Magnus Westwell: Caught Hold of Nothing @ Biscuit Factory, Leith

“he reached out beyond
the trammel of himself and caught hold
of nothing with both hands.”

– Vitruvian Man, John Glenday  

I hear a violin; one note, a clarion call. The night fades into two dark, muscular silhouettes who step out onto a bare, blackened floor and begin to move. White noise pulses through the gathering smoke hemmed in by the building’s industrial bones. Under a raw red light, Magnus Westwell – Scottish artist, performer, choreographer and Sadler’s Wells Young Associate alumnus – lifts their bow to emit a tender, living sound. 

The sound is full of grief. It is the same grief that inspired John Glenday’s poem Vitruvian Man from which this performance Caught Hold of Nothing takes its name. Captivated by the sense of absence behind the poet’s words, Westwell seeks to translate this idea into performance. Whilst poetry and dance might share a similar resistance to narrative, they draw upon different resources. Glenday’s words are frozen on the page, a memorial to his ideas, whereas Westwell works through movement to bring this sense of absence to life.  

At the Biscuit Factory on EAF26's opening night, Caught Hold of Nothing conjures an atmosphere where euphoria bleeds into desolation and the complexity of grief is laid bare. From the smell of lavender on a summer’s day, there and gone in one moment, to the loss of someone you love. All is encompassed by the two limping, aching, breaking, reaching bodies which haunt the stage. Through these bodies the performance opens a space between the need to hold on and the necessity of letting go, and asks us to sit inside it together.

Although only a small part was shown, preceding a longer piece to premiere at EAF27, the work holds much promise. The execution from Westwell and Océane Robin was exquisite. At its centre, the violin acts as both comfort and burden, tucked into Westwell’s neck. They play across their heart, cradling the instrument, stumbling over their delicate feet, gradually claiming the sparse stage. The tender song gently fills the space as a sense of reverence emerges. It's just a few notes played over and over, familiar, and sweet, the kind of tune that might come to you in the shower. Except this is no idle melody. Each time it is played takes a toll on the performer, leading to a physical collapse, which grows in severity as time flows on.

Magnus Westwell performing at The Biscuit Factory for EAF26. Photo: Charlotte Cullen

It is quite difficult to watch, yet still it is incredibly beautiful. The two performers move through an intricate physical dialogue responding to the violin’s echoes, reverberations and resonances. As the dance unravels, the music grows quieter and weaker until the fragile sound of the strings gives way. Westwell lies corpse-like on the floor. The violin rests silently on their chest. Robin takes centre stage. Their movements are creaturely, ungainly and deeply human, congealing and falling out of sight behind the heads of the audience seated on the cold concrete floor. Robin might have stepped out of a Giacometti bronze: their body stretched thin and worn down, built, demolished and built again through the same restless process that defined the sculptor’s work. I almost wished for them to fly, and they nearly did. They flicker back and forth, coming almost close enough to touch, fading from person to silhouette against a warm amber glow rising behind them.

It is hard to believe the work is choreographed. In just a fragment, there is such desire, such immediacy, such impulse and urgency that the room seemed to collapse upon itself. We were shoulder to shoulder, eyes transfixed by the scene. I could feel the vibrations of sound in my hands and legs, as the distance between stage and seat disappeared. We are given little respite in this stream of experience. We are pulled in, sharing the discomfort and the release, feeling the spectrum of emotions encompassed by grief. Whether the loss is our own, another’s or just an ambient quality in the room, its presence alongside Westwell and Robin’s tireless reaching kindles something like hope. Their continuous collapse feels less like falling apart and more like falling together. They turn what may have begun as a quiet solitary reflection on a passage from a favourite poem into a shared experience, wide open and without words.

When the piece closed into darkness, the first voice I heard in the audience said: "Stunning”. The chatter opened into something deeper, an immediate sharing. Strangers who had not spoken all evening turned to one another. People wanted to talk about what they had seen and take hold it with both hands. If you were there, you might have seen it too: a black hole opening up in the centre of a warehouse. You may have been pulled in. I know I was. 

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Caught Hold of Nothing was performed at the Biscuit Factory on 14 Aug as part of EAF 2026
Edinburgh Art Festival, 14-30 Aug