Living in Emergency

Living in Emergency: Stories of Doctors Without Borders

by A. O. Scott, The New York Times, June 4, 2010

Christopher Williams descends the roots

The prospect of seeing a new Christopher Williams piece fills me with childlike eagerness. I’m jazzed by his imagination, which seems to belong to not just one wildly intelligent man but to a multitude. I’m dazzled by his productions which always seem much larger than the space they inhabit and definitely not of this era. Watching his work feels like falling into a big storybook with gilt-edged pages, embroidered satin bookmarks, fanciful characters whose heightened strangeness only partly masks their more elusive familiarity.

Like a Joseph Campbell with all of theater’s tools and magical possibilities at his command, Williams divines and opens portals between cultures, bidding us follow wherever curiosity has led him. In Hen’s Teeth—given its world premiere last night at Dance New Amsterdam--that curious terrain is the intersection of old Brittany, ancient Greece and the medieval Roman Catholic church. Heads should swim but, oddly, I managed to keep mine firmly in balance. I wondered what was preventing me from being swept away this time.

This work has Williams’s signature richness of imagination and his polish, complete with lighting by Amanda K. Ringger, costumes by Andy Jordan and Gregory Spears’s appealing original score, a requiem played and sung live in Breton, Middle French and Latin. For the Breton tale’s ensemble of mysterious bird-women—Storme Sundberg, Jennifer Lafferty, Kira Blazek, Hope Davis, Emily Stone, Ursula Eagly—Williams has provided old-fashioned dancey-dance architecture. That’s rare as hen’s teeth in New York’s “downtown dance” venues but fits this choreographer's mythic, ritualistic purposes just fine. The bird-womens's opening number is performed with enchanting physical presence and convincing vocal skill. Their delicate costumes—filmy, feathery skins that eventually “molt” from bare shoulders and bosoms—are totally lovely.

The actual Breton narrative remains vague—on purpose, most likely—but there is a lone male character (Adam H. Weinert) who woos one of the bird-women. The avian ladies lift him and his love high, swirling them around in the air so they appear to be flying. These swoony passages resemble a romantic ballet rendered in animation—artificial with a sincere underpinning, sincere with an overlay of the artificial. I think, for Williams, this is the very essence of doing ritual, of doing theater.

At some point, though, you might begin to wonder what all of this has to do with the Holy Roman lux aeterna and Agnus Dei. I believe that Williams must know but, as a watcher, not having some clue can be a barrier. The entrance of three bulbous, grotesquely-costumed characters--played by Alison Granucci, Joan Arnold and Grazia Dell-Terza—compound the confusion. It’s possible that these beings are introducing an apocalyptic note, but neither their existence nor their movement effectively connects to what came before or advances the narrative.

So, we have a dreamy opening ensemble that enjoys the work’s only distinctive movement; a soaring love fantasia; and finally, the arrival of a depressed and depressing trio of ugly trolls. Rather than a coherent accomplishment, Hen’s Teeth feels like patches out of a much larger ballet where potent ancestral motifs might speak to us of the perennial challenges of the human journey.

Christopher Williams’s Hen’s Teeth and Gobbledygook (a work in progress featuring Weinert and Eikazu Nakamura) continue tonight and Saturday at 8pm and Sunday at 3pm.

Dance New Amsterdam, 280 Broadway (entrance on Chambers Street). Information and tickets

Bill Shannon plays in "Traffic"

Bill Shannon

It's just hot enough these days for a totally nutty--yet air-conditioned--diversion like Traffic, a presentation of Dance New Amsterdam. In this "transient specific performance," the audience rides a tour bus down lower Broadway as Crutchmaster Bill Shannon glides the streets, freestyling on his skateboard and custom-designed crutches. Looking like a scruffy East Village squatter turned cross-country skier, Shannon interacts with the congested downtown terrain and its pedestrians. DJ "The Wizard" Brian Coxx pumps the house music (just try sitting still!) and James Cloftfelter VJ "TopKill" (yeah...I know) works the visuals.

"Sometimes magical things happen that I would never have designed in a million years," Shannon said yesterday, before we set out on this grand improvisational journey. "Maybe something will happen, and maybe nothing will happen."

A couple of video monitors keep track of any action that might be outside your range of view. And Shannon is equipped to receive and send sound which, ideally, should allow you to hear his impromptu conversations with unsuspecting passersby. Yesterday, that last bit didn't work so well, but some moments were not only readable but completely magical and captivating. In one, a construction crew, admiring Shannon's moxie, threw him down their unfinished bottle of iced tea. In another, Shannon commandeered some public art sculpture for a moody impromptu solo, perfectly capturing its scrunched texture in his movement.

Traffic sets off from the lobby of Dance New Amsterdam (280 Broadway, near Chambers Street) today and tomorrow at 4:30.

Information

Tickets

Peter Orlovsky, 76

Peter Orlovsky, Poet Who Inspired Allen Ginsberg

by Bruce Weber, The New York Times, June 2, 2010

Evidence: Here's to 25 more!

Harlem Stage's E-Moves dance series throws a big celebration for the 25th Anniversary of Evidence, A Dance Company, June 17-20, with highlights from works by acclaimed choreographer Ronald K. Brown and a special Father's Day workshop for boys and their dads or male mentors/guardians. Experience the powerful and inspiring dancers of Evidence and live music by Gordon Chambers, Wunmi and more.

For complete schedule details and ticketing, click here or call 212-281-9240 x 19 or 20.

Harlem Stage: The Gatehouse
150 Convent Avenue (at 135th Street), Manhattan

Hey! Here's that other bus tour!

It's Kathy Westwater's PARK!

Fresh Kills Park
Staten Island
Saturday, June 26 (9am-1pm)

"...about worlds we create and worlds that disappear." 

choreography: Kathy Westwater
poetry: Jennifer Scappetone
visual design: Seung Jae Lee
performance: Maggie Bennett, Rebecca Brooks, Rebecca Davis, Ursula Eagly, Melissa Guerrero, Belinda He, Kazu Nakamura, Jeremy Pheiffer and Enrico Wey

Park explores how nature consumes itself to regenerate-and how humans construct and consume it through the creation of parks. This site-specific performance/installation is the culmination of a rarely-awarded artist residency at the site of Fresh Kills Park, a 2,200 acre emergent park being developed by the NYC Department of Parks and Recreation over the next 30 years. 

The park's site is the Fresh Kills Landfill, formerly the world's largest landfill which was operated by the NYC Department of Sanitation for 50 years and closed in 2001. A short bus tour of the Freshkills Park site, with explanation of the site's engineering, infrastructure, and ecology, precedes this performance.

All attendees must board the tour bus at the St. George Ferry Terminal on Staten Island at 9:30am. Attendees coming from Manhattan must take the 9am ferry from Manhattan in order to make this bus. Buses will provide transportation from the ferry terminal on Staten Island to the park site and return attendees to the ferry terminal by 1pm.

FREE. Space is limited, and reservations are required. For reservations, please email doug.elliot@parks.nyc.gov or call 212/788-8277.

Uchizono: longing...and journeying, too

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