Upon arrival, audience members are greeted warmly by Nicola, who welcomes us, takes our coats and immediately gets to work making cocktails in the galley kitchen. We enter, chatting with the hostess or getting our bearings in the living room, which has two window walls (facing north and east) and two interior walls lined with benches. Underneath the benches on the south wall are stacks and stacks of books. There is a small, hemispherical fire pit atop the heating/cooling box at the north window wall, flames flickering inside, and near it, a single black Wassily chair. Along the east window wall are speakers and a small stereo, as well as a collection of sea shells on the short ledge.

We chat, drink, take our seats and enjoy the view for half an hour or forty-five minutes as more guests arrive: getting to know each other or catching up, talking about the performance or other things. Nicola enters the living room and turns on the stereo: the music alternates between sly and creeping, driving and portentous, and it mostly quiets the room.

In sneaks Biba, in fragments, a hand on the wall that divides the living room from the kitchen, turns her head in a long arc as she gazes out the windows. She's wearing a grey, mushroom-cut wig and a stretchy, mocha colored tube dress.

The sun is setting and the light is reddening. The movement is slow, graceful, architectural. She approaches a column in the corner of the room and arches her body against it, making a curve to a straight line. The music is tender and slow; three tones descend and repeat against a soundscape backdrop. Now the movement is floor-bound: she expands (makes lines, planes) and contracts (makes a ball); she binds, contorts and slow-motion flips. On her knees, torso perpendicular to the floor, arms erect, she makes a kind of Tetris shape, all planes, and then slaps her hands hard against the floor. Frantic rubbing of the carpet, faster, making circles, then she's on her knees, ascending as her breath quickens. She makes more lines, planes, this time upright, only again to descend, lying in unlikely repose on the corner of the east wall's heating/cooling box.

Rising again, she stays in place, crouching and making circles with her arms (her bones and the bones of the building both creak), leading to virtuosa moments of leaping, pirouetting velocity as the music quickens. But when it turns unsettling, disturbing, a slow splits returns her to the floor, then a sense of collapse, of horror, and when she stands again she makes a sobbing gesture, hands over face, which becomes a rapid nasal breath, a panic, as she stalks through the room. Then, a 1960s pop song starts and everything breaks.

She flees; the sound of the water being turned on, left gushing in the bath. She and Nicola wheel in a fern and turn on a stage light that illuminates the fern, the ceiling, the north wall. There is no music as Biba seems to move Nicola about the room by dancing around her, close. The water keeps running and the windows fog as Nicola is led to the same heating/cooling box, upon which she sits, staring at the floor. Biba, manic, rhythmic, traverses the length of the kitchen while Nicola sits, stares, sighs. Rolling piano music as Biba enters the living room again, serene, and begins the final gesture: a long, slow tracing along the room's four walls with her fingers: stepping carefully, coming very close to us, arm outstretched, making lines in wide, steamy windows and just over our heads.