Ririe-Woodbury: Splice

2018 marks the anniversary of Ririe-Woodbury’s 55th season of both performances and education programming. Since its genesis by visionary founders Joan Woodbury and Shirley Ririe, the company has cultivated a family, in Salt Lake City and beyond, that can be seen and felt in the embraces and warm smiles shared at shows. The current show, Splice, includes four works from the recent past as well as two new company members, Brian Nelson and Breeanne Saxton, and is a veritable blending, or should I say splicing, of old and new.

Joanna Kotze’s “Star Mark” saturated the stage with a floral pattern projected onto the scrim, the dancers nestled upstage, holding hands in an ’X’ position and facing the flowers - or maybe not facing as separate entities so much as simply existing as flowers. Kotze, both choreographer and whimsical florist in this case, has created a work that blurs animate and inanimate entities and modes of existing. The movement was linear in one moment, curling with expression the next. Yebel Gallegos had a delightful solo in which he grimaced and flexed at the audience amidst longing looks of flirtation. All of the dancers scanned the audience at one point or another, aided by lights revealing the audience sitting in our own arrangement, perhaps inspiring some audience members to consider rearranging themselves in response to the dancers’ confident explorations of what is corporeally possible. The piece persisted to the point of wilting, then perked up again, and then gracefully but suddenly stopped, eliciting laughter throughout.

Following “Star Mark,” Jena Woodbury and Daniel Charon - who have a respectful and humorous rapport together as executive and artistic director, respectively - made opening remarks thanking donors, and then offered everyone a splice of cake after the show. Party on.

Yebel Gallegos and Breeanne Saxton in Adam Barruch’s “prima materia.” Photo courtesy of Ririe-Woodbury.

However, the next piece took the party in a darker, moodier direction. “prima materia” by Adam Barruch featured three sheets of almost-opaque plastic rectangles hanging across center stage, obscuring behind it the dancers, who began with twisted arm gestures above their heads like specimens in an incubator. Then they moved from behind the sheets, born into transparency, but their purpose (or that of Barruch’s) remained unclear. The rhythm of the piece was consistent throughout, featuring lots of forceful partner work paired with music that directed the movement. There was one very refreshing moment when Bashaun Williams supported Megan McCarthy in a floating meditative stance that made me realize that they had been moving swiftly for almost the entire piece without any distinct dynamic developments.

Ririe-Woodbury in “Strict Love” by Doug Varone. Photo by Tori Duhaime.

In counterpoint to the previous piece, Doug Varone’s “Strict Love” was also static, but with more clarity of intention. The dancers moved almost entirely in unison throughout except for the beginning, during which Saxton initiated a robotic phrase to The Jackson 5’s  “ABC.” I should mention that this was not in fact the true beginning of the piece because it stealthily began as the audience trickled back into the theater after intermission, with “Spirit in the Sky” playing softly as if the dance was just that - a spirit slowly materializing before our eyes. The choreography was keenly in sync with the radio-pop-medley soundtrack, but it never succumbed to any literal interpretation of the lyrics, or standard groove that you might expect when hearing such classic, groovy tunes; instead, the dance was dedicated to its own logic and just happened to exist in this space of popular music.

Yebel Gallegos and dancers of Ririe-Woodbury in Daniel Charon’s “Construct.” Photo courtesy of Ririe-Woodbury.

Charon created the final work, “Construct,” in 2014 with a score by local composer Mike Wall. Charon has a knack for and deep interest in digital dance work that “Construct” represents well. Two screens accumulated onstage, onto which the dance was projected and then slowed down to different degrees, constructing a poignant representation of time and visual memory. There was a quartet featuring the more senior members of the company (Melissa Younker, Williams, Gallegos, and McCarthy) that was punctuated with Younker standing alone at the end, first physically, then virtually, her calm strength in that stance a reassurance of beauty through change.

Emma Wilson is a body-based artist bearing several long titles: graduate of the University of Utah, with a BFA in modern dance as well as minors in Portuguese and environmental studies, and the community garden coordinator at the Salt Lake City Public Library.

Ririe-Woodbury: Elizabeth, the dance

Choreographer Ann Carlson has a longstanding relationship with Ririe-Woodbury, originally studying modern dance under company co-founders Shirley Ririe and Joan Woodbury at the University of Utah in the 1970s. While there, Carlson also studied under the late Elizabeth Hayes, who brought the dance major to fruition at the U in 1953. Since Carlson began her choreographic career in the 80s, Ririe-Woodbury has added a couple of her works to their repertoire: “50 Years” (1996), most recently reprised in 2016, and now a world premiere for the company’s spring season at the Rose Wagner, “Elizabeth, the dance.”

I’ve only seen these two dances by Carlson, but even without the context of her entire body of work, I feel as though I know her voice - so singular is her style of piecing together vocalized text, a never-ending stream of new ideas, and movement that often seems to stem from a natural physicality.

“Elizabeth, the dance” truly delighted me, and so it’s almost a struggle to pin down the why and the how.

“Elizabeth” is like a collage by a well-known artist that you might convince yourself you could or would make: so many different components and references that you can clearly identify throughout, yet, strung together in a masterfully unique arc, the effect is truly producible only by that artist.

I use “arc” loosely here, because there was not one obvious narrative throughout. “Elizabeth” chronicled individual experiences, in real time, of each performer in reaction to a spectrum of challenges, prompts, and experiences. Sometimes autobiographical, sometimes abstract, the dance constantly glanced across a soaring range of emotions and qualities. Carlson’s structure laid each performer bare for us, while simultaneously allowing them to exist as a collective unit.

Multiple layers of whimsy and diversion were interwoven throughout, beginning with the dancers’ costumes. The base was a black skirt and leotard combo, the same for both the three men and three women. The skirt was then tied into pants, thrown over the head, tied up into a toga, and more. A tutu, tiara, and clown costumes were also donned at various points.

The set by Torry Bend added another layer of visual interest. Oversized, stackable foam blocks formed a wall that the dancers then disassembled, reassembled, pushed around, threw at each other, and launched themselves into over the course of the dance.

The array of visual elements never felt overdone to me; if anything, the costume and set changes always felt natural, like unearthing and assuming new roles from a dress-up chest in the attic. The changes re-directed the dance in unexpected and surprising ways each time, and I found myself wondering when the dancers had the chance to stock the next costumes or props behind the always-moving wall.

Throughout, images were suggested to me and then affirmed by some signifier soon after. This made the dance feel deliberate and well-crafted - an aware dance, that was able to anticipate and acknowledge its impact at any given time. This was achieved in tandem with the sound score - live, onstage accompaniment by multidisciplinary musician Matthew McMurray. He used quite a few recordings by The Beatles, which often connected to the images on stage.

Dancers in formation planted their hands on the ground, scurrying around with their feet while their black skirts swooped over them. I thought they looked just like a flock of birds descending upon a field. Immediately after, McMurray introduced The Beatles’ “Blackbird” into the mix. It was a simple connection, but one that gave me goosebumps.

“Lady Madonna” (“...see how they run..”) accompanied the performers running frenziedly throughout the space, in varying, cartoonish ways. “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away” (”...gather ‘round, all you clowns...”) was slowed down and warped by McMurray as the dancers donned clown accoutrements and slumped along the foam wall in a sad yet mostly comical procession.

It’s difficult to talk about the dancing in "Elizabeth" as a whole because so many puzzling and amusing things happened.

Mary Lyn Graves had a solo for which she appeared en pointe, leaping spritely from side to side, and bourrée-ing yearningly. She then began crashing into performers, which caused her to practice a melodramatic gasp-and-fall on loop, until she reached the perfect cadence of gasp and fell for a final time.

Bashaun Williams had a moving solo, beginning with a skillful basketball dribble, that featured a recording of him telling a story, concluding with “...angels exist, bro.” It was funny to hear him deliver that sentence, but the story and solo were both touching and thoughtful.

Melissa Younker, Yebel Gallegos, and Alexandra Bradshaw, their skirts fashioned into draped togas, took turns balancing upon a single foam block quoting and describing an inspirational, though unnamed, woman. Posing and gesticulating, they appeared like three muses or the ancient Greek chorus.

Bashaun and Daniel Mont-Eton strode onstage holding three white balloons each, while McMurray’s sound became a down-and-dirty, bass-heavy track. The mysterious orbs and the visceral, vibrating music made Daniel and Bashaun seem so cool and powerful.

There were a lot of these moments for me: captivating visuals that also seemed to vibrate with something deeper. Maybe you could pinpoint what that deeper element was, or maybe not. But I loved them both on their own and as a part of the larger accumulation of many working images.

Ultimately the dance ended, as they do, but for me it could have gone on into the night (never mind “too much of a good thing”). Carlson seemed to anticipate this with her false ending. We clapped, but the dancers returned to the blocks and began a rather meditative section.

Then a popcorn machine appeared. The smell of butter wafted over the theater, and suddenly the dancers descended upon us, crying out like concession hawkers, “Popcorn! Popcorn for everyone!” A free-for-all ensued: Dancers aimed kernels into audience members’ mouths, everyone munched from their personal bags, and the dance seamlessly melted into a rambunctious post-show gathering of performers, family, and friends.

Popcorn free-for-all following "Elizabeth". Carlson appears to the right of the frame, wearing all black, glasses, and holding a bag of popcorn. Photo by Amy Falls.

And it was truly magical; we had made it to the end and were duly rewarded.

Carlson remembered her dancers in crafting such a human work, with so many moments for each to shine. She remembered her mentors and the past through the era-traveling patchwork she has created with “Elizabeth, the dance.” Finally, she remembered us, the watchers, without whom the dance would exist only for the do-ers.

Writer's note: Congratulations are in order for company dancer Alexandra, on a fantastic final performance with Ririe-Woodbury. Salt Lake City will miss her dearly, both onstage and off!

Amy Falls has been loveDANCEmore’s program coordinator since 2014, transitioning Mudson from its original home at the Masonic Temple to more recent venues such as the Marmalade Library. She can also be seen dancing in projects with Municipal Ballet Co.