DTW: Paper or plastic?

On Saturday night, the shared program of Kyle Abraham (of Abraham.In.Motion) and Layard Thompson drew one of the coolest audiences I've seen at Dance Theater Workshop--or anywhere--in a long time. If I could put in an order for more of the same, all around New York's dance scene, I would. But, then again, how diverse did this audience turn out to be when some of Abraham's followers left in the break before Thompson's half of the show? (Oh, well...) In any case, both of these artists made strong impressions over the course of an evening that, under normal circumstances, would have felt--and, indeed, would have been--way, way, way too long. Somehow, both of these guys pulled it off. How?

Abraham. Folks should rush to sign up to dance for him. I certainly would. With an assist from costumer Sarah Cubbage and lighting/projection designer Dan Scully, Abraham creates environments--no, havens--for the human body that show it off to startling effect. Witness his solo Brick, its multiple, moody aesthetic layers--minstrel-like stereotypes writ monumental, floating Afro wigs, black skin coated in jet-black grease paint, moody Japanese landscapes, crime-scene outline graffiti, a collaged soundscape of irresistible hip hop rhythms with highly-resistible hip hop lyrics--and the way it stuns you and suspends you in a light trance poised between avoidance and indulgence. A solo, sinuous and jarring, all of it coming at you, illogically, in waves of elegance. A haunted performance by a young yet confident performer, one who shows himself, in The Dripping Kind, his ensemble piece, to have a keen eye, serious discipline and incomprehensible originality. Whenever Abraham sets anything before you, be sure to keep track of stuff going on in the margins. He will color outside the box. I suspect we will have to reckon with this rising artist in coming years.

Thompson. The boundary-less Id that crashed the party. Propelling himself down DTW's stairs in a noisy, ruffly dress constructed from a gathering of used paper coffee cups. Thompson flopping and levitating. Chanting and burping. Shedding his shell-like dress and inner cocoon-like layers of plastic baggage. Cup...puC......K......Ohhhh, Beauty, full, vessel: Holy ritual. Wholly, a tantrum. Thompson is a child unsupervised, only sporadically self-conscious. Or, perhaps, Thompson is Mother Earth Herself, keening and flailing like a oil-soaked cormorant, wacked out and desperate to get out from under. Borderline. Some people tittered, but it's really painful (and potentially transformative) to watch with an open heart. Like Abraham, Thompson gathers collaborators who go full-tilt with him--in this case, lighting designer Chloë Z Brown and costumer Machine P.H.D. (Pixie Harlot Dazzle). The world they conjure--which is to say, our world of consumption, excess and heedless destruction--is completely mirrored in Thompson's risk-taking performance. Risky to body and damn challenging to an audience who, among other things, must witness the performer turning a spreading puddle of urine into a prop. Tempting to say that Thompson doesn't know when to stop, that Cup ranneth over numerous times and could have--should have--ended at any point along the way. But the man gave his all, and then some, and it all fit his intention. I'd call that a success.