With Murmurs (1997), Olga de Soto exposes herself, distant and close, pure and human, cold and desirable, to the audience which is both surprised and touched by this frankness. Invisibly naked under her dress, she shows us the small, imperceptible slips which write on her flesh the activity of her muscles. It is the heart of spinning humanity, too often trampled on by the principles of reality. In these truthful moments the body of the dancer creates a subtle and unceasing modulation, broken only by the gashes left by the oboe. Intimacy is given and stolen, masked and revealed, as something inaccessible yet bearing a promise to conquer.
If the gesture radiates simplicity and obviousness, it is because it does not stem from the concept. It seems, on the contrary, to escape from the body to explore, through single sensual abstractions, the unheard-of resonances of sense that the gesture can create.
The dancer is barefooted, dressed in a full and simple dress, without belt or clasps. Her gestures are slow, sometimes almost stiff; at times she is tight as an arc, with a finger obliquely stretched towards the sky. All this would be banal if there were not a sharp intensity, which is not only due to the tense indolence of the dancer and the arrogance of the oboe. Where does it come from? From what the body murmurs. Olga de Soto, under or in her dress, seems naked. And what there is to "see" is the babbling of her naked body, the whispering of her nudity, the mumbling of her skin and her muscles.
The moment of grace of this "été des Hivernales" was brought by Olga de Soto, a Spanish dancer established in Belgium. Whether she elaborates it alone or in duet (with Pascale Gigon), her language, which is very pure, creates a shiver in the half-light, the rustling of life. Her musical choices (of contemporary composers such as Salvatore Sciarrino or Denis Pousseur) are of an unusual quality.
Emmannuèle Rüegger, L'été des Hivernales, Ballet 2000 No. 43
As to Olga de Soto, one could see her and see her again without being exhausted, so much her dance is musical. Whether she talks about a secret relation in a semi-darkness, nearest to the microscopic, or shines out in furious movements of the hips on Frederic Rzewski's ravaging music, or murmurs solitary on a composition by Denis Pousseur, what comes out is pure joy. Simplicity combined with wisdom.