Phyllostormni
“Phyllostormni” is a hybrid term.
It denotes a space where fragments — of time, of memory, of bodies — accumulate and form new ground.
A name for a place that did not previously exist, but is born from whatever falls and whatever remains.
Phyllostormni is a scenic composition unfolding in a non-place, after the collapse of linear time. It is not an answer, but a question: what does it mean to exist today, when certainties have dissolved and the future does not arrive?
Where do we stand as bodies, as collectivities, as erotic desires that persist nevertheless? The stage functions like a capsule-shelter: a space where past, present, and future have already collapsed into fragments. A phrase by Barthes, a life vest, a Joy Division song, a selfie, a touch — all coexist, without linearity yet with the human insistence to be preserved. And among them, love: not as narrative, but as pulse; as the small spark resisting decay. The performers do not play characters; they are survivors of a society that has changed
radically. With their bodies they carry memories and desires like ritual objects, and relive them: sometimes playfully, sometimes exhausted, sometimes tenderly.
Each scene becomes a silent prayer before nightfall. A chorus of voices without voice, insisting on forming community — and on keeping love alive, even as everything around them decomposes.
Phyllostormni is a political gesture of silence and desire. It does not narrate events, but the moment when collectivity becomes body again; where memory becomes action, and poetry becomes a mode of resistance. And love — fragile, imperfect, endless — functions as that thin thread binding those who remain. It does not depict an era; it seeks a new chorality, a shared presence born from the necessity of the now. It is a ritual space where memory is experienced collectively; a work that wonders how we stand together — without time, without narrative, without roles — only with the desire to hold on to something common. And within this “common,” love also becomes part of resistance: a warmth that does not fade.
Among the fragments, we are still here.
AUTHOR–DIRECTOR’S NOTE
For me, Phyllostormni is an act of persistence.
An attempt to stand within the chaos — not to control it,
but to live through it collectively.
It was born out of the need to rediscover the body as a site of political action;
to remember that theatre is not escape, but a community under trial.
An act of silent resistance against speed,
against the power of the image, against the productivity that exhausts.
There are no heroes here — only survivors.
Bodies carrying stories, silences, memories,
and trying to find how to stand beside one another.
To share the exhaustion and the warmth of the moment.
Within this field, love as a concept and play as a form of communication become modes of
resistance.
They pass from body to body, from language to language,
sometimes tenderly and sometimes ironically,
transforming the stage into a site of expression and rupture.
The stories intertwine, the roles shift,
the forms struggle to find their shape within the fluidity of the now.
Phyllostormni moves between the sacred and the ridiculous,
the political and the erotic, the ritual and the pop.
There, in the midst of contradictions, I find true theatre —
where body, memory, and imagination meet.
I am not interested in certainty, but in presence.
The moment when something is born without your knowing why.
The moment you remember that even within the wreckage,
there is always a leaf falling slowly, being born again,
reminding us that we are still here.
Duration: 60-75 minutes
