Where do we come from? Where are we? Where do we go?
Three questions that keep feeding the tribulations of our challenging settlement on Breton territory. Our tours go forward to meeting others, the strangers watching us.
We claim the borders, because there are different worlds with different characteristics.
And theatre has its own world.
If the walls between arts weren’t porous (as many whish they’d be), what would actually be the margin for creation?
The one that searches and changes courses, the one that refuses to make out of theatre an apolitical mishmash of sounds, gestures, conditionned shows, flesh showcases and sad clownesque TV references... That of consensus?
Theatre is not the private turf of some rare emancipated ones, no matter how "famous" they may be.
Our theatre is a bastard theatre. Born from different poeple and genres.
It has no wall making it an inpregnable fortress. No home aesthetics.
It’s alive, it slides, it moves, it contradicts itself, it doesn’t get in line. It tries to disquiet.
In twenty years, Dérézo hasn’t stopped smashing down the archetypes of the cultural industry, always ready to make us believe that it invents everything, that it’s the sole bearer of pleasure.
Our weapon – let it be poetic – has found a niche in the eyes of all those audiences, surprised witnesses of our transdisciplinary enterprise. Be it in the city, in the countryside, abroad, in national theatres, in festivals from here and there...
The subversive energy on which we thrive displays us as restless border crossers.
Builders of reality. Our era is a borders factory – geographical and symbolical.
Promethean travellers, we go through them.
In that moment where we create art for today.
In that moment where we create the art of inventing ourselves today.
We are travellers who do not forget where we come from.
Borders are to be crossed: they are not limits but edges.
