In his playfully sinister “I-Cure,” performed Friday at Abrons Arts Center/Henry Street Settlement as part of the 2014 Queer New York International Arts Festival, he ponders the difference between therapy and theater, or cure and culture. If healing is a choice, as he asks in a festival brochure, why not make the choice while sitting in the theater? Why waste another hour of trying to be cultural when it could be used to become healthier?
At the start, Mr. Dimchev, nearly naked and wrapped in a shawl, sits on a white chair and languidly strokes his blond wig. The sound of a cymbal awakens him from his reverie; brightly, he thanks us for coming to “the most healing performance of the year” and then explains that we need to fill out the “I-Cure” cards that were handed out upon entry. On each are four blank circles representing areas in our life that we wish to cure. By pressing the card, we create a healing intention
It’s absurd, of course, but in “I-Cure” — a reference to Apple devices that help you tune out the rest of the world — if you block out suffering, your own suffering will end. As Mr. Dimchev flows from one story to the next, scampering across the floor, singing about healing energy and engaging in sexual acts, a monitor behind him features scenes — a beach, a waterfall, a cheetah. A man from the audience performs fellatio on Mr. Dimchev — could this be the catharsis he’s after? — and then the image of feces appears on the screen. What if, as Mr. Dimchev asks, you were to examine it with a microscope? “It’s so intense,” he says. “It’s like ‘Star Wars’!”
Mr. Dimchev may push taboos in his work, but his timing, his hushed, whispery asides and the two-way conversations uttered under his breath are virtuosic — even reminiscent of Robin Williams. Animalistic one moment, delicate the next, he meshes darkness and lightness with verbal and physical dexterity. Early on, he notes, “Sometimes I feel like a dead mother with two dead children lying on the street in a very low resolution.”
Sex, defecation — what’s left in this quest for release? Mr. Dimchev’s rant switches from humor to horror as the sight of two bloody children and a mother appear on the screen. Contorting his body, he says: “It’s so disgusting! I can’t even look at it.” How can you cure an unfeeling world? His only escape is a blackout.
