We’ve all wanted to disappear at one time or another. To have the ground swallow us up. Out of embarrassment, fear, or simply to enjoy a moment of peace and comfort to do our own thing. If the world expects us to be constantly present and available, it’s only natural that we should feel the urge to hide away, to retreat into a burrow where we might feel a little safer.

Some animals are masters of camouflage. Humans are not. Think of the child who gets upset and turns to face the corner, as if that alone were enough to disappear. Or the celebrity who walks around wearing sunglasses. Or who covers their face with a piece of cloth. We humans are rubbish at hiding. Yet there is something poetic about our inability to do so, often comic or absurd, that, in the blink of an eye, takes us from magic to banality through the simplest of gestures.

As in so much of Quim Bigas’s work, (cau) (‘fall’) explores the relationship between the body and space. Here, it especially asks what happens when a space becomes uncomfortable and we desperately wish we weren’t there. How do we respond to conflict? When do we decide to hide? Are our hiding places comfortable? Do we spend more time hiding than we realise?

(cau) begins with a simple action and unfolds as an exercise somewhere between play and choreography, in which the performers attempt to hide behind all kinds of objects and materials, and don’t do a very good job of it. After all, there aren’t many places where it’s harder to hide than a stage. Where do we seek refuge in times of crisis? Some of the questions Quim poses resonate with those explored by Elena Carvajal in I was told not to make eye contact with Tom Cruise, or by María Jurado in Angelical, pieces that similarly challenge the expectation of being constantly visible and showcase the value of stepping back or moving out of the spotlight.