Cat + Fish: Forge

Dancing is this big ongoing thing. More than anything else, it continues – past the blackouts, wings, and curtain calls – far beyond where the bodies come in and out of view.

I think about such ongoingness when I see a show like Forge, presented at Westminster College this weekend by Cat + Fish. Artistic Director Cat Kamrath’s contributions to the evening form a suite – Strong Back, Soft Front, and Wild Heart. The mark of the university as a container for dance – a recent historical phenomenon – is strong in these works. It might be easy to criticize these pieces for the straightforwardness of how they use basic compositional tools. It might be easy to criticize the bodies getting tossed in the air based on a logic common to dances made to make better dancers. But, here indeed are strong, vivid, well-trained but still human performers. They feel their way through what they’re doing with a presence that’s more than academic. They don’t leave you feeling left out of a secret. The pleasures are infectious and intended to be available. 

The dancers even swim upstream a little. Micah Burkhardt, Madaline Maravillas, and Ursula Perry make a striking, unexpected threesome in Soft Front. Mostly, the way they touch each other is exactly what I expect, but there are junctures where the script seems to fall away. Daniel Do, Mar Undag, and Emma Sargent have solos in which I see a much freer practice that I imagine belongs to each of them privately. 

I do find myself wondering if Camrath’s use of sound as wallpaper is what’s keeping these pieces from transcending their context. She might do well to take risks with music that would make real choreographic demands, or to play with more silence. 

Daniel Do’s work Fortitude, though at times melodramatic, gestured toward such an approach. Performed by Kamrath, who’s more unorthodox as a performer, Fortitude seemed to be about a woman in search of a self-knowledge available only through sweat, trial, and error. Five lonely balloons shivered eerily in moments when Kamrath paused to reflect. 

Natalie Gotter contributed Anna, a duet for Molly Cook and Conner Erickson. Dressed in matching gray and white uniforms, the two drew pictures on butcher paper and eventually on each other. This twinning pair seemed inevitably a couple – it’s still so hard for us not to imagine a man and women partnering as such. Anna had a coldness that somehow put me in mind of science fiction. I appreciated the commentary about how we relate to each other through increasingly banal signs and symbols. By the end, they might have been tattooing each other with emojis.

Forge continues this Saturday, July 20, at 7:30 p.m. at Westminster College. Photos above by Zach Nguyen.

Samuel Hanson is the editor and executive director of loveDANCEmore. 

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.

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.

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.

RDT: Emerge

Repertory Dance Theatre’s Emerge was an opportunity for each of its company members to choreograph a short piece performed by local dancers. This review reads like the show itself: eight disparate dance works, reflected upon individually. Although the choreographers might share conceptual interests and influences, having performed with each other extensively, their works were not directly in dialogue with one another.

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You Can Sit With Us, choreographed by Justin Bass:

The dancers began scattered on the floor amidst overturned metal chairs and tables. This careful dishevelment ended immediately when the dancers started moving, tidying up. They rose doing lovely tilts with their legs while beaming at the audience and putting the outdoor furniture in well-balanced arrangements. Occasionally the dancers would arrange themselves downstage and gaze at the audience invitingly. I wondered what warranted their relentless expressions of joy mixed with occasional ambivalence and why we were invited to sit with them.

One Step Forward, 500 Miles Back, choreographed and performed by Efrén Corado García:

The lights illuminated García in a striking position - his back to the audience, dark tresses shifting with his rippling arm movements. The piece was parsed into images triggered by the lights going off and then on again, similar to David Parson’s Caught. García, however, was not “caught” in midair, but grounded. He seemed to transform into a new entity for each snapshot, his still-visible silhouette  running to a new location onstage and then settling into position in quasi-darkness (due to the blaring lights from the sound booth). Arvo Pärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel gently pushed the dance forward; each repetition of layered melodies created a common thread between dynamically distinct movement images.

Miasma, choreographed by Jaclyn Brown:

The first third of this piece was a loose-limbed solo danced by Alicia Trump, whose hands occasionally cupped Martha Graham-style, but without the usual rigid arms and contracted torso - a compelling anachronism. This was followed by another solo danced by Marty Buhler, whose likewise loose limbs traversed the opposite diagonal. In the third section the two abruptly came into contact with familiar combative duet material. It was more interesting to witness the two when they were physically separate but moving in relation to each other, connected by common movement vocabulary and compositional elements rather than the obvious physical connection that is expected of a duet between a male and female. The piece started so strikingly with isolated solos, but deferred to duet material without precedence from within the piece to do so.

Figure it out, choreographed by Tyler Orcutt:

This piece consisted of a foundational walking pattern executed by Natalie Border, Tiana Lovett, and Gaby Zabka. Their knees were bent while walking, keeping them in a middle range between standing and fully descended, which they remained within even when they deviated from the walking pattern. Sometimes one dancer would fall in a sustained manner into the arms of the other two, or all of them would do their own phrase. But they consistently settled back into the original pattern that seemed to demand a lot of focus, both from the dancers to stay in sync and from the audience to “figure it out”.

Folie a Deux , choreographed by Nicholas Cendese:

Company members Ursula Perry and Daniel Higgins performed this duet exploring the “madness of two”. Their shared psychosis was manifested in a tense physicality and dim lights. Higgins repeatedly lifted Perry’s arm from the wrist, then tried to encircle her with both arms, only to encircle air as she ducked out of the way. Perry usually manipulated Higgins indirectly while repeating her own phrase that would happen to nudge him out of the way or allow her to slither out of his more direct grasp. Folie a Deux seemed to be an unabashed acknowledgement of the futility of repeating the same action without resolution.

Ipseity, choreographed by Daniel Higgins:

The music of Turkish composer and DJ Mercan Dede created a driving sound texture to which seven white, female dancers moved confidently while wearing identical tan, long-sleeved mini-dresses with slits on the sides. A loose narrative developed, punctuated by a scene in which all of the dancers stood around Elle Johansen who was lying supine. Natalie Border placed her hand on Johansen’s torso and then moved downstage. The two performed mirrored movement upstage and downstage while the other dancers sat in the middle creating a barrier. The piece ended with a powerfully tender solo performed by Border downstage while the rest of the dancers were shrouded in darkness upstage.

after/ever, choreographed by Lauren Curley:

For after/ever, Curley mixed and matched . Dancer Micah Burkhardt wore a skirt that matched the shirt of partner Megan O’Brien. Composer Eli Wrankle performed the violin live onstage, but was accompanied by a recording of himself that served as the rhythm to the melody that he performed. Both pairs - skirt and shirt, melody and rhythm - were separated by space and composition. The implied interdependency of these pairings was subverted by the fact that each component was operated by either another person or a rigid recording. Sometimes Burkhardt would lift O’Brien onto his shoulders or balance her in a fetal position on his reclined torso, emphasizing that the two were not actually one entity despite what their outfits might imply. after/ever brusquely revealed glitches in connectivity between autonomous beings.

Lively Sa-Sa, choreographed by Justin Bass and Ursula Perry:

This collaboration certainly was lively. The dancers had all participated in the company’s Winterdance Workshop and this piece served as a demonstration of what they had done. The movement was alternately wiggly and linear, like a graceful classic jazz dancer acting silly on the dance floor at a wedding reception. The workshop seemed like an upbeat way to stay warm in the beginning of January.

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Emerge seemed to feature mere glimpses of what RDT dancers are interested in choreographically partly because it was structured like a recital, not an interwoven concert. I am curious to see if any members continue these explorations beyond initial emergence.

Emma Wilson is a graduate of the University of Utah and regular contributor to loveDANCEmore. She frequently jams with Porridge for Goldilocks and was recently a choreographer for Red Lake at the Fringe Festival.