I’ll keep this one short and sweet because (as you may have noticed) I’m late. Again. In fact this entire day has been one long, dry spell of lateness.
But I want to clear the table before tonight’s IMDT show in Project. So here’s the long and the short of it…I really, really wanted to like this one - ‘this’ being One-Shot: Rhapsody in Black and White Dance Sessions. Surely, I thought, if any production could embody the festival’s underlying theme of cultural and spiritual identity, it was this one.
Not quite. Or at least, not quite as well as I might have hoped.
Inspired by the work of Charles ‘Teenie’ Harris (nicknamed One-Shot, hence the title) and focused on ‘the seamless fusion of traditional African dance with contemporary choreography and spoken word’, One-Shot is a fine production. The performers embodied strength, equanimity and elegance as they wheeled and lunged, the syncopation and swing of their fluid yet earthy motions drawing your gaze and attention. And suffusing the entire work, as I experienced it, was what I can only describe as a remarkable…warmth. The dancers, in executing the rhythmic swirl of Brown’s choreography, seemed magnanimous and dignified, the bond between them causing to emanate from the stage a tangible sense of humanity at its most giving. At its best.
And yet…
I couldn’t help feeling a little underwhelmed. This harmony, this comforting presence was something that didn’t quite feel real. It was as if we had been gifted the sense of renewal that comes with catharsis – but without the emotional crisis that delivers it. And as we (or at least, I) hadn’t really earned it, I couldn’t quite surrender to it. And I found it difficult to give myself over to the experience of community as it seemed to be presented here. But then, what makes a sense of identity? Is it just the good we stake our just claim to? Or is it the bittersweet commingling of virtues and vice, triumph and failure? The facing of our treacheries as much as the overcoming of our adversaries?
I don't know...I'm asking.
There were moments right at the start of the night when a path would open – and then shut again, a path which, if followed, might have led us into that grey zone between black and white, where the ascerbic and saccharine meet. Still, in light of Evidence, A Dance Company’s emphasis on reinforcing community in African American culture, and given that many of the diverse communities of which this culture is collectively an expression continue to suffer from social fragmentation and discrimination, perhaps this is just what's needed...
Anyway, that’s it. More tomorrow. So be sure to come back.
Thursday, 14 May 2009
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
Stark?...Yes. Raving?...No.
So for me, last night was passed in the company of Daniel Léveillé Danse, as they performed Amour, acide et noix in the Space Upstairs in Project. Setting itself the challenge of presenting nudity as the only true alternative to the reading of the body, and asking whether the skin is not the one true body costume, the performers (three men and one woman) selected to express Léveille’s vision, took to the stage naked.
Yet however freed they were from the constraints of clothing, this work seemed encumbered by a tense, weighty quality. Duets and solos were burdened by stomp, thud and thump; all motion staccatoed by the eruptive, interruptive standing, marching and gesturing that appeared throughout. None of which need necessarily be bad, if the impulse, vision or concept that led Léveillé to create Amour, acide et noix was something I could engage with. Sadly, I failed to apprehend the ‘outlook on life [taking] refuge behind the strange white skin’ that this show purports to reveal.
A post-show discussion, moderated by Finola Cronin, held out some hope. But talk of nudity accentuating muscular action to the point of conveying an illusion of effort; of jumping as analogous with life; of a stripped body's workings of organ, sinew and joint as interesting; of the need for a piece’s text to be simple, functional and clean...did nothing to dispel the sense of a concern solely with the exterior. This is not to say the dancers and choreographer are not sincere and daring in their own fashion. Nor is it to suggest there’s no underlying structure or a certain complexity – Léveillé mentioned in passing a quaternary aspect to the work, with four dancers, four sections, four solos, four duets, squares. (Hmmm...maybe I just needed some kinda quintessence to win me over...)
Ultimately, however, there’s the simple fact that I can’t get on board with the starting premise of the skin as ‘the one true body costume’ or of nudity as automatically 'frank and free of false modesty.' And I'd also argue any fair consideration of clothing would have to admit that it is something that both veils...and reveals. It’s not all about sparing our blushes.
What we wear, and how, tells of us, tells on us and is one way we stake our claim to this world and to being who we are – or are we to believe these expressions are necessarily untrue or deceitful at all times?
In contrast, the power of the naked form lies in intimating what lies beyond the everyday world and self. It’s a threshold. A threshold between being and non-being, one most of us only approach by either a lover’s bed or a deathbed. Perhaps that’s what last night’s show, in its emotionless rigidity and expressionless heaviness, for me most lacked – an apocalyptic intimacy, and a fragility only born of intimating truths no spoken word can say, but that dance - and dance alone - can hope to express.
But hey. C'mon. Far be it for me to keep you from making your own mind up. Don’t take my word for it. Go, get a ticket, see it.
And feel free to come back here and let me know what you thought...
Yet however freed they were from the constraints of clothing, this work seemed encumbered by a tense, weighty quality. Duets and solos were burdened by stomp, thud and thump; all motion staccatoed by the eruptive, interruptive standing, marching and gesturing that appeared throughout. None of which need necessarily be bad, if the impulse, vision or concept that led Léveillé to create Amour, acide et noix was something I could engage with. Sadly, I failed to apprehend the ‘outlook on life [taking] refuge behind the strange white skin’ that this show purports to reveal.
A post-show discussion, moderated by Finola Cronin, held out some hope. But talk of nudity accentuating muscular action to the point of conveying an illusion of effort; of jumping as analogous with life; of a stripped body's workings of organ, sinew and joint as interesting; of the need for a piece’s text to be simple, functional and clean...did nothing to dispel the sense of a concern solely with the exterior. This is not to say the dancers and choreographer are not sincere and daring in their own fashion. Nor is it to suggest there’s no underlying structure or a certain complexity – Léveillé mentioned in passing a quaternary aspect to the work, with four dancers, four sections, four solos, four duets, squares. (Hmmm...maybe I just needed some kinda quintessence to win me over...)
Ultimately, however, there’s the simple fact that I can’t get on board with the starting premise of the skin as ‘the one true body costume’ or of nudity as automatically 'frank and free of false modesty.' And I'd also argue any fair consideration of clothing would have to admit that it is something that both veils...and reveals. It’s not all about sparing our blushes.
What we wear, and how, tells of us, tells on us and is one way we stake our claim to this world and to being who we are – or are we to believe these expressions are necessarily untrue or deceitful at all times?
In contrast, the power of the naked form lies in intimating what lies beyond the everyday world and self. It’s a threshold. A threshold between being and non-being, one most of us only approach by either a lover’s bed or a deathbed. Perhaps that’s what last night’s show, in its emotionless rigidity and expressionless heaviness, for me most lacked – an apocalyptic intimacy, and a fragility only born of intimating truths no spoken word can say, but that dance - and dance alone - can hope to express.
But hey. C'mon. Far be it for me to keep you from making your own mind up. Don’t take my word for it. Go, get a ticket, see it.
And feel free to come back here and let me know what you thought...
Monday, 11 May 2009
Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui is Angry
Okay, so my title is a little misleading.
But during Chrissie Poulter’s great post-show talk with him last night, Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui did describe Apocrifu as a show where he is angry…with books. And, as Chrissie drew out Sidi’s ideas on oral and literary traditions, the relativity of perspectives and the multicultural terrain that every individual must negotiate, there was little with which to disagree.
A whole range of other topics were also touched on – the issue of manipulation (whether of oneself or others); the evasion of responsibility; the projection and rejection of roles; the shifting archetypal energies embodied in performance. Any of these would easily exceed the time allowed for last night’s talk – so kudos to Chrissie for covering so much ground. Not bad questions either…particularly Rough Magic’s Tom Creed who, I’m sorry, is the human equivalent of a precision guided missile when it comes to uncovering the creative process behind any production.
But in the end, what Apocrifu (and last night’s post-show with Sidi) most got me thinking of was Plato, who suggests letters don’t give the truth…but only the semblance of truth. People dependent on the written word, he says, though appearing to know it all, generally know nothing. Oh, and they’ll be tiresome company, having the show of wisdom without the reality.
Admit it. We’ve all met one.
Of course, I suppose if I really wanted to set a cat amongst the pigeons I might ask if you’ve ever met anyone in the Irish dance scene who fits that description? And if you have…do feel free to bare your soul to me at Amour Acide et Noix, tonight in Project.
And hey, trust me. It’ll be held in the strictest confidence.
But during Chrissie Poulter’s great post-show talk with him last night, Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui did describe Apocrifu as a show where he is angry…with books. And, as Chrissie drew out Sidi’s ideas on oral and literary traditions, the relativity of perspectives and the multicultural terrain that every individual must negotiate, there was little with which to disagree.
A whole range of other topics were also touched on – the issue of manipulation (whether of oneself or others); the evasion of responsibility; the projection and rejection of roles; the shifting archetypal energies embodied in performance. Any of these would easily exceed the time allowed for last night’s talk – so kudos to Chrissie for covering so much ground. Not bad questions either…particularly Rough Magic’s Tom Creed who, I’m sorry, is the human equivalent of a precision guided missile when it comes to uncovering the creative process behind any production.
But in the end, what Apocrifu (and last night’s post-show with Sidi) most got me thinking of was Plato, who suggests letters don’t give the truth…but only the semblance of truth. People dependent on the written word, he says, though appearing to know it all, generally know nothing. Oh, and they’ll be tiresome company, having the show of wisdom without the reality.
Admit it. We’ve all met one.
Of course, I suppose if I really wanted to set a cat amongst the pigeons I might ask if you’ve ever met anyone in the Irish dance scene who fits that description? And if you have…do feel free to bare your soul to me at Amour Acide et Noix, tonight in Project.
And hey, trust me. It’ll be held in the strictest confidence.
Sunday, 10 May 2009
Apocryphal...Now
Okay. I admit it. I’ve been a little tardy when it comes to this year’s festival.
To begin with…I missed the beginning: the festival’s opening night celebration and the perfect opportunity to hang out with Laurie, Ellie, Caroline and the rest of the DDF army and get a feel for what lies ahead.
Okay. My loss. No big deal.
But then…I totally blew it with Bumper 2 Bumper, the festival’s disco with a difference. Possibly the one time I could bust a move without getting arrested by the dance police…and I missed it. And while I’m sure the event was all the better for my absence, I was starting to worry that I’d stumbled into an…uhm…unhelpful pattern of behaviour. I swore I’d try to break it.
Last night, as I found myself racing down O’Connell St to make the inaugural festival performance, it occurred to me that I wasn’t trying hard enough. (This time, I swore harder. Believe me.)
Still, I made it. And what a show. Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui's Apocrifu is a remarkable challenge to the supremacy of the dead letter over the living spirit. The title of the work refers to the apocryphal, that is, something of doubtful authenticity, most often used with reference to those regarded as beyond canonical scripture. Of course, that raises then the question of deciding what is canonical, and what apocryphal…and once decided, what happens next? The extraordinary physicality of the three performers, and the resonating polyphonic singing of Corsican group A Filetta together gave striking testimony to how the moving body and the singing voice both suffer under, yet retain the power to break, the tyranny of text and the burden of the fixed dogma.
Sure, there were a few criticisms after the show (one being a suspicion that it was perhaps a little longer than necessary) but on the whole, those I spoke to were effusive in their praise for the work. Particularly two luminaries of the Irish ballet scene who spoke with delectation of what they felt was as fine an example of a male torso as has ever graced the Abbey’s stage.
One final thought. I suppose the challenge to sacred scripture offered by Apocrifu is as good a place to start as any. But I couldn’t help feeling it a little too obvious. I mean, in the West, we’ve largely broken the back of religious dogmatism – but we can no more stop falling for our own illusions than we can stop breathing. Or do we imagine we don’t have our dogmas? That democracy isn’t a faith? That the scientific method is truth?
So. Get a ticket, if you can. See Apocrifu, if you can. And when you’re done, have a drink, have a think and ask yourself…what are the apocrypha you take as scripture these days?
If you can.
To begin with…I missed the beginning: the festival’s opening night celebration and the perfect opportunity to hang out with Laurie, Ellie, Caroline and the rest of the DDF army and get a feel for what lies ahead.
Okay. My loss. No big deal.
But then…I totally blew it with Bumper 2 Bumper, the festival’s disco with a difference. Possibly the one time I could bust a move without getting arrested by the dance police…and I missed it. And while I’m sure the event was all the better for my absence, I was starting to worry that I’d stumbled into an…uhm…unhelpful pattern of behaviour. I swore I’d try to break it.
Last night, as I found myself racing down O’Connell St to make the inaugural festival performance, it occurred to me that I wasn’t trying hard enough. (This time, I swore harder. Believe me.)
Still, I made it. And what a show. Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui's Apocrifu is a remarkable challenge to the supremacy of the dead letter over the living spirit. The title of the work refers to the apocryphal, that is, something of doubtful authenticity, most often used with reference to those regarded as beyond canonical scripture. Of course, that raises then the question of deciding what is canonical, and what apocryphal…and once decided, what happens next? The extraordinary physicality of the three performers, and the resonating polyphonic singing of Corsican group A Filetta together gave striking testimony to how the moving body and the singing voice both suffer under, yet retain the power to break, the tyranny of text and the burden of the fixed dogma.
Sure, there were a few criticisms after the show (one being a suspicion that it was perhaps a little longer than necessary) but on the whole, those I spoke to were effusive in their praise for the work. Particularly two luminaries of the Irish ballet scene who spoke with delectation of what they felt was as fine an example of a male torso as has ever graced the Abbey’s stage.
One final thought. I suppose the challenge to sacred scripture offered by Apocrifu is as good a place to start as any. But I couldn’t help feeling it a little too obvious. I mean, in the West, we’ve largely broken the back of religious dogmatism – but we can no more stop falling for our own illusions than we can stop breathing. Or do we imagine we don’t have our dogmas? That democracy isn’t a faith? That the scientific method is truth?
So. Get a ticket, if you can. See Apocrifu, if you can. And when you’re done, have a drink, have a think and ask yourself…what are the apocrypha you take as scripture these days?
If you can.
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