SONOMA

"If there is a heaven, it is here and now.”
Luis Buñuel

The word ‘sonoma’ does not properly exist in Spanish. However, if it did, it could be said to derive from either the Greek root ‘soma’ meaning body or the Latin ‘sonum’ meaning sound: sound body or body of sound.
Today we live history in a hurry, at such a rapid pace that we can barely follow it. We fall forward into it and during this accelerating fall - as on a roller coaster - we shout. Sonoma could be the sound of the body as it falls or the rage of the human being, desperate to continue believing that we are alive and that we are still awake.

Sonoma is then the scream of the man subjected to this rhythm, at the limit of his existence from which the primitive howl of the body arises. It is the pulse of humanity driving it to survive and feel alive, driving it to exist even on the edge, or beyond it. Sonoma is the certainty that the virtual and the digital can only be overcome by a return to the origin.

Marcos Morau takes up the essential ideas of his earlier piece, “Le Surréalisme au service de la Révolution”, created in 2016 on Ballet de Lorraine. The piece was based on the figure of Buñuel, both in medieval Calanda where he was born and cosmopolitan Paris where he later lived, and between his Jesuit discipline and his eventual surreal freedom. Now that microcosm is developed and expanded in ‘Sonoma’ with La Veronal.

‘Sonoma’ is born from the need to return to the origin, to the body, to the flesh, and from meat and organic matter to get lost on a journey between sleep and fiction where the human meets the extraordinary. To make everyday things strange, giving up on building meanings, letting signs germinate and proliferate alone; communicating with the most irrational layers of humanity, where the united cries out to separate, and the separated always seeks to rejoin.

Sonoma also has another meaning. In the indigenous language of Sonoma, California, it means ‘valley of the moon’. According to myth, the moon comes to nestle on its plains every night. There, the screams, the shouts and the pounding of the drums form a hypnotic pulse, like that of a lullaby that, far from overstimulating us, accompanies us and calms us.

Buñuel has never been so current. He could see perfectly what the future held for us when he found, in the noise of the drums of Calanda and all of Lower Aragon, a scream directed bluntly at the viscera. Buñuel was already here, listening to the sound of the abyss that opens when the human imagination is free but man is not free.