Tiff

I wasn’t ready this week to write about topics I had planned out, so instead I decided to discuss my favorite dance.  Then I arrived at a small problem: choosing the “best.”  I settled for executing it in phases.  Today’s post will be about Jiří Kylián, who in my experience is a creator of some of the most gorgeous and intelligent contemporary choreography out there now.

I called Kylián’s work gorgeous not only because he employs highly trained technicians but also because the movement is always luxuriously beautiful.  Even when it’s meant to look ugly, it’s the kind of ugly that is somehow appealing.  It still turns out pretty.  I hope that makes sense to someone.  For example, I love Peter Sarsgaard.  Let’s be honest, he isn’t the best-looking man ever and when cast in movies he is often dirty or creepy.  But he holds a strange attraction for me.  Everything has to come full circle; you go so far in one direction that you end up at home again.

Intelligent dance is very important to me.  I personally measure intelligence in choreography mostly through musicality and the invention found within the known vocabulary of movement.  Kylián seems never to run out of this creativity so many lack before starting.  Partnering is a standout feature of his work.  It is intimate without being embarrassing, and always simply mind-boggling.  Kylián has this uncanny ability to produce dances that could be rated on opposite sides of a spectrum of emotion.  Heart-breaking poignancy or sarcasm and humor could be the dominant feelings expressed in any number of his pieces, at times to the point of extreme theatricality.

The pieces I’m linking up are performed by the Nederlands Dans Theater.  Kylián began working with NDT in 1973, later becoming the artistic director.  After retiring in 1999 he is still a choreographer for the company.  First is Petite Mort (Part II) and the second Six Dances (Part II), both choreographed to Mozart.  Many others can be found on YouTube; I’m going to highly, highly recommend Bella Figura (which is only in clips -two and three- and contains some nudity) and Sarabande (Part II), which experiments a lot with sound and props.  And really, everything I’ve said is from the shallow end of the pool.  There is so much more to this choreographer than my limited knowledge is able to expound upon.  I hope you love him as much as I do for his wondrous depth and clarity.

I recently received some advice based on my last blog.  Actually, it probably applies to every post I’ve made but the very first two.  My blogs are too long.  Really, they should not be essays, which honestly is what I’ve been writing.  My apologies.  I’m still kind of new to this ( I know, I know – way behind the times).  So I’m going to work on making them a bit shorter, focusing on one person/topic at a time.  Also, as the general population may not be as well-versed in dance history or theory as I (though I am no expert), I’ve got to make my entries more accessible.  If you have any suggestions or ideas for how I could better achieve this, it would be much appreciated.

Last week was my first attempt at providing links to material mentioned in the course of the blog.  I think I might have packed a little too much information in, and as a result gave you about ten links too many.  I want to continue this, but on a much smaller scale.  Something I have been meaning to do is find a link to the Killer’s Head monologue or a video of a performance of it so that you have an idea as to what I’m talking about.  They won’t always be as tardy as this.  Thanks for reading!

Sam Shepard’s Killer’s Head – This is video from YouTube.  Not the best, and performed by a woman, but really the only I could find.  If you’d like to actually read the monologue, it can be found in The Unseen Hand, a book of plays by Shepard.

There are those artists whose art happens to be shocking, although the effort is genuine.  They are not intentionally attempting to create a reaction; it just happens to incite a strong one.  The cause of this may be that the art is before it’s time.  The audience is not always prepared to view something out of the ordinary, or a piece that rejects personal values.  In 1913, ballet virtuoso Vaslav Nijinsky premiered his work Le Sacre du printemps (The Rite of Spring) with the Ballet Russes in Paris.  As the crowds rioted a year earlier during the opening of his first piece of choreography (L’apres-midi d’un Faune – Afternoon of a Faun), so they did again as the ground-breaking ballet unfolded.  Not only was Igor Stravinsky’s music perceived as unlistenable, but the thematic material and actual movement were connected with everything “primitive”: naturalness, raw sexuality, simplicity, and sacrifice.  In her book Dancing Women: Female bodies on stage, Sally Banes described the dancers thus: “They huddled, trembled, flailed, fell down, and appeared to become possessed” (100).  The whole ritual of it, and the lack of what was considered “civilized” was truly terrifying to the audiences of Paris.  Another shock was the complete lack of any ballet technique, especially from a company known for very classical pieces like Les Sylphides, choreographed by Mikhail Fokine.  There was a reason for this.  The Ballet Russes is largely responsible for ushering in the period of Modernism, a deliberate abandonment of the old ways of the nineteenth century, one of those being ballet.  With extravagant sets, costumes and librettos, men dancers and movement that was at times chancy and sexually suggestive, these choreographers and dancers rebelled against prescribed conventions.  The product of this revolt was often very strange and revolutionary art, but art nonetheless that demonstrated the rising defiance of artists at the turn of the century.

So, an additional reason The Rite of Spring was controversial was because the need for change had become dire, and Nijinsky offered the beginnings of a fresh start.  This is an assessment we can make now because nearly one hundred years later, his works are performed by the best dancers in the world, and are seen as classic pieces of art.  What is shocking and disturbing now is quite different from the early 1900s.  The fact that Afternoon of a Faun closes with the title character’s sexual discovery is certainly surprising to contemporary viewers, but much less dirty, and easier to understand than it would have been in 1912.  All art is constantly evolving; every new period that has arisen, whether in the visual arts, dance, music, theater or literature is a distinct effort to create work that is new and different from what came before.  Change is imminent and necessary.  We need innovators to show us the way into the future.

Sometimes those innovators are a little bit subtler than we expect.  Bronislava Nijinska, sister of Nijinsky and fellow dancer also decided to try her hand in choreography with the Ballet Russes, although about ten years later.  Les Noces (The Wedding) premiered in 1923 in Paris to music written by Igor Stravinsky.  Perhaps the most important characteristic of Les Noces as compared to any of Nijinsky’s work was that it relied heavily on ballet as a foundation, and in return benefited from the possibility of its strength and force.  As the title suggests, Les Noces is about a wedding.  Unfortunately, this wedding seems to be a rather dismal one.  Banes expertly observes of Les Noces: “It was not a gaily festive celebration, but a powerful, abstract evocation of the weighty social forces that impinge on individuals in a traditional culture, shaping their destinies and thrusting their mates upon them” (108).  Coming from a tradition of ballet fairy tales and idealistic loves, Nijinska’s ballet of social commentary was extraordinarily ground-breaking; but it makes its point so delicately.  The layers of symbolism in the first tableau depict the way in which the young bride will painfully have her maidenhood stolen away from her through the reenactment of a typical pre-wedding ritual.  To this day, Les Noces continues to be a work of stunning intelligence and awareness.  Before the Ballet Russes, only Anna Pavlova had any sort of demanding position as a leader in dance.  Nijinska’s choreography opened up pathways for women that had never before been available.  She and her brother successfully created a type of dance that encouraged the beginning of modern dance in America.  The controversy of the Ballet Russes expanded the art form of dance and provided the steam it needed for a new era.  It appears that sometimes a shock is just what we need to get us moving on to the future.

Links:Part I: Nijinsky’s Le Sacre du printemps (Rite of Spring)

Part II

Part III

Nijinsky’s L’apres-midi d’un faune (Afternoon of a Faun)

Part I: Fokine’s Les Sylphides

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part I: Nijinska’s Les Noces (The Wedding)

Part II

Part III

Bibliography:
Banes, Sally. Dancing Women: Female bodies on stage. Routledge:London, 1998.

Is it okay when art loses its value and the purpose becomes to simply shock viewers? Well, I would say no, but the definition of what exactly art is differs from person to person. In reference to my last blog, I felt some elements of Killer’s Head reached that point, based on some very small details. For example, during the monologue actor Zach Thompson pulled out a pocket knife. He fiddled around with it while speaking, at times resting the point on his forehead or thigh. I should not have been worried about his safety, or about how his character smuggled a knife into an execution room. I also should not have been worried about my own safety, although I was twice over when he smashed two glass objects, which of course shattered everywhere while I thanked my stars that I wasn’t sitting in the front row. I was left wondering the reasoning for this. Why make Mazon so threatening? Why turn up the edge so much?

While in high school I was completely baffled at how much some of the dance world had stepped out of the range of what I would call a complete work of “art”. As a junior I traveled to Philadelphia for the National High School Dance Festival. There were a few gala shows, at which students as well as professionals performed. I distinctly remember watching as Philadanco danced beautifully, but was shocked when every trick (an impressive extension, five turns, or a huge jump) warranted screams and clapping from every student in the crowd. I felt that dance had become so much about the wow factor that I used to say I was waiting for it to come full circle, and hit the Isadora Duncan level of simplicity again. I thought I could be the one to usher in this new era, but I’m not so sure simple is what the audience wants to see, no matter how much thought, effort and affection I pour into it. I suppose the emergence of dance reality shows hasn’t helped. People want to see dance like it is on television: the exciting, intensely dramatic works that appeal to the general population.

A few months ago I was exploring a juried art show at school and discovered a drawing that I found extremely disturbing. Not only did I feel that the craftsmanship was horrendous, but the image was just as unbelievable. I couldn’t fathom how the student had enough gall to submit this piece to a juried exhibition. It was a very small pencil drawing with the look of a cartoon, almost like a sketch. It pictured a woman from the buttocks down. Her panties were pulled down below her knees and half a tampon plus the string was dangling out between her legs. There was a small dog at her feet lovingly looking up at her backside, nose lifted as if smelling something. Not only do I not want to see a woman’s tampon falling out, I guess I was not too keen on the more-than-man’s-best-friend vibe I was receiving. I still don’t understand what the aim of the artist was. If it was for me to be grossed out, mission accomplished. If it was for me to tell other people about how weirded out I was, I suppose that mission was also accomplished. It didn’t make me think, it didn’t inspire any creative thoughts or any revision of my life, although I am writing about it now. I’ve found that it’s always easier to define what you hate rather than what you like. I guess the point is that more people will pay attention to your work if they must do a double-take. It’s better than being boring, right? Not at all. It’s just as bad. The art is lost. I don’t understand what is so wrong with a piece that is well-made and simply expresses the artist’s vision. But who is to say that their production isn’t exactly what they meant it to be? That is when it comes down to personal perspective, and I felt that the piece was ingenuine and ill-crafted as well as disgusting. I don’t prefer overtly sexual subject matter, but it could at least have been tasteful and mature.  There will be more to come on the subject of controversial art.

This is about a month old, date indicated was the date of the show.

Sam Shepard’s Killer’s Head is a monologue that was first performed in 1975 by Richard Gere. This particular performance by the Black Horse Theatre was given by Zach Thompson, who also co-directed with Alice Ferrulo. The scene is an execution room, there is an electric chair center stage. Mazon, the main character, is about to die although the audience has no idea why. He says nothing of his crime, but only rambles on about breeding horses and a truck he plans on buying. It was my first experience with any Sam Shepard.

Inner Landscapes: The Theater of Sam Shepard includes a very short segment about the monologue. Author Ron Mottram calls the character’s speech “entirely trivial, as if Mazon had all the time in the world” (115). I was left feeling as if I had very little knowledge of him. I could confidently say that this piece is a bit of an enigma. But how much is the viewer supposed to ask in this situation? Here is a man who is going to die. He is possibly going through some extreme turmoil over whatever he did that landed him on Death Row. The knowledge of his pending violent and inevitable death is enough to make anyone crazy. What would your last words sound like?

At first I wasn’t sure whether or not there was more than the Black Horse Theatre chose to give the audience, but with further research it seems that we are not really supposed to know anything about this man. Unfortunately, I felt really distanced from Mazon because of this, which probably inhibited my feeling involved. I didn’t feel anything for Mazon; no sympathy, no hatred, nothing. There was no bond or connection formed between him and the audience because of the manner of the monologue. I’m not terribly sure how open to interpretation this monologue was, but according to my sister, who is an actress, actors are given a lot of creative license when performing alone. Zach Thompson was clearly completely involved in his character, and gave a rather disturbing performance, which I believe was his aim. He portrayed Mazon as a man full of intense rage, at two points smashing glass and occasionally belting out rending screams. He also had strange moments of what could be called lucidity if he wasn’t going to die. He speaks of future plans and things he would like to do, as if he has the chance. About half of the way through there was a physical acting out of Mazon murdering a man credited as his father. At this point in the monologue there is indicated a one-minute silence. Inner Landscapes mentions nothing about his crime, so I’m going to assume the flashback was added in. Also added in was an unexplained pile of dirt on stage left, a motor bike stripped of tires on stage right and a metal bar hanging from the ceiling between the bike and electric chair. There were two televisions in the rear of stage left, one continually static, and the other displaying a sort of short video biography of Mazon. To the left of the audience was projected onto the wall a looping video of bull riders. Being a purist, I would have preferred the single electric chair as indicated in the script, especially because the script was given out. I also personally could have done without all of the distracting images and televisions, partially because I have no idea what significance they had to the monologue.

It was a good show, the actor was totally committed, and the space of the venue was used in an inventive way. I just feel that the monologue itself is such a mystery, which frustratingly keeps my final opinion hazy.

My name is Tiffany Gladson. What I will attempt to present in this blog are my observations/opinions concerning the world of art.  When I entered the first grade, it was in an arts magnet elementary school, and since then dance, literature, the visual arts, music and theater have been the most important aspects of my life, and really the life force of my immediate family. I have been dancing since the second grade, although not seriously until high school. Now I am an English major, and hope to combine my two great loves of dance and the written word.

As said above, this blog serves the purpose of allowing my criticisms some air. I am by no means the most knowledgeable person alive. My opinions are founded upon the little stockpile of information housed somewhere in my brain, and at times they have no foundation whatsoever. You may not agree with all of my choice expressions, but what makes the human race more a family than our differences? I have a right to my views as much as anyone else has to vehemently disagree with me. What is important is that respect for all arts and all peoples remains, and I in turn try and live up to the very difficult standards of tolerance. I know at times it gets away from us, but to err is to be human, no?

This is a reflection I wrote a few months ago in response to a Moving Current concert with guests Paul Matteson and Jennifer Nugent.  Moving Current is a local modern dance company working out of Tampa.

Jennifer Nugent and Paul Matteson came to perform with Moving Current in their 2008 winter concert. They danced together in a piece called Fare Well, a duet.  I don’t know what was more impressive: their complete intimacy, or the movement itself.  I suppose the intimacy is what makes the movement so noticeably different from any run-of-the-mill dance.  I wonder if the manner in which they dance together is created out of their combined styles or by the closeness of their lives as a couple.  Really, it’s a question I would only be able to answer if I asked the dancers themselves.  As of now, the answer is pending.  But back to the topic: The body is what it is.  Simply.  There are no positions, no settled ways of sitting or standing.  I decided that Nugent and Matteson are like babies.  Even at some age that is between thirty and forty, these dancers have found a way to make everything fresh and pure, as if discovering movement for the fist time again.  Personal space is of no consequence, and bodily and spatial awareness is found in each other.  There were times when the couple was plastered against one another, front to front, face to face.  They nudged their noses together like a couple of dogs, and did the same with their chins.  There was at times a very animalistic sensibility in their work, and like the newborn, rawness is imbued in the movement.