By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
Moss's new supplement frames bits of video reality on three free-standing screens of different sizes. One holds what might almost be a linear narrative: a massage session (actually Rolfing). But what we see are patches of blotchy skin in extreme close-up, and fingers pressing terribly deeply into it. (This image finds an echo when Marcelo Coutinho or Jason Marchant dig their hands into their own diaphragms and walk hunched over; Coutinho talks in Portuguese about Rolfing.) Some of Gia Grossos costumes look like normal clothes, until you notice they have pieces missing, and indeed, the overall impression of supplement is that pieces that might bind together what look like desultory activities in a strange adult playground have been deliberately withheld. Kacie Chang looks puzzled and apprehensive much of the time. You can intuit concern and camaraderie among these three and Hiromi Naruse and Kathryn Sanders, and notice that there is a certain rigor to what they do (rarely "dance"), exemplified by Naruse's fascinating, horizontal journey on plastic bricks set on end, which she strains to set in a trail.
Beth Soll's work is spare and circumspect in another way. And her LAKE: Imaginary Dreams of Russia, shown at WAX, shares with her earlier pieces a quiet intensity. The title explains her rationale and the works delicate, fragmentary nature: These are not just dreams, but imaginary dreams.
The four women of LAKE all wear different sorts of white clothing with red touches (the red increases in the second part of the dance). The costumes vaguely suggest Russia. Linda Seifert, identified as The Spirit Figure, wears a long gown and a tall headdress. Erin Crawley-Woods and Kate Taylor (Dream Dancers) are clad like peasants in loose shirts and bloomers (plus sneakers!); their cheeks are bright red. While Soll, in a layered dress and a head scarf, threads among them, the occasional bursts of music (Shostakovich, Russian popular and folk) seem less to accompany them than to ensnare them. The intermittent sound of tolling bells hints at emergencies as well as Sunday mornings.
In the two-part, nine-section work, Soll invests Seifert's character with the dignity of an empress; Soll, as The Dreamer, attempts to copy her steps and, at one point, clings to her for support. In the first part, Crawley-Woods and Taylor frolic like two boisterous serfs, but in her later solo Taylor, now barefoot, shows a new dignity, and Crawley-Woods dances pertly with an eye for the audience.
The dancing is both refined and unrefinednatural roughness fastidiously framed. Images, some of them almost like still pictures, suggest journeys, meditation, fear, celebration. But always the women are watchfulof each other, of their own thoughts, of something looming on the horizon or falling from the sky.
Dance Theater Workshop's "Split Stream" series marshals two or three young(ish) choreographers with one dance each on their hands into shared programs. The latest featured Amanda Loulaki, Maria Hassabi, and Gerald Casel.
Both Loulaki and Hassabi begin with potent images. Loulaki's Hi, My Name Is Clio explores limitations in engagingly kinky ways. Pinned in a spotlight, the remarkable Hristoula Haraka flops stiffly about like a jointed doll, feet clubbed, legs spread. Tinkly music emanates from a scratched record. Those who join herLoulaki, Carolyn Hall, and Emily Tepperare equally vehement and equally forlorn. Trying to please or be adventurous, they tend to get stuck with their butts up in the air. Haraka yanks Tepper around: a doll playing with a doll. They're as circumscribed as the toy dogs that waddle on and are mercilessly nudged from their paths.
I couldn't help remembering Bessie Schönberg's advice to choreographers: If possible, dont dance in your own piece. Smart and engaging as Loulaki's work is, there's a place near the end when it seems to be spinning its wheels. This is even more true of Hassabis Late Night Future. It begins marvelously with Hassabi, Yzeni Argyriou, Hamilton Montiero, and Jeremy Wade in a tight cluster. To a threatening score by the trio Azores, they nuzzle one another and slip around within the group, like puppies in a shop window. They seem both somnolent and needy; you feel skin scraping on skin. This goes on for a long time and is endlessly fascinating. As the clump stirs, its members begin to grapple as well as grope, to push and pull. Their movements are incoherent once they've separated; feet barely moving, they flail their arms and bodies. And for a long stretch the momentum stalls, before they creep back into their uncomfortable safety.