Last fall,
The Foundry Theatre troupe took us on
what I called a "magical history tour" bus ride around the South Bronx. Today,
Dance New Amsterdam is going to get me on a bus to track the compelling
Bill Shannon's Traffic. Last night, I boarded one of two gleaming white buses taking Donna Uchizono's audience from the Baryshnikov Arts Center to
The Kitchen for Part 2 of her gleaming white premiere,
longing two. And I might have heard of yet another show featuring bus transportation.
I'm not sure what to make of all of this...
just sayin'.
I'm also not sure what to make of the fact that Uchizono's piece had me scribbling copious notes throughout--something I rarely do. I can't explain it, and I won't try. But I think, in lieu of a formal review, I'll just go ahead and share my entire one-hour + forty-minute journey with you.
***
When I arrive at BAC's Gilman Space lobby, the publicist,
Yuri Kwon, tries to explain where I can locate my reserved seat ("It's the first row...but not...") but gives up. She figures I'll figure it out, and I figure there must be some kind of interesting arrangement beyond the theater doors. Okay. After decades of looking at New York dance, I'm game for pretty much anything.
Once inside, I see an arrangement that's more like an obstacle to viewing than anything else. Two rows of metal folding chairs that stretch the length of the space and face inward towards the theater's shaded windows. Right beyond those rows, with just a little room for walking, there's a nearly four-foot fence made of heavy white paper suspended by wires from the ceiling. It walls off space where, presumably, dancing will happen, since it's followed by another white-paper fence and two more rows of chairs that face it.
I walk along the first set of chairs and never find one with my name on it. I take a quick look at the far set before giving up and taking a seat at the extreme right end of the rows by the door. The space starts to fill up with people who can only see the heads of people facing them. I feel hemmed in and antsy.
I can't make out what's at the very far end of the performance area, but I'll discover, later, that it's a stand of eight fluorescent tubes. There's also a large, round light rising high over that end.
I'm looking at that paper in front of me, and I feel like writing or drawing on it. Really. Where are the crayons? Markers? I do have a few pens, though.
I manage to suppress my Inner Child.
At 7:10 or thereabouts, lights dim and people get quiet. Dancers appear at either end of the space. The A/C goes on. Good.
Four dancers are in pristine white leotards with a ruffling cascade of filmy white fabric draped down the back of one shoulder. Sound of waves, of gulls. Two women--
Anna Carapetyan and
Savina Theodorou wriggle their bare arms, appearing to float backward from the far end towards my end of the space. Now they disappear, dipping below the paper fence. Reappearing, they're unusually close to us but also truncated, since we can only see their upper bodies, and they look and move like marionettes. Arm and heads move as if suspended and controlled by strings. It's kind of lovely, and I no longer want to mar the purity of their fences.
As this is happening, Uchizono and
Hristoula Harakas seem to have remained still on my end of the space but it now seems that they are moving very, very, very slowly leftward, shoulder-to-shoulder, Uchizono facing forward, Harakas backward. As Carapetyan turns, she's close enough to meet my eyes with a tiny, thrilling flicker of connection before flitting away. Uchizono and Harakas continue their leftward drift.
The "dolls"--as I begin to call Carapetyan and Theodorou--are now faintly whisper-singing "When You Dance I Can Really Love". Finally I know where I am: I've fallen into a music box that plays old Neil Young songs. Oh, and now that song--which I really loved, once upon a time--will be crazy-glued to my brain for the rest of the night. Thank you, Donna.
The dolls' skittering, twirling movements--still in character--externalize the rhythm of the barely perceptible song. I imagine Uchizono choreographing to the recording.
The dolls twirl their arms, reach, wave, flap. I look towards the fluorescent lights, anticipating that they'll come on--and they immediately do! Blazing white. The dolls disappear behind the lights. We can hear but not see them. They might have a fairy-like appearance, but they have the footfalls of linebackers. We hear their steps pounding the floor. I think about this a little later, musing that it's an odd touch but, somehow, just not odd enough.
They arrive in front of the lights, which are now doused. Not seeing their lower bodies adds to the sense that they are unworldly beings, but I wonder if a couple of noisy collisions with the paper fence were choreographed to call into question that ethereal nature. No sooner do I wonder that than the dolls, bent backward and back-pedalling again, emit some odd gasps. I'm thinking, "Moving in that position must be hard on their necks," right before Carapetyan holds her neck and says, very quietly, "This is really hard on my throat." Are the dolls becoming more human?
They swirl together, necks and shoulders and arms entangled. They pick up identical off-white ceramic pitchers from somewhere, place them on their heads and slowly sidle from one end of the space to the other. Carapetyan takes the far fence; Theodorou takes my side. As they slip past us, they smile, repeatedly asking no one in particular, "Would you like some water?"
Having finished their waitressing shift, the dolls immediately dip beneath the fence and next materialize as disembodied legs engaged in some poorly-synchronized water ballet.
Ah! The lower limbs we had not been able to see! It's disorienting--as if a pool had been turned upside down or we were turned upside down and watching water where air should be. I don't even know how to describe this, really.
Lights out.
We're being advised to use the restrooms before heading outside for the bus ride to The Kitchen. (Clearly, there will be no time for a pit stop when we arrive.) Outside, there's a brief bit of drizzle. As we approach the bus, a woman hands each of us a little paper cup, which people seem to be accepting without comment or question. "For water," she says, when I ask. I refrain from asking, "What water?" I just get on my bus. It's chilly inside, and I just wish we could take off right away. I pull out a big scarf--former Girl Scouts are always prepared--and wrap it around me. Before long, we pull out and head west towards a gleaming, golden sunset. People kick back and chatter, just as if it's a real bus ride to maybe Bear Mountain or somewhere. They don't seem to notice
Renee Archibald walking the aisle, fruitlessly checking all the overhead bins then drinking water from a big plastic bottle. She's got one of those paper cups, which she sometimes uses, sometimes does not. From what I can see, she has no intention of offering any of us a drop. My paper cup is down in my bag. My notebook is frequently out on my lap. We drive around Chelsea. A choreographer I met last year suddenly realizes I'm just across the aisle from her. Yes, I have hair now--bushy and grey--and she's never seen that. Yes, it's me.
The Kitchen's doors open to us with the sound of clanging bells that make me think I'm back in Europe. And Carapetyan and Theodorou are already in motion, moving like clanging European church bells. Uchizono sits on the floor, faced towards the back wall, knees up. Harakas stands near the back. A garden of fluorescent lights sprouts in one far corner. A length of crinkled white fabric or paper stretches up from one side of the space to the other, loosely embracing the space.
Static snaps, crackles and pops and some non-specific grinding and whirring fill the space as Harakas diligently works her off-centered balances, leg extensions and articulations of one foot. She's mesmerizing, a virtuoso, Uchizono's secret weapon. Uchizono, resting on the floor, simply watches her, but then I notice Uchizono's knees slowly swaying left and right. Soon her feet rise into the air and legs wriggle like a memory of the upside down pool she created at BAC.
Sounds become grating, tumultuous. I notice movement to one side of me--Theodorou tentatively coming in from the theater's entrance. The voices in
James Lo's sound score could be cheering or screaming in fear. It's intriguingly murky. Theodorou disappears. The sounds give me a sense of something happening that should not be--an overturning of the expected natural order. Uchizono's writhing looks non-human, even monstrous. For a long time, she does not show us her face. But when she does, it is by making tiny pivoting moves that bring her around as the murkiness of the sounds recede. We're left with sounds of wind and rain.
Lights dim a bit. Women pedal slowly, softly. I think of islands. Night. Protected coves. The dancers gently sloshing back and forth. Their costumes now remind me of seafoam. A delicious sleepiness creeps over me. I feel cradled and rocked. In one corner, the "dolls" are whisper-singing Neil Young's song again, locked into each other's reality and delicately sidestepping amid the fluorescent sprouts.
The venerable Butoh master
Kazuo Ohno died today at 103. I see him clearly as I watch Uchizono's solo. She uses her body like an ancient, gnarled tree branch stirred by wind. In her unadorned face and loosened hair, I'm seeing an unadorned, loose-haired headshot of Ohno that I found earlier in the day. He hovers and haunts.
Later, I'm moved by the way Harakas leans into Uchizono's slumped back, using the strength of one thin arm to hold her up as the clarified sound score reveals the kind of cheering one would hear at a sports event, including one guy's repeated cries of "Run! Run! Run!"
There's more, including a longish passage of stillness and silence. I notice the reprise of certain motifs, but the piece starts loosening its grip until it--and my journey with it--ends around 8:50.
Design team members not previously mentioned:
Costumes:
Wendy Winters
Lighting:
Joe Levasseur
Set:
Ronnie Gensler
longing two continues through this Saturday, June 5, and I strongly recommend that you have your own experience with it.
Baryshnikov Arts Center
450 West 37th Street, Manhattan
(travels to The Kitchen, 512 West 19th Street, via tour bus)
Information and ticketing
