Repertory Dance Theatre: Spirit

Repertory Dance Theatre’s season opening “Spirit,” presented a company mission of “manifest diversity,” a potential play on a problematic ideology that led white Americans westward. Manifest diversity suggests that what was perhaps more inevitable than white settlement was voices of racially diverse Americans contributing to a broad national culture, including the advent of modern dance as an American form.

To engage in these ideas, “Spirit,” presented works by two historical choreographers (Michio Ito and Donald McKayle) and two working in the contemporary moment (Natosha Washington and Tiffany Rea-Fisher). In introductory videos, each choreographer addresses their work and Rea-Fisher’s comments lend themselves to this interpretation of manifest diversity as she describes modern dance as a form created by and for people, unlike ballet and other concert forms which stem from royalty, religion, or both. This reality validates the concert’s aims but also troubles its premise. Because the works presented are made by people as varied as their ideas, their own concepts are frequently at intellectual odds.

The concert opens with an array of short dances by Michio Ito, whose work is representative of so many artists whose choreography was integral to the development of modern dance, but who were left out of a singularly Western canon of dance history. In “Time and the Dancing Image,” Deborah Jowitt links Ito to choreographers like Martha Graham and states that he was known for combining Japanese sensibilities with more “contemporary formality,” an observation that is particularly resonant while watching “En Bateau (Blue Wave).” Made a decade prior to another proverbial blue wave, “Serenade” by Balanchine, I watched the quintet of RDT’s women perform subtle and evocative gestural phrases in complex spatial patterns and wondered how many other dances of this type I haven’t had the privilege of seeing on stage.  

This feeling also has consequences.

Knowing that later, Natosha Washington’s “say their names (part i),” would address police brutality, I cringed to see Ito’s “Cake Walk” included in the program. While adeptly performed by Tyler Orcutt, “Cake Walk,” draws on minstrelsy with no sense of irony (not to mention the Debussy score’s reference to the racist caricature Golliwog). The inclusion of the dance asks questions about how dance companies can best curate racially and culturally diverse programming. I suspect it’s not about the range of the material offered to audiences but instead, the material’s sufficient historical unpacking. While “Cake Walk” did not wholly detract from the more compelling moments in “say their names” it does undercut them. “say their names” had multiple and cumulative beginnings and a strong moment of assertive partnering between Ursula Perry and Megan O’Brien. The dance ends with the full cast clad in white and surrounded by snow; they gaze over their shoulders toward the audience, demanding our complicity or our action.

This complex interaction of ideologies persists into the second half of the evening. Tiffany Rea-Fisher addresses the role of female friendships and, at first, I had the same feelings of excitement and longing as I did while viewing “En Bateau”. How many dances about women have I been denied while watching heterosexual partnering? What would it be like to watch more of this absorbing musical material in which Jaclyn Brown excels? And could Elle Johansen please collapse so readily into the arms of another friend and continue her skitter backwards to the audience’s comedic delight?

At the conclusion of “her joy,” the inimitable Donald McKayle comes to the screen. While I’m (truly) delighted to hear about “Rainbow Round My Shoulder,” a seminal work about men on a chain gang, I become hung up on his verbal reminder that the woman in “Rainbow” is not really a woman at all, but instead serves as an archetype of a sweetheart, a mother and a wife. Her mythology buoys the men through their crisis without addressing her own. “Rainbow” both paves the way for Rea-Fisher’s future work and necessitates it, by framing a view that women are anchors for male experiences.

Despite this reckoning, “Rainbow,” is performed beautifully and does all of the things previous critics have lauded. As Gia Kourlas described in the New York Times during a 2016 re-staging, “The exhaustive, angular swinging movement for the men came from the idea of forced labor,” and RDT does not shirk the exhaustive portion of the responsibility. Dancing to traditional chain gang songs, the company’s men, and guest performers, are both precise and passionate. When Efren Corado Garcia carries Tyler Orcutt away at the conclusion of the dance (“another man done gone…they killed another man”) the physical line of the dancers is a spatial metaphor for the passage of time. As the chain gang exits the stage, the dance should feel dated but the concept is, regrettably, still an American present.  

See “Spirit” tonight and tomorrow at the Rose Wagner; details here.

Ashley Anderson directs loveDANCEmore programming as part of her non-profit, “ashley anderson dances.” See more on ashleyandersondances.com.

Monica Bill Barnes & Company: Happy Hour

Earlier this week, I, along with thousands across the country, watched with rapt attention as Christine Blasey Ford shared her testimony in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee regarding the sexual assault she experienced as a teenager, at the hands of Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh. I admired the woman I saw who spoke so clearly and succinctly, yet emotionally, about a trauma that has followed her throughout her adult life. I then watched as Kavanaugh raged and acted above reproach in his refusal to answer questions, unable to believe that this was happening. Later that evening, I went to a performance of Happy Hour by Monica Bill Barnes & Company, where I felt a similar experience: not necessarily a catharsis, but one that was extremely relevant to what the day’s earlier events had laid before me.

Created in 2015, Happy Hour portrays a relationship between two men, their desire to prove their masculinity, and their feelings of rejection when that is not achieved. The show was performed by Monica Bill Barnes and Anna Bass, two female-identifying individuals, and was characteristically placed in an intimate setting (in this rendition, the audience was seated on stage at Kingsbury Hall alongside the performers). An artificial sense of camaraderie was achieved by the Utah-approved snacks available on the way in and the paper decorations on the walls, mimicking an office party, and the evening’s host, Robbie Saenz de Viteri, made small talk and remembered everyone’s names.

From the start, Barnes and Bass fully embodied their characters, from the micro-facial movements to their choice of makeup (minimal, yet giving their faces more angularity) to their intense yet subtle physical posture and choreography. The majority of the choreography seemed to stem from a classical modern dance, and male-oriented, vernacular, reminiscent of Jerome Robbins’ leg tosses and Gene Kelly’s tap vocabulary. However, Barnes and Bass maintained a sternness and cockiness in their demeanors, indicating that their movements were not for the performance’s or audience’s sake but were a means to a specific goal. The dancers’ characters were cool and above reproach, yet when Bass fell, her character was distraught and angry until the audience built them back up again with cued applause.

While the evening began as comedic, and stayed that way for some audience members, Happy Hour took an extremely dark turn for me about third of the way through. Focusing their attention on a 20-year-old woman in the audience (although not a plant, host Saenz de Viteri had singled her out before the show and made sure we all knew her age), the dancers took her belongings, gave them to her seat mates, brought her to sit in a chair in the performance space, and proceeded to try to seduce her. The seduction was over-the-top and appeared as though it was meant to be funny but, evoking the Blasey Ford hearing earlier in the day, the discomfort felt by both the woman and audience was palpable. What made this so fascinating was that even though I knew it was women portraying these male characters, I was still taken aback by the bluntness of their choice. Bass was ultimately “successful,” leading the woman away; this, coupled with her prior physicality and facial expressions, prompted a visceral reaction of anger in me.

Throughout the rest of the piece, this exploration of masculinity continued, as Barnes and Bass serenaded another female audience member with “Build Me Up Buttercup,” continuing the theme. The woman they were serenading (full disclosure: it was me!) certainly did nothing to build up the characters, yet they were again distraught and seemed to induce guilt for being turned down.

The goal of Happy Hour as I perceived it was achieved. By creating a portrait of male characters as portrayed by female bodies, commentary was inserted through comedy. And while Barnes and Bass were portraying characters, their embodiment did not come from a place without examples. They presumably had a plethora of examples to study and emulate, and they did so with uncomfortable accuracy. It may be easy to see their portrayals as comedic, but they are anything but: “Boys will be boys” is not something to laugh at so much as something to be prevented.

By the end of the show, I found myself feeling slightly bad for Barnes’ and Bass’s characters, as a result of the narrative of rejection presented and the musical journey we had been taken on - but I truly wish that I hadn’t. This speaks to the power of theater and to the power of being a woman sharing these stories. In the Judiciary Committee hearing, Blasey Ford punctuated her testimony with jokes and laughter; Monica Bill Barnes punctuated Happy Hour with comedy and a traditional narrative that made it more comfortable to swallow. Someday, I hope we can just say it like it is.

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.

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.

Municipal Ballet Co.: The River Speaks Plainly

When Sarah Longoria, director of Municipal Ballet Co., stepped to the microphone last night to thank Fisher Brewing Co. for hosting their performance of The River Speaks Plainly, she mentioned it was “the first ballet they’ve ever had here.” She admitted that the company hoped to perform this piece on a river, but those plans didn’t work out: “If you can’t go down the river, go to Fisher,” she added.

Indeed, the setting was perfect: flash flood warnings were issued at 6 p.m., but by 8 p.m., the sky was clear, with streaks of pale blue, pink, and lavender adding to the dancers’ backdrop. A dance floor had been set up behind the brewery (where cornhole games are typically played), and there were folding chairs for the sold-out audience. More people stood in the back, and the atmosphere was lively and supportive.

Pixie and the Partygrass Boys, a fantastic local bluegrass band, set up their instruments at the edge of the floor, and eleven Municipal Ballet dancers turned the stage into an evocative platform for stories of river-runners: John Wesley Powell, Bert Loper, Glen and Bessie Hyde, Buzz Holmstrom, Martin Litton, Georgie White Clark, and Kenton Grua.

A narrator, Colby Frazier, introduced scenes choreographed by the company’s dancers, designers, and guests. Frazier’s writing and delivery added to the casual vibe, especially when he began with, “I don’t have any of this memorized.” His vignettes, beautifully composed, presented a balance between historical facts and resonant images, and his writing made me think of Municipal Ballet’s niche in Salt Lake City: the dancers present a compelling balance of craft and creativity, they are well-trained and inviting performers, and there’s a refreshingly diverse range of heights and backgrounds in the company. When they dance together, there are moments where they acknowledge one another and smile. This kind of camaraderie is both enjoyable and rare.

When I asked Nora Price, a dancer and choreographer, about her choice to perform with Municipal Ballet, she wrote in an email, “I think standard proscenium dance performances, and many site-specific and unconventionally-staged shows as well, hold audiences captive; I’d rather feel free to be captivated, or not. I don’t respond happily to being held aesthetically hostage as an audience member, OR as a dancer. I like feeling that folks’ pleasure in an experience is not wholly contingent on my perfect execution of unremitting whimsy/edginess/technical mastery. Even if they can expect to remain seated throughout, being in an otherwise engaging environment with beverages or snacks and a visible live local band sets a distinct tone.”

Last night’s distinct tone was enhanced by the support of a local business, the brewery, and local heroes, the river-runners. Frazier’s narration introduced an atmosphere for each scene, and the choreography extended his tales. For instance, Frazier disclosed details of the Hyde couple’s adventure of 1928, but the dancers’ performance, choreographed by Nora Price and Emily Snow, added details to his story of the couple’s demise.

Introducing Holmstrom’s adventures, Frazier quoted from the river-runner’s journal, “The last bad one above me--the Bad Rapid--Lava Cliff--that I had been looking for, nearly a thousand miles--I thought: once past there my reward will begin, but now everything ahead seems kind of empty and I find I have already had my reward, in the doing of the thing…” The ensuing dance, entitled “The Doing of the Thing,” choreographed by Olivia Mason, created an apt comparison: Nora Price, Nick Gibas, and Stacie Riskin presented images of intertwining and interdependence. There seemed to be a distinct joy in discovering what was possible and supporting one another. It reminded me of a quote from Merce Cunningham, “You have to love dancing to stick to it. It gives you nothing back, no manuscripts to store away, no paintings to show on walls and maybe hang in museums, no poems to be printed and sold, nothing but that single fleeting moment when you feel alive.” Similar to Holmstrom’s “doing of the thing,” Cunningham’s words conjure links between river-running and dancing.

Throughout the evening, choreographers presented different approaches to conveying the river’s propulsion and force. In the first scene, choreographed by Longoria and entitled “The River,” the cast performed recognizable ballet steps, from waltzes to chaîné turns. Her choreography conveyed a sense of momentum as the opening solo, performed wonderfully by Sierra Williams, morphed into duets, quartets, trios, and the entire ensemble dancing together.

In contrast, Jessica Liu’s choreography for Nick Gibas, called “Ballad for Glen Canyon,” drew from more modern vocabularies, with extensive floor-work and idiosyncratic phrasing. Gibas performed this swirling and spiraling choreography with compelling power and abandon, an evocative image of the Colorado River. His solo recalled the words of Wendell Berry, read by Frazier before the “Ballad:” “Men may dam it and say that they have made a lake, but it will still be a river. It will keep its nature and bide its time, like a caged animal alert for the slightest opening.”

There were other scenes that merged ballet and modern vocabularies, as in Katie Davis’s quartet, “Litton’s Boats,” inspired by the driving music of the band. As the tempo increased, so did the dancing, and the investment and stamina of the performers - Hannah Bowcutt, Katie Davis, Stacie Riskin, and Tristana Yegge - were thrilling. The quartet ended with one of the dancers giving a thumbs-up to the musicians, a moment of conviviality that made visible the collaborative spirit of the evening.

While presenting ballet in this hybrid setting - with musicians, a narrator, and an interactive vibe - may be atypical in today’s dance world, The River Speaks Plainly reminded me of ballet’s roots: in 1581, Catherine de Medici commissioned “Ballet Comique de La Reine Louise,” which is considered the first ballet. It too was an evening that merged dancing with instrumental music, songs, and spoken verses. It too was propelled by a woman’s vision.

In contrast to The River Speaks Plainly, “Ballet Comique” was an exclusive affair, designed to reinforce and glorify the power of the state. To see Municipal Ballet is to see how far ballet has come: it’s an art form that can be inclusive, inviting, and fun. My attention was drawn to the clarity and vivacity in dancing by Sierra Williams, Nora Price, and Emily Snow. I imagine that other audience members were drawn to other performers and their unique attributes, and to me this speaks to the mutability and sustainability of ballet.

Wrapping the dancers in a blanket of bluegrass, the evening’s terrific music was composed by Ben Weiss and performed by Zach Downes on upright bass, Amanda Grapes on fiddle, Andrew Nelson on guitar, Weiss on mandolin, and Katia Racine on ukulele and vocals. When I asked Grapes during one of the beer breaks about the difference between a violin and a fiddle, she said, “A violin has strings, and a fiddle has strangs.” The band’s unpretentious and powerful playing was a symbiotic partner to Municipal Ballet Co.: together they created an evening that brings ballet into the 21st century.

The final performance of The River Speaks Plainly tonight, August 23, is sold out, but you can see Municipal Ballet Co. perform excerpts at the inaugural Busker Fest on Friday, August 24.

Kate Mattingly is an assistant professor of dance at the University of Utah. She has a doctoral degree in performance studies from UC Berkeley, and has had writing published in The New York Times, The Village Voice, Dance Research Journal, Dance magazine, and Pointe magazine, among others.

Great Salt Lake Fringe Festival 2018: A Roundup

Cat + Fish Dances: Flicker

The Great Salt Lake Fringe Festival is here again, this year at its new home, The Gateway. Fringe festivals worldwide are known for experimental performances in more accessible settings. This year’s festival is no exception, as empty storefronts at The Gateway have been transformed into performance spaces. The dedicated dance venue this year is also the largest space, previously home to Lucky Jeans.

Amongst all the festival’s more experimental works, Cat + Fish Dance’s Flicker was a breath of fresh air. The dancers were practiced and mature movers who not only knew how to perform for an audience of any size but were unfazed by the unique performance space, as demonstrated by their full-bodied movement and characterizations.

Cat Kamrath, artistic director of Cat + Fish Dances and an adjunct professor at Weber State University, presented a short evening of dance that featured Conner Erickson, Madeline Maravillas, Emma Sargent, Kenzie Sharette, Alicia Trump, and guest artists from Repertory Dance Theatre Daniel Do and Dan Higgins. The show provided a number of definitions for the word “flicker,” but one that stood out to me was, “of a feeling or emotion: be experienced or show itself briefly and faintly, especially in someone’s eyes.” This definition pinned down the basis of the show’s structure: a variety of pairings and groupings that came and went, each offering a different glimpse of movement variation while not necessarily offering a deeper meaning.

Or so I thought until the pairing of Sharette and Do. These two powerhouse dancers were sharp, confident, and full of physical sparks. In a flash, as their duet began, they quickly threw their limbs, heads, and torsos away from themselves with an immense energy that took my breath away. This soon gave way to extremely focused unison, the dancers repeating a deep side bend on the floor.

Do and Sharette re-emerged two more times throughout the performance, continuing to seemingly discard their own bodies for an expression of energy but never becoming erratic. In silence, their bodies and breath became intensely rhythmic and I was thankful for Kamrath’s decision to remove the score in this moment. I was intrigued by their footfalls and effortful breaths, and how they created their own sound score. This may have been the strongest moment of the piece.

Contrary to Sharette and Do’s immense outward projection (focus and gaze included), the rest of the dancers seemed intensely aware of each other throughout the performance in a way that looked both intentional, as a way to create a relationship with each other (specifically Maravillas as she oversaw Erickson in a watery duet), as well as slightly tentative, as they waited for the next person to make a move. To this end, moments when the dancers were truly confident stood out, bringing a calmness to a sea of entrances and exits.

Working with a mature cast allows a choreographer to trust the performance, and a solo by Higgins shone for this reason. Probably the tallest of the cast members, Higgins’ whole body was so extended throughout his solo, in grand sweeping leg motions and through reaching arms, that he appeared surprised by his own experience (the best performance quality possible).

The movement quality throughout Flicker fluctuated between tactility, specifically in a contact-heavy trio between Do, Erickson, and Higgins in which wave-like upper body patterns blended with sharp jagged edges, and in a repeated gestural phrase of hands over faces. Within the piece’s structure, my classical dance heart appreciated when each “flicker” was allowed to develop before re-emerging as a shortened version of itself. All then flowed together to conclude the piece. Typically, I would find this structure slightly predictable, but in the context of being shown the “briefly and faintly” from the definition, I enjoyed seeing a fainter version of each expression. The second iteration was still recognizable in its heightened energy through repetition, though also somewhat diluted from the first.

Flicker was well thought-out and could certainly be developed for a more professional venue than a fringe festival may provide. I admire the quality of work presented by Cat + Fish Dances, who had clearly rehearsed their work to a professional level. I would love to see Flicker in a larger space, where it could be even more successful.

Catch the second weekend of Flicker by Cat + Fish Dances on Friday, August 10 at 9 p.m. and Saturday, August 11 at 7:30 p.m.

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.

SEEP: Salt Summer Research

SEEP: Salt Summer Research was a brief work in three movements, choreographed by students Mikenzie Hendriks and Cambri Fox. The show was produced through the Scientists and Artists Learning Together (S.A.L.T.) and Great Salt Lake Institute Summer Research programs at Westminster College. Their abstract pledged a collaboration between scientists and dancers, examining research performed this summer at the Rozel oil seeps on the northern shore of the Great Salt Lake. The subject piqued my curiosity immediately – I previously had no idea the seeps even existed.

As it turns out, Rozel Point lies just to the southeast of Robert Smithson’s landmark Spiral Jetty. If you’re feeling adventurous, you can travel out to this remote expanse and take an easy walk out through shallow swirling pools of rose-tinged water and sparkling salt, along weathered fragments of an older wooden jetty, to see the thick gurgling tar slowly entomb a variety of decomposing life forms for yourself. Amazing. I’m already planning my trip.

The crude oil first found in the 1850s at the surface of Rozel also sparked the advent of oil drilling in Utah, spurring extraction attempts until the mid-1980s. This evidence of petroleum in the region was the original impetus for exploratory drilling and commercial development all over the state ever since, an interesting related subject in its own right (arguably an unavoidable one if considering the larger picture of our contemporary relationship and study of these landscapes). Debris from these failed probes lay scattered and rusting in the area until a cleanup effort was undertaken in 2005.

Somewhat frustratingly, SEEP offered very little in terms of either contextual information or scientific data germane to the oil seeps other than the fact of their existence. Nearly all of what I’ve been able to gather I was left to dig up on my own after the performance. Hendriks and Fox collaborated with environmental science student Kara Kornhauser to produce this work. According to her bio, Kornhauser’s work focuses on the species that get trapped in the tar and temperature. Unfortunately no further information was given – so I was unable to discern what those species might be or any particular effects temperature might have on them.

The show was divided into three sections, named “Illusive Terrain,” “Transition State,” and “Placed Pieces.” In the first, four young dancers seemed to play the part of animals, as evidenced by a couple of bunny-pawed hand gestures and some head swiveling that might have depicted a bird or small rodent.

The pinks and light sandy neutrals of their costumes were appropriate choices to represent the palette of the northern lakeshore. In subsequent sections the dancers wore primarily black sportswear and shimmied and scrubbed at their skin in agitation while sending wide-eyed grimaces to the ceiling between shoulder rolls, weight-sharing contact, sweeping, spoking, and lunging.

Throughout, I didn’t feel especially captivated or surprised by the majority of the choreography. Beyond mimed gesture and dramatic emoting, there was little in the movement vocabulary that seemed truly tailored to the work, or functioned to kinetically embody an experience rather than merely creating phrases of dance. And, although the dancers looked lovely and their performances felt committed, their well-manicured look, braided/half-up-half-down hair, and pretty flowing tunics didn’t totally call to mind prehistoric animals dying of starvation and exposure after getting stuck in burning tar.

I did, however, really enjoy the stagecraft of the final movement. A voluminous pool of shiny black textile material sewn onto a giant hoop was placed on the stage, under which dancers accumulated one by one. As they twisted and thrashed the audience could catch rapid pictures formed by fabric stretching over bobbing heads, ribs and ridges of spines, a nose, someone’s knuckles.

After emerging from the “pit” and moving in the open for a while, the dancers began to slow down and become frozen for a few counts here and there. Gradually they all came to rest in a calcified and contorted image, becoming the desiccated fossils scientists would be destined to dig up eons later for study and display. The props and imagery of this final section were motivated and meaningfully incorporated, and thus, effective and satisfying.

Given the choreography’s lightly sketched impressions of the subject, I am curious to know more about the cooperative process undertaken between dancers and scientist. What elements did the dancers include from the research? What were the findings, methods, and questions involved? Did Kornhauser contribute anything directly to the development of the work? Or did the basic ideas behind her research function more like jumping-off points?

At the start Fox indicated there would be a Q & A to come, but by the end that turned into a hasty “thank you for coming, please feel free to come up and ask us more about the research or the show.” In practice, this was an unrealistic option because of crowding friends and family and a 15-minute window allotted to load out before the next production. With a concept that rested so heavily on a synthesis of scientific knowledge and artistic interpretation, it would have enriched my experience tenfold to have some access to that well of knowledge.

The scant information I was able to find through a cursory internet search made it evident that research conducted up to this point has focused almost singularly on the area’s potential for petroleum production. It is so exciting to see young scientists and artists examining and imagining the world around them in new ways; I look forward to seeing future collaborations produced through S.A.L.T. And, as a program with the potential to reach multiple audiences across disciplines, I hope they will continue developing ways to communicate the increased complexity and nuanced perspective that give ingress to fuller understanding.

Emily Snow resides in Salt Lake City, where she performs regularly with Municipal Ballet Co. and with Durian Durian, an art band that combines post-punk music and contemporary dance.

MotionVivid: The Ballad of Emotional Incompetence

I definitely enjoyed The Ballad of Emotional Incompetence by MotionVivid (Dat Nguyen’s artistic project name, which encompasses both choreography, as seen here, and photography) - but what a tough show to review.

Here is the description provided by the artist:

“The Ballad of Emotional Incompetence explores the multidimensionality of our complexed [sic] experience through the interplay of movement, text, visual imagery, and interactive media. Jumping from one superficial act to another, the show asks us to find genuinity [sic] and authenticity within the act of creating, performing, and consuming those spectacles.”

I found this description to be accurate. It almost seems to me like a direct challenge to anyone who might try to put together thoughts about the project.

The Ballad of Emotional Incompetence started off without introduction as the dancers (including choreographer Dat Nguyen) filled the performance space with classic modern movement, many moves easily identifiable. Then there were pieces in more recent styles, that included vocalized text, costume changes, props, and choreography with the apparent intent to push boundaries.

The group of dancers created many memorable images as they progressed from shuffling around in a forward-fold, ankle-bind shape, to tickling each other and removing their clothing, to drawing on each other with lipstick while moving slowly and peacefully.

I wondered if the intent was to make fun of specific pieces of work by other artists, or to make fun of these types of work in general, or if the intent was to put something on stage without thinking much about it and demand that the audience do the thinking. Many of the concepts reminded me of other specific pieces I’ve seen performed or been a part of.

In a more unique section of the piece, one dancer spoke as if in a conversation, listing observations about her surroundings, mentioning the blue light of the tech board and how she wasn’t sure if that was intentional or what it meant. This was especially entertaining to me, as someone who was tasked with writing about the show, since I do, and did, find myself wondering what parts of the experience are intentional and what their intended effect is.

The speaker then transitioned into talking about environmentalism and a class she had taken that was about dinosaurs. Her character was unwavering as she delivered her lines, portraying a cliché of her demographic (young adult Caucasian female): fast talking with a valley girl flair, self-conscious laughter that harshly interrupted her words, phrases like “I got really nerdy,” and content that touched on deep subjects at a shallow level. I was impressed by her dedication to this performance, and entertained by the satire.

Next, this character began to attempt to copy a dancer who was moving slowly and peacefully. The speaker character stood close to the peaceful dancer, mimicking the general idea of her movements, but doing so with exaggerated stiffness and struggle apparent in her expression and movement. This was a very memorable part of the show, which encouraged the audience to consider art versus imitation, and maybe also to consider how individuality comes into play. We could very clearly see how the quality and feeling of the performer affects the performer’s effect.

The work finished with an upbeat piece to a well-known song. There was a celebratory vibe, with unison choreography, party dresses, and the cast throwing one limp dancer in the air repeatedly while cheering for her. At the very end they placed her on the floor, told her “Good job!” and stared at her as she remained motionless while the lights faded to dark. If there was a very specific meaning intended there, it didn’t reach me. But I enjoyed observing the spectacle nonetheless.

Overall, I was enthralled by The Ballad of Emotional Incompetence. The imagery, variety, and pacing held my attention and made me chuckle. I look forward to seeing what MotionVivid will create next.

Kendall Fischer is the artistic director of Myriad Dance Company, and has enjoyed performing opportunities with Voodoo Productions, SBDance, Municipal Ballet Co., and La Rouge Entertainment, among others. Her choreography has been performed by Myriad, Municipal Ballet, and at Creator's Grid, and her dance film project “Breathing Sky” received the 2017 Alfred Lambourne Movement prize.

=ibrium Dance Project: When I Grow Up

To wrap up the 2018 Great Salt Lake Fringe Festival, I had the pleasure of viewing When I Grow Up, a show presented in two solos by dancer-choreographer duo Amanda MacDonald and Sara Yanney, of =ibrium Dance Project. Each dancer used their solo as a way to explore themes of childhood, autonomy, and expectations of self to varying degrees of success, but I was left feeling content with the the show overall.

MacDonald presented “Girl Messages” first, a series of snapshots into a young girl’s life. Also an accomplished singer, MacDonald began her piece singing “Children Will Listen,” from Into the Woods, a musical that famously skewers traditional fairy tales by offering what happens after the “happily ever after.” Although MacDonald’s and Yanney’s solos were separate pieces, the song provided an appropriate through-line, remarking that the ideas and reflections of childhood are often separate from the lived experience of being a child.

Throughout her piece, MacDonald performed both an internal monologue and the external experience of being a young girl. Utilizing a voiceover by Lisa Lee multiple times, she responded to the voice of her “mother,” keeping her gaze up and above the audience, making her seem much smaller. The voice praised her daughter, directed her in how to act, and focused on her appearance. MacDonald responded with solo material with an internal focus at first, then with pendulum gestural hands to the audience, asked, “What is the difference between going for what I want and being pushy?” This was the first glimpse of young MacDonald’s internal dialogue.

Physically rebelling against her mother’s voice, she began to push away the words she was hearing, collapsing, then shifting to a “day-in-the-life” scenario. By performing working out, doing math problems, and attending ballet class, MacDonald introduced a darker undercurrent, accompanied by a monologue of “I don’t agree,” “That’s not my experience,” “That doesn’t feel good to me,” and a resounding “No.”

This section of the piece was the most successful, but I wish that she had pushed this material a bit further. Everything maintained a surface level of contrasting internal thoughts with external physical tasks, but with the words she chose, MacDonald did introduce a deeper questioning of the autonomy of body that was never fully explored. She powerfully ended her solo with a sound score of children talking about when it’s acceptable to say “no” or “yes,” but I wish the dichotomy between knowing it’s okay to say “no” versus actually being able to say “no” was further explored.

After a brief intermission, Yanney began her solo, which consisted of props, more voice work, and an improvisational score. Beginning with a voiceover of “Young Sara,” a fairytale about her future self, we were introduced to the set, complete with a chair, that provided a glimpse into Yanney’s life. Being from the Midwest myself, I was immediately struck by the typical Midwestern living room scene of the late 80’s: crocheted blanket, decades-old stuffed animals, and a variety of random knick-knacks that resembled ones my grandmother had collected.

Yanney guided the audience through her childhood dreams, reiterating what she wanted to be “When I Grow Up.” Through an improvised score, we saw her aspire to be an Olympic swimmer, performing with beautiful fluidity and connectedness, “swimming” back and forth between corners of the space. We watched her dream of becoming a ballerina as she played with her relationship to the audience. Bringing her stuffed animals into the audience and setting them in a chair, the audience actually became a part of her bedroom audience of toys, watching as she practiced dance moves in the space.

I was especially intrigued by the shadows at play as she danced to the main theme from “Swan Lake.” Eventually, as she transitioned to dancing to “Cinderella’s Waltz,” she began to criticize the effects of such fairy tales and as she narrated, her choreography gave way to a more traditional modern dance vernacular. I had to laugh as I watched, as it was clear that Yanney has significant ballet training; but once again, I was left wanting more exploration of this transition, especially seeing the trained patterns her body is so comfortable in.

Having lived in Wrigleyville, Chicago, for a number of years, I was intrigued by Yanney’s final dream as a young girl: for the Chicago Cubs to win the World Series. Passionate and embodied, she fell to the floor repeatedly, explaining, “Being a Cubs fan is having the chance to believe in something.” I could tell that these words really resonated with her, in a way that made her other dreams seem lackluster in comparison. This new context provided a deeper query into the shift between adult dreams and those of childhood. How do our dreams change as we become more aware of the requirements necessary to achieve them, and do we ever harbor the same dreams consistently throughout our lives?

Yanney ended the show with an overview of how each dream actually played out, which felt a bit melancholy. Immediately, I thought back to MacDonald’s song from the beginning: What happens when we achieve a semblance of our dream, and how has that dream changed once we are no longer children?

See the final performance of When I Grow Up on Sunday, August 12 at 7:30 p.m., at The Gateway.

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.

Rakan: Masks of a Modern Generation

Masks of a Modern Generation was a performance and dance piece created and presented by Steven Jones, under the moniker “Rakan.” Jones’ online bio for the Fringe Festival notes that he studied Butoh and masked performance under Jerry Gardner at the University of Utah.

Arriving at the Gateway storefront designated for the festival’s dance performances, just in the nick of time to catch the showing, it was a little awkward to walk in and find the place empty. Jones and a colleague informed me (somewhat tersely) that they weren’t ready and I should not have been let in – as the performance was quite short, they’d be starting late. Wandering back out down the street, I spent about 15 to 20 minutes wondering if I was in the right place and scrolling through my phone before they called me back in. Fortunately, one other person had shown up as well.

The performance was comprised of five short character vignettes and an epilogue. In the first, a hunched and black-cloaked Jones faced upstage before unfolding and twisting around to show a painted mask. It was oval shaped, white dots forming its features on a black background that surrounded a thick curved frown in red, with small round eye holes tunneling through bright yellow comets (the image of this mask was the one used in the show’s press release). The dance was watchful and measured; its ghostly shuffling put me in mind of a shy numinous creature, spooked and retreating back into imaginary forests.  Although this mask (and possibly the associated movement?) clearly had a referent in some cultural tradition, no attribution or context was given for its origin or use. [Curious, a little light Googling led me to an exact match in an article on religious masks for a website called The Sampradaya Sun. The artifact is listed as a Nepalese ceremonial mask from the Kathmandu Valley/Solo Khumbu region, and indicated to be part of a collection at the Indira Gandhi National Centre for the Arts in New Delhi. The site seems to be an independent publication associated with the Hare Krishna tradition. I was able to neither verify its claims nor trace this specific mask any further on the IGNCA website.]

Exiting the stage to change masks, Jones re-emerged as a bumbling cartoon figure, the large all-white mask featuring a swelled crown and forehead, long protuberant nose, a tiny surprised mouth and a pointed chin. First sweeping the floor and then struggling to assemble a coat-rack, the performance of this character relied on classic physical gambits for a simple laugh, bouncing around witlessly and prat-falling over his props before dopily turning in shock to look at the audience. Again I felt the itching of a referent I couldn’t quite put my finger on, and puzzled over what it could have been.

Jones’ third mask was also plain white – a squat thick face, its features pulled and pushed just slightly out place, giving it a kind of grotesquely mashed look. Again I felt a tug of unnamable familiarity at its image and the movement. This incarnation was jocular and also vaguely aggressive in its regard of the audience. Discovering a wooden box filled with Starburst candies, he gifted an orange one to the other spectator and then gleefully devoured one himself. Finding that only the yellow candies remained, he erupted in mimed rage. Digging wildly, the squashed man suddenly found a cell phone in the box’s depths and strolled offstage, immediately and instinctively glued to the act of endless scrolling.

By this point, the coat-rack had been decorated with each mask and several more, and Jones elected a plain white Venetian-style one (the ubiquitous template variety you can buy at any craft store) next. A series of hyper-controlled snaking, jerking steps advanced menacingly. It was effectively alien and chilling – until the lighting got a little too wild, washing out the creepy subtlety of Jones’ movements.

In the final section Jones began by lying on the ground, shirt discarded, with a rough cloth sack pulled over his head and tied in the back in the manner of the hoods, associated with executions, that are placed over prisoners as a form of torture and sensory deprivation. He heaved and writhed and threw his body to the ground, flinching at the sight the coat rack and its many masks and generally thrashing around violently before finally untying the bag. Sitting up and facing upstage as in the beginning, Jones then began a long dramatic monologue.

Denouncing “all the bullsh*t masks [he] wear[s]”, Jones hammered out a proclamation of “nothing is real and I and everyone and everything is a liar and a fake”­ – to my mind, somewhat heavily and unnecessarily. The preceding storytelling through movement was effective in letting us know that Jones wanted to “take his masks off” and his old-school, Hamlet-level delivery was a tad grandiose in such a small scrappy space for an audience of two. Clearly an accomplished mover and knowledgeable student of multiple dance traditions, Jones’ physical acting throughout the show was effective and impactful. His body clearly communicated each story with nuance and precision, after which the speech felt redundant and brought not a little bit of a souring Holden Caulfield-esque whine to the whole issue.

For a last missive before his final exit, Jones stated (paraphrasing), “I can’t be mask-less… if I have to, I can live with masks – as long as they are of my own creation.” An interesting sentiment considering the level of appropriation and integration of images and concepts into the show that most definitely came from somewhere outside his own personal invention. Even the name Jones has chosen for his performative identity, Rakan, poses an interesting question. Does it refer to some enlightened ascetics of Japanese Buddhism? Or perhaps a popular video game character, or is it all just a coincidence?  It may well be there are deeper layers and statements being made by Jones through his choices, however without proper attribution I am unable to credit him for their use. Many of the more interesting aspects of the work remain an unsatisfying and uneasy mystery, adapted by Jones for his own purpose but leaving a deeper analysis as unapproachable as the face behind any blank mask.

Emily Snow resides in Salt Lake City, where she performs regularly with Municipal Ballet Co. and with Durian Durian, an art band that combines post-punk music and contemporary dance.