By Michael Feingold
By Elizabeth Zimmer
By James Hannaham
By Christian Viveros-Faune
By Christian Viveros-Faune
By R. C. Baker
By Michael Feingold
By Michael Musto
Which is more interesting: counting wallpaper roses or watching people fold clothes? That Im even considering the question while taking in Trajal Harrells Quartet for the End of Time at DTW means that the provocative piece is beginning to drag its feet. For what seems a very long time, weve been looking at Sirah Foighel, Will Gordon, Liz Santoro, and Christina Vasileioualone or in companywalk into Erik Flatmos small room of translucent panels hanging from tall tripods, undress, and fold a discarded garment.
Redefine undress. O.K.they lie down on their backs and squirm out of their clothing. No hands allowed. This real struggle is no cliff-hanger, but it can be compellingespecially when Santoro removes two long, white tube socks using only her held-up feet. Harrell has mentioned in an interview that in this work hes pondering sincerity (a quality he feels lacking in todays art), irony, and authenticity. And though I may sound ironic, I am dead sincere about Santoro and the socks.
Harrell, a pomo artist-intellectual, is something of a throwback to the 1960squestioning in his choreography the nature of art and spectatorship. The program for Quartet for the End of Time quotes Yvonne Rainers famous 1965 manifesto, replacing her every no with maybe. So, Maybe to spectacle. Maybe to virtuosity. . .Maybe to seduction of the spectator by the wiles of the performer. Harrell starts his piece by confronting the audience with a mélange of imagesphotos of Martin Luther Kings funeral, spoken variations on the words I have a dream, a video showing a flirtatious Japanese schoolgirl in a restaurant, a gallery exhibit, and more. We make of it what we can. Voices speak intermittently of family matters: a divorce, a car accident in which two little boys are killed; a father reads The Door in the Floor to his little daughter.
The wriggling involved in the no-hands disrobing relates to the hootchy-kootchy born, according to the program, at the 1893 Chicago Worlds Fair. In line with this, the dancers are unselfconsciously naked or partly naked a lot of the time (the renegade penis is always eye-catching, mainly because it refuses to be choreographed). The selective, neutrally performed stripping contrasts with earlier surly (or deadpan) voguing by the performers. Many times they don unlikely combinations of garments from plastic bags on the sidelines, and strut downstage challengingly (except that Foighel makes a remark that I doubt has ever been heard on a fashion runway: I hope that there is someone that will take care of me when I will be dead).
When the dancers (did they dance? Not so youd notice) undress in the room, they choose to fold, very carefully, one item of clothing. The rest they bundle up and take away. Vasileiou folds an already tiny bra (as I remember, the only thing she wore on this particular entrance). Santoro smooths out her 1950s-type cotton dress almost tenderly before diminishing it into a small bundle to leave behind. By this time, the snatches of music (Nina Simone, DJ Assault, Gustavo Santaolalla, et al.) have been replaced by excerpts from Olivier Messaiens beautiful Quator pour la fin du tempswhich was written in 1941 and played for the first time by the composer and some colleagues in Stalag VIII-A, Germany, for their fellow prisoners of war.
Harrell prolongs the folding sequence and buries it, theatrically speaking, yet something ignites in the crevice between being and performing, between clothing as show and as artifact. The left-behind garments suggest the remains of a wasteful society, the stripped-away identities of internees, and whats left when we die. All this resonates in my brainmaddening me, but also tugging at feelings that I cant define and Harrell wont.
Luciana Achugar also thinks a lot about what dance can mean to both performers and audience and pushes against the boundary between them. She questions societys ideas about beauty and what she sees as a tendency to honor intellect over sensual experience. Her new The Sublime Is Us challenges us with a sometimes primal physicality, while containing it in a carefully organized structure.
When the spectators (only 30 per show) enter DTWs second-floor studio, five women stand in a back-to-back swarm, writhing dreamily, leaning together. We walk past them to sit in two rows of chairs arranged in two banks, under six feet from the studios mirrored wall. What do we see? Ourselves, the watchers. How do we look under the harsh lights? For better or worse, we look normal; everyone else looks crooked. Were part of the performance; get used to it. As the women gradually separate, still undulating, we can identify them: Achugar, Hilary Clark, Jennifer Kjos, Melanie Maar, and Beatrice Wong, as storms-brewing, squalling sounds begin to come from a console at the back, with its little red and blue lights (music by Michael Mahalchick with Lucky Dragons). The women are garbed in Achugars trademark workers uniformsnavy-blue button-down-the-front dresses (some of the buttons have popped off). Underneath, they wear skimpy, silky leotards with floral appliqués. They look smaller and farther away when I see them in the mirror, larger and warmer when I turn my head,
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