I told a colleague that he was going to a dance function, and when he asked me if he liked it, I told him I didn't know what to say. Because I don't know, because I've never had the habit of watching dance performances -- not too few possibilities -- or reading a lot about dance. I think it's the first time he's presented at the Victoria Eugenia theater. So I wanted to go to Man Ray's concert at the dFeria of the Valencian company Taiat Dansa. Stylish context for a Wednesday after working.

I was going to see a show centered on the fetishist relationships of the American photographer and filmmaker Man Ray with his thighs, which would talk about the relationships of male artists with female models; when a muse is a source of inspiration, of mere objects, that would pull us off that border. I felt a desire to see how they were going to do that through the language of dance.

Claxk. A photo blow. They appeared in two scenarios. Claxk. A photo blow. Four men appeared. Claxk. A photo blow. Seven men were in tuxedo. And there was a woman popping up. After an intense start, the one-hour show was filled with scenes in different ways that left, each time, spectacular images on the stage. In the back fabrics, the painted lips, the buttocks and other female erotic elements were placed. The picture of the stage was being transformed at all times, and one of those that stayed in my eyes was that of the dancer Cristina Reolid, who raised the body from the center of a mass composed by her peers, to cut the eyes of the canvas with scissors, shouting.

I don't have any news of Ray's surreal universe, and that's why and because I started doing dance performances, I struggled to follow the show, to identify the references of Ray's play. I was surprised by the most solitary moments of the dance, not in vain the passages that I liked the most. Aesthetically, the accuracy of many movements, multiple compositions about the scene, bodies delivered to the mechanics of the sound of the metronome was beautiful. But beyond the aesthetic... By dancing the tension between art and eroticism, in the scenography of the beginning of the last century, the power of the whims of men was evident.

I sat next to me a great name from that house that they call Basque intelligence. The audience asked me if I liked it as I applauded, and out of fear of being ridiculous about it, I got a good one. Not too much for me, he said. If you say so, I laugh. That is the truth: the first time I was cold, and yet the consequence has left me wanting to repeat. That happens often.