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Flash Diary, 4-25: An
Insider Fan's Notes
Or: A Day in the Life of the Dance Capitol of the World
By Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2000 The Dance Insider
Bertolt Brecht once said,
and I paraphrase, "I found my theater in the street; I found it
in the docks; I found it in the warehouse." Yesterday, the first
day of National Dance Week, I found my dance in a small but homey
studio on West 31st Street -- in the supple and exquisite dancing
of Jessica Viles, her back muscles rippling in the light as she
bent forward, interpreting the simple but expressive choreography
of Rachael Kosch; I found it in the reverie of Diana Byer as she
enacted the choreography of Martha Connerton, in the same studio.
I found my dance in a group of young women from Tawonga, Penn. (population
3500), who confounded the Dolly Dinkle stereotype in choreography
that, if it wasn't original, was at least tasteful and gave these
young women a chance to shine in their Lincoln Center debut, holding
their own among some of our top dancers from New York City Ballet,
Pilobolus, and elsewhere. I found my dance in that same Josey Robertson
Plaza, in a classic duet that I was able to really see for the first
time, in which choreographers Alison Chase and Moses Pendleton make
two become one. I found it in surprise corners, as well: as the
two lead dancers from Ballet Hispanico, a company known to be melodramatic
(a dancer friend once referred to it as Ballet Histerico) performed
an understated, even quiet love duet. Escorted by the rustically
noble Pedro Ruiz, who also choreographed the piece, the lithesome
Alessandra Corona caught the wind in her hair and arched backwards
to merge with the sun, ending as she started, with a quiet kiss.
I found my dance at the New York State Theater, where ballet-master-in-chief
Peter Martins announced a new choreographic center, funded mostly
by Irene Diamond, where young choreographers will be given the dancers
and the space to create without the pressure to produce. I found
it in my own ribs which, under the protection of a Yoruba priest,
bounced back resiliently after I took a useless fall diving for
a press invitation.
What follows is one man's
highly subjective account of a day that reminded him of the best
-- and worse -- in dance, as he sees it in April of the year 2000.
The day began somewhat
auspiciously in the African galleries of the Metropolitan Museum,
at a press reception for the new exhibit "Art and Oracle: Spirit
Voices of Africa," where high-ranking Ifa priest Dr. Wande Abimbola
gave an extraordinary Ifa invocation. He spoke of three orixas or
gods, one of whom (if I got this right) is the messenger, the intermediary
between Heaven and Earth. He spoke words meant to wash away all
negativity, at least for the day and among those present; his eyes
gleaming, he talked about how there's nothing wrong with money.
He sung and asked us to respond, "Ase."
From the Met, crossing
a Central Park resplendent with the colors of Spring -- did I mention
the skies cleared and we finally had a lovely, gently windy spring
day? -- I hied myself to Lincoln Center and the kick-off for National
Dance Week. Produced by Dancers Respond to AIDS, hosted by the eternally
spunky Sandy Duncan, and blessed by the dancing visage of our own
Rachel Berman, it was sponsored by, among others, Dance Spirit,
Dance Teacher, and Sansha. I plopped myself down among a group of
first-graders to watch. What follows is not necessarily chronological
or complete, but more what stayed in my subjective mind.
New York City Ballet
principal Damian Woetzel, sponsored by IAM.com, performed an all-to-brief
segment of a segment from "Dances in a Gathering," all too briefly
reminding me what I love about this dancer and this dance. Managing
to look studly and winsome at the same time, intent and a little
distracted all at once, this guy for me has always been a man's
dancer -- who I'd like to be if I were a ballet dancer. Who I'd
like to pal around with. As for this classic Jerome Robbins ballet,
it's most of all -- story-wise -- about a group of young people
cavorting, unrushed, in a meadow somewhere. The dance is languorous,
unfolding over what seems like an hour.
The opposite in grace,
dance, and beauty from this is what I would dub Robert Battle's
"Rush Hour," presented by the Parsons Dance Company. Folks, I don't
like to invoke this harsh phrase a lot because it is cruel, but
sometimes it's kind to be cruel, and this is one of those cases.
Yes, this is a "Make it stop" dance, as in, after about three minutes
I was moaning, "Make it stop!" It's an ugly non-dance of a dance,
to a non-music of a music. It makes a mockery of dance, giving the
impression that dance is just steps or action. This, my friends,
is Parsons gone bad. I'm actually a defender of Parsons, for the
most part. But the first time I saw Battle's work, in last year's
Parsons season at the Joyce, this explanation struck me: Parson's
aesthetic works because it's just once-removed from the musicality
of Paul Taylor, and the puckishness of Moses Pendleton, both of
whom Parsons worked with in his formative stage; throw in his own
incredible animal magnetism, and you have a winning alchemy. But
this hybrid aesthetic cannot stand even being once more removed
from the source. Battle copies the music-ness of Parsons, but it
isn't musical. Even the first-graders, I noticed, were mimicking
-- and not kindly -- some of the gestures in this assemblage of
steps. It's a waste of the dancers and a waste of my time.
What entranced the kids,
surprisingly, was an excerpt from Chase and Pendleton's "Shizen,"
given by longtime Pilobolus partners Rebecca Jung and John Mario
Sevilla. I've been present at this dance many times, but wasn't
able to really see it because, well -- for personal reasons. (Becky
and I used to be friends, but had a falling out; so this dance has
bittersweet associations for me. I mention this fact also because
you'll want to take my comment at the end of this paragraph with
a grain of salt.) But these two have been doing this dance together
for a very long time, and have essentially melded, beautifully and
lovingly. She floated and, I realized, never touched the ground
with her feet. When two become one is the best way to thumbnail
the effect. I think the kids used the word 'fish' -- in good way
-- in looking at this dance. I say that their reaction was surprising
because the intimacy of this dance can produce giggles among kids,
but didn't yesterday. The only disappointment in Jung and Sevilla's
appearance was that they were the only dancers who didn't appear
for the final kick-line, in which all the other dancers, and the
200-300 watching, took part, with zest, led by a zesty dancemaster,
Joe Lanteri.
What else? I like Doug
Varone better as a soloist than in his group work-he seems more
exact, defined, unique, and virtuosic, as demonstrated yesterday
in "After You've Gone," scat-release danced to the Benny Goodman
tune. Cast members from the Broadway show "Contact," including our
October cover woman Dana Stackpole, reminded me that choreographer-director
Susan Stroman has really achieved something unique, at least to
me: She's combined social and formalized dance in a way that looks
both refined and spontaneous at the same time, and I suspect a lot
of the credit for that goes to these seasoned dancers.
In terms of debuts --
in other words, not counting acknowledged masters like Pendleton/Chase
and Robbins -- the choreographic stand-out was far and away Ruiz's
"Romanza from Ballet Guajira." Elegant, simple, romantic, and natural.
I was also reminded that the partnership of Ruiz and Corona, like
that of Jung and Sevilla, is as durable and deserves as much recognition
as some of our better-known ballet partnerships.
In terms of off-stage
action, I can report that Eric Hoisington, formerly of San Francisco
Ballet, looked fit and rested in cool yellow-rimmed shades and Don
Johnson stubble, fresh from a tour of Coconut Grove. And that one
of this dance insider's favorite behind-the-scenes bulwarks, Pilobolus
road manager/stage manager Alison Schwartz, informed us that she
will soon be moving on and into dance programming.
Shouts out to DRA co-founders
Hernando Cortez and a very pregnant Denise Roberts, and -- oh heck
-- to those Tawonga dancers, who were there because their studio,
Maggi Frawley's Performing Dancers, raised $4,200 for DRA. (Which
fact, incidentally, made me think that this fundraising contest
among dance studios is a great way to get the word out on AIDS to
this population.) Those dancers: Erica Smith, Francine Depaola,
Kim Krissell, Jenelle Miller, Brittney Wilcox, Rachel Lavalle, Abby
Sherburne, Jill Haines, Megan Noll, Lauren Hotaling, Carly Kingsley,
Rebekah Schrader, Jenelle Craig, Jenny Lundy, Ashley Weed, Megan
Angerson, Erin Kisner, and Megan Benjamin.
After a break to race
back downtown to take care of some CEO business -- during which
I miraculously found, on the street, a '70s vintage Panasonic compact
stereo with 8-track and, more importantly, 78-capable turntable
intact (I recently found on the street a bunch of 78 records, including
a Leopold Stokowski "Nutcracker"!) -- I hied myself once again to
Lincoln Center and the New York State Theater, where the New York
City Ballet was announcing a fundraising campaign to raise $50 million
dollars.
The good news is that
NYCB, board chairman Howard Solomon announced, has already raised
$30 million of that $50 million, which will be used to increase
its endowment to $80 million. The further good news is that Irene
Diamond has already donated $5.5 million, which will be used to
fund the New York Choreographic Institute. The idea behind this
is not original -- the late lamented Carlisle Project did something
similar -- but no less laudable because of that. Plus a GREAT example
for our leading ballet company to set! According to Martins, the
goal is "for choreographers to be able to go into the studio with
dancers and try their craft without a particular performance deadline
in front of them," making the center "a laboratory for choreographers
to be able to experiment with their craft." A pilot program will
be held August 18-30, involving Dwight Rhoden, Christian Spuck,
Christopher Wheeldon, Damian Woetzel, Albert Evans, Melissa Barak
and Ryan Kelly. (Five of these are NYCB dancers, tho Wheeldon, Martins
announced, will retire from dancing.) Choreographers and artistic
directors from around the world will help guide the process. Says
Diamond: "Our goal is to give talented choreographers from all over
the world the chance to work without the pressure of deadlines."
I humbly nominate Mark Dendy! Let's REALLY push this art form and
these dancers.
That's the good news.
And had the subject of the quality of Martins own choreography not
been brought up, I'd be content to be gracious and leave it alone.
But you know me; call a parade, and I'm the first to shout, "The
Emperor has no clothes." In this case, Solomon, after noting that
"Balanchine cautioned that he didn't want the company to become
a museum for his repertory," went on to say, implausibly, that "Peter
created his own masterpieces and near masterpieces." Where?
Martins is no Robert
Battle; he is musical, and it is dance. But masterpieces? Okay,
scouring the memory banks here.... Of the Martins canon which I
have seen, there's one dance I found moving and one I'd call interesting.
The first is "Stabat Mater," returning this season (and tomorrow
night), and which, I believe, was made as a sort of homage to the
late Stanley Williams, Martins's teacher and friend. It's a sad,
dark, eulogy of a ballet, ponderously (in the good sense) danced.
My suspicion is that Martins' personal investment in this one pushed
him beyond his level. Then there's "The Waltz Project." I liked
the lifts here, the grappling in some of the partnering. But beyond
this I find it hard to remember anything. Okay, there's "The Chairman
Dances," a boggling ballet and not in the same intriguing way that
some of Jerome Robbins's works are boggling. Martins's "Sleeping
Beauty" is way too fast; I remember Nichol Hlinka a couple of years
ago racing from centerstage to the vision spot upstage; you could
almost see her panting as she barely made it in time.
And many of Martins's
one-act ballets seem like faint echoes of famous Balanchine masterpieces,
particularly of Mr. B's "Stravinsky Violin Concerto." In these ballets,
it seems to me that Martins gets the surface weirdness without really
understanding where it comes from, musically. SVT is jutty and angular
for a reason. I don't know; Martins said that he himself would not
participate in the choreographic center because he is so used to
working with deadlines; maybe that's the problem. (I trying to be
kind here, honestly!)
Now, let's talk about
one more emperor that, well, has clothes, but doesn't always have
something beneath, at least that I can see and feel. In a nice little
book called "The Moment," handed out in the campaign media kit (which,
I'm guessing, also goes to potential donors) Deborah Weisgall says,
elaborating on what watching Balanchine's "Symphony in C," Robbins's
"Afternoon of a Faun" and "Swan Lake" (not clear if she meant Balanchine's
or Martins's) do for her and family: "Each is very much of its own
time, but each will endure. Each makes emotion palpable; that is
the magic My daughter, our sons and daughters, will watch these
ballets and learn from them the ultimate lesson: the universe of
experience and feeling -- the complexity of life -- that art can
express." Feeling? Um, Ms. Weisgall, are we watching the same New
York City Ballet?
In his remarks, Martins
said that ten years ago, he realized that "Without a campaign, it
was going to be an iffy future." If Martins and co. think the money
is out there, and have identified needs that could be met with the
income from an endowment, more power to them. They deserve it and
I'm sure will put it to good use. But it seems to me that what's
making New York City Ballet an iffy proposition these days is the
lack of soul with which many of its performers dance. (With the
exception of one dancer, Carrie Lee Riggins, this was evident yesterday
afternoon, in the excerpt we were given from a ballet by NYCB corps
member Ryan Kelly.) Sure, the speed part of Balanchine's legacy
has been preserved, but that's about it. The precision that exists
is over-bearing, in the sense that dancers often seem so concerned
with reaching the right position, it in a way immobilizes the rest
of their beings, and gives the appearance of dancing stiffly. And
even the precision is sometimes an iffy proposition, in the sense
that they don't finish, they don't reach the apex.
But I'm generalizing,
and that's not fair; we are, after all, talking about 90 dancers
(whose ranks Martins says he would like to increase to 93, with
more funds). So let's take a step back�. Hmmm. Okay. On reflection,
the problem here is more with the corps and some of the younger
soloists and principals than the veterans. Jock Soto, for instance,
like Woetzel, puts out every single time. The dude works it. Nicholaj
Hubbe dances with pride; Monique Meunier with relish and lust for
life. Robert La Fosse is the consummate showman. Wendy Whelan gives
a schooling in inner musicality every time she's out there; on her
good days, Darci Kistler does so too. And Soto and Kistler define
the sensation and daring and thrills that a trusting partnership
can yield. Philip Neal gets better every year; he's not content
with being a pretty boy. Helene Alexopolous is, if I may quote Carlos
Santana, simply Supernatural. A dance and music goddess. An instrument
and an acrobat of the gods. Pascale van Kipnis is the sleeper, and
Jennifer Ringer the eternal question mark-essentially joyous, but
often unconfident.
The corps is another
story. With the exceptions of Deanna McBrearty, Eva Natanya, Riolama
Lorenzo, and perhaps Elena Diner, I don't see the unmitigated joy
that should be there every time they take the stage. I do see stiffness,
woodenness, and lack of finish. As a group, some pretty patterns
do sometimes emerge. The men -- the men are still another story.
They dance, in a word, smugly. That they are in the New York City
Ballet seems enough. There's no sense that they have to prove themselves
every time they're out there. It's our privilege simply to watch
them.
If Martins is to add
dancers, instead of looking at the School of American Ballet, he
might start by looking at Byer's New York Theatre Ballet, to whose
W. 31st Street studios I hustled after the NYCB press conference.
The performance came
under the rubric of a program called "Dance on a Shoestring: NYTB
in Performance," at the Dance Gallery, and the presentation did
justice to the name 'gallery.' I got the feeling of being in someone's
gallery, looking at their treasured works of art and promising works
in progress. The lighting was simple and soft. Viles, mentioned
above, danced Kosch's "After Daphne," her limbs extended by long
stalks with peacock feathers jutting out at the ends. Sounds like
a gimmick, perhaps, but the effect, as executed by Viles, was sheer
elegance, ending in a tableau where, in addition to the stalks extending
her arms, she attaches one to one foot, and lifts that before freezing.
Choreographically (oh, and Michael Kosch's music helped in producing
the lyrical elegance), this was the most sophisticated work I saw
all day, and not a little of the credit goes to the poised and frank
dancing.
The most poignant, touching,
dreamy, heartbreaking, and multi-level dancing I saw all day was
Mary Sugawa's performance of a solo from Antony Tudor's "Dark Elegies."
It probably helped that Sugawa was dancing to the tape of Mahler's
music that, according to Byer, Tudor most likely set the dance to.
It also no doubt helped that Sallie Wilson set the solo. But credit
also has to go to the 21-year-old Sugawa, who, in this very short
solo, showed sadness, ardency, pain, longing, recognition -- all
poised, and all precision.
And the dance that most
captures what dance means to this non-dancer was Martha Connerton's
"He Loves, She Loves: A Radio Reverie." The reverie in this case
is that of Byer's character, who enters in frumpy attire, equipped
with blanket, glass of scotch, crackers, and knitting, as she settles
down to listen to a radio program -- it sounds archival and genuine
-- of Gershwin tunes, sung by Ella Fitzgerald. It's hard for dances
set to pop standards to win me over -- the same moves tend to pop
up -- but the refreshing dancing of this cast at least got across
the choreographer's intentions, and I think captured the jazzy,
Charleston-era spirit of the music. Standouts were the muscle-bound
Terence Duncan and Ursula Prenzlau, who gave a song that generally
irks me, "Of Thee I Sing," new and witty meaning; and Cynthia Sheppard
and Ron Spiess, who managed to impart some depth to stereotypical
nerd roles for a duet to "I've Got a Crush on You."
In the end, Byer rises
from her comfy chair and is, inventively, swept up, variously and
victoriously, by the four couples. And so was I.
This program, which also
includes a rare performance of Tudor's "Judgment of Paris" which
I regrettably missed last night, repeats tonight at 7. Reservations
are suggested, and can be made at 212-679-0401. New York City Ballet's
spring season begins tonight with an all-Balanchine program. Whelan,
Woetzel, Hubbe, Neal, and Ringer are in the house!
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