At her best, Nora Turato is absolutely bewildering. The first performance of hers that I saw, in Venice in 2015, was in a darkened courtyard in the middle of the Biennale’s opening week, when nerves are frayed from the constant expectation of novelty. In the midst of a crowd of young people who looked like they were lining up for cheap drinks, there was a sudden shout, as if a fight had broken out, and a circle formed around, or rather backed away from, a young woman who was clearly very angry about something. She had a hell of a voice: insistent, querulous, and gaining in self-assurance with every phrase. It sounded at first like she was denouncing someone; then, perhaps, like a nervous breakdown. The phrases seemed familiar, but inverted: This was a dysphasic rhapsode vomiting up clichés, advertising slogans, and platitudes, and twisting them into open rebellion. In that dark
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