Myriad Dance: Penumbra

Penumbra, presented by Myriad Dance, offered a series of short pieces inspired by the relationship of movement to lighting. 

Picture, if you will, the moon during an eclipse. Those who have been lucky enough to experience even a partial eclipse, such as that seen in Salt Lake City in 2017, may quickly locate an image. Now, mentally zoom in on the space between the illuminated moon and the area in shadow - this is the moon’s penumbra. 

What’s interesting about a penumbra is that it is not a stagnant area. Rather, the word itself implies a changing, merging border - a place of movement. This term framed Myriad’s show as an exploration of light and shadow, and “their creation, contrast, co-dependence, and convergence,” as explained by artistic director Kendall Fischer in her opening remarks. 

The performance took place in a space at the Gateway, where a draping white expanse became the backdrop for the overlapping shadows of dancers. Purple, white, and blue incandescent light bulbs hung from long cables, decorating the space with splashes of color. Symmer Andrews and Leslie Babalis entered the space and turned on two sets of lights pointed on a diagonal. The appearance of light was a choreographed component, intentionally initiated through the dancers’ actions. For a moment, they relished in the light, moving gently as if to absorb the warmth of the beams on their limbs. 

This brought to mind the work of renowned lighting designer Jennifer Tipton, who often considers the way a lighting cue feels to the performers as she designs. She has noted that the sensation a light cue evokes for the dancers ultimately shapes the performance. Tipton, who has designed for Paul Taylor, Jerome Robbins, and Twyla Tharp, among other greats, has spent her career researching the relationship of light and performance. In a 1995 New York Times article, she remarked, "I feel that light is like music. In some abstract, emotional, non-cerebral, non-literary way, it makes us feel, it makes us see, it makes us think, all without knowing exactly how and why." 

In many ways, Penumbra encapsulated this very comment. Myriad used the impetus of light to shape movement, and the way that the dancers embraced a combination of detailed articulation, emotive tension, and swirling patterns of momentum created an ode to light’s mysteriousness. However, in a show built around light, Penumbra lacked a significant component: a lighting designer. With only two simple shifts in lighting, I was left craving more of the foundation of the performance. Today, even shows taking place outside traditional proscenium theaters and their ample light plots may house installations and other lighting technology - all great opportunities for collaborative processes.

Nine individual pieces made up Penumbra, with choreography by Kendall Fischer, LayCee Barnett, Ashley Creek, Charity Wilcox, Amelia Martinez, Temria Airmet, Emily Haygeman, and Fiona Nelson. The show provided an excellent framework for connecting multiple pieces by distinct artists in a cohesive experience. Throughout, dancers wore an array of buoyant jumpsuits in tones of white, brown, pink, and blue. Each piece also overlapped with the next, transitions seamed tightly together to create an overall sense of unity. 

Ashley Creek’s “Paene (Almost)” featured a circularity that emerged in the spatial patterns and pathways of the dancers’ torsos and limbs. Tawna Halbert, Alyx Pitkin, and Jana Young glided into and out of the floor, dragging their toes against the concrete surface and articulating through their upper backs. The piece featured a refreshing number of jumps and spurts of energy that progressed to a point of climax.

“Shadow Self,” choreographed by Emily Haygeman, referenced, from psychology, the unconscious component of human personality. "Everyone carries a shadow," wrote Carl Jung, founder of analytical psychology, "and the less it is embodied in the individual's conscious life, the blacker and denser it is." This idea served as a framework for the movement in “Shadow Self.” A tension coalesced between the four dancers. Hands concealed faces, eyes observed intently, limbs pulled and shifted. Through touch and through weight-sharing, the dancers manipulated each other’s bodies, provoking push-and-pull responses. The end of the piece brought about a resolution: the dancers stood in a tight clump and gently mirrored each other’s movements.

Throughout Penumbra, Myriad Dance offered a study on the interaction of light and shadow through movement, achieving the theme less through elements of design than through the embodiment of light and shadow as abstract characters. 

Rachel Luebbert is a Utah-based dance artist. She also teaches and works in arts administration and programming, and has previously worked in Colorado, Massachusetts, and Washington, D.C.

Brine Dance: Brine 5

Brine Dance, a Salt Lake City collective, presented its fifth annual concert at the Rose Wagner Performing Arts Center as part of Repertory Dance Theatre’s Link Series. Symmer Andrews, Ashley Creek, and Sara Pickett are the creatives behind the collective, and have co-directed and -produced its five concerts thus far. This year, Brine 5 presented four dances by five choreographers, purportedly to show "longer, more in-depth works… to give the audience the opportunity to experience [a] high caliber of choreography.” This model was a major departure from last year’s structure, which featured work by 18 choreographers split between two programs. 

The choreographers included Lauren Broadbent (a junior at the University of Utah), Mar Undag (recently of SALT II) and Daniel Do (of Repertory Dance Theatre), Portland-based artist Trevor Wilde, and dancer/director Rebecca Aneloski.

There was no question that the show was well-rehearsed; all dancers performed with extreme clarity and all work was clean and contained in a way that left little room for audience interpretation or nuance. The overarching physicality of the show alternated between precise, isolated gestures and simultaneous, whole body movements. 

Do and Undag’s collaboration resulted in “Permission To Be [VDSW],” a dance for four women. The women began in front of the show curtain, working with repetitive, direct gestures to the beat of the music, then proceeded onto the stage, the music oscillating between genres and moods. Indicated by the program notes, the dance aimed to demonstrate the power of the four women. Comprised primarily of overlapping solos and duets, the piece’s many entrances and exits allowed the dancers to change their various all-white costumes. The final image had the four women with their tops off, snapping to turn off the lights. 

Trevor Wilde’s piece, “Anotherwom(e)n,” utilized a door frame and a pile of red roses. The first solo spoke of a dark memory while a contemporary ballet sequence was performed. As a counterpoint, a second soloist leapt around the stage with a bouquet of roses as if in love. In a duet, the two dancers often mirrored one another, alternating silly faces and classical lines. The simple black dresses accentuated the leggy choreography. 

“TASTE,” by Rebecca Aneloski in collaboration with her performers, had a refreshingly clear identity. Flirty, floaty, and bizarre, the choreography employed nuance and spatial logic. The physical textures allowed characters to develop complex personal identities inside a distinctive world. Suspending time, condensing time, and other surprising timing choices added to the piece’s pleasure and satisfaction. “TASTE” evoked images of family structures and personal struggle. Aneloski crafted a series of overlapping tableaus with striking moments of reflection that I continue to reflect upon. 

“8.6.45,” choreographed by Lauren Broadbent, was the final piece, and one primarily driven by its music. Strong beats drove the dancers’ sharp gestures around a table and a bench. Hands were placed over eyes, mouths, and ears. The dancers occasionally assumed a formation to face the audience, moving through punching and slashing choreography, and then finished with a large piece of white fabric. 

Even as a reviewer, I am not completely certain of my role. I do not feel I am watching to determine whether something is “good,” or not - that is far too subjective of a decision, that I think is best left to each audience member. I do, however, have some questions about the dynamics of dance-making. Some are specific to this show, some specific to Salt Lake City, and some on a larger scale.

Why do choreographers make dances seemingly based on experiences that are not their own? Why do men choreograph dances with the expressed intent of highlighting the experiences of women? Why would a young choreographer make a dance about Hiroshima, an event that predates her by half a century? 

Why do dancers use voice on stage, and how does it relate to the physicality of the body? Did the artist(s)/producers obtain the proper licenses to play the music of Kendrick Lamar? Is it appropriate for four white women to perform to Lamar’s music? 

Did the producers have conversations with choreographers about problematic gender or music content? Did they address undeveloped dances? Did choreographers have opportunities to receive feedback from the producers, their peers, or other artists? 

Can a dance find an identity succinct enough to find multiplicity inside of that clarity? Why might a dance have enough content to fill multiple distinct works?

How does a community push the boundaries of a predominant movement aesthetic? 

How does a community create space for artists to take risks while also holding the entire community to high standards of craft and quality? 

It is important for there to be more independently produced shows like Brine 5 in Salt Lake City. 

But as we create more space, we should continue to ask questions of ourselves, our peers, our mentors, our collaborators, and those with the power to create more space. We may not agree upon the answer or the methods, but in the asking, we may create the possibility to discover the unimagined ways that dance can transform, heal, and connect communities. 

Originally from the Midwest, Hannah Fischer is currently pursuing her MFA at the University of Utah. She received an Individual Artist Grant through the Indiana Arts Commission in 2017 and was an Associate Artist-in-Residence at the Atlantic Center for the Arts in 2014.

Brine: Na

Now in its fourth year, Brine was created by Symmer Andrews, Ashley Creek, and Sara Pickett to highlight works by numerous local choreographers. This year, the group’s annual fall offering featured two distinct programs with sold-out performances, Na (the symbol for sodium) and Cl (chloride); this reviewer was only able to attend Na.

The opening number, “Parched,” was choreographed by Daniel Do and Edromar Undag in collaboration with their dancers. A potent piece, “Parched” created a sense of torment, yet not without end. The spoken word artist Nia Portocarrero was forceful and compelling in her tone and delivery, and even without really understanding the words that were spoken, one still absorbed the intent. The diverse bodies on stage, in turn yearning and yielding, hoping and striving, and coping with support, were decidedly interesting to watch. The lighting by William Peterson was simply brilliant, with blue and amber cross beams of light leading the gaze into a mysterious land, in which threats of darkness and glimmers of hope could coexist with equal chance.

“Guardians of the Hearth” by Emily Bokinskie was a blander number with an aesthetic dance arrangement, illustrating women as perhaps gentle yet strong keepers of warmth and tenderness. The dancers looked lovely in pinks and reds and greens, the overall palette pink as they twirled and stretched around in circles and lines. My interpretation possibly takes a cue from the title, but the intent of the choreography on its own was less clear.

The next piece, “Asylum” by Dan Higgins, was absorbing and yet difficult to watch. The dance opened and closed to a scene of five women who stood tethered to an invisible track in the ceiling, accompanied by the sound of ropes stretching as they struggled valiantly to escape, all within a diagonal track of light. (In this piece, as in “Parched,” the concept was very ably assisted by the lighting.) As they tried to break through but fell again and again, I could almost feel their bruises, both of their physical bodies and also of their spirits. Was this a prison? Was it of their own making? Were they helping each other or holding each other back? It was all a bit ambiguous. Every struggle in “Asylum” felt lonely and hopeless.

“A Walk in the Rain” by Heather Francis was an unexpectedly humorous piece, the dancers playfully exploring a pull towards conformity. Like sea lions yapping until others joined in, the dancers repeated phrases until all were engaged in the colloquy, effectively drawing the arc of an evolving indulgence from the individual to the collective, from the unique to the commonplace. It was a rare use of lighthearted wit and hilarity to entertain and stimulate. It was also interesting to see the forceful pull of one strong individual then co-opt the acquiescence of the others.

The next piece, “Saudade,” was choreographed by E’lise Marie Jumes. A Portuguese word, saudade evokes a sense of loneliness, incompleteness, or, as noted in the program: "the pleasures we suffer and ailments we enjoy; this is our longing for what is not the present, ...layers upon layers of our past experiences give life to the palimpsest of our existence." Mounds of hair surrounded the dancers, as they appeared to experience a poignant longing. The nostalgia was effectively embodied in their movements, the hair perhaps a symbol of what they had lost. And yet... it grows back, does it not? “Saudade” was an introspective piece, in which each dancer was ensconced in her own memories and a dreamy wistfulness.

“Ash/Salt,” choreographed by Corinne Lohner, opened to two women sitting in front of an elaborately arranged meal on the ground, as a third woman on the other side of the stage struggled incessantly, yet vainly, to move against an invisible barrier, locked in an eternal undesirable fate. The other two dancers seemed to eat and drink in turns, while one cut the other's hair (a wig), dyed portions of it black, and later, both proceeded to smear their mouths in the same substance. These were two separate, detached happenings, perhaps illustrating the impersonality of existence, or a lack of empathy: the two women indulging in their meal were seemingly completely oblivious to the struggle of the other woman, just across from them. The piece was jarring at times, but still kept the viewer hooked, in a strangely vicarious, voyeuristic fashion. And what did the dark smearing signify?

“Your Light Is Never Forgotten” by Alicia Trump was as compelling a number as her piece in last year’s Brine concert, “Gaslighting Blatherskites,” and was an aching reminder that grief and loss are negotiated with everyday, long past the event of loss. In myriad covert and conspicuous interactions, the absence of a loved one became evident as their essence was acutely highlighted. That graceful acknowledgment was skillfully portrayed with a spotlight under which one dancer stood. When she fell, the others continued to simulate her essence, dancing around the light that was once hers, not fully extinguished even when she no longer danced under it.  

“Good Enough” by Megan O'Brien featured a cast of four women, some dancing, some observing. They prompted several questions, among which were - What do we find surprising? What do we find acceptable? How hard is it to reveal self truths, and how do you resolve the feeling of not being good enough? The costumes, everyday clothing such as suits and the like, were aptly chosen, bringing home the situational realism in a relatable manner.

Taken in entirety, the pieces throughout Na were all thought-provoking. However, individual sections needed more finesse in their abstractions, which did not always drive home points with conviction. Last year's Brine concert, Disembodied We, was possibly more exciting and mature. As we watched this year’s, my friend and I were struck by the thought of a compulsion to find meaning through our own constructions. Did a narrative exist that was a version just for me and my constructions, or was there maybe even none at all? In stark contrast to the Indian classical arts, where there is an explicit intent to provide common meaning and contextual narrative, the aesthetic experience here was secondary to the intellectual and emotional one. Perhaps that was the intent, or perhaps it does not really matter.

Srilatha Singh is a Bharatanatyam artiste and the director of Chitrakaavya Dance. While interested in encouraging excellence in her art form, she is also keenly compelled to explore relevance and agency through the artistic medium.

Myriad Dance: Lavender Words/Saltwater Resolutions

I always appreciate the wide variety of research and accessibility found within the Salt Lake City dance community. From established repertory companies to college programs, there is truly dance to be found for all vernaculars and audience interests. I was struck by this upon attending Myriad Dance Company’s Lavender Words/Saltwater Resolutions, choreographed by the group’s former artistic director Temria Airmet. Airmet, who is currently pursuing an MFA in dance from California State University, is a longtime member of the local dance community. It was a treat to see her return to her home company to create a work influenced by her time away. I also appreciated the variety and breadth of our community upon entering The Leonardo, a downtown museum adjacent to the Salt Lake Public Library, as I realized I did not recognize anyone in the audience. In a nearly packed house, I was pleasantly reminded that dance cannot be, and in this case was not, insular.

Lavender Words/Saltwater Resolutions was presented as a visualization of Airmet’s relationship with depression, as gleaned from the program, audio, and a talk-back following the performance. I surprised myself when I became choked up at certain points while watching the dance. As someone who has also struggled with anxiety and depression, I was skeptical that the work, presented in a sparse lecture space, would be able to offer me a new visualization that felt authentic to such a strong internal emotional experience. I’m still not certain that the overall piece achieved this, but there were enough clear moments that brought me to a sense of catharsis alongside the performers.

The show began with Symmer Andrews lip syncing to Jake Tyler’s “I’m Fine” TED Talk, a sort of stand-up routine highlighting the importance of naming and sharing feelings. Andrews was so successful at this opening moment; her body language was loose and congenial while switching between the emotions of the words as authentically as Tyler’s talk. From this opening moment, the dance took off in a series of vignettes, providing a snapshot into a cycle of emotions. While the choreographic structure became predictable at times (extended canon into either stillness or a solo moment, for example), Airmet’s creative use of the space kept the piece fresh and unknown. From a dancer tearing off pieces of paper and placing them so only the front row could see, to not being afraid of exiting and immediately re-emerging, to the unique lighting patterns created on the side walls, everything seemed like it might have been accidental, yet in doing so felt intentional and extremely defiant.

While the structure created a sense of controlled chaos, the dancers ended up performing much of the same movement as one another, from wave-like patterns of the arms to struggling while crawling towards the audience. Within the chaos, my eye jumped to identifying dancers. The unison was never perfect, but allowed the dancers to shine individually. In a piece about such an individual experience (whether or not it should be is a different question), I appreciated that Airmet allowed this. Andrews, Ashley Creek, Kendall Fischer (Myriad’s current artistic director), Amelia Martinez, Fiona Nelson, Margarita Lucia Olvera, and Alyx Pitkin all had their moments to shine. Some were more memorable than others, but it was refreshing to be reminded that even though this was an ensemble, it was still made up of individuals. I was especially drawn to the intensity of Olvera’s movement. Nothing she did felt reserved; she moved with such risk, even in the stiller moments, embodying a heightened sense of turmoil and relief.

The most effective moment was a trio performed by Andrews, Fischer, and Pitkin. The movement was technically in unison, but each dancer had such a different way of approaching it that it felt like watching three different pieces. The vignette never felt rushed and allowed me to live in the moment with the dancers. Choreographically, it was minimal and gestural but, with the dancers’ focus tending to be internal, I felt every emotion they did as their hands shook and grasped at themselves. When making work about an emotional experience such as depression or anxiety, it's good to be conscious of whether the performers are just portraying or truly experiencing an emotion; here was the most successful example of a true cathartic experience throughout the show.

Almost immediately afterward, the rest of the cast re-entered the space in stillness as Pitkin delivered a poem, which I believe Airmet wrote. Pitkin broke down in tears that felt unplanned, making her delivery that much more powerful. The words “Just give it another day” seemed to reflect both the poet speaking to themselves, but also to the audience. It became more poignant when three of the dancers read a letter aloud that was written by Airmet’s grandmother. While their delivery might have been a little stiff, I found myself choking back tears as the words (“I can tell by how you sound”) seemed to come right from my own mother, trying to discern something she sensed to be not quite right. The universality of needing an outside figure to recognize your pain resonated strongly with me.

At the end of Lavender Words/Saltwater Resolutions, Airmet opened the floor for a Q & A. Starting with questions about how the piece was put together (“How do you select music?” or “What is your creative process like?”), the Q & A morphed into a forum that touched on experiences grappling with anxiety and depression, relief at its depiction in dance, and a conversation on difficulties identifying with anxiety or depression when not personally suffering from either. In these final moments, I was reminded of my appreciation for the audience and its variety of individuals. I also appreciate Myriad’s commitment to keeping dance accessible, as the Q & A reiterated the importance of art - not just in artists’ lives but in audiences’ as well. Often, we don’t know we need something until we have experienced it, and I applaud Myriad Dance Company and Temria Airmet for expanding their community in a relatable yet meaningful way.

Natalie Gotter is a performer, choreographer, instructor, filmmaker, and researcher. She recently completed an MFA in modern dance at the University of Utah and is a faculty member at Utah Valley University, Westminster College, and Salt Lake Community College.

Brine: Disembodied We

Brine’s Disembodied We (presented by Repertory Dance Theatre's Link Series) was performed to a sellout crowd on Friday at the Rose Wagner’s Leona Wagner Black Box, one of my favorite venues. It was lovely to see the theatre filled with an enthusiastic audience. “Take your own interpretations from the works presented and glean your own meanings from what you witness,” exhorted Ashley Creek in the program notes; and so, I will venture to do so.

“A.D. Part Two: Terra”, choreographed by Creek, set the evening off to an intriguing start, with two masked faces peeking out from behind black curtains. They parted to reveal a sea of shimmering black-clad bodies and masked faces, and … yet another black curtain. That too parted. The dancers moved and drummed insistently on the floor, as they rolled, pulled and pushed, leapt and gesticulated. As a lone, unmasked dancer gestured repeatedly in the foreground, the masked crowd seemed to be both menacing and supportive in turns. It simultaneously evoked the facades we wear to smooth our daily social interactions and, at the same time, there was a hint of the aggression with impunity empowered by anonymity of the mask, as on internet message boards. When the masked dancers marched up along the aisles to engage the audience in an intense turbulent conversation, it was a powerful moment, if somewhat overwrought. It indicated that this was a sequel to another work, which this viewer has not had the pleasure of watching. As in Greek theatre, the masks with the exaggerated expressions were successful in inducing dread and disquiet that the music and the mostly-dim lighting also amplified.

At the very end of the piece, the dancers threw their masks with just a split second in which to reveal themselves and one wondered: was it joy, was it triumph; what did they reveal?

Monica Campbell’s “Passage” commenced with Lady Liberty's immortal words:

“Give me your tired, your poor, / Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, / The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. / Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, / I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

As music by Warsaw Village Band rose in plaintive notes, dancers gracefully promenaded across the floor, conjuring an unmistakable imagery of loss, regret, and longing for what lies behind whilst still looking toward the hope of the future: the epitome of every immigrant's journey. A lyrical piece, it also possessed subtle hints at the support structures, or lack thereof, for these communities within unfamiliar mores of the new land -- like safety nets that at once protect and stifle. A sense of the struggle to fit in, and then of eventual assimilation, was echoed by the physical movements of the dancers.

The exceptional item of the evening followed: Alicia Trump's “Gaslighting Blatherskites" was nothing short of brilliant, at least for this reviewer. Two dancers performed in perfect synchrony to minimal yet stirring music, with aptly chosen snippets of audio from presidential campaign debates past. Together, these elements rendered a masterful portrayal of sound-byte culture, the lack of nuanced or sustained discussion in debates, and the arguments that consume our current political and social discourse. With unceasing dynamism, pithy messaging, unimpeachably adroit choreography and equally exquisite execution that had me glued to the edge of my seat wanting more, this was one of the stand-out pieces of the concert for me. It would be hard to provide a narrative description of the movement in this chimerical piece; one had to see it to experience it. 'Do you feel safe, I don't feel so safe...' in the voice of our current President Trump -- the words trailed off as the lights went out.

Gina Terrell’s “Kwashiorkor” (or, serious malnutrition caused by lack of protein) highlighted the plight of starving children the world over, and juxtaposed images of hunger and need in the background with the soft grace of giving in the foreground. Appearing first in bare leotards, women writhed, angst-ridden, embodying a state of famine; then, the imagery evolved to that of plenty, and perhaps even of waste, as they danced to grain falling from the sky. This conveyed eloquently that it is not an absence of plenty but rather plenty of absence that allows millions to go undernourished. The piece was well-conceived, though the images of starving African children  seemed a tad bit overt, and trite. Certainly, it tugged at the heartstrings of my inner maternal persona. I wonder if they could have achieved the same effect with different, more subtle symbolism.

After the intermission, “What breaks us” by Sara Pickett explored how emotional bulwarks are erected and broken, and illustrated the effect of conformity, of complacence, and the stimulus needed to perhaps lurch us out of these malingering states into one of active response. The bare minimum soundscape for the choreography was intriguing and novel. The idea was well-envisaged, but the execution felt a little less energetic than one might have hoped for.

Symmer Andrew’s “Fragments” began with a video of dancers individually emoting to the camera, first in night-time surroundings, followed by a gathering on a grassy lawn. Shortly thereafter the dancers descended onto the stage in the same configuration, accompanied by live music (which was somewhat unsettling: intentionally so, I suspect). I confess, I was somewhat confounded by this piece, unsure of how to interpret it. While there certainly was an element of chaos as indicated by the title, the intent behind it was ambiguous, and eluded an easy elucidation in my mind.

The final item of the evening, “Lucy (Part 1)” by LAJAMARTIN, was a high-energy, technically demanding disquisition of the early origins of human civilization. A glimpse of early encounters with wild animals, the fear response, tribal bonding and rivalry, and the seeking of shelter from the elements were all beautifully illustrated in a power-packed performance of muscular, gasp-inducing moves. The dancers prowled, hunted, beat with sticks, leapt into the air, landed low on the ground; it was all incredibly athletic. Every facet that goes into the presentation of performing arts -- audio, lighting, costuming, specials effects (i.e., snow falling and blowing like a blizzard like in this piece) -- along with the sheer grace and vigorous dexterity of the dancers was optimally employed in this intimate theatre setting. It capped off a thoroughly enjoyable evening on a high note.

Overall, Disembodied We was a moving, thought-provoking, and entertaining experience to be savoured for this somewhat unschooled viewer of modern dance. It inspires me to bring the same sensibility to the milieu of classical Indian dance forms that I am more familiar with. Kudos to RDT and Brine for a well-produced, wisely curated evening.

Srilatha Singh is a Bharatanatyam artiste and the director of Chitrakaavya Dance. While interested in encouraging excellence in her art form, she is also keenly compelled to explore relevance and agency through the artistic medium.