Repertory Dance Theatre: Top Bill

With tap shoes, reading glasses, and a relaxed yet specific performance demeanor, William “Bill” Evans literally (and figuratively) stepped into the spotlight at the conclusion of his solo, "Three Preludes." This piece blended the sounds (which were unfortunately muffled on the marley floor) and rhythms of tap dance with the lyricism and emotional ventures of modern dance. "Three Preludes" was choreographed to honor Evans’ late mother, Lila Snape Evans, and was programmed in the middle of Repertory Dance Theatre’s Top Bill, an evening that included six works, all created by Evans, spanning 1970 to 2015.

It is fascinating to open the “modern dance time capsule”; RDT does this regularly, as they brand themselves as a living library, a breathing museum, of modern dance. This mission can be challenging for an art form that was born out of rejecting what came before and one that is often neurotically trying to rebirth itself with the new and avant garde, sometimes at the expense of baffled and unwilling audiences. Top Bill not only opened the history book but narrowed the scope to one artist, so we could see where modern dance was 47 years ago ("For Betty"), both in terms of trends and for one individual, and in contrast with the trends and interpretations of 2015 ("Crippled Up Blues"). This programing also brought up questions of timelessness: why, despite being impeccably performed, did "For Betty" show its age at 47 while "Tintal," just two years younger, existed in the elusive wrinkle in time, leaving me captivated enough to forget past, present, and future?

My opening-night performance companion was my mother, who was born and raised in a three-bedroom home in Cedar City when it truly was a small town. She lived in the three-bedroom home with her parents and nine siblings and, when it was bulldozed to the ground to make way for commercial development, the local paper wrote about how sad it was to see a place that housed memories for so many people disappear. It is now a car wash, wedged between two gas stations. My mother now lives in Orange County, California, where I was raised but, at Top Bill, she was taken back to her Utah college dance days of piling in Professor Whetten’s car and making the four-hour drive to Salt Lake City to see Bill Evans dance.  

Although, memories can be faulty…

Mother: “I think I saw Bill [Evans]’s company come through Costa Mesa recently.”

Me: “No, Mom, that was Bill T. Jones.”

However, some memories do stay; often, the ones we deeply experience in our muscles and bones.

“How many times have I crossed the floor like that?” my mother whispered to me after seeing a repeated attitude jump in "For Betty."

I myself have never done that jump across the floor. That jump hasn’t dusted off all its ballet influence, with its clear air-borne shape and punctuated musicality. It resides comfortably in a past era of modern dance: an era that precedes the blended counts of release technique or the self-interest and -indulgence of Gaga; an era that continues to resurface in RDT’s programming.

In fact, this was my third time seeing "For Betty" resurface and, similar to its previous performance, this rendition was full of joy and technical mastery. However, this performance felt especially embodied with a fullness of execution and, at times, a curiosity in approach. The difference was as subtle yet as distinct as perfecting a movement in front of the mirror versus perfecting the same movement with closed eyes. The dancers were not performing what the movement should look like but rather were experiencing each curve, swing, and jump as a dimensional body in space.

Dan Higgins and Tyler Orcutt in Evans' "Alternating Current." Photo by Sharon Kain. 

Dan Higgins and Tyler Orcutt performed "Alternating Current" (1982), a duet in which Higgins played the flame, flickering and teaming with kinetic energy, while Orcutt played the moth, flighty and dangerously drawn in. A building motif, Orcutt would run into Higgins’ embrace, unable to resist its pull and then, just as quickly, would sprint offstage, leaving Higgins to writhe in solitude. I appreciated the focus and clarity of the choreography, but also wondered what would happen if the dancers traded in their costumes that were spotted with literal flames and instead dressed as themselves, two men trying to grapple with the electric, even deadly, charge between them. Could this other version have existed in 1982? If not, it could certainly exist now.

"Tintal" was the highlight of the show; Evans drew on his studies of Bharatanatyam and West African dance while choreographing it. Not many pieces cause me to lean forward in my seat in an attempt to capture every texture and layer, or to see the dancers as otherworldly. The set, designed by Ivan Weber after the original by Kay Burrell, cut the space into background and foreground and placed the dancers in a world of pre-human organisms that slumbered and awakened with curved spines and rooted bodies. Efren Corado Garcia and Lacie Scott had an especially captivating duet, their spines undulating as if boneless bodies in unison, summoning the earth and its energy. "Tintal" ended in silence, suggesting that its world continued on indefinitely; if it did, I would be there to watch.

Next up was "Suite Benny," reimagined in 2017 from a 1987 creation and dedicated to Janet Gray (an iconic Salt Lake City dance teacher), and the program closed with "Crippled Up Blues," a premiere in 2015 for the company’s fiftieth anniversary.

"Suite Benny" evoked the era of old Hollywood films, with twirling ballroom dancing and carefully paired couples circling the stage. This nostalgia was initially lost on me, and I settled in to let the movement wash over me. Enter Ursula Perry and Lauren Curley: two magnetic leaders, two chaperones that encouraged rather than monitored, two women who decided that pairing off with a partner would not suffice. Instead, they wove in and out of the on-stage couples and performed to the audience, with animation and confidence, that they would pave their own way in their created world.

"Crippled Up Blues," well-described here at its 2015 premiere, took the program full circle, exhibiting ever-changing aesthetics and how an artist evolves over time. The beginning consisted of multi-focused vignettes, emerging as quickly as they dissolved, and a constant yet morphing emotional landscape. The piece eventually settled on what felt like a more familiar trope: dancers clapping and slapping their bodies, marching in plié. This led into the cast posing as the elderly, shaking with hunched shoulders in their chairs, their bones drying out in the desert heat. I preferred the more ambiguous and disjointed beginning world, as I am a product of my own time.

Lauren Curley (left), Justin Bass, and members of Repertory Dance Theatre in Evans' "Tintal." Photo by Sharon Kain. 

Erica Womack is a choreographer based in Salt Lake, and an adjunct faculty member at SLCC.     

Sara Malan-McDonald: Birth! at Sugar Space

Arizona-based Sara Malan-McDonald recently presented Birth! at Sugar Space Arts Warehouse. The work was created as a therapeutic response to an experience of “obstetric abuse” in which Malan-McDonald was forced to have an unnecessary C-section and her “baby was assaulted… result[ing] in extreme, morbid postpartum depression and [PTSD].” “Birth!” promised to “discuss how babies are born; how it affects mammas, babies and society; and why it matters.”

Upon our arrival in the space, several lab coat-clad “doctors” greeted and steered us into the small theater – or rather, waiting room. We were each given a "new patient form,” which turned out to be an extensive, themed program I was unable to read until after the show. Although we were early, a dance was already underway. A pregnant woman stood mid-stage in black, using her arms and hands to fashion winding and sculptural pictures. A New Age-y woodwind track played as her limbs slowly pushed and retracted, held something small, and created a rounded belly and ovaries with a sprinkling of seeds.

In a following dance, a second, also heavily pregnant woman told us the story of her previous four children’s births, using speech and corresponding narrative movement. The clarity of her storytelling was excellent, piqued with humor and personality. I was delighted. When the first woman returned to reprise her dance, she seemed like an otherworldly intermediary. I wondered if we might get to see a series of personal narratives, transitioned through coiling imagery. Regrettably, the show took a different track and didn’t return to those curious stories.

After a pause, two more snappy, faintly condescending “doctors” arrived, signaling the start of Birth! They brought up the house lights and engaged with us, requesting we fill out the medical history questionnaire included in the program. They also insisted we as an audience produce 2-4 volunteers to share a personal story of trauma. There were a few, a range of reopened wounds that hung around uncomfortably after our hosts’ swift consolations - “We’re so sorry, thank you for sharing today.” If the intention was to create an atmosphere where the audience would feel defensive and pressured the way you might in an unfamiliar or hostile medical environment, I’d say they succeeded. I didn’t find it to be a choice especially reflective of Birth!’s key themes of facilitating healing through empowerment and reclaiming agency over one's story.

Resetting for a third dance, four dancers introduced themselves, three quickly fading as my attention was drawn to Sara Malan-McDonald.  Her progression of movement was dynamic and violent. Quaking and convulsing, with eyes stretched wide, she lurched and tumbled forward to tell us about her most harrowing experience. Like the earlier birth solo, this one told a vivid story through openly descriptive movement. Things that might have been cheesy, like a recurrent accusatory finger pointed out over our heads, were bolstered by intense sincerity. Throughout most of the show, I noted the video screen on the left for its flashes of technical error, but the anatomical drawings of women projected during the solo were a good supplement to her portrayal of being dehumanized, laid out, and cut open at the mercy of indifferent actors.

Malan-McDonald’s excellent solo was choreographed by Jodi James (and the program didn’t specify who had choreographed the prologue), but from then on the show felt markedly different, drawing mostly from familiar standbys of modern and lyrical contemporary dance. Ambient hospital sounds mixed with dramatic orchestral scores. A strangely-placed and syrupy Tori Amos song jarred with a heavy emphasis on declarative statements from the dancers. Giant placards with words like “fear” and “depersonalization” were held up as they spouted a stream of statistics about C-section rates and decried a suspicious prevalence of the operation in the U.S.

However, I did note a conspicuous absence of meaningful analysis or calling out of the systems and people responsible. At one point there was a cry for women to forgive themselves for having a Cesarean delivery. It was an odd moment that both lacked set-up earlier in the work and smacked slightly of victim-blaming. Preaching for self-love and against stigma isn’t quite the same as telling women to forgive themselves for the abuse someone else perpetrated on them (thereby implying that what happened was partially or all their fault). Although decently well-executed, the remainder of the show felt anti-climactic and too safe, missing a lot of good opportunities to scrutinize its topic more fully.

Seeing diversity of age, body, and ethnicity represented in the cast was wonderful, but accentuated the narrow viewpoint of Malan-McDonald’s production even more. Her story was the only one represented, the extremely personal generalized to suggest a universal certainty: disconcerting in a show that attempted a nearly even split between lecture and dance work, and broadly promised to discuss “how babies are born” and the societal impact thereof. None of the profuse statistical scaffolding applied an intersectional lens, watering down its authority for me immediately. No other common issues concerning maternal and fetal/infant distress and death were touched on, of which there are many. And there was no reference to the larger issue of the systemic failures, obstruction, and manipulation women face in seeking medical care around the world. Simply “taking back control” and seeking a different, better hospital or hiring a doula out of pocket to skirt these challenges is not an option all women have access to. The erasure of interrelated issues, individuated experiences, and the experiences of women in marginalized communities was troubling.

Afterwards, a woman who identified herself as a practicing physician assistant took the stage. Underprepared for her lengthy speech, she did not end up providing the much-needed professional analysis I was hoping for. Throwing out a few more scattered stats, she called on “both sides” of the provider-patient relationship to “be better to each other.” Declining to “get political,” she went on to tell us that women need to "take more responsibility" and just "trust their provider" more. Her outright refusal to talk about the root issue of deeply-layered systems of institutional prejudice that keep women marginalized and unheard, or to advocate for any meaningful justice or change, was disheartening to say the least. Having a credible person of authority with nuanced vision come out to speak after the show could have fleshed out some of what was missing, brought us full circle, and turned the closing moment into an affecting call to action. Her waffling closed that door, however, and I left the theater thinking that Malan-McDonald should have dropped the scaffolding, the ensemble, the stage-dressing and speeches, and let her story speak for itself.

Emily Snow holds a BFA in ballet from the University of Utah and has spent several seasons dancing with Central West Ballet in California. She currently performs in Salt Lake with Municipal Ballet Co. and with 3-member band Durian Durian. 

Ballet West: Carmina Burana, with Serenade

Ballet West’s fall offering is loaded with icons. The world premiere of Nicolo Fonte’s Carmina Burana, a co-production with the Cincinnati Ballet, draws inspiration from Carl Orff’s well-known score that set the poetry of medieval clergy to music. The opening song, “O Fortuna,” is shorthand for drama, as frequently heard in commercials as it is in theaters. Serenade, the other ballet of the double-bill, is the first work choreographed by George Balanchine in the United States and a masterwork of twentieth-century ballet. Its opening tableau of female dancers in sky blue, ankle-length tutus extending their hands as if shielding their eyes from the sun is central to the origins of American ballet. Ballet West danced both works with spirit and indulgence, the expert clarity of Serenade contrasting with Carmina Burana’s excessive flourish.

The familiar refrain of “O Fortuna” bellowed as cloisters housing the Cantorum Chamber Choir in an actual choir loft were unveiled. A bone-like light fixture recalling the raftered ceiling of a Catholic church floats over a writhing tangle of bodies. Wearing nude leotards and briefs, the dancers twist until broken shapes emerge. Featuring a full orchestra, full chorus, three vocal soloists, impressive scenery, pointe shoes as well as soft shoes, too many costume changes, and intricate choreography, Nicolo Fonte’s Carmina Burana is a true spectacle.

The poems Orff chose to include in his cantata examine themes of fortune, love, and lust. Like many versions of Carmina Burana, Fonte uses the sensual words as a muse and aesthetic choices reference the authors of the lyrics, though the costumes have a trendier bent with metallic leotards and hooded crop tops paired with bronze circle skirts that recall monk’s robes. With the men and women of the ensemble clothed in the same hooded costume, the emergence of the monks is a magnificently anonymous moment.  

The ensuing vignettes are visually impactful and only occasionally overwrought. The dancers clearly delight in the movement, giving a heightened energy to Fonte’s choreography. Demonstratively musical, the choreography charged the stage with tension and hinted at the idea of humanity’s dual nature. Even in calm moments, Fonte can skillfully craft drama. This intensity can get exhausting, but Arolyn Williams had a refreshingly joyous solo that interrupted the turmoil.

Though Carmina Burana’s movement was rigorously detailed and sinuously danced, I craved a through-line. There were hints of this in an elegantly ambiguous duet between Alexander MacFarlan and Oliver Oguma that lightly referenced an earlier embrace. The arc of Beckanne Sisk and Chase O’Connell’s roles also felt like a potential theme.

Principal Artists Beckanne Sisk and Chase O'Connell in Nicolo Fonte's Carmina Burana. Photo by Luke Isley.

At first dancing separately, O’Connell appeared in a solo that showcased his spaciously sophisticated movement and Sisk emerged as a broken bird with only one wing and one pointe shoe. Though I did not understand why she was only wearing one shoe, Sisk expertly navigated the challenge, embodying a character trapped by her halved nature.  The pair’s eventual union in a climactic pas de deux was the highlight of the ballet. Much of the partnering in the rest of Carmina Burana felt manipulative but O’Connell met Sisk as a peer, supporting rather than controlling her. They danced with abandon and trust. O’Connell’s elegance and seamless partnering skills perfectly matched Sisk’s technical consistency and emotional intensity.

Unlike the embellishment of Fonte’s Carmina Burana, Serenade is brilliant in its refined clarity. As the emotive chords of Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade for Strings in C Major” swelled, the corps de ballet extend their fingertips, floating their wrists down to rest on their foreheads, then their hearts, their arms finally arriving in low circles and feet opening to first position below the hems of their tutus. These first gestures of Serenade, choreographed in 1934, are emblematic of Balanchine and of American ballet. Despite being over eighty years old, Serenade feels vital.

Serenade exemplifies the idealized feminine qualities of Balanchine’s ballets, only turning problematic when one of the soloist men “awakens” the collapsed Waltz Girl. The distilled movement and calming yet innovative arrangement of the dancers are an ode to the foundations of the art form: the corps de ballet, the ritual of class, and the crystalline technique it fosters. Most of the ballet’s striking moments are simple and based in class exercises. The stage erupts in unified repetitions of pirouettes. Staccato port des bras illustrates the interplay between the orchestra’s instruments. Dozens of dancers extend their legs into tendus that perfectly slide into fifth positions, a movement that signifies the start of an exercise.

In Ballet West’s production of this classic, the corps de ballet artfully and effortlessly lays the ballet’s technical foundation without feeling cold or removed. I have admired the unity of Ballet West’s corps before, but I have never seen them as easily connected as they were on opening night. The balance between their singular openness and the meticulous choreography is enthralling. If I had the words to laud each individual corps member, I would.

At its heart Serenade is an ensemble work, but an abstract relationship between five soloists, three women and two men underpins the ballet. Weaving amongst the corps de ballet in the first movement, joyfully expansive leaps and pizzicato steps introduce the three female soloists. Katherine Lawrence’s calm warmth permeated her sparkling technique and Emily Adams brimmed with vitality and confidence. Adams was superb, playing with the music and enticing the audience with her fully enlivened physicality. The role of Waltz Girl magnified Beckanne Sisk’s unique and growing ability to convey emotional depth. Her performance was lush, exhilarating, and sincere in its gravity. While the ballet is renowned for being story-less, Sisk imbued Serenade with an emotional resonance often only found in narrative. She stretched her arms backwards and opened her chest to the heavens as the masthead of Serenade’s iconic final lift and I saw all the complexity of ballet, the torment, joy, sacrifice, and transcendence, embodied in her arch.

Ballet West's Carmina Burana with Serenade runs now through this Saturday, November 11. 

Mary Lyn Graves, a native of Tulsa, OK, studied dance at the University of Oklahoma. She currently dances with Ririe-Woodbury Dance Company.

SALT in concert at the Grand Hall

SALT in Concert showcased works by choreographers from across the nation, “presenting fresh perspectives in dance,” as Artistic Director Michelle Nielsen described in her program note.

 I am torn between appreciating that SALT didn’t try to act like the pieces they presented were related, and wishing that they were related.

 The attention to detail from SALT’s organizers is quite evident, and the company seems to be run very well, especially for such a relatively new organization. Director Nielsen greeted audience-members at the entrance to the show, and at least four others were there handling tickets, programs, and questions.

 The dancers of SALT Contemporary Dance are well-trained and extremely talented. Though the individual dancers exhibit distinct artistry, and although the company works with many different choreographers, SALT’s collective style is characterized by spinal fluidity and a close connection to the floor.

 The first piece, “A Particulate History of Friendship, The Trial and Absence of Stillard Mave” choreographed by Alex Ketley, featured wonderful moments of sustained dancer-to-dancer eye contact, and dancer-to-audience eye contact. Also noteworthy were the expressive shoulders of Amy Gunter Lolofie, which made her choreographic interpretations unique. Throughout the piece, the large number of performers (including both SALT and SALT II dancers) roamed around beyond the stage, making the Grand Hall at The Gateway feel again like the pedestrian-filled train station it once was.

 After such a large group number, it was refreshing to see a work with only three performers. “Paper Cuts” by Peter Chu featured brown paper bags and brown paper shreds as props. What stood out most in this performance was Becca Fullmer’s intense energy, her full-body commitment to her movement (especially in multiple falls to the ground), and the beyond-openness of her front body when the choreography called for it. I thoroughly enjoyed seeing Becca take her movement so far.

 Next, two Brendan Duggan premieres were showcased back to back, exhibiting a wide range of choreographic style. Performed by SALT II, Duggan’s memorable “Behind a Waterfall” was successful in humorously pointing out the absurdity of clamoring for attention and approval via social media. It was perhaps a good choice for a second company because the focus was much more on the easily relatable characters than on technique.

 Duggan’s “Will the Statue of Your Beauty Walk?” was an excellent piece to follow, and the one I found most interesting. It began with small, natural human gestures that were strikingly lovely when performed in unison. This choreography and execution suggested to me a self-consciousness or worry that was maybe related to putting on the right appearance, or maybe about approval or relevancy. Rebecca Aneloski’s eyes shone with believable emotion, making her approach all the more poignant.

 Then the dancers released their ponytails to let their hair down, which was maybe symbolic of releasing from some kind of constraints or expectations. I very much appreciated the unique “hair-ography” that followed.

The male dancers of the company were left watching it and, one at a time, were pulled into the group of hair-women and pushed around and through it. The men alternately tagged each other in to be moved throughout the hair-women, or escaped to take a break and walk around the perimeter of the stage. It is unclear to me what inspired this (maybe the women wanted the men to understand what they were going through, and it was intense for the men to experience it or to not know how to help), but it was interesting to watch nonetheless.

 This section dissolved into some awesome partnering between Logan McGill and Arianna Brunell. The inventive choreography was smoothly executed and enthralling to watch.

 I know that sometimes choreographers want to leave their work open to audience interpretation, but I would have liked more clarity as to how the distinct sections of “Will the Statue of Your Beauty Walk?” were related, and what the full intention was behind the piece. Bits of vocal text at the beginning and middle gave hints, but they were not really quite enough for me.

 The concert closed with Joni McDonald’s “Beyond the Limitation,” that featured two couples doing interesting partner work to intense ambient music. For a company that prides themselves on being cutting-edge, I would recommend for them to move on from this sort of music. The theme or story of this piece also felt under-developed, but the intricate partnering was an excellent example of a choreographer playing to her strengths.

 Overall, SALT in Concert was an interesting and enjoyable show, and I very much look forward to seeing what SALT shares next.

Kendall Fischer is the Artistic Director of Myriad Dance Company. In addition to dancing with Myriad and with Voodoo Productions, she has also enjoyed opportunities with SBDance, Municipal Ballet Co, and La Rouge Entertainment, among others.

UtahPresents: Ananya Dance Theatre

Last Saturday, in the black box of the Beverley Taylor Sorenson Arts & Education Complex (home to Tanner Dance), the audience was treated to an incredibly intense, thought-provoking, rarely soothing, but ultimately affirming performance by Ananya Dance Theatre and its team of nine dancers, all of whom are women of color.

The evening, programmed by UtahPresents and lasting a little over 90 minutes with no intermissions, gave the audience a visceral and occasionally physically uncomfortable, but altogether fascinating, view of grassroots movements, dissent, oppression, and support within that dissent, as well as eventually that of resilience and renewal.

I had an opportunity to do a workshop for three days before the performance, where I became familiar with the dancers and their unmitigated commitment to activism for social and environmental justice; they embody that commitment at all times, both on stage and in life. The process of taking individual experiences and memories and creating choreography was eye-opening for me. “In our bodies live our stories,” said Dr. Ananya Chatterjea, the arrestingly charismatic director of Ananya Dance Theatre. The choreography and performance of Shyamali: Sprouting Words demonstrated that convincingly.

The performance consisted of three acts, which followed each other seamlessly. While waiting, we listened to rhythmic chiming of what sounded like Indian hand cymbals, or manjira, followed by bird sounds. This soundscape created a tranquil bridge to nature, and was an effective foil for for the first act that followed.

Act One: Unravelings at razor’s edge

Invited members of the audience sat on the sides of the stage, holding the space safe and sacred as the dancers entered in dim, portentous lighting. As they moved in varying ways to various parts of the stage, one had the impression of women of humble, rustic backgrounds going about their daily lives, trying to face up to the enormous challenges of industrial overbearing -- and of the resistance to a loss of livelihood, habitat and control.

A quick note on the movement vocabulary of Ananya Dance Theatre may be useful here. Known as Yorchha™, it is a tribute to three Indian movement disciplines it draws from: yoga, Odissi (a classical dance movement from the eastern Indian state of Odisha, formerly known as Orissa), and Chhau (a dance form with martial, tribal, and folk origins). Yorchha™ was created by Ananya in her quest to create a contemporary language that allows for a feminine aesthetic and energy to embody resistance and new possibility.

One of the namesakes, Odissi, is characterized by an undulating grace and by Tribhanga (a three-part bend of the body in a gentle 'S' curve, with oppositional breaks at the neck, torso and knee). Another, Mayurbhanj Chhau, is a virile and vigorous dance form derived from a martial arts tradition, and has historically been male-dominated. By combining elements of these allied but disparate movement vocabularies, Ananya has created a unique, subversive language to explore themes that are far removed from the idealized mythological and spiritual worlds these styles usually occupy.

As the dancing in this act intensified, we witnessed violence and assault in the form of chopping, slashing, cutting and hacking. The women screamed, vocalizing their pain, their grief, their resistance, even as they were cut down and fell one by one into a heap, motionless. A lone survivor lifted a prop -- which was first a lifeless baby, then a blanket, then a backpack -- heartrendingly mourning the loss of these other lives. She issued a desperate plea to the universe against the injustice, compelling us all to look, listen, feel and care.

Guest artist Janzell Luika walked in as the Goddess of New Dawns, with otherworldly vocals, dressed in white flowing robes, and issuing a call for healing and rebirth: “...Come, let us sit in hope, breathe life, change, birth anew...” At this time, the audience members holding the stage space returned to their seats gently and with the flow of her voice, reluctant to disturb the cursive tide of renewal.

Act Two: From the archives of our bodies

Dancers crawled and rolled in. A toe poked out here, a hand raised itself there: all were emergent movements that reminded one of burgeoning shoots and sprouting cotyledons. In the background, barbed wire and different images of walls appeared, reminding one of the boundaries being enforced and perhaps closing in menacingly on the stories unfolding before us.

The highlight of this act was a sensuous and undulating duet by Leila Awadallah and Renée Copeland. They intertwined like vine and creeper, forest tree and flower, and danced like nymphs immersed in play, in each other, and in their mutual love and support. I felt afraid to breathe lest I disturb the painting of ethereal joy that they presented. The aesthete in me relished the Odissi technique on full display in this segment.

Another poignant segment was Ananya's own solo, in which her physical discipline and power was evident in the series of formidable yoga movements she utilized to summon up a commanding image of dissent, strife, and the energy it takes to sustain that struggle.

The musical landscape, with fragmented melody interrupted by rough unsettling sounds, kept one at the edge of one's seat and with a knot in the pit of one's stomach -- never letting one ease into a state of passive consumption. Large, undulating movements revealed pulling in different directions, perhaps a metaphor for the emotional toll that activists undergo. The penultimate image was one of Ananya lying spent on the floor. Then Felicia swept in, a surging,  billowing, gushing river, with a couple dancers holding a long rippling train; these women washed away the fear, pain, grief, and sheer fatigue, making way for hope and new beginnings again.

Act Three: Moving as grass

The screen displayed a wall, or perhaps a fence, with cracks in it; we saw small, mossy fragments hinting at the resilience of life, and of hope.

One by one, the dancers entered with mirror shields which, the program notes indicated, were inspired by the Oceti Sakowin water protectors at Standing Rock. Mirror shields, but no swords, spears, or instruments of offense: only the clear reflection of the oppressor staring right back at himself in the shield. What a powerful statement with which to embrace the higher principle of love and support, and to refrain from violence while being violated! Speaking with Dr. Ananya Chatterjea, I learned of the profound impact that the water protectors and their unwavering adherence to the principle that inspired this segment had at the Standing Rock protests.

The Odissi stance of Chowka, wide-legged and low-hipped, was clearly seen here, as strong footwork created percussion. The dancers recited rhythmic syllables -- Taa Kada Taka Jham -- where the music offered no such support.

The cracks on the wall, permeated with green, become more widespread and larger; the soft green moss had won the war on concrete. (The title of the program, Shyamali, is a Bengali word that means dark green, and invokes the resilience of grass, ground cover, and moss.)

The dancers ended with the insistent drumming of their feet in resonant rhythm while offering up a poem penned by Ananya. The poem served as a call to let go of the hate unleashed in protest, and to hew to a greater love and a common humanity.

“Standing in the scorching sun,

we kiss the earth, hold each other sacred.

........No, no, no, no, no.

In radical love,

I dissent.

I affirm.

Yes.”

And finally, silently coming together, the dancers swayed together like lush grass in a breeze. Like the image on the screen behind them, with typical Odissi grace and ebullience, they bent but never broke, united and inspiring in their resolve and credence.

I left the hall with a recalcitrant catch in my throat, unable to attribute it to any one moment in the evening, but compelled by the sheer ferocity of will to prevail and the galvanizing power of conviction that seemed to descend from each of the women on stage that 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.