Flowing by Geoff Dunlop Review
Written by Rainy J. for Theatre & Tonic
Disclaimer: Gifted tickets in exchange for an honest review
In a time of loud performances, one work at Bath Fringe finds strength in subtlety.
A reflection by a choreographer
For me, Flowing was a beautiful reminder that dance doesn’t need to shout. Sometimes, it just needs to move—and let everything else move with it.
This collaborative work—created by choreographer Gehao Zhang, visual artist Geoff Dunlop, and sound designer Andrew Lansley—invites the audience into a gentle, poetic world where movement, image, and sound flow together without force. It doesn’t demand attention. Instead, it quietly draws you in, encouraging you to soften your focus, slow your breath, and listen—to water, to space, to time.
The performance opens with a simple moment: a lone dancer stepping into a circle of light, her arms tracing slow arcs through the air like water swirling in a bowl. Around her, projections shimmer across the stage. Designed by Dunlop—who has worked with Merce Cunningham and has long explored the intersection of image and performance—the visuals are more than backdrop. They live and breathe with the movement. Sometimes they respond directly to the dancers; other times, they seem to drift through the space like memory. They never overwhelm, but they reward close attention.
The visual language feels organic—smoke, ink, shifting light on water. In several moments, the dancers seem to dissolve into the projections, half-visible, half-absorbed. It creates the feeling that they’re not just performing in the space, but moving with it.
Choreography is marked by clarity and restraint. Rather than virtuosic displays or fast-paced sequences, he offers intention. The dancers walk, pause, fold, reach. Each gesture feels necessary, not decorative. That minimalism isn’t cold—it’s generous. It makes room for the audience’s own emotional response. Stillness becomes part of the dance.
A passage that stayed with me involved dancers moving in canon, the arms circling like slow windmills. The projection echoed their motion with delayed, ghost-like trails, as if the room itself was remembering what had just happened. This layering of body, light, and memory created emotional depth without a single word being spoken.
The soundscape completes the experience. Using field recordings, low-end frequencies, and water-like textures, he creates a sonic world that you don’t just hear—you feel. The score moves fluidly between soft ambience and subtle rhythm, always in conversation with the dancers. Never overpowering, always present.
There’s something deeply courageous about this kind of softness. At a time when performances often rely on spectacle or speed, Flowing embraces quietness. It listens. It leaves space for uncertainty. And that, I believe, is where its true strength lies. You don’t leave with a clear story. You leave with a sensation—like you’ve been close to something natural, something ancient, something deeply human.
That’s not to say the piece avoids tension. The flow it explores isn’t always peaceful. There are pauses that stretch, moments of near-stillness that feel almost uncomfortable. But even those are held gently. This dance work reminds us that flow can include resistance—and that even still water carries an undercurrent.
Looking back, what Flowing does best is allow things to simply be. It doesn’t push meaning onto the audience. It lets movement, projection, and sound meet like converging streams. It trusts us to follow—or to drift—and maybe, to be changed in the process.
As a choreographer myself, the piece made me reflect on the power of subtlety. Not every moment needs to be full. Not every movement needs to make a statement. Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do on stage is to step back, soften, and allow.
In a world that often rewards volume, Flowing reminds us of another kind of wisdom—the kind that comes from water, breath, and time.
