Brine: Na

Now in its fourth year, Brine was created by Symmer Andrews, Ashley Creek, and Sara Pickett to highlight works by numerous local choreographers. This year, the group’s annual fall offering featured two distinct programs with sold-out performances, Na (the symbol for sodium) and Cl (chloride); this reviewer was only able to attend Na.

The opening number, “Parched,” was choreographed by Daniel Do and Edromar Undag in collaboration with their dancers. A potent piece, “Parched” created a sense of torment, yet not without end. The spoken word artist Nia Portocarrero was forceful and compelling in her tone and delivery, and even without really understanding the words that were spoken, one still absorbed the intent. The diverse bodies on stage, in turn yearning and yielding, hoping and striving, and coping with support, were decidedly interesting to watch. The lighting by William Peterson was simply brilliant, with blue and amber cross beams of light leading the gaze into a mysterious land, in which threats of darkness and glimmers of hope could coexist with equal chance.

“Guardians of the Hearth” by Emily Bokinskie was a blander number with an aesthetic dance arrangement, illustrating women as perhaps gentle yet strong keepers of warmth and tenderness. The dancers looked lovely in pinks and reds and greens, the overall palette pink as they twirled and stretched around in circles and lines. My interpretation possibly takes a cue from the title, but the intent of the choreography on its own was less clear.

The next piece, “Asylum” by Dan Higgins, was absorbing and yet difficult to watch. The dance opened and closed to a scene of five women who stood tethered to an invisible track in the ceiling, accompanied by the sound of ropes stretching as they struggled valiantly to escape, all within a diagonal track of light. (In this piece, as in “Parched,” the concept was very ably assisted by the lighting.) As they tried to break through but fell again and again, I could almost feel their bruises, both of their physical bodies and also of their spirits. Was this a prison? Was it of their own making? Were they helping each other or holding each other back? It was all a bit ambiguous. Every struggle in “Asylum” felt lonely and hopeless.

“A Walk in the Rain” by Heather Francis was an unexpectedly humorous piece, the dancers playfully exploring a pull towards conformity. Like sea lions yapping until others joined in, the dancers repeated phrases until all were engaged in the colloquy, effectively drawing the arc of an evolving indulgence from the individual to the collective, from the unique to the commonplace. It was a rare use of lighthearted wit and hilarity to entertain and stimulate. It was also interesting to see the forceful pull of one strong individual then co-opt the acquiescence of the others.

The next piece, “Saudade,” was choreographed by E’lise Marie Jumes. A Portuguese word, saudade evokes a sense of loneliness, incompleteness, or, as noted in the program: "the pleasures we suffer and ailments we enjoy; this is our longing for what is not the present, ...layers upon layers of our past experiences give life to the palimpsest of our existence." Mounds of hair surrounded the dancers, as they appeared to experience a poignant longing. The nostalgia was effectively embodied in their movements, the hair perhaps a symbol of what they had lost. And yet... it grows back, does it not? “Saudade” was an introspective piece, in which each dancer was ensconced in her own memories and a dreamy wistfulness.

“Ash/Salt,” choreographed by Corinne Lohner, opened to two women sitting in front of an elaborately arranged meal on the ground, as a third woman on the other side of the stage struggled incessantly, yet vainly, to move against an invisible barrier, locked in an eternal undesirable fate. The other two dancers seemed to eat and drink in turns, while one cut the other's hair (a wig), dyed portions of it black, and later, both proceeded to smear their mouths in the same substance. These were two separate, detached happenings, perhaps illustrating the impersonality of existence, or a lack of empathy: the two women indulging in their meal were seemingly completely oblivious to the struggle of the other woman, just across from them. The piece was jarring at times, but still kept the viewer hooked, in a strangely vicarious, voyeuristic fashion. And what did the dark smearing signify?

“Your Light Is Never Forgotten” by Alicia Trump was as compelling a number as her piece in last year’s Brine concert, “Gaslighting Blatherskites,” and was an aching reminder that grief and loss are negotiated with everyday, long past the event of loss. In myriad covert and conspicuous interactions, the absence of a loved one became evident as their essence was acutely highlighted. That graceful acknowledgment was skillfully portrayed with a spotlight under which one dancer stood. When she fell, the others continued to simulate her essence, dancing around the light that was once hers, not fully extinguished even when she no longer danced under it.  

“Good Enough” by Megan O'Brien featured a cast of four women, some dancing, some observing. They prompted several questions, among which were - What do we find surprising? What do we find acceptable? How hard is it to reveal self truths, and how do you resolve the feeling of not being good enough? The costumes, everyday clothing such as suits and the like, were aptly chosen, bringing home the situational realism in a relatable manner.

Taken in entirety, the pieces throughout Na were all thought-provoking. However, individual sections needed more finesse in their abstractions, which did not always drive home points with conviction. Last year's Brine concert, Disembodied We, was possibly more exciting and mature. As we watched this year’s, my friend and I were struck by the thought of a compulsion to find meaning through our own constructions. Did a narrative exist that was a version just for me and my constructions, or was there maybe even none at all? In stark contrast to the Indian classical arts, where there is an explicit intent to provide common meaning and contextual narrative, the aesthetic experience here was secondary to the intellectual and emotional one. Perhaps that was the intent, or perhaps it does not really matter.

Srilatha Singh is a Bharatanatyam artiste and the director of Chitrakaavya Dance. While interested in encouraging excellence in her art form, she is also keenly compelled to explore relevance and agency through the artistic medium.

Repertory Dance Theatre: Spirit

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

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

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

This feeling also has consequences.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monica Bill Barnes & Company: Happy Hour

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ririe-Woodbury: Splice

2018 marks the anniversary of Ririe-Woodbury’s 55th season of both performances and education programming. Since its genesis by visionary founders Joan Woodbury and Shirley Ririe, the company has cultivated a family, in Salt Lake City and beyond, that can be seen and felt in the embraces and warm smiles shared at shows. The current show, Splice, includes four works from the recent past as well as two new company members, Brian Nelson and Breeanne Saxton, and is a veritable blending, or should I say splicing, of old and new.

Joanna Kotze’s “Star Mark” saturated the stage with a floral pattern projected onto the scrim, the dancers nestled upstage, holding hands in an ’X’ position and facing the flowers - or maybe not facing as separate entities so much as simply existing as flowers. Kotze, both choreographer and whimsical florist in this case, has created a work that blurs animate and inanimate entities and modes of existing. The movement was linear in one moment, curling with expression the next. Yebel Gallegos had a delightful solo in which he grimaced and flexed at the audience amidst longing looks of flirtation. All of the dancers scanned the audience at one point or another, aided by lights revealing the audience sitting in our own arrangement, perhaps inspiring some audience members to consider rearranging themselves in response to the dancers’ confident explorations of what is corporeally possible. The piece persisted to the point of wilting, then perked up again, and then gracefully but suddenly stopped, eliciting laughter throughout.

Following “Star Mark,” Jena Woodbury and Daniel Charon - who have a respectful and humorous rapport together as executive and artistic director, respectively - made opening remarks thanking donors, and then offered everyone a splice of cake after the show. Party on.

Yebel Gallegos and Breeanne Saxton in Adam Barruch’s “prima materia.” Photo courtesy of Ririe-Woodbury.

However, the next piece took the party in a darker, moodier direction. “prima materia” by Adam Barruch featured three sheets of almost-opaque plastic rectangles hanging across center stage, obscuring behind it the dancers, who began with twisted arm gestures above their heads like specimens in an incubator. Then they moved from behind the sheets, born into transparency, but their purpose (or that of Barruch’s) remained unclear. The rhythm of the piece was consistent throughout, featuring lots of forceful partner work paired with music that directed the movement. There was one very refreshing moment when Bashaun Williams supported Megan McCarthy in a floating meditative stance that made me realize that they had been moving swiftly for almost the entire piece without any distinct dynamic developments.

Ririe-Woodbury in “Strict Love” by Doug Varone. Photo by Tori Duhaime.

In counterpoint to the previous piece, Doug Varone’s “Strict Love” was also static, but with more clarity of intention. The dancers moved almost entirely in unison throughout except for the beginning, during which Saxton initiated a robotic phrase to The Jackson 5’s  “ABC.” I should mention that this was not in fact the true beginning of the piece because it stealthily began as the audience trickled back into the theater after intermission, with “Spirit in the Sky” playing softly as if the dance was just that - a spirit slowly materializing before our eyes. The choreography was keenly in sync with the radio-pop-medley soundtrack, but it never succumbed to any literal interpretation of the lyrics, or standard groove that you might expect when hearing such classic, groovy tunes; instead, the dance was dedicated to its own logic and just happened to exist in this space of popular music.

Yebel Gallegos and dancers of Ririe-Woodbury in Daniel Charon’s “Construct.” Photo courtesy of Ririe-Woodbury.

Charon created the final work, “Construct,” in 2014 with a score by local composer Mike Wall. Charon has a knack for and deep interest in digital dance work that “Construct” represents well. Two screens accumulated onstage, onto which the dance was projected and then slowed down to different degrees, constructing a poignant representation of time and visual memory. There was a quartet featuring the more senior members of the company (Melissa Younker, Williams, Gallegos, and McCarthy) that was punctuated with Younker standing alone at the end, first physically, then virtually, her calm strength in that stance a reassurance of beauty through change.

Emma Wilson is a body-based artist bearing several long titles: graduate of the University of Utah, with a BFA in modern dance as well as minors in Portuguese and environmental studies, and the community garden coordinator at the Salt Lake City Public Library.

Municipal Ballet Co.: The River Speaks Plainly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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