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
Angels of Anxiety, also originally made for studentsat NYU's Tisch School of the Artsbut nearly a dozen years later, blends physical ebullience and doubt in designs of lashing, leaping energy, imposed on Philip Glass's driving Flow. The initial imagenine dancers holding red balloonsis an ironic introduction to the jump, crash, and shudder dynamics with which the group, dressed by Elizabeth Payne in individualized black-white-red urban-Gypsy outfits, attacks the sudden wheeling direction changes of Keigwin's patterns. The whispering, Nicole Walcott's silent talking, and the solitary balloon she blows up and lets dwindle suggest that this is a parade everyone expects will be rained on.
Keigwin's other new work, Natural Selection, involves more complicated interactions between its five knockout performers (Liz Riga, Ying-Ying Shiau, Barnett, Gish, and Wolcott). Although they enter with water bottles, stretching their limbs and adjusting their clothes, this is no dance class. It's a lesson in survival, and judging from the way they hunch their shoulders and stare upward, you know surviving could be a problem, as Dale Knoth's lighting and Michael Gordon's drastic score also hint. In the meantime, the five scrabble around, grab or drag one another, squabble, and occasionally join in a marathon of dancing. Gish scuttles on all fours like a determined but disoriented crab. Riga crawls with Gish collapsed on her back. Shiau runs up and over a clump of bodies and, a couple of times, is hoisted horizontally and helped to walk or run along the back wall (!). Who's the fittest here? Is that even an issue?
The program also featured Keigwin's wonderful four-part Mattress Suite. By backing his solo, Sunshine, with the same mattress that he and Wolcott have edged along and bounced onto in an acutely portrayed male-female nonevent (Straight Duet), he makes explosive leaps seem to carry his dissatisfaction forward. Hands that we barely glimpse poking out from behind the mattress as they hold it on end for him may be the solution. When the mattress drops again, it's occupied by Keigwin, Barnett, and Gish (Three Ways). Although their ingeniously wrought sensual shenanigans to an aria from La Traviata conclude with Barnett out in the cold, and although Wolcott seems, eventually, to accept being alone (At Last), the unseen men support the mattress wall and, at the end, all three lift and carry her away. Whatever the message, it's delivered with class and feeling as true as tomorrow.
P.S.122's upstairs theater retains some of its original funkiness, but various improvements over the years have also made it an ideal showplace for urban bleakness. Lighted grimly, its black pillars, odd corners, and mysterious doors can immerse us in nonspecific urban gloom. Alejandra Martorell's They are not falling certainly implies such an atmosphere. Eight dancers who appear intermittently seem to stand for an anonymous crowdclumping restlessly or, in one of Erik Bruce's transient corridors of white light at the back, moving as if wondering whether to line up for something. When they run holding hands, they absorb soloists like a human vacuum. Although we see them clearly, in some sense they're as blurry as the figures in Maya Ciarrocchi's intermittent black-and-white videos (inspired by the work of video artist Michal Rovner).
Juxtaposed to this group of wanderers are two women, Astrud Angarita and Sigal Bergman, whose adventures are gripping in their mysteriousness. Once the two meet, they seem unable to separate. They try out awkward moves too close to each other, twisting to poke their limbs into the negative spaces between them. They act as if they have to stay stuck together when they travel, but make it hard to get anywhere and never blunder into anything resembling comfort. When things get impossible, they tangle violently on the floor. The score, by Douglas Henderson and Guy Yarden, provides a suitably restless landscape of soundsquiet rattling, sustained tones, thunder, and the likewhich, although clear to the ear, are veiled in relation to the action. At some point, I become less interested in Angarita and Bergman and the rut they're in. Do they even know what they want? I'm startled and both pleased and disappointed when, at the very end, they roll apart and laugh.
Martorell herself, dancing a solo near the beginning of the piece and later reprising elements of it, is an engaging performerdelicate but firm, able to fold down to the floor like a deer. But the steps she has choreographed look almost generic; they don't tell me enough about her and her role in this intriguing work.