to you by
New York manufacturer of fine dance apparel for women
and girls. Click here to see a sample of our products and a
list of web sites for purchasing.
With Body Wrappers it's always performance at its best.
More Flash Reviews
Flasbhack, 3-8: Childs World
Immaculate Conceptions at the Kitchen
(Editor's Note: The
Dance Insider has been revisiting its Flash
Archive. This Flash originally appeared on April 25,
Copyright 2002, 2006 Chris Dohse
NEW YORK -- Lucinda
Childs inhabits the immaculate geometry of Sol LeWitt's 1979 film
"Dance" like an angel dancing on the head of a pin. Her iconic,
impassive figure looms over the intervening decades, a postmodern
totem, merged eternally with LeWitt's rectilinear decor (black grid
on white floor cloth) and Philip Glass's mesmerizing score. For
the Kitchen's 30th anniversary, in a program seen Saturday night,
Childs also ghosts herself, dancing live behind the scrim upon which
LeWitt's film is projected. Her repetitive skips, steps and small
jetes done in the now -- in straight lines and around the circumference
of a circle -- correspond nonchalantly to her filmed cadences and
parabolas. The performance is a technical marvel, a monument to
a certain period of art history, a minimal, relentless arithmetic.
Yet stripped as it is to an autistic, tireless austerity, Childs's
delicate presence is haunting and inescapable. She becomes more
than a universal human figure, inexhaustibly functioning in relationship
to its surrounding space. After time, you notice her frailty --
that one of her arms seems to rotate more freely than the other,
the mudra-like shapes her hands often form, her shy, averted gaze
and her ironclad chill. She embodies the 'space-bewitched' creature
once hypothesized by Oskar Schlemmer.
It's harder to get a
grip on the brief "Underwater," a fragment from the Glass/Robert
Wilson 1998 opera "White Raven." Childs balances a simple walking
and talking solo, elegantly performed, beneath a descending, threatening
needle, or perhaps it's the lowering hand of God's stopwatch. She
recites a celebration of Wilhelm Reich's universal, cosmic and biological
blue orgone energy (text by Luisa Costa Gomes) and is circled by
a sea monster (danced by Johanna Hegenscheidt). Childs is as cool
throughout as an azure sea, yet some urgency or lunatic determination
drives her to escape the scene finally via a ladder into the rafters.
"Description (of a Description)"
showcases Childs the actress and allows her to become the vehicle
of Susan Sontag's brilliant, poetic text. Sontag/Childs narrate
what seems at first an odd story of a haphazard encounter with a
man on a sidewalk. "Time had fallen in on him," Childs notices.
The man becomes a catalyst for a meditation on failed relationships,
the inexactitude of experience, the inescapability of time. Echoing
from and around the precariously raked platform (designed by Hans
Peter Kuhn and Mathias Hofman) on which Childs looks increasingly
isolated, the rhythmic, mellifluous text reminds us that the unexpected
is always upon us. Time, happenstance, and reflection will soon
fall in on us all.