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• Saturday 8 January 2011 - 20h30
• Sunday 9 January 2011 - 15h00
• Tuesday 11 January 2011 - 20h30
• Wednesday 12 January 2011 - 20h30
• Thursday 13 January 2011 - 20h30
• Friday 14 January 2011 - 20h30
• Saturday 15 January 2011 - 20h30
• Sunday 16 January 2011 - 15h00
• Tuesday 18 January 2011 - 20h30
• Wednesday 19 January 2011 - 20h30
• Thursday 20 January 2011 - 20h30
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• Tuesday 25 January 2011 - 20h30

A dream in autumn

There is a vast lobby painted red with paintings crouching in the dark, and the room of a museum where the living and the dead are summoned, and those whole lives we walk through with them, and death softly eating up everything, and desire fading away. The metaphor invented by Jon Fosse, that graveyard of all burials and of all lives, and the metaphor of the museum sparkled that sudden impulse which shot through my mind a year ago to the day, when, having by chance read this text, I was walking through the rooms of the museum where the play will come to life in 2010 on All Saints' Day.The funeral of an old woman becomes the funeral of a whole world, the empty room of a museum where bodies thwart and tear themselves. This is the death of a whole lineage on the men's side: the death of the paternal grandmother, that of the father, and then comes this man Fosse is telling us about, this man without qualities and his nineteen year-old son who will never know his child. And in the midst of these stubborn lives, there lurks the overwhelming shadow of desire and mourning, united in the same mausoleum. A dream in autumn, faces that love and suffer, unfulfilled sexual desire sapped by death and suicide. The bodies do nothing else but desire, however, with a heart, as Pierre Guyotat would say, that only pumps blood, a blood that no longer warms up. 
A man and a woman who have known each other are facing us: what happens or happened between that man and that woman? What will their future – the future we are already witness to - be made of? And then, who is dead? Who is going to die? Sex and God are discussed in the same way here because this is about  the end and about dilution: the death of strangers, the death of loved ones, the death of unfulfilled yet perpetual love. For men still live long when everything in them seems dead; it is simply what we call everyday life; under the cold light of sexual encounters, in the night already spreading, desire still burns with a fire that refuses to go out. And then you have the mothers who, like in the play, outlive everything, and you have the tireless grandmothers, as so many dancing ghosts dwelling in a graveyard-museum; they know how to watch all that with their blasé eyes while waiting for their great  grandsons to come and join them in the grave, where they truly belong. Those couplings and familiar mythologies, those innumerable beings, living or dead, our ghosts: when night sets in, they come back to life under our eyes.

Patrice Chéreau