|Cast of "A Dance for Dark Horses" by Kim Lusk, at Velocity Dance Center March 9-11, 2018|
photo by Jazzy Photo
Monday, March 12, 2018
Thank you Kim Lusk!
I really needed your first full length work, “A Dance for Dark Horses,” part of Velocity Dance Center’s “Made in Seattle” program.
Let’s face it, the world around us has been particularly chaotic for the past year, and it’s all too easy to get mired in the venomous mudslinging that’s been sparked by the titular head of the free world. It’s enough to make my head explode. Lusk’s “Dark Horses” was a refreshing and witty breather, a chance to revel in art well made and well performed.
Lusk and her three main dancers—Alexander Pham, Shane Donohue and Erin McCarthy—took the floor one by one in silence, their eyes focused out toward the audience. Lusk appeared last, and took a place directly in front of McCarthy, who then skootched to the side so we could see her. This was the first signal that we were in for something figuratively and literally off kilter.
The dancers skittered across the floor on their toes to Ryan Hume’s club-inspired soundtrack, arms and shoulders pumping to the steady beat. Then, all at once, in unison, they seem to tip to the side, pushed by unseen hands which catapult them into another section of the dance.
Pham performs Gagnam-style arabesques and pirouettes, twirling an invisible lasso overhead in homage to Psy and his K-pop crew. Lusk strikes John Travolta’s Saturday Night Fever pose, arms outstretched, fingers pointed. Donohue’s duet with a battered tambourine is both poignant and hilarious. The tiny percussion instrument seems to have a life of its own; Donohue tries to end the duet but the tambourine keeps jingling until Donohue assaults it with his foot.
McCarthy whirls out a ferocious solo, then collapses to the floor, sweaty and panting. Lusk watches her, a big smile illuminating her face. McCarthy catches her eye and smiles back.
These dark horses---tall and short, thin and round, are always aware of one another and of us sitting in the audience. They revel in their movements, particularly Lusk, a compact Gumby of a dancer. As her arms swing back and forth to the music, she twirls her pelvis to a different rhythm, a counterpoint if you will, all the while watching us with a knowing look and a half smile. We rewarded her audacity with laughter, cheers and delighted applause.
“A Dance for Dark Horses” isn’t fluff; it’s technically ambitious and rich with popular culture allusions. All the dancers, including a Fantasia-esque gaggle of women in hot pink, delivered their parts with precision and full-fledged brio. Their enthusiasm was contagious. I found myself wanting to join in, although I’m certain I couldn’t keep up the nonstop pace.
Lusk’s work reminded me of the pleasures of moving to the beat, of the delight and camaraderie. And it reminded me that in a time when so many people are devoted to resistance and struggle, sometimes we need to take an hour to delight in the joy of being alive.
Monday, February 5, 2018
|Pacific Northwest Ballet company members in Kent Stowell's "Swan Lake"|
photo by Angela Sterling
I’ve got an old Beatles’ song running through my head.
“I’ve just seen a face, I can’t forget the time or place….”
Swap “dancer” for “face” and you’ll have a sense of what I’ve been obsessing about for the past few days: Noelani Pantastico in the dual roles of Odette/Odile in the classic ballet “Swan Lake.”
Pantastico starred in Saturday evening's performance of Pacific Northwest Ballet’s latest iteration of Kent Stowell’s “Swan Lake.” Even if you don’t know much about ballet, you probably know about this one. It’s the 19th century classic about a prince who falls in love with a woman, Odette. The problem? She’s actually under the spell of an evil sorcerer. Odette only takes human form at night; by day she’s a white swan. Only sworn true love can break this spell.
Unfortunately for Odette, that doesn't happen. Her prince is seduced into pledging his troth to her evil doppelganger, the black swan Odile. Nobody lives happily after in this ballet, but it sure is beautiful.
In most contemporary productions, the same ballerina performs the dual roles of Odette/Odile. It seems to me, a non-ballerina, this must be one of the most challenging roles a dancer faces.
Technically, the ballerina has to leap and spin, and perform Odile’s notorious 32 fouette turns, whipping her body around and around. It requires not only a laser-like focus, but also incredible stamina.
Maybe more important than technique, the ballerina must bring emotional depth and dramatic ability to these two roles. She must convince us that she is a graceful enchanted swan woman Odette, as well as the beautifully confident (but let's face it, venal) Odile, daughter of the evil sorcerer Rothbart.
The last time I saw “Swan Lake,” the incredible Carla Korbes danced Odette/Odile. Korbes was (and maybe still is?) one of the most graceful and emotional of dancers. Her Odette was birdlike and bereft; her Odile? Well, Korbes was excellent but she wasn't really convincingly nasty. Still, she was my gold standard.
|Carla Korbes dances Odette in 2015 at PNB|
photo by Angela Sterling
Watching Noelani Pantastico on Saturday evening, I saw a completely different interpretation: a fierce, taunting Odile who looks down her nose at everyone in the royal party as she whips around the room with the prince. When his mother (hooray, Margaret Mullin is back onstage!) extends her hand to her future daughter in law, Pantastico's Odile all but shoves it away. Pantastico was equally convincing as a tormented, beautiful Odette in love with Seth Orza's prince. She made me want to weep for the tragedy of her doomed love (and this ballet has never made me weep.)
Pantastico has years of experience at both PNB and with Jean Christophe Maillot's company, Les Ballets de Monte Carlo, where she honed her dramatic talents. Of course she leapt and spun, but she imbued both swans with something extra. When Pantastico is overtaken by dark magic and begins to transform from woman to swan, it seems to come as a shock to her body. Her long arms begin to flap, pulled at the shoulders, as if Rothbart is yanking invisible strings. Pantastico’s huge dark eyes mourn, her expression is one of agony as she is wrenched from Orza’s arms toward Rothbart, who looms in a misty corner.
As I said earlier, I’ve just seen a dancer, a performance, I can’t forget.
Four other PNB principals will tackle this demanding role during the run of the production.
Lesley Rausch and Laura Tisserand danced Odette/Odile opening weekend; Elizabeth Murphy and Sarah Orza will make their debuts this week. Each woman will bring her own interpretation, her own experience and technical skills to her performance. Each will be unique. I wish I had the time to see them all. Rausch and Sarah Orza are both dancing at the top of their games right now; Tisserand is just back from maternity leave, and Murphy will dance this role for the first time with Prince Lucien Postelwaite.
You've got six different performances to choose from. Noelani Pantastico and Seth Orza close out the run on Sunday evening at McCaw Hall. Find ticket and casting info here
Friday, February 2, 2018
|"The Burning Stable", by Adolf Schreyer|
photographed in the Frye Art Museum, Seattle
February began with steady rain and dark skies. But why should this month diverge from the pattern 2018 has set? Gloomy weather and even gloomier politics. Still, the meteorological monotony has started to chafe my soul.
So, I retreated to Seattle’s Frye Art Museum, a cultural jewel box bequeathed to the city by Charles Frye and his wife Emma. A show of work by contemporary Tlingit artist Alison Marks intrigues me, but something (melancholy?) tugs me into the one gallery still dedicated to the Frye’s personal collection. The museum has dubbed this room the Frye Salon. The walls are crammed with late 19th/early 20th century paintings. Many are German, but French and American artists are sprinkled in.
|A visitor in the Frye Salon at Seattle's Frye Art Museum|
notice the art student on the left, copying one of the paintings
It's probably not hip or correct to admit it, but I love this gallery; the paintings hang check by jowl, portraits sharing intimate wall space with landscapes, liberally accented with depictions of livestock. Charles Frye made his fortune in the meatpacking industry. Did he collect these animal paintings to remind him of the source of his livelihood?
When my son was young, he adored a painting of terrified horses fleeing a burning stable. Well, he was young and enamored of firefighters. Still, the work by German artist Adolf Schreyer is definitely one of the more dramatic in the Frye's collection.
Sitting in a gray velvet chair, I notice not one but two sets of portraits of Charles and Emma hanging on the walls, plus another small oil painting of Emma’s head. The Fryes look serene, almost majestic, as if they're watching us enjoy their collection. More than 100 paintings hang in this Salon, apparently just the way they hung on the walls of the Frye's own home.
Out of all the paintings, I’m invariably drawn to a John Singer Sargent-esque portrait of a beautiful dark-haired woman. Her chin is slightly lifted, but her eyes beckon me. The painting, by someone named Leopold Schmutzler, is called “Here I Am.” Indeed.
Sitting in this room, I’m transported out of the present, away from the tumult and chaos of news reports about secret memos, and nuclear weapons upgrades; porn stars and the man who would be president.
I’m sure many of the artists whose works hang on the Frye Museum walls used their skills to comment on similar tumultuous times a century ago, but these paintings don’t communicate those messages to me. Instead, I conjure my own stories as I idle away an hour. I’m warm and dry, oblivious to politics and the rain, rain, relentless rain of February in Seattle.
Wednesday, January 31, 2018
|University of Washington dance students in |
Zoe Scofield's "How come he gets to ride while we have to walk? (Hey GIRL!)
photo by Tim Summers
In early December I spent a couple of rainy hours one Saturday morning in a rehearsal room at the University of Washington Dance Department. I was there to watch choreographer Zoe Scofield work with 20 undergraduate students.
Scofield is the inaugural recipient of the Kawasaki Guest Artist fellowship. She was fine tuning her residency project, a dance she called “How come he gets to ride while we have to walk? (Hey GIRL!).
Scofield had been working on the piece for a few months by the time I saw it; she was sick that morning, feeling bleary. The students straggled into the studio one by one, and I could tell this wasn not at all how she was accustomed to working. But the rehearsal started, and when they finally ran the dance, I got that little prickle of excitement, my spidey sense, that tells me I’m watching something special.
Almost two months after that rainy Saturday morning, the young UW dancers unveiled Scofield’s work as part of the annual Faculty Dance Concert,this year a four-dance program at the Meany Studio Theater. All the offerings had something to recommend them, but Scofield’s work was the highlight for me. (I did enjoy Rachael Lincoln's "Shrinking Violet", which was a whimsical companion piece to Scofield's dance.)
|UW dance students in Rachael Lincoln's "Shrinking Violet"|
photo by Tim Summers
I’m always thrilled to watch large groups of dancers moving together, and 20 certainly fits that description. The performers were dressed in loose gray shift dresses that flowed from their shoulders and swung gracefully around their knees. In a way, the costumes were metaphors for the freedom the young women sought throughout the dance.
“How come he gets to ride…” (great title) begins with the performers in staggered rows across the floor, counting out their steps in unison. One by one, dancers break free from the regimentation to move to what seems an inner melody. Scofield then breaks the ensemble into sub-groups. A half dozen women, arms linked, move in a horizontal line across the floor, the formation reminiscent of Henri Matisse’s 1910 painting “Dance.” Different combinations of women repeat this sequence, while others come forward to express themselves individually, their movements a counterpoint to what seemed like the dance equivalent of a Greek chorus.
At one point the entire ensemble lays supine, raising bent legs, then folding them over the torsos of the dancers on their right. It felt like a more eloquent version of the June Taylor Dancers I used to watch on television in the 1960’s.
The most emotionally resonant moment for me was, seemingly, the loosest. Freed from counting out beats, from moving in unison, the pack of young women tears wildly around the stage, with flying manes of hair and sporting huge grins. They’re like children released from stuffy classrooms on the all-too-rare sunny afternoon. Instead of a schoolroom, these young women have been released from expectations, from self-discipline, from self-consciousness. It made me want to weep, for its beauty and for what it says about the all the possibilities that lie ahead for these undergraduates.
(What can I say? I’m a mom and I get sappy about the potential of youth. Or maybe jealous?)
I have no idea whether these dance students enjoyed performing Scofield’s work, but I do know how much I relished watching them do so. Partly to witness the performance itself, but more to soak in Scofield’s mastery of her craft. She told me after the show that there were things she would have done differently (she was away from Seattle for most of the month prior to this performance). Maybe so. But “How come he gets to ride while we have to walk? (Hey GIRL!) demonstrated Scofield’s skill as a dance-maker: crafting transitions, melding movement and music, assembling dancers on a stage then moving them in such a way that carries the audience on a journey.
Even more than that, is something Scofield and her artistic partner Juniper Shuey have delivered so well for more than a decade: creating thoughtful reflections on the wide, wide world and our place within it.
Tuesday, January 23, 2018
|Whim W'Him dancers Adrian Hoffman and Tory Peil in "Joinery" by Gabrielle Lamb|
photo @ Bamberg Fine Arts
I’ve often wondered what makes some performing artists shine while others, equally talented, don’t register for me in that same way.
I got to thinking about this again this past Saturday evening, at a performance of contemporary dance company Whim W’Him’s latest offering, “Configurate.”
The three new works on the program—by Gabrielle Lamb, Ihsan Rustem and Artistic Director Olivier Wevers—offered the very accomplished Whim W’Him company members both challenging and beautiful choreography. But two of the evening’s offerings gave me the opportunity to think specifically about each Whim W’Him dancer, because Lamb and Wevers’ choreography really highlights individuals and duos, rather than ensemble movement.
Lamb’s piece, “Joinery,” was about just that: joining, and ‘un-joining.’ Much of her choreography is angular: elbows and knees act as pivot points for arms and legs. Lamb also emphasizes articulation, with toes alternately pointed and flexed, fingers splayed. “Joinery” is moody and contemplative, with a wonderful wow of an ending.
Most impressive to me were Jim Kent and Cameron Birts in a duet lit from the front, which cast their large shadows on the bare wall at the rear of the stage. From Whim W’Him’s inception, Kent has been a steady, sometimes brilliant, presence. Birts, a new company member this season, matches Kent in height, but he possesses super long arms that fascinated me. Together in this shadow dance, they were riveting.
In his latest offering, “6 love letters,” Wevers demonstrates his skill with the pas de deux, something longtime Whim W’Him fans have seen since his earliest work. I was particularly struck by the section ‘to an ex’, performed by Tory Peil and Adrian Hoffman. Hoffman, another recent addition to Whim W’Him, is a delight. Not only does he bring technical competence; he’s got an inner spark that really elevates him as a performer.
In this particular pas de deux Hoffman is a great match for Peil; they’re both tall, elegant movers. But Hoffman brings the added dimension of dramatic flair, as well as musicality. He didn’t dance to the music, he embodied it in a way the best dancers do.
I should say that all seven of the Whim W’Him company members are talented and well-trained. They dedicate themselves to the material at hand and always deliver excellent performances. But it’s a special treat when a dancer like Hoffman shows up in town.
Although I’ve singled out Lamb and Wevers’ works on the Configurate bill, I have to say that Ihsan Rustem’s “Seed” was the evening’s highlight for me, despite technical difficulties that required the performance to stop, then re-start.
“Seed” is the kind of dance that surprises and, for me, delights. It’s a narrative, of sorts, full of ensemble action, and quirky humor. And it showcases the dancers in the best possible way, playing to each of their individual strengths. Rustem has worked for companies around the world; lucky for us that Wevers has brought him to Seattle twice (so far).
Friday, January 12, 2018
|Dancer Jon Boogz|
I’ve been thinking a lot about the line between technical mastery and true artistry, if such a line really exists. It’s a topic that moved to my front burner this week when I spoke with dancers Charles Riley, aka Lil Buck, and his artistic partner Jon Boogz.
A little background: Lil Buck and Jon Boogz met almost a decade ago, when both men were dancing on the streets of LA, working for their big breaks. Buck had moved from Memphis where he’d honed his skills in a technique called jookin. By all accounts, this fluid, gravity-defiant style was an anomaly on Santa Monica’s Third Avenue Promenade. Lil Buck works the room
That’s where Boogz, who grew up in Florida, was showing his stuff as an animator/popper.
I’m telling you all this because in the years between then and now, Buck and Boogz have each climbed the dance ladder. Lil Buck became a media (and ballet) darling after he teamed up with
Yo Yo Ma in a performance of Dying Swan.
Boogz has choreographed for the likes of Baryshnikov and Naomi Campbell.
But commercial success wasn’t really his heart’s desire. Boogz wants to use what he does to create emotional, narrative dances, to make people think about the world around them.
“I know thousands of great movers,” he told me in a recent interview. “What turns you into an artist is what you do with what you’ve been given, and how do you use that gift to create something bigger than yourself?”
To that end, Boogz and Buck have formed a company called Movement Art Is: MAI. They’ve created a number of films together, most notably a collaboration with visual artist Alexa Meade called Color of Reality
But this week in Edmonds, the duo premiered a live stage version of the work they’ve done together. Yep, world premiere at the Edmonds Center for the Arts. “Love Heals All Wounds” is built on content from their film collaborations, addressing the mass incarceration of black men, police brutality, our divisive society and the state of the environment. As I write this, it sounds like the work is preachy. Really, the only things Boogz and Lil Buck are preaching are love and understanding. And they’re doing that in the most artful way.
The two creators are joined by five other artists: four dancers: Nao Campbell, SHEstreet, Ron "Prime Tyme" Myles, and Keviorr, plus spoken word artist Robin Sanders. Her text, superbly presented, provides the continuity between the dance segments of the work. All of the dancers shone, but Jon Boogz and Lil Buck demonstrated why they have achieved national, even international, recognition.
Buck floats across the stage, his feet in pristine white sneakers twisting around each other, balancing on the toes or the sides of his feet. In what has become a signature move, he drops to his knees and spins in a wide circle on the floor, as if not subject to the same gravity that rules the rest of us.
When Boogz dances, he articulates each body part, from his long, graceful fingers up through his forearms, elbows, shoulders, neck and head. It is really remarkable to watch.
More remarkable, though, is the synthesis of their total mastery of movement with the narrative they’ve created. Boogz and Buck come out of hip hop, but they’ve created a contemporary dance piece in the art-world sense of the phrase. It wasn’t perfect; the transitions between themes sometimes felt a bit awkward. But by the second half of this intermission-less piece, when the dancers, in groups of three, alternately embodied the four elements—water, air, fire and earth—I was didn’t want the evening to end.
And judging by their faces as they acknowledged the small crowd at the Edmonds Center for the Arts, neither did the dancers. Lil Buck’s smile was electric; Boogz clasped his hands over his heart and out to the audience. In a post show conversation, he called dancers "God's athletes."
“For me, it’s a freedom when I’m dancing, and I love being in that space,” he told me before the show. “I love performing, I love it.”
He and Lil Buck also love showing kids a way to live that doesn’t involve violence, or gangs.”
“Inner city kids, let’s be honest, there’s not many options for them,” says Buck. “My dream was to be a back up dancer. My life is so much bigger than that.”
Friday, January 5, 2018
|Jade Solomon Curtis, photograph by Megan Farmer for KUOW radio|
When Jade Solomon Curtis arrived in Seattle in 2012 to dance with Donald Byrd’s company, Spectrum, everyone who loves dance noticed.
How could we not?
Curtis is, in her own words, a beautiful, bald, black woman. But more than that, she’s one of the most charismatic movers to hit Seattle stages.
Curtis was in her mid-20’s when she got here, and she'd just landed her dream job.
A dance major at Southern Methodist University, Curtis moved to New York not long after graduation, with two suitcases and $500 in savings from a restaurant job.
“I had honestly no idea who I wanted to dance for, or who I wanted to dance with.”
What she did know is that she needed to dance.
Curtis found work with choreographer Alison Chase, helping Chase build a company called Apogee. Then Donald Byrd came to town to audition dancers for Spectrum.
Curtis knew his choreography; she'd taken a workshop from Byrd during college. She set her sights on joining his Seattle-based company.
Apparently, the enthusiasm wasn't mutual. Curtis didn't make the cut.
“I auditioned three times for Donald Byrd,” says Curtis. “The third time I got in.”
Which says something about her tenacity, and about Byrd's work. Often topical, and occasionally ferocious, his dances spoke to Curtis.
|Jade Solomon Curtis, with Spectrum Dance Company|
“It was the first time I felt like I could really express what was deep down inside of me,” she says. “and not be penalized or looked at in a different manner because I moved more aggressively. Because I was angry, because I wanted to express myself and bring in traumatic experiences that had happened to me. He welcomed that.”
Curtis was—and remains—a stunning dancer, and she earned critical accolades during her four years with Spectrum.
She wanted something more.
“I just got to a point in my career where I was more interested in making my dreams, as opposed to contributing to somebody else’s.”
Curtis wasn’t new to choreography; in high school she won a national competition and a scholarship sponsored by the NAACP. But she wasn’t ready at that point in her life to create work. Her time with Byrd provided both the inspiration and insight she needed. She says Byrd taught her to pursue her artistic visions without hesitation.
“To do what speaks to you,” she says, “to not concern yourself so much with what the audience thinks, and to not stray away from reality; what’s happening right now, right here.”
Curtis freelanced for other choreographers, and she found work with the 5th Avenue Theatre. More importantly, she formed her own company: Solo Magic.
She didn't choose the name because she's strictly a solo artist.“It’s what it takes to be an individual in your own right and contribute to the greater good." Curtis says. "You have to believe in the magic that exists in yourself.”
Last spring Curtis premiered her first evening length work in Seattle, “Black Like Me,”inspired by an incident on Capitol Hill; somebody called her n****r.
“Yep, in white liberal Seattle,” she says matter-of-factly.
"Black Like Me" addresses race and identity head on; all three performances sold out. Curtis was particularly satisfied that so many audience members stayed after the shows to talk about what they'd seen and how to address it in the world around them.
“I understand a lot of us want to escape from the reality we’re in, and some art can provide that, but I don’t think that should be the primary focus,” Curtis explains.
In mid-January, Curtis will be in New York for the annual APAP conference, the Association of Performing Arts Professionals. APAP is a place to showcase work to potential presenters. Curtis will perform excerpts from "Black Like Me." She’d like to tour it nation-wide, then present it again in Seattle.
For now, Curtis, a Texas native raised in Florida, calls Seattle home. She says it's a great place for her to test out ideas during the dark, gray winter months.
"This is one of the few places I can create and no one's watching. And I think that has a lot to do with the weather."
She’ll bring out her new work when daylight returns, inviting people to experience it not so much as passive audience members, but as witnesses and collaborators in social change.
“That’s my role as an artist,” says Jade Solomon Curtis. “I don’t want you to leave and forget. I want my work to stay with you.”