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.

Myriad Dance: Lavender Words/Saltwater Resolutions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOW-ID: A Tonal Caress at UMFA

It takes a special experience to challenge what we know about movement. NOW-ID’s newest production, A Tonal Caress, challenged the audience to question their knowledge of movement and what role it plays in relationships, and, most importantly, the communicative potential that movement inherently possesses. Humans are physical communicators, and the act of communicating is an act of physicality: training the hand to perform specific movements that create shapes on a surface, forming the mouth in specific combinations while forcing air out of the lungs to create speech. For the movement practice of this show, the bodies of performers were constantly in an act of communication, with gestures for emphasis, “body language” providing hints to true meanings, and, in the case of Deaf poet Walter Kadiki, using the hands and face as the primary tool of communication.

A Tonal Caress was a massive collaborative undertaking, with choreography by artistic director Charlotte Boye-Christensen, an installation by Gary Vlasic, poetry both written and performed by Walter Kadiki, sound by Adam Day, lighting by Cole Adams, and video by Jan Andrews. Each element emphasized communication, opportunities for potentially missed contact, and a feeling of otherness when the communicative potential was not realized.

Upon entering the Utah Museum of Fine Arts, I was greeted by Vlasic’s “Installation of Men,” in the stairwell off the Great Hall. Seven men were dressed in suits, barefoot and expressionless, and staggered up and down the stairs. While seemingly unprovoked, the men moved in perfect unison with reaching arms, lifted eyes, and precise hands. A droning soundscape allowed the enclosed stairwell to envelop the movers, and myself as an observer. Though occasionally changing formations, the men remained serene in their flowing arm gestures. Most intriguing was the seeming lack of cues, yet the men knew exactly when and how to move. Clearly well-practiced, the installation offered calmness and assuredness. While not verbally communicating with each other, the men exhibited a movement language of their own.

Seating in the G.W. Anderson Family Great Hall was arranged in the round, with rows of chairs on three sides of a platform that featured a lone chair on which Kadiki sat, still and silent, as the audience filed in. Before director Nathan Webster made an announcement, the droning score that had previously filled the space ended and Kadiki and the audience were wrapped in silence. Knowing that A Tonal Caress featured collaboration with a Deaf artist, I truly appreciated this moment. The lack of sound brought a hyper-awareness of the rest of the space; the audience’s focus was directed toward the seated Kadiki, who continued to stare straight ahead. I focused on his feet fidgeting, noticed a silent swallow, and paid attention to my own initial discomfort at the complete lack of sound.

Throughout the show, one interpreter signed in American Sign Language and the other in Auslan (Australian Sign Language; Kadiki is Australian). This immediately signalled that verbal communication was not the dominant form of discourse. The performance as a whole was rooted in the physical body: through signing, through emotive expression, and through dance. Sign language itself can be viewed as a dance, bolstered in this case by collaborative choreography. Additionally, it made me aware of sign languages as codified movement languages. In order to successfully communicate through either sign language, studying and proficiency are obviously required, as maybe opposed to expressions and gestures inherent in spoken language.

A Tonal Caress raised a question for me: what defines emotion through physical form? Additionally, in examining movement and the body as forms of communication, what makes one movement emotive but another less so? Kadiki’s relationship to the dancers pointed to this question: he stayed on a platform for the entire show, only occasionally rising to stand and never taking a step down onto the floor, yet Kadiki’s was still the story being told.

Jo Blake, Liz Ivkovich, and Sydney Petitt were all powerhouse performers, and danced for close to the entirety of the near hour-long production. All three shared unique relationships with Kadiki while also with each other. Through their constant reflection of, reference to, and direct eye contact with Kadiki, they existed as thematic and physical extensions of the poetry.

Blake’s relationship to Kadiki was best defined through his intense eye contact. He began the show with a water-like solo. Throughout the evening, he also became a partner and a leader of the “Installation of Men.” He provided a challenging gaze to the audience, but also to Kadiki. Every moment, every fluid, tossed spiral, was deliberate and subtly communicative. As I pondered what created emotion and meaning in movement, Blake created it through a physical manifestation of confidence that left no room to doubt his intentions.

Ivkovich’s movement choices, in contrast to Blake, provided a more direct relationship with Kadiki. Her entrance solo was one of the most memorable moments of the evening. The operatic score playing as she entered was blended so seamlessly it might have been missed if not for Ivkovich’s movement. She existed in actual conversation with Kadiki as Boye-Christensen’s choreography focused so much on the face and the mouth, even as she deliberately covered both. Ivkovich’s mouth and expressions moved in direct relationship to the arpeggiated score and were animated to the point of feeling just right, and not like a caricature. Kadiki directly communicated with Ivkovich through repeated gestures, initially in a matter-of-fact, physical tone but eventually with more vigor and frustration.

Petitt was a hard performer to pin down. She was so physical in her movement, with beautiful lines and immense control, but also attacked each movement with a desperation, in the most positive sense of the word. Toward the end of the piece, all three dancers were on stage together, Petitt with a pleading, breathy quality, ignored by the other two except for some physical pushes and lifts. Petitt and Blake had another memorable partnering moment, in which they started with a more traditionally balletic lift but then kept going, as Petitt seemed to roll and melt up Blake’s body. However, Petitt seemed to have the least direct relationship with Kadiki. During a trio, she ultimately became a physical extension of Kadiki’s desperate reach, but it was only possible because of the other two continuing to push, pull, and elongate her. She provided a truly emotional connection to Kadiki’s poetry as interpreted through her body.

As Kadiki shared his final poem, “Butterfly Hands,” Blake and Petitt performed the most classical and fluid partnering of the show, which provided a romantic reading of their relationship. But, as they left Kadiki and his butterfly hands alone on the stage, I was left with a sense of resilience. Kadiki experienced an extremely exhaustive, emotional act of communication as he shared, at times, his frustration, a lack of being understood, and a lack of being heard. But his parting happiness, butterfly hands flying light in the air, expressed a continued desire for communication - for what joy is there in being human if not the ability to share with and learn about others?

The men of Gary Vlasic's "Installation of Men," part of NOW-ID's A Tonal Caress. Photo by David Newkirk.

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.

LMN Mov't No. 1 at Sugar Space

Long associated with DIY art-making and performance, warehouse venues demand a conscious balance between activating cost-accessible spaces and making them both functional and inviting to viewers. LMN Mov’t No. 1, a collaboration between Meagan Bertelsen, Natalie Gotter, and Peter Larsen, fully realized the production potential of Sugar Space Arts Warehouse more so than any other performance I have experienced there. The thoughtful staging under the technical direction of Larsen framed compelling works from artistically mature creators and performers. The white flooring contrasted with the dark drapes to delineate the stage and beautifully captured the shadows cast from diffuse lighting (otherwise often unequal to the space). Barn-door framing later shaped this same soft light into hard lines that effectively limned stage sections.

LMN Mov’t No. 1 was an hour-and-a-half-long work comprised of four pieces, fronted with the admirably concise artists’ statement, “The works seen tonight invoke the role of the individual and their surroundings, examining how we interact, work, and create with the world and other people around us.” After viewing the show, I interpreted the statement in the following way: “Experienced people making the art they want to make, with the people they want to make it with, in the way they want to make it.” This was, I think, a very successful composition from artists who are not defensive about their work’s intention and value, who collaborate willingly and meaningfully. It was certainly an exploration of human action/interaction within the scope of the intersection of subject and environment - but it largely did not demand that you acknowledge it as such. The theoretical underpinnings were less visible than the experience of dance, which I took to be a great sign of maturity and aesthetic confidence. I was personally struck with the notion that a solo can be a remarkable encapsulation of collaboration, and to a greater degree than ensemble pieces.

The opening solo, “Hunter,” illustrated this beautifully: the stage was set with a lovely tableau - two chairs, one holding a lush houseplant and the other a box fan, with several can lights loose on the floor. Bertelsen first activated the fan, and later played its grid like a harp (after the recorded notes of Alice Coltrane’s harp were several minutes past, a wonderfully subtle evocation); she adeptly inverted a long buttoned coat and turned on the lights, trailing them along the path of their floorwork, and, memorably, affectingly embraced the fronds of the houseplant, all of which made Bertelsen an immediate and sustained active agent in the space. Bertelsen’s performance seemed to simultaneously inhabit and connect on several layers of abstraction - the venue, the stage, and their body - with an ease informed by years of thesis research in solo improvisation. Under the direction of Brianna Lopez, “Hunter” fluidly passed through discrete ideas, each with a radically different movement quality and intensity. This was accurately and succinctly reflected in the program notes, invoking “the evolving role of subject and its surroundings” and “constant shifts of attention...through the explored body states and interactive environment,” a description which was met and exceeded.

The accompanying notes for “Carry From Below” were less illuminating. A quote by famous NFL coach Vince Lombardi was gender-inverted to evoke ideal woman as triumphant samaritan-warrior. It was presented without author attestation of Lombardi or otherwise, so I assumed the substitution to be choreographer Natalie Gotter’s. The conceit was very interesting - an act of reaction and also creation, claiming something in a way that thoroughly unseats it. However, there was little evidence of this notion in the work itself. I was inclined upon viewing to examine some aesthetic biases I personally hold - namely, the feminine-but-pragmatic ensemble conventions of hair half-back-half-down and similar pedestrian clothing (here, flowy florals) with black sportswear, accompanied by overtly lyrical singer-songwriter music. I realized I dislike these conventions not because they are traditionally feminine (which is wonderful as a deliberate choice) or not-quite homogenizing (which uniform costuming can achieve and individuated costuming can belie), or overly emotive. Rather, because they are so familiar as to provide a blank slate that the work then is responsible to fill, which “Carry From Below” never quite achieved. Partner contact appeared under-motivated, without the physical weight or gestural context to lend it gravity. The lyricism of Nico’s “I’ve Been out Walking,” paired with on-the-nose walking-path choreography, borrowed emotional content from the external musical modality without embodying its own.

The pure movement created by Gotter and the dancers, and their performance of it, was truly strong and graceful; notably, a solo moment by Christine Glidden and a duet by Xochitl Marquez and Ashley Creek, each of which I wished would have lasted longer. I did, however, appreciate being given cause to examine my biases and have concluded that at their root, my dislike of these conventional forms rests on how much harder this nullity of stagecraft makes it to appreciate the hard work and interesting product. I wished the identity theory cleverly used to such effect in the notes had been used visibly in the performed work - otherwise, I am not, as an audience member, able to credit its presence.

During the brief intermission, it felt as though the lobby might break into a contact improv jam. The local dance community was out in force to support LMN Mov’t even at a matinee, testament to the contributions of its creators to this scene. The second half began with a request to hold all applause to the end, as there would be transitions - an injunction that was perhaps unnecessary. For one, because it is always destined to go unheeded, but also because the slightly contrived visual continuity of lighting was superfluous. The works shown were all capable of standing alone, cohesive because of the strength of their refined craft and artistry.

Choreographer/performer Emma Sargent began  “Firmament” in an upstage corner, and immediately held every gaze with a series of progressively intensifying leg swings, her grounded torso static and shadowed. Thus obscured by her own legs, Sargent subtly stroked the floor with her toes, an image later mirrored with her fingers in a standing inversion, and in the final supine gesture of sweeping circling hands. These variations of levels and distal articulation were thematic touchstones in an utterly captivating performance. In contrast to the opening solo work, “Firmament” was fierce but also spare and contained, even insulated, which created a gratifying sense of observing, of beholding. Side light was brought in and out, which created shadows that contributed to the sense of communion and dialogue with the space. The quote included in the program was deftly chosen, speaking to natural universal enfranchisement in personal isolation from the artist Björk, and which, in consideration of the well-chosen music of Sigur Rós and Jónsi & Alex, bespoke a certain Scandinavian brand of lonely and lovely.

“Fractals” began with directed light illuminating alternatingly one far lateral third of the stage and then the other. Bertelsen and Larsen each occupied one segment, in well-chosen, completely matching minimalist attire that flattered their strong builds, and the two executed powerful phrases in silence as they were lit in turn. The lights came up, they met on center, and began a partnership of inversions, rolls, and lifts, laborious over-the-shoulder carries accomplished by each in bursts of energy. Gotter’s staging choices and movement creation/direction were extremely effective here. You were given no choice but to appreciate two driving forces whose encounters were continuous, dynamic power shifts without any internally acknowledged power disparity. It worked, and wonderfully, leaving the viewer to confront any expectations to the contrary and their internalized source. The dancers exited the stage only to be reproduced as projections on the wall in Gotter’s screendance iteration of the work.

“Fractals” was a very well-made piece, but I generally question whether a screendance paired with live performance is incorporated meaningfully, whether it literally or figuratively reframes the work in an additive manner, and if it does or does not undermine the live component. The video piece shown in ‘Part One’ of “Fractals” touched briefly on the continuation of a single movement from one dancer to another, and the accelerated reiteration of movements, like the oft-repeated handstand, which are attainable only through editing. These were prominent enough to enrich the texture of the evocative screendance alone, but not enough to appreciably speak to their conjunction with the live work.

‘Part Two’ of “Fractals” finished the show with a duet between Gotter and Bertelsen. They took their places with heavy footfalls in athleisure neutrals and knee pads, as though to promise floorwork and weight-sharing and good times ahead. They absolutely delivered, establishing an intensity borne out until the end. Bertelsen’s movement was controlled even at difficult speeds and phrases, her energy continuing beyond the line of the limbs, and with a steady gaze. Gotter’s initiated movement from the center, which then exploded outward, even in a posture as ostensibly staunch and static as a held développé to the side, with a gaze consistently fierce and challenging. Watching these very distinct but complementary artists embody moments of unison and contact was endlessly appealing - with endless appeal being a preferred way to finish a show.

I viewed an in-progress presentation of “Fractals” at the last Mudson at the Marmalade Library; I was intrigued then, and am very gratified to have had the opportunity to see how the work has evolved and grown. Indeed, seeing these local artists utilize local platforms to produce works of such full realization is an inspiring look into what is happening in the Salt Lake dance community. Much of the best dance I have seen recently has occurred at two branches of the public library system. The consummate accomplishment of this LMN Mov’t collaboration reminds me that the dedicated work of public servants and independent artists is creating and maintaining the infrastructure of this community in an incredibly heartening way.

Nora Price is a Milwaukee native living and working in Salt Lake City. She can be seen performing with Municipal Ballet Co. and with Durian Durian, an art band that combines post-punk music and contemporary dance.

Junction Dance Co: Zero Flux

Zero Flux is the first full-length performance presented by Junction Dance Co, but in many ways, this did not seem like the first show of a company that was just starting out.

The 31-dancer cast of Zero Flux includes artistic director Megan Adelsberger, nine company members, and 21 Junction II members (who pay to be involved in this training opportunity), and so much talent. Zero Flux showcased many styles of dance, such as hip-hop, contemporary, house, b-boying, jazz, and tap.

The show was clearly well-rehearsed (as I understand it, the dancers have worked for several hours a day, two days a week, since January on this project). Most of the choreography was by Adelsberger and it was cleaned to her style, which includes sharp movements, gooey moments, and expressive faces. Adelsberger’s strong vision and impressive execution are highly commendable. I appreciated the high energy of everyone on stage, how the variety of styles meshed together, and how the show flowed smoothly with quick transitions between pieces.

Some of my favorite choreographic moments were a few times when dancers were placed closely together and seamlessly transitioned from highlighting one dancer to highlighting another elsewhere in the group. I especially loved the unique lifts and other connected movements in these parts.

The theme of the first act, entitled “Zero Flux,” seemed to generally cluster around bold expressions, and a celebration of life and dance. It reminded me a lot of Underground Dance Crew (because of the large group, inclusion of various dance styles, and different costumes for each piece).

I generally enjoyed it, although I was mildly disappointed in the lack of originality in music choice for the lone Fosse-meets-contemporary-sexy piece: “Fever.” I’m glad that at least it was a less common version of the song. And maybe the dancers felt that disappointment too, because I don’t feel like they shined as brightly in that piece as in the rest.

After a 15-minute intermission, the next section, “Love Journals,” was all one piece, with extra-smoothly connected parts.

Then, following a five-minute pause, came “A.Live,” which included a variety of live audio to accompany the dancers. For me, the most memorable part of this act was a piece titled “What Do You Desire?,” which included a live actor, Isaiah Cook, delivering a speech by Alan Watts. The content of the speech included the concept that financial practicality keeps many people from doing what they truly desire to do. It was relatable to artists, wherever they are, who may exist on a spectrum from full commitment to their art to completely giving up on their art in favor of practicality. Choreographers Adelsberger and Jeffery Louizia danced along to the words in ways that highlighted the humor and irony of not doing what you love in order to fund the continuation of not doing what you love.

Another thing that stood out about this show was the strong, clean, fun tap dances featured throughout the performance, and how they seemed to be a main part of the plan, rather than an afterthought. Tap was a big part of the final piece, which included most of the cast, and was highly energetic, ending with everyone yelling something triumphantly.

The Zero Flux program states eight goals, and I think that Junction is already achieving some of them, such as, “uplift and celebrate local artists,” and “encourage artistic expression to inspire healing and instill purpose in individuals throughout the community.” There are also some bigger goals, including, “save lives through dance,” and, “create local and international opportunities, events, performances, and outreach to unite with other communities around the world.” I wish Junction the best with all of their goals, and I will be eager to see what the future holds for them.

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.