A Shedding presents "A Duration" – share your perspective!

Dominica Greene and Courtney Mazeika, who last year presented A Shedding, an evening geared at giving queer and BIPOC artists a platform in Salt Lake City, are at it again. Since last summer, A Shedding has become more than a single evening of dance. Under the banner of A Shedding, Mazeika and Greene have just released a new wave of creative material – A Podcast and A Duration.

A Podcast is a two part conversation between two Black women: Alexandra Barbier (a dancer and choreographer) and Gabby Huggins (also trained in dance, now a filmmaker, teacher and “art fixture”). In their wide ranging discussion, they light on police murder and how the spectacle of death and racism is digested by the media. They discuss the prevalence of “trauma porn” around Black suffering and interrogate the political dimensions of art making. Both of these brilliant women are worth listening to on their own, and even more so in dialogue with each other.

A Duration was an ambitious four-hour installation featuring Barbier, Greene and two other dancers: Mar Undag and Masio Sangster – all of whom performed last year in A Shedding. I watched about an hour of it and found it captivating – at turns melancholy and meditative. Since it was a durational performance, I thought it would be fun to crowdsource a review. Instead of asking one writer to cover all four hours, I thought I’d try asking the community for impressions, even if, like me, they only watched a fraction.

So far, I’ve only received one “mini-review” impression, from Aileen Norris. I hope to receive more, from anyone who attended. Remember, loveDANCEmore exists to support you and your dance community. We want to share your thoughts, frustrations, elation, panic and everything in between. We’re very lucky (in my humble but correct opinion) to have artists like those involved in A Shedding in our community, artists willing to take big risks with serious content. We’re also lucky to have a venue to express our feelings about what we see. Please, send me your thoughts on A Duration. Let’s start a conversation. Until then here’s one thoughtful impression from Aileen Norris…

–SBH, editor

promotional material for A Duration by Marissa Mooney

I find myself returning to this idea of layers: Alexandra Barbier experimenting with new outfits, Dominica Greene covering a tarp in dirt and eventually tulips, Masio Sangster piece by piece removing garments, and Mar Undag refracted partially through clever mirror angles. People and things, revealed and obscured, move across my screen. This layering is enhanced by the fact that I cannot watch all four hours and must peel myself away from witnessing. By the last ten minutes, I feel as if I have seen another side to each performer; I am in awe of the vulnerability graciously shared. The perspective of a camera rather than the naked eye lends an extra curiosity. I can’t just crane my neck to peek behind Alexandra’s chair or walk to a different part of the room to watch Mar from a new perspective.

What do we get to see? What do we miss? I ask myself these questions not only of the physical realities of time and space—what happened when I had to return to work?—but also of these individuals. And it is true; we can never see one person completely, infinitely, try as we might. A Duration allowed me to settle in, though, and appreciate the aspects of someone we are permitted to witness. It is a deeply beautiful, deeply moving thing to see: someone sharing a part of themselves. It is a testament to the important work that A Shedding is doing that A Duration celebrated that, and a herald of the vital work I anticipate A Shedding will continue to do.

– Aileen Norris, May 3

Clockwise from top left: Alexandra Barbier, Masio Sangster, Mar Undag and Dominica Greene

Ririe-Woodbury’s "Cadence" On Demand

Cadence was pre-recorded and streamed as an on-demand performance. The show proceeded after Ririe-Woodbury’s land acknowledgment which read aloud the names of the Indigenous nations who have resided upon the lands presently known as Salt Lake City and the surrounding regions for millennia. The statement read: “Our organization recognizes the void of representation experienced by these [Shoshone, Paiute, Goshute, and Ute Tribes] and other Indigenous peoples, and through our diversity, equity, inclusion, and access efforts are committed to empowering change”. Most importantly, the statement concluded by offering actionable steps to take land acknowledgment beyond words. The acknowledgment of Indigenous lands needs to do more than merely state who the land belongs to. Indigenous land acknowledgments should foster relationships. As the company suggests, building a sustaining relationship asks the audience to become informed about the Indigenous peoples and true histories of the land upon which they reside. Further, only through engagement in Indigenous efforts towards reclaiming and protecting lands, cultures, and ways of life, can the central purpose of land acknowledgments begin to be fulfilled. Acknowledging stolen Indigenous land is only the first step in dismantling the systems of oppression that Indigenous peoples have survived and resisted for centuries in the Americas. 

The performance ensued with three riveting dances all filmed onstage. Cadence featured three separate works created by renowned choreographers: Yin Yue, Charles O. Anderson, and Andrea Miller. Each of the dances were intricately laced with detail and the subtleties of the works were effectively relayed through the cinematic nature of the show. In its entirety, Cadence was riveting, soulful, critical, moving, and exhilarating.

The company in In the Moment Somehow Secluded. All photos by Stuart Ruckman.

The first dance was Yin Yue’s In the Moment Somehow Secluded. The piece was described as “an external demonstration of an internal process, identifying and questioning the influences of subconscious personas on conscious reality,” and the dancing was as thought-provoking as this quote. The intricate patterns and partnerships which evolved were compelling. The opening duet between Dominica Greene and Nicholas Jurica was hypnotic. The dancers' lower bodies were rooted in the floor and their upper bodies made sharp and dynamic gestures, all while maintaining a supple, feather-like quality. The duet was joined by Corrine Lohner and soon after the whole company was on stage with the entrance of Megan McCarthy, Bashaun Williams, and Fausto Rivera. The rest of the piece unfolded with more duets, trios, and ensemble dancing. Jurica appeared to be “secluded” from the rest of the company. This was emphasized by his deep orange shirt which contrasted with the group's color scheme. At moments, the rest of the company seemed to exist in Jurica’s imagination. I wondered if he was in some way influencing, or being influenced by, the actions of the group. Jurica performed a captivating solo with an impeccable balance of strength, stealth, and fluidity. Throughout the piece, the dancers’ arms gathered, wrapped, and propelled through space as if something was being conjured. I was reminded of water bending. Even the ease with which the formations shifted around the stage mimicked the flow and current of running water. The piece concluded with the dancers running back and forth in a diagonal pathway on stage that resembled a pendulum swinging from one side to another in an even state of balance and flow.

The company in Rites

Rites was a beautifully chilling work created by Charles O. Anderson. I have been lucky enough to experience Anderson’s artistic and academic virtuosity a number of times as a student in the University of Utah’s School of Dance. Anderson’s work is provocative and moving in its call for action and solidarity in the face of the social injustices faced by Black and other marginalized communities in the United States. Rites is a timely piece, but in light of America’s long history of social injustices, I can’t think of a time when this piece wouldn’t have been timely and necessary. Anderson described the work as “a ritual to contextualize the pain of marginalization”. The piece begins with Williams walking downstage illuminated by white light and dressed in a white cloak of sorts. He looks angelic. As the rest of the company enters, wearing similar white garments, the group forms a triangular formation traveling downstage led by Williams at the tip. The company claps and stomps in a rhythmic manner moving slowly forward with a sense of unrelenting will. The piece progresses as a series of vignettes, each seeming to offer homage to a piece of African diasporic culture. The sound score, designed by Anderson himself, exhibited the expansive influence of African culture in music. Inlaid in the choreography was Anderson’s Afro-contemporary style, a fusion of classical modern dance and African dance techniques. The entire piece was like a ritual, performed to mourn, to heal, to celebrate community, and to invoke change.

The final dance was I Can See Myself choreographed by Andrea Miller in 2010 and restaged for Ririe-Woodbury’s Cadence. The high level of artistry, physical strength, and electric performances exhibited by the company were particularly impressive. Miller’s background in the Gaga technique was traceable as the piece demonstrated the dancers’ tremendous strength, agility, musicality, and prowess as improvisers. Miller’s choreography was idiosyncratic in the way it took life within each of the dancers’ bodies. There were solos, trios, and ensemble phrases, sometimes unfolding simultaneously on stage, creating intricate layers and dimensions that were amplified by the cinematic experience of the show. 

Williams and Greene in I Can See Myself

The tone of the piece was set by the energizing electronica funk sound of the Israeli band, Balkan Beat Box. The piece began abruptly as each dancer filed on stage one by one in a line as if they were on a conveyor belt. The dancers pulsed with frenzied shakes in place for a few moments before flinging themselves to the next position in line as another dancer joined from the wings. This continued until the entire company was on stage as if they were characters being introduced before the start of an old television program. Williams, Rivera, and Jurica wore an array of shining colored pants with white collared shirts. Greene, Lohner, and McCarthy wore an assortment of dazzling sequined outfits, my personal favorite was Greene’s rainbow tutu and shimmering top.

The dancers each personified larger-than-life characters that appeared capable of jumping right out of the screen. Even the dancers’ shadows projected onto the stage’s white backdrop were a part of the piece, making it feel as though there were more than just six performers. The dancers' engagement with the audience/camera, was mesmerizing. Their expressions and feelings were intensely raw and deeply resonant. I felt as though I was personally introduced to each company member’s unique persona. The whimsical and imaginative aura of the entire piece made it feel as if I had been transported into a fantastical alternate reality. This dynamic and lighthearted energy felt relevant in light of the past year’s events and this unique moment of collective unease.

Talia Dixon was raised in Southern California and is a member of the Pauma Band of Luiseño Mission Indians. She is graduating with her Honors BFA in Modern Dance and Minor in American Indian Studies this month and will attend UC Berkeley in the fall to pursue her graduate degree in Performance Studies.  

UtahPresents brings Phantom Limb Company

On April 22, Earth Day, Utah Presents completed the online presentation of the last of three pieces that comprise the Environmental Trilogy, created by the Phantom Limb Company.

Made over the course of the past decade, these three works were created for the Brooklyn Academy of Music. They explore and engage with mankind's relationship to nature and climate change.

The first, 69 Degrees South (2011), was inspired by Sir Ernest Shackleton's 1914 Trans-Antarctic Expedition. The second, entitled Memory Rings (2016), focused on the world’s oldest living tree, the Methuselah, and the stories that have emerged over the course of its lifetime (almost five thousand years). The final piece, Falling Out (2019), is a cross-cultural collaboration with Butoh dancer Dai Matsuoka. The work listens to, and learns from, the residents of the Fukushima region of Japan from their stories of loss and hope.

I will elaborate mostly on the first of the series, mostly because I benefitted a lot from attending the live-stream premiere and the behind the scenes chat commentary enhanced my understanding and appreciation for the program immensely – one of the benefits of virtual programming.

Phantom Limb Company’s 69 Degrees South (a reference to the latitude that crosses the Antarctic) chronicles Ernest Shackleton’s almost doomed 1914 Antarctic expedition. It includes puppets and live dancers, twenty-eight-foot-tall moving iceberg sculptures, NASA satellite imagery, and a minimalist score by the Kronos Quartet, along with Eric Sanko’s band Skeleton Key. “Men wanted for hazardous journey, small wages, bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, constant danger, safe return doubtful, honor and recognition in case of success.” Thus apparently read the original advertisement that Ernest Shackleton, placed to recruit his crew. The show opens with a haunting score, and a bright overhead spotlight, within an icy landscape, transitioning to four dancers, soon joined by two others in red suits exploring this icy barren, landscape, within a snow storm (rendered by fantastic lighting effects). As they seem to struggle to find shelter, a shadowy figure with a skeleton appears – this may have been an allusion to the Third Man factor, the unseen spirit that Shackleton and others felt, was accompanying them on the last leg of the journey. Giant icebergs inflate, the sounds of metal cracking, ice cracking, wind shearing seem to be simulated, and in glides the ship. Ernest Shackleton's entry on to the stage, as a life-size marionette expertly controlled by a puppeteer on stilts, is simply jaw-dropping. Following him are the crew, similarly controlled by other puppeteers in white robes and hoods on stilts. The lighting is cleverly focussed on these life-like marionettes, and so skillfully are they moved, that for much of the show, you would be forgiven for mistaking the one for the other. Who is controlling whom, I wonder?

The show then proceeds through a series of tableaux illustrating the explorations of the crew huddled around a fire, searching for food, searching for water. We witness the spectacularly unfortunate collapse of the ship. The palpable dismay of the crew as they (the puppets) fall back – it resonates deeply. The crew then embarks on the journey to Elephant Island, the rowing scenes articulated by the puppeteers are again incredibly well done and coordinated. The rest of the show details the departure of Shackleton, as he sets off to organize a rescue mission. All of the crew are eventually rescued. At the end, we see the return of the dancers in red, they look alien, like creatures from the future. The icebergs recede, the fire and heat come back to the scene, and the shadowy skeleton is seen, as the dancers in red laugh defiantly – like the crew laughing the face of death, perhaps. A sad footnote: many of the crew who survived this this incredible adventure, died in the war shortly after.

Each of these productions is a superbly-original, deeply-researched, sharply inquisitive, and yet profoundly meditative contemplation on humans and their interaction with nature. Indeed, I feel hardly up to the task of reviewing such complex, multi-media, layered spectacles. Jessica Grindstaff and Eric Sanko, the husband and wife couple who are co-artistic directors of Phantom Limb, must be credited with boundless creativity and artistic curiosity for crafting these one-of-a kind experiences. Puppets are a unique medium in which we can be mirrored and yet alienated, where we can see ourselves reflected and yet at the same time recognize them as material artifact, as separate. Interestingly they form a perfect metaphor for our perspective on the environment and on life on this planet – we are but a part of it, a reflection of it, yet we may, in our hubris, put ourselves above it and above all other forms of life. Unbeknownst to us, we dangle from strings…

Phantom Limb's Falling Out was scheduled for the 2019-2020 UtahPresents season. It was subsequently cancelled twice due to the Covid-19 pandemic. The online presentation of the trilogy, while it was the best substitute, merely whets your appetite – there is no doubt that this would have been a simply wondrous event, and it has me thirsting for a return to the live performance experiences. UtahPresents has been a responsible and thoughtful steward of the arts both before and during this pandemic and their eclectic and inspiring programming deserves the support of the community.

Srilatha Singh directs Chitrakaavya Dance, through which she teaches, choreographs and collaborates. Her work has frequently been written about on loveDANCEmore.org, including many collaborations with fellow frequent contributor Erica Womack.

Another opportunity to view SONDER's Romeo and Juliet

I was kindly greeted and directed to drive up a small hill and to wait for further instructions. I was then told to park the car, tune in to a specific radio station for the sound score, and reminded not to open my door during the performance. I had no idea what to expect as I didn’t attend the first iteration of this show, but I knew there is no shortage of re-imaginings of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Countless productions, from staged to cinematic adaptations, have used the work’s well-known stories to propel contemporary ideas for today’s audiences. In SONDERimmersive’s Through Yonder Window, Verona is the site of concurrent tension among all the characters, set on the top level of a parking garage in downtown Salt Lake City. Drive-in movies have a special place to me and the nostalgia of it all made me excited for what was to come. 

The sixty-minute drive-in event cleverly crafted by the whole production team underscores the extremely relative topics of isolation, alienation, yearning, and loneliness exacerbated by the current pandemic, not just in the main characters, but just as importantly, with every other person that is linked to the dueling houses of the Capulet and Montague. It was an interesting take to create such rich stories and connections among the other secondary characters. I was curious to see how they would engage with the Shakespearean language, but the combination of the old text and accessible contemporary jargon was a welcome addition. 

The show was divided into nine chapters, each scene accompanied by Graham’s choreography, what I understood to be pre-recorded audio dialogue, and original music composed by Wachira Waigwa-Stone. I have to say that the music was probably the most interesting and most developed character inside of the whole production. The music, a combination of driving percussive beats, hints of EDM, and elements of jazz, propelled the whole work forward and intrinsically “vibed” with each of the characters’ changing demeanors and each scene’s dramatic moments.

I was curious about the masking inconsistencies throughout the show. The script seemed to allude to the current situation with Covid-19 and used humor to address things like sanitation and social distancing, but the performers, sometimes masked, often performed less than six feet from each other. I felt completely safe from the confines of my car, but I am wondering what sort of conversations were had among the cast about Covid safety, mask wearing, vaccinations (if any had occurred), and if the audience should have been privy to these exchanges before the show began. 

Another both positive and negative aspect is the limited vantage point that one has throughout the show. The online program states that “by design, there is a lot that you will, and will not see.” I was in the top row of the parking garage, so I had a great view of the church and a very intimate view of Friar Laurence and Maria. The Friar was stellar throughout the performance. His full-bodied expression was present in both his scenes with stillness and when he performed locomotive choreography. Actually, every single performer had an unyielding conviction and earnestness that was truly captivating. I want to specifically commend having two people of color play the roles of Romeo and Juliet. 

Because of the impediment of our limited view, I felt that the characters were experiencing something real, I just couldn’t always tell what it was. If this impediment was intended to create a disjointed experience, then it was a job well-done. It could also be conceived as a clever way of encouraging audience members to come back and experience other vantage points. 

Overall, the experience of Through Yonder Window was one of a kind. The pandemic has caused live performances to come to an abrupt halt due to nearly impossible requirements of ensuring the safety of performers as well as audience members. SONDERimmersive is as creative as it’s been in its previous productions. In adapting, they introduced new ways to have meaningful engagement among audiences and cast members alike. I am looking forward to what’s to come.

(The production team included Graham Brown for choreography and artistic direction, Mara Lefler for additional artistic direction, Joseph Wheeler for additional choreography/movement coaching, Graham Brown, Rick Curtiss, Catherine Mortimer for writing, Riley Merrill for lighting design, Joseph Wheeler for scenography, Wachira Saigwa-Stone as the composer along with additional musicians, Laurie Hite, Will Roney, Mason Peterson, and Gus Boglanow. The cast members included, Mara Lefler as Nurse Maria, Amber Golden as Tybalt, Catherine Mortimer as Lady Capulet, Nadine Sine as Juliet, Tyler Fox as Friar Lawrence, Martina Jorgensen as Mercutio, Joseph Wheeler as Lord Montague, and Ed Corvera as Romeo.)

Edromar "Mar" Undag is a dance artist, choreographer, and dance teacher who graduated from the University of Utah with a BFA in Modern Dance. In addition to his academic and performing pursuits, Mar has had his own choreographic work presented in various platforms in Utah, California and Oregon. Mar recently relocated back to Salt Lake City after performing with Polaris Dance Theater and Shaun Keylock Dance Company in Portland. During the pandemic, he made a new work for A Shedding and appeared on the cover of the loveDANCEmore performance journal.

Eighth Annual Performance Art Festival welcomes digital experimentation from local and international artists

I finished watching the Salt Lake City Performance Art Festival (PAF) feeling like I had fallen into a special tunnel in the virtual space. A kind of tunnel that carries stragglers through time in spiraling swoops, where eggs grow from the walls sideways and sometimes burst into clouds of feathers unexpectedly. What I mean to say is that there were moments of surprise, moments where I forgot that I was watching a screen in my home, alone. 

So much of the Zoom world feels transactional, like a flatter version of real life. And yet, the PAF artists seemed to warp the expectations of the digital sphere. They offered a slice of life that was more casual, more intimate, and more rooted in the present. I was struck by the way each performer played and exaggerated time within their unique performance. 

The Eighth Annual PAF in Salt Lake was curated by performance artist Kristina Lenzi and featured both local and international artists. The weekend included nearly ten hours of performances with sixteen unique artists. For the intent of diving deeper, I will focus on six of these performances though each work deserves its own conversation and reflection.

In Paola Paz Yee’s piece the camera settles on a little egg suspended off the ground in black netting which is resting on a bed of grass. It is a beautiful, quaint egg. The frame only captures Yee's lips, the edges of her nose, and the occasional glimpse of her eyes. For fifteen minutes, Yee blows gently on the egg and the grass slowly glides past the screen exposing a square mirror below. With each breath I gain a greater view of the performer through an upside-down reflection. In this meditative passing of time, I am reminded of the soft power that resides in human breath — the strength and tenderness that a single exhale can offer the world. 

In a surprising shift of intention, Yee removes the egg from the cage and uses a nail to whittle away at the shell. There is a gentleness to her movements, as if she is caressing the egg. Yet, it is in this tenderness that fragments of the shell fall and scatter across the mirror. There is wonder and surprise as the egg, which appears soft-boiled, nearly maintains its form. Exclamations fill the chat. We as an audience are delighted by this strength and composure. But slowly the egg begins to sink and ooze from its original oblong form. What began in gentle breath has reached a darker progression. The egg slumps and collapses in an oozing mess. I can’t help but feel the significance of this destruction; the weight of the subtle violence that slowly destroyed the figure. 

—

Eugene Tachinni sits at a table; his left hand lies under a layer of lightly translucent white fabric. With his right hand, he uses small yellow-headed pins to tuck and attach the fabric around his hand. It is almost as if a cast has been created for the fingers — connected purposefully and made permanent in space. The folds of the fabric become veins that run up and down his fingers. The pins appear like little blossoms on the fabric; their yellow tips sprout like daisies poking through the fabric. After his hand has been fully attached, he begins to trap a variety of other objects beneath the fabric. This includes scissors, a container of lip-gloss, and other trinkets — it’s a process of embroidery that embraces physicality. 

Tachinni offers a quiet patience and persistence. His fingers move with ease and focus that reveal a deeply-trained dexterity and familiarity with tactile craft. The pins create a decorative pattern and swirling designs of yellow. The performance presents a palpable tension between the meditative, gentle dance of his fingers and the stifling anxiety provoked by being trapped in space and time. His right hand moves with grace and gentle agility, while the left hand remains stuck, surrounded, and stagnant. 

Tachinni reflects, “In 2020…my home of eighteen plus years was taken from me. Well, it felt that way anyway. With two weeks’ notice our landlord sold his apartment complex which meant that our rent was going to skyrocket, which it did. While this performance doesn’t show the trauma of my experience, it’s about movement, how we get from one place to the next.” This movement is not showcased in large sweeping gestures or in the act of relocating objects across a room. Instead, Tachinni embodies the subtle horror of becoming trapped, bound in space, while the right hand never stops moving, never stops pinning. 

—

In The Shower we watch the outside of a plastic curtain sway with the trickling water of a shower. For ten minutes, Gretchen Reynolds shares a simple, intimate ritual. It is short. It is clear. It feels like a shared cleansing. 

—

An alarm clock rings with muffled bells. Cynthia Post Hunt runs up the stairs with great urgency. She resets the alarm, picks up a pillow and bangs it against the ground. The piece has begun in media res — we are thrown into the action of a critical situation. Things feels earnest and desperate. There are two cameras set up in the space. One faces down the stairs and captures Cynthia straight on as she charges up the steps. The second camera faces perpendicular to the second landing and captures Hunt when she arrives. The first camera bears witness to rushed physicality. By contrast, the second camera shows a resetting. In this shot, we see a different tenderness as the white curtains draped around the windows billow in grand arcs. 

The cycle repeats in small bursts. Hunt leans against the staircase, waiting. When the alarm rings suddenly, Hunt runs in rapid, striking steps around the stairs, returns to the landing, stops the alarm, picks up the pillow and pounds it against the floor in grand bursts. Hunt indicated that this piece was created in the wake of her grandfather’s passing as a reimagining of his last breath. I was ruminating on the cyclical nature of breath and Hunt’s rapid, heavy movements, when the pillow burst and a flood of feathers swarmed the hallway swallowing the camera. In a moment of distress, Hunt began to stuff the feathers back into the white bag in anxious, quick movements. Then the alarm sounded and Hunt was running again.

I was struck by the spaces of waiting — these moments of stillness suspended in time. This piece captures the progression to death in such an honest, vulnerable way. There are repetitive cycles that combine long periods of stillness, followed by urgency which leads into shocking violence. As time passes, Hunt strikes the pillow against the floor with greater gusts of force. An absurd number of feathers overflow into the space. There is an unfolding level of chaos. My heart beat pounds alongside Hunt’s footsteps. 

Often death is characterized as a slow and silent process, yet Hunt acknowledges the presence of violence and volatility that often exists in the dying body (and in the emotions of loved ones.) As the last several feathers burst out of the pillow case, the chat erupts in exclamations. Hunt picks up the empty fabric and smooths it with her arms over and over again. It was 9am on Saturday morning and I felt so connected to this community of attendees in the chat. We seemed to all breathe together in an unexpected, virtual kinship as the last feathers drifted down the stairs. 

—

In Tell Me Something Good! Alex Barbier takes a moment to celebrate individuals in their achievements, self-proclaimed successes, and general existence. Prior to the afternoon performance, Barbier had circulated an online form asking people to submit their good news, everything from graduations, to new pets, to surviving another day in this world. As the performance began, Barbier was wearing a full-length red jumpsuit with matching, red silk gloves and red lipstick. The room was decorated floor to ceiling with rose gold streamers, creating the aesthetic of a DIY awards ceremony. 

The performance involved a cyclical process; Barbier opens an envelope, reads a piece of good news, spins a colorful wheel with puffy paint instructions, and then initiates a celebratory ritual. This structure offered a little chance, a little bit of unpredictability, and a great deal of playfulness. As an audience member on the other side of Vimeo, I felt invited to participate and celebrate. The chat was filled with bursts of exclamation as we collectively recognized and applauded the good news of strangers. 

Through the course of the performance, we celebrated a person who had “intentionally prioritized their needs” with a two-minute round of applause, recognized a fully vaccinated family with a champagne toast, and uplifted someone who had continued to be a creative moving body when they just wanted to cry in bed. I was struck by how comforting it was to celebrate individuals for the smallest moments of existing within the pandemic. In a time that has felt disconnected and remarkably difficult, it felt like a radical act to uplift moments of light in a shared corner of virtual community. 

Barbier, alongside her assistant Samuel Hanson, heightened these celebratory rituals to exuberant absurdity. They made an absolute mess with confetti, they had a “celebratory toast” by eating actual toast, and they draped tinsel on their bodies and rolled around in lethargic liberation. It felt significant to be fully present in community celebration; to pause and center good news and small moments of joy. This sort of ritualistic practice is fun and quirky, but also has the capacity to spark resilience and center relationships.  

Barbier promised that more celebrations would be hosted soon. I am still holding out hope that I will get to see a dove release — one of the festivities that the wheel never chose. To submit your own piece of good news or learn about upcoming performances, visit Barbier’s website.

Thank you to the many PAF performers for obscuring the digital space, for manipulating time, and for giving Salt Lake a moment to celebrate. 

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.