL.

I appreciate the small-breasted jiggle of modesty that is occurring here. The slapping stride that allows sound in—there is so much that permeates. To be in the audience of SHORE is to be impregnated in a dream. Something will come—full of breath and the sound of footfall to make you make your insides feel full.

I have forgotten to take photos because I am in and not out. I am jealous (only slightly) of those whose only obligation is to see and to record as I am doing. Every time I write, I miss more beauty, more movement.

Plants appear, potted, at the foot of a white woman with four pockets on her skirt. I feel like I can smell them and Anastacia Tolbert and I breathe in at the same time. Emily Johnson is thrusting—this gesture juxtaposed with spurts of commentary is an owning. I can’t explain why or how, but something is being owned in this moment.

One of the plants is aloe. No one could be more beautiful than the isolated healing of this aloe—the potential for salve and succor. More beauty is impossible. I remember how they were all sitting in a cloud at the outset.



The panting is real. The splayed exhaustion is real. I have a low tolerance for sports noise and yet, the colors hold me. Especially red.

Red (Aretha Aoki) looks injured. Her waistband is gone now. Just as I am convinced that only double-sided tape could be keeping Yellow’s (Emily Johnson) nipples inside her draping, I see one amidst the flurry.

I am relieved when the sports noise stops—intentional relief I’m certain.

Snow is falling from the green hope square and I swear I’m not trying to be poetic. The foreground is Yellow (Emily) and Orange, embracing. Red disrobes.

Red and Yellow switch places. I wonder what it’s like to wear each other’s sweat. And the slow singing means peace and renewal have made way for hope to be released.

Here is casual care. Close your eyes to see one sister wrapping another. I am more glad that Emily Johnson is Red now, she is more red than anyone else. I am exploding with joy at it as if it were foretold.

If you don’t know her, here is Emily Johnson, master of erratic emotional transfer. Each chest slap is a message from forever. I can hear it. My throat is dry with feeling it.

I know she is from Alaska, so the coats make sense to me.

If you don’t know what the stride of a woman with purpose sounds like, you will after SHORE. If you don’t recognize the panting huff of hard work, you will.


NATASHA MARIN is a local writer, artist, and community organizer. By day she is the Community Outreach Coordinator for Resource Media, a non-profit PR Firm, and after work she tears holes in the space-time continuum to run an international experiment called Miko Kuro’s Midnight Tea ( while single-mothering two awesome kiddos. Follow her on Twitter @mikokuro.