Myriad Dance: Penumbra

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deseret Experimental Opera: Life Relegated

Desert Experimental Opera is full of enthusiasm and ambition. Their new show Life Relegated, at an empty space (formerly Urban Outfitters) in The Gateway Mall, brings together several bands and an army of local dancers. It’s a bit like a talent show, in the best sense. Things unfold under the auspices of a plot that feels intentionally loose - each band is “dressed” as one of Utah’s national parks, who, personified, are recently out of work and facing down the “Invisible Hand” of the market, as voiced by a Stephen Hawking-esque computer voice.

Zion National Park explores its religious identity, Canyonlands submits to advertising, and Bryce Canyon sells out to a pharmaceutical company for better health insurance. The ballads of these anthropomorphized landscapes are sometimes clever, but the writing never feels like more than an excuse for the gathering. The whole experience is familiar if you’re from Utah. A place that’s still nominally a theocracy can elicit a kind of vague solidarity among those who fancy themselves outsiders.

The best thing about this show is the chance to see so many local performers all at once. Bands It Foot, It Ears and Durian Durian both shine musically. It’s encouraging to see a whole new generation of dancers who seem to be establishing themselves in Salt Lake for good. Emma Sargent partners with a panel of broken red-rock in a solo that recalls Eric Handman’s heroic soliloquies and also, somehow, the rune-like gestures of Daniel Nagrin. Emma Wilson, Meagan Bertelsen, and Amy Freitas, who we’ve recently lost to Moab, shine in some of the wilder moments when bodies fill the space. These three know how to listen and thus how to take the lead in the large group improvisations which make the rock and roll in this rock opera visual as well as aural.

That things never quite coalesce is hardly a problem - although I do wonder what some of these artists might really have to say about the politics of wilderness. We do have a bizarre relationship to the natural beauty in the southern part of our state. That this production doesn’t have much more to say about it than the craft beer bottles that celebrate hoodoos and arches is perhaps intentional. But I look forward to some of these artists making a deeper foray into some of the thornier questions.

Deseret Experimental Opera’s Life Relegated continues through Sunday, May 19, at The Gateway Mall.

Samuel Hanson is the editor and executive director of loveDANCEmore. 

Plush Panoply at The Gateway

Plush Panoply was the second show to take place at the newly redefined Gateway this weekend, this one in the since-vacated, former Build-a-Bear store (I reviewed the other show, one by Breeanne Saxton, here).

Plush Panoply was an evening of solo works created by local female-identifying artists. Having now seen a number of performances in the space, I am familiar with the DIY, works-in-progress feel that often accompanies it --  but, while I appreciate the tongue-in-cheek attitude of its identification, can we, as a community, find a name for it that makes it easier for first-timers to find? Or at least put something on the door?

While the now-coined Abandoned Build-a-Bear has typically been used for more avant-garde, all-genre works, the team responsible for Plush Panoply managed to make the space feel settled and intentional, beyond just a reaction to the space at hand.

Upon reflection, I had a hard time finding a through-line for the show beyond the fact that it represented a roster of all female-identifying artists. All of the works still retained a “work-in-progress” feel which, while never a negative, did make the show feel more like individual, fleeting thoughts than a fleshed-out conversation. As the program mostly featured choreographers and performers associated with the University of Utah, a sense of research was present, with individual inquiries giving way to anger, humor, and turmoil.

The evening began with “The Long Fog,” created and performed by Hannah Fischer. Envelopes were geometrically arranged on the floor, shaping Fischer’s space into an even smaller square. While the audio, by Silver Mt. Zion, provided a clear development, I found the movement and intimacy created by the space to be more interesting. Paying attention to how Fischer navigated the twists and curves of her spine was more meaningful since we could hear her breath, her small sounds of effort, and see her making eye contact, intentional or not, with the audience. When she ruptured the square of envelopes, it felt like we were placed in the middle of an experience: not the initial confinement, or even the eventual ruin, of the space, but the seed of discontent.

“(an) overshare,” created and performed by Megan O’Brien, was a vignette, a thought, and I would be interested to see how it continues to grow past this performance. Beginning with spoken dialogue about searching for herself (in more poetic, enigmatic language), O’Brien quickly delved into an abstract narrative about a plane crash, then a birthday. The movement felt improvisational, with a constant groove to a Bee Gees arrangement by Matthew Morley. While it’s always a joy to watch O’Brien in her element, it’s difficult for me to remember much of the rest of the piece beyond the emotional contradiction of the text versus the humor found in the movement. I would be interested to see “(an) overshare” lean into this contradiction more.

E’lise Jumes’ “Forever Fallible” proved to be one of the most turmoil-ridden pieces of the evening. Presented as a way “to turn [herself] inside out,” the piece was fluid, yet also hard-hitting, and sincere in its approach. Jumes is an incredible performer with a ferocity that makes it impossible to take your eyes off her. Once again, the audience was dropped into the middle of an experience that didn’t necessarily feel earned at first -- but once it developed, it felt appropriate. I did notice that “Forever Fallible” was shared as an excerpt, which made me curious to see the rest of it. Jumes both glided and slithered, in and out and across the floor, in an attempt to confront the space, while always keeping her cool. The confrontation was wrought with deliberate intention; she never gave into exhaustion by letting any detail slip. She was emotional yet had perhaps come to terms with something, wearing her emotions as fact and using that as motivation instead of for reaction.

The highlight of the evening, for both myself and my performance companion, was “scheduled programming,” choreographed by Corinne Lohner and performed by Lohner, Ali Lorenz, and Bayley Smallwood. The piece featured all three dancers in floor-length, conservative dresses and utilized an improvisational score. As a series of tracks played, each one relating to heterosexual romance, the score developed, accumulating more and more absurd reactions to it from the dancers. Highlights included the juxtaposition of the conservative dresses with typical sexual poses to “That Don’t Impress Me Much”; the uncomfortable, overeager smiles and affirmative nods for the audience’s approval to “You Don’t Own Me”; (unplanned?) male audience members coming onto the stage; and the dancers throwing themselves at and away from their partners with abandon. (If the male audience members were in fact plants, kudos to them for their convincing performance.) Tracks were repeated multiple times, which, at a certain point, felt unnecessary, but “scheduled programming” managed to incorporate humor, wit, and discomfort into its score in a thoughtful and unique way.

The final piece, “Bitter,” was a choreographic collaboration between Allison Shir and Rebecca Aneloski, performed by Shir. It is always a pleasure to watch Shir perform, as she imbues every movement with angularity, tension, and intent. “Bitter” actually portrayed a softened version of herself, which I attribute to Aneloski’s influence. Featuring classic tunes by Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, and Ernest Ranglin, the piece felt like a romantic reaction while also feeling almost removed from emotion. Each movement had significance, to the point where I was slightly exhausted by trying to catch every detail; when everything is important, how do we know what matters? To this end, the costuming, music, and record player onstage created nostalgia and helped locate significance: “Bitter” was about loss, and maybe not arriving at a healthy place in relation to that loss. Part of a larger TASTE series, I’m curious to see how it fits in.

The independent work being produced in Salt Lake City is exciting, and I appreciate The Gateway’s accessible new spaces. There is so much dance taking place outside of the company model and it’s a pleasure to see it shared, even when it lacks the large budget necessary to produce an evening-length show. Given the unfinished nature of most of Plush Panoply, I look forward to seeing how each piece might evolve. But I also just appreciate the opportunity for these artists to share their thoughts in an accessible way.

Natalie Gotter is a performer, choreographer, instructor, filmmaker, and researcher. She recently completed her MFA in Modern Dance at the University of Utah and is on faculty at Utah Valley University, Westminster College, and Salt Lake Community College.

Breanne Saxton: ACKNO wledge & accept at The Gateway

After a few years of struggling to reinvigorate community interest, The Gateway is finally finding itself, as a home for a surging independent art scene. The former outdoor mall’s empty storefronts, which have become host to the Great Salt Lake Fringe Festival, provide unique performance venues for all disciplines.

ACKNO wledge & accept was one of actually two shows I attended at The Gateway this weekend (see my review of Plush Panoply). The show was billed a “multidisciplinary dance theater performance,” at the Wasatch Theatre Company locale (at first a secret location, when tickets initially went on sale). The brainchild of Breeanne Saxton, of Ririe-Woodbury Dance Company, ACKNO was a collaboration with Georgia Patterson, Andrew Alba, and Ava Lux that, though brief, provided a sensory, queer, and intimate experience.

My senses were immediately overwhelmed upon entering the space. Attendees were asked to read a lengthy intellectual property agreement (and were filmed while doing so), swab our cheeks, and take a (non-alcoholic) shot, creating a strong sense of intrigue. I did anticipate these elements’ incorporation into the performance in a more involved way and was disappointed to find this not to be the case; but in combination with the fog, eerily ambient music, intense lighting, and crowded space, I was satisfactorily disoriented.

Then the performance began. Billed as a dance theater performance, I anticipated ACKNO would contain some narrative. However, I actually found the most intriguing parts to be the moments during which I forgot a narrative was taking place. A sense of desperation and observation were palpable throughout. Patterson, performing the role of “ACKNO” (at times, I was interested in this character changing hosts), began with a frenetic entrance, bursting into the space and digging through a suitcase. Multiple times, the smaller venue gave rise to an immediacy of feedback, creating an intimacy that led to realism. Patterson had to chug an entire bottle of water and put eye drops in, and there was no way of faking that. This created a belief in her true embodiment of ACKNO; not just as a performer, but as an identity.

Saxton inhabited the role of the “extra-terrestrial special interest group,” beginning the show as part of the landscape, with a camera lens instead of a face. Even as her alien character appeared to de-mechanize, Saxton inhabited it with a calmness, even an antipathy, yet with much control. This was true throughout, as she also controlled the piece’s sound cues: maybe she was out of commission, yet was ultimately in charge of the entire experience.

Both Saxton and Patterson moved remarkably similarly, exhibiting a fluidity and ease when rising and falling from the floor, with reaching limbs and immense control to make such movement appear effortless. While inhabiting a similar choreographic vernacular as Saxton, Patterson’s role as human ACKNO was heightened and almost caricatured through her use of expression. As much as her body was constantly shifting, so too were her eyes, which darted, her mouth agape as her focus shifted. In contrast, Saxton’s expression was revealed completely through her movement. Even in moments of release and emotion, the manner in which she changed costumes felt methodical, if not careful and entirely rooted in her physical experience.

Most intriguing was an interview sequence between ACKNO and the extra-terrestrial. In what also felt like the queerest part of the evening, bodies were shifted (or snatched, as in body snatching) as each dancer experimented with the other’s body in a way that was both meticulous and dangerous. Each knew where the other would be and exactly how much risk to take, clearly the result of practice, yet the sequence still felt new and spontaneous. Saxton’s gaze on Patterson kept her in control, yet seemingly out of control at the same time. During moments of embrace (though “embrace” here feels trite), each seemed to inhabit the other with a sexual tension, a danger, and a desire to be, and also to control, the other. Violence toward one another was also careful; more of a testing of limits than a desire to destroy.

As ACKNO ended, it felt much too brief. The entire audience turned back toward the stage, anticipating more, as the dancers left the space. Speaking with audience members after the show, some expressed that the performance felt like a set-up, a flashback, or a vignette, but truly the beginning of something. While it’s always good to leave the audience wanting more, I left feeling unsatisfied, though in the best way possible. I hope ACKNO is the beginning of a series, or at least a longer exploration, as the show’s disorientation and authenticity truly piqued my interest.

Natalie Gotter is a performer, choreographer, instructor, filmmaker, and researcher. She recently completed her MFA in Modern Dance at the University of Utah and is on faculty at Utah Valley University, Westminster College, and Salt Lake Community College.

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.