Two Rhythms from the Subcontinent: Nrityagram and Chitrasena Companies Join Forces at the Joyce Theater

Posted on March 24, 2012 by

Mithilani Munasingha, Pavithra Reddy, and Thaji Dias. Photograph by Nan Melville

In January of 2006, I embarked on what remains my greatest adventure to date: three months in India. At the time I wasn’t interested in dance, but I couldn’t help finding it everywhere: in Bollywood films, in the two-millennia-old cave sculptures of Elephanta Island, in the paintings at Delhi’s National Museum. Knowing now just how rich the tradition is there, it’s difficult for me not to regret discovering dance sooner.

Fortunately, a number of Indian dance ensembles make their way to New York each year, and three lovely dancers from Nrityagram Dance Company, one of the most celebrated, opened a season at the Joyce Theater on Tuesday. India is home to eight forms of classical dance. The Nrityagram dancers are experts in Odissi, a form that originated in the eastern state of Orissa. Mithilani Munasingha and Thaji Dias — two beautiful members of Sri Lanka’s Chitrasena Dance Company, versed in the Kandyan form of dance — joined them in presenting Samhära, a celebration of the two styles’ shared ancient roots.

After an invocation performed by live musicians, the Odissi dancers take to the stage, followed by their Kandyan colleagues. The differences, less noticeable at first, slowly become clear. The Odissi dancers move with feminine grace and restrained sensuality, while the Kandyan dancers — less subtle in approach — snap their wrists, sink into exaggerated squats, and take spinning leaps. The costumes enhance the effects of each style: The tight Kandyan costumes add to the bluntness of every step, while the loose Odissi costumes further the smoothness of the dancing.

Surupa Sen. Photograph by Nan Melville

Most gripping are the solos by Surupa Sen (the company’s artistic director and choreographer) and Bijayini Satpathy (director of the Odissi school at Nrityagram’s dance village). Dancing to a poem about the god Shiva attributed to the Sri Lankan poet Ravana, Sen brings powerful conviction to every gesture, holding her index finger to her thumb and painting the air with finesse, then parting two down-turned fingers on her forehead while the poem’s narrator speaks of opening the third eye. Satpathy, a master of facial expression, is equally captivating. The tightening and relaxing of muscles have resounding effects. Her eyes, which roll and dart from side to side, are as expressive as her limbs.

The audience — an intelligent one — applauded enthusiastically for both soloists, yet neither emerged afterward to take bows. I wondered why. “The dancers don’t consider this art,” an Indian-born journalist seated next to me helpfully explained. “It’s a form of worship.”

The Nrityagram and Chitrasena performers reunite for the finale, and it’s here that Sen most shows her considerable gifts as a choreographer. The two groups take turns holding the stage, punctuated by dramatic exits and entrances, and later combine in rotating patterns, creating kaleidoscopes rich in contrasting steps and rhythms. There’s an air of playful competition as they taunt and chase each other, made even more literal when they briefly mime a game of dice. The mischievous Nrityagram dancers cheat to win the game. Where the dancing is concerned, however, there are no losers.

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Celebrating Cunningham & Cage: An Interview with Robert Swinston About His New Staging of Doubletoss

Posted on March 21, 2012 by

Robert Swinston. Photograph by Anna Finke

This year marks the centennial of John Cage’s birth, and events are being held worldwide to celebrate the avant-garde composer’s far-reaching impact on the arts. From March 22 to 24 at the Baryshnikov Arts Center, renowned Russian pianist Alexei Lubimov will play Cage’s 4 Walls (1944) alongside Robert Swinston’s new arrangement of Merce Cunningham’s Doubletoss (1993), performed by eight former members of the Merce Cunningham Dance Company. The original work merged two separate dances through chance, and according to Cunningham archivist David Vaughan, the contrasts in costumes and movement suggested that the performers inhabited “two different worlds.”

I sat down with Swinston at the company’s Westbeth studio to discuss his new staging, the challenges of the score, and Cunningham’s humanist side.

How did this undertaking come about?
The Baryshnikov Arts Center asked me if I would do a reconstruction of 4 Walls. The original 4 Walls was a dance play: It has a cast of characters who have lines, all written by Merce. I didn’t see any way that I could direct a dance play. I said I would try to embed an existing piece of choreography into the music. I was looking for anything to do, because … it’s over. I was busy at the time, with the company ending, but I grabbed it. Merce’s philosophy was “Why say no when you can say yes?”

Why did you decide to re-stage Doubletoss during the Cage Centennial?
It was the first new work Merce made after John’s death. It wasn’t the first work he premiered after John’s death, but it was the first one he started making.

How does your staging (Doubletoss Interludes) differ from the original Doubletoss?
Doubletoss lasts 30 minutes and 4 Walls lasts 55 minutes, so to a great extent I slowed things down. This is a device I learned from observing Merce: You learn how to extend these things and when to have an overture. We have an overture in Doubletoss Interludes. That sets the pace, and it’s the easiest time for the dancers to do nothing. Then I extended some of the movements and delayed the cues. I worked with the structure of the music to get the most impact. This isn’t the way we work usually.

Merce Cunningham Dance Company in "Doubletoss" (1993). Photograph by Johan Elbers

Did you add any material to the dance to fill the time?
On page six of Merce’s notes on Doubletoss, the dance ends, but there’s more material that wasn’t in the dance. I dug it up and used it. I kept Merce’s ending, though. I’ve never been a choreographer. The work I’m doing is choreography in a sense, but I never think of it like that. I’m arranging this, doing the best I can to work with his actual steps. He’s the magician and I’m the rabbit. That’s how I see myself.

The original music (by Takehisa Kosugi) was composed of sounds made by a radio receiver. Was it challenging to work with such a different score?
4 Walls was difficult because it’s sensitive music. On some occasions it’s very delicate, and on other occasions expressionistic. It even has harmony. This was before Cage threw harmony away.

How were the eight dancers selected?
I wrote to the dancers in the company last summer and asked them if they were interested. Only one or two responded. They didn’t know what they were going to do after the company ended. I kept asking. When it came down to it, I got eight. Doubletoss was originally made for 14.

There’s some gender swapping in your staging, with at least one woman dancing steps originally made for a man. Why is that?
I don’t have enough men! It’s an entirely practical choice, not an aesthetic or philosophical one. Sometimes it’s also a matter of who’s in what costume at a certain point.

You were in the cast of the original Doubletoss. What was it like to dance?
We all enjoyed it. You change costumes, and you have different characters, so to speak. I had a nice part — a big one. I was good at knee work and the floor work because of my Graham training, and I had to do a lot of it in Doubletoss. Now the dancers don’t work that way, so it’s different for them.

Deborah Jowitt wrote of Doubletoss that “it’s impossible not to feel it as a reassurance that what we call death may be simply an opening in the space-time fabric, and that the dead and living dance together on the same stage.” Do you agree?
That’s very true. You get the sense of the human world being manipulated by the spirit world. It seems to relate this world between life and some other place. Jack Anderson also has a great review of it. He sees it as A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

In the company’s later stages, you danced many of Merce’s roles. Were you intimidated by them?
When I came to the company, it was liberating to not have to be anything but myself. You can’t be like Merce Cunningham: It’s impossible, because he was unique. When I started doing Merce’s parts, he was very generous, very kind. He’d rather leave you alone than make remarks that would make you question your abilities.

A number of those roles — in Second Hand and Quartet, for example — were surprisingly poignant.
Second Hand [assumed to be inspired by the death of Socrates] is grave. When I began dancing it four or five years ago, Merce was getting older and dying. I was aware of that the whole time. I wanted people to see that part of Merce: his humanism. Everyone associates us with robots and mechanics and movement for movement’s sake, but there’s a part of Merce that’s entirely a humanist. I think Doubletoss will show that too.

4 Walls / Doubletoss Interludes runs from March 22-24 at the Baryshnikov Arts Center. Click here for more information.

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Speed and Skin: Stephen Petronio Company Performs Four Works at the Joyce Theater

Posted on March 18, 2012 by

Barrington Hinds in Stephen Petronio's "The Architecture of Loss." Photograph by Steven Schreiber

Since founding his company in 1984, Stephen Petronio has amassed a loyal following, not to mention an impressive roster of collaborators, including sought-after artists such as Rufus Wainwright, Lou Reed, Cindy Sherman, Laurie Anderson, and Nico Muhly. At his company’s 15th season at the Joyce Theater earlier this month, where Petronio debuted The Architecture of Loss alongside three other works, audience applause was as enthusiastic as ever.

Petronio’s dancers are beautiful and athletic, and the work can pack a visceral thrill, but the appeal is generally lost on me. His dances can be perplexingly double-sided in style: The relentless, angular choreography appears at times to aim for clean abstraction, but the dancers often bring grating flourishes to their steps, whipping their heads and limbs dramatically as if to say, “This is emotion, and it’s significant.” And so heavily do his dances rely on speed, the dancers can rarely express nuance.

The Architecture of Loss, to its credit, attempted a change of pace: literally, with bodies wilting and standing still. Described by Petronio as a meditation on the ephemeral nature of dance, it’s the quietest Petronio piece I’ve seen. But it, too, fell short: The geometries were often pleasing, as were certain passages of dance accumulation, but the work relied too heavily on its atmospheric score (by Valgeir Sigurdsson) to evoke stillness.

City of Twist, Petronio’s love letter to New York made in 2002 after the terrorist attacks of September 11, packed with twisting torsos and extended limbs, was back to business as usual. It occasionally managed to keep the eye engaged with its shifting patterns and the use of counterpoint, but the hyperkinetic steps were unmemorable.

These two dances also suffered from distractingly problematic costumes, which attempted to be both subversive and chic. In Twist, the men wear formal tops with tight briefs. When one dancer reclines in profile at the stage’s edge, it seems almost as if he’s showing off his bulge. Loss finds the men in hideous, loosely knitted dresses and even tighter briefs, which made one dancer (obviously fit) appear to have love handles. (Petronio’s women, for whatever reason, were spared such sartorial punishments.)

In between came Ethersketch I, a much-hyped solo performed by guest artist and New York City Ballet principal Wendy Whelan. She’s naturally suited to Petronio’s razor-sharp steps, and the solo (based on a passage from Petronio’s 2002 work Underland) played to her strengths. The material took on greater meaning with Whelan’s subtle touch, but the solo ended once she had started to made her case for the choreography. It couldn’t have lasted more than three minutes.

Stephen Petronio in "Intravenous Lecture." Photograph by Julie Lemberger

The most satisfying work, as it turned out, had relatively little dancing. In Intravenous Lecture, a reworking of a 1970 Steve Paxton solo denouncing censorship, Petronio — clad in a striped suit and copper shoes — took to the stage with a three-man medical team, which inserted an intravenous line into his arm. Attached to a saline drip, Petronio wandered through the stage, sharing observations about same-sex marriage, bodily taboos and a vignette about his arrest in London years earlier for publicly wearing a pornographic Vivienne Westwood t-shirt. (“The court keeps the shirt,” a judge told him after dismissing the case. “You keep the story.”)

Intravenous Lecture at times was heavy-handed — Petronio too often told the audience about the body’s power instead of showing it — but his storytelling and brief spurts of dancing were engaging and heartfelt. “This is my body,” he declared at the end of his lecture, adding that he could treat it as he pleased.

Taking ownership of the body is one thing. As the rest of the program showed, however, using it in a compelling way is a far more difficult task.

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A New Experience, But Not a Fresh One: Batsheva Dance Company Performs Ohad Naharin’s Hora at BAM

Posted on March 11, 2012 by

Batsheva Dance Company in Ohad Naharin's "Hora." Photograph by Gadi Dagon

Several times during Hora, a dance piece by Ohad Naharin that was performed by Naharin’s Batsheva Dance Company at BAM last week, one sees 11 dancers sitting on a long bench, hands resting on their knees. In unison, they stand and walk forward slowly with the same supple rhythm. As they sink into pliés and pose in profile, it’s impossible to ignore how remarkably these performers vary in sex, shape, and ethnicity, but as they step into shadows, any distinguishing characteristics fade away. Then they pause: Something big, something explosive, must be about to happen.

However, little of consequence ever follows this suspenseful tease. The hour-long work — full of fast, quirky movement — is impressively constructed, yet Hora proves emphatically that craft isn’t everything. The environment created by Naharin’s choreography is vacuum-sealed: The many solos and duets offer few opportunities for the performers to show their humanity. They’re seldom more compelling as dancers than they are as stationary silhouettes.

Hora's attempted playfulness relies on unexpected contrasts between its choreography and its score, a hodgepodge of orchestral music — including great composers such as Strauss, Wagner, and Mussorgsky — fed through analog synthesizers. The dancers often move slowly to fast tempi and vice versa, or pair revered music with less-than-dignified steps.

Batsheva Dance Company in Ohad Naharin's "Hora." Photoraph by Gadi Dagon

A section set the lush prelude to Debussy’s Afternoon of a Faun (music well known to ballet lovers), for instance, begins with a woman twisting and stooping in a frenzied, staccato solo. Later, as John Williams’ triumphant Main Title from Star Wars plays, a man plods across the stage alone, smacking his ear as if trying to remove water from it. The women behind him, meanwhile, launch into graceful kicks that are equally meaningless and at odds with the music.

Silly though the choreography may be, it’s obvious these dancers are skilled, and they succeed in many of Hora's quiet passages by showing unusual subtlety. (A knowledgeable friend attributes this to the company’s training in Gaga, a style of movement pioneered by Naharin that stresses connecting to pleasure.) Early on, two women face each other and gradually lean forward, their movement barely detectable until they tip onto each other and embrace; only the opposing forces of their bodies keep them somewhat upright. Elsewhere, a pair of dancers lying flat on the ground lowers their upturned legs to the floor with a touching finesse. Such moments are too fleeting and too few in Hora.

Naharin claims in publicity materials that Hora is about approaching the familiar — in this case, familiar music — in different ways. It “uses the ability to laugh at ourselves and not let a moment of reference prevent us from having a moment of fresh new experience.” Hora does provoke laughter — most memorably when a woman struts across the stage awkwardly humping at the air, accompanied by the fanfare of Also Sprach Zarathustra — but there are no revelations. Hora makes a joke of its score as well as its dancers.

Posted in BAM, Contemporary Dance | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

The March Issue of The Brooklyn Rail: Paul Taylor, Ohad Naharin, Pat Catterson, Jen Rosenblit & Vanessa Anspaugh

Posted on March 5, 2012 by

Vanessa Anspaugh's “Armed Guard Garden." Photograph by Ian Douglas

The March issue of The Brooklyn Rail— my second as dance editor — is now on newsstands and online, and I’m proud to share this month’s crop of features:

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From Ballet to Bare Feet: 12 Questions for Paul Taylor Dance Company’s Jamie Rae Walker

Posted on February 29, 2012 by

Jamie Rae Walker

In less than two weeks, Paul Taylor Dance Company kicks off its annual New York season at the David Koch Theater, where it will perform 22 works by its founder. Company member Jamie Rae Walker sat down with me at the Taylor studio to talk about what Taylor has taught her, the joys and challenges of her roles, and why she gave up her ballet slippers to dance in bare feet.

Your first full-time dancing job was at Miami City Ballet. What brought you there?
I was taking class in New York, and Edward Villella poked his head in. He said to me, “I’d love for you to come to a class tomorrow. I’ll be watching.” After that class, he and I started chitchatting. He never said anything about a job. A week later, I had a contract in the mail. I hadn’t even graduated from high school yet.

What was it like performing your first Taylor work?
[Former Taylor dancer] Lila York came to Miami to set Company B on us. She was going to put me in it, but I turned my ankle after she cast it. I understudied and learned everyone’s parts. Then another dancer ended up getting hurt before the premiere, and I got a first-cast role. I was cast in every Taylor afterwards, because I took to it. I really sunk my teeth into it — and I wanted to do it right. I was completely sold after my first slide in Esplanade.

I’ve never seen a ballet company dance Esplanade.
At Miami City Ballet, they made us wear ballet slippers in it! I kept begging to take them off, but no one was comfortable with it. I grumbled to myself that this wasn’t the way to do it. After seven years of that, I was ready to do it for real.

So how did you first meet Paul?
He saw me dance Arden Court in Miami. He said, “I don’t have any openings, but I want you on scholarship at the Taylor School, and I want to keep an eye on you.” I started at the school in 2001, and in 2003 I joined Taylor 2. Four and a half year years later, I was in the company.

What made Paul’s work a good fit for you?
The reason I danced in the first place was music. The way the movement fit with the music felt like a perfect match.

Did you have to “unlearn” your ballet training when you started with Taylor?
I had to let go of the idea that steps had to be executed a certain way. At first, a teacher here called me “the ballet dancer” in class. I worked so hard for him to not say that. Wanting to dance Taylor so badly made it easier for me: I wasn’t resistant. It was just a question of grasping it and allowing my body to do it.

And now you’re a teacher as well, right?
I teach a lot. I always have. I have a relationship with Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet, where I started dancing. I help them with Balanchine dances and modern work. I also teach at Ballet Academy East.

Jamie Rae Walker (left) and other company members in "Cascade." Photograph by Paul B. Goode

What Taylor piece do you find most difficult to dance?
They can be challenging as an actor or as a dancer. I’m really enjoying the character roles Paul is giving me right now: He’s definitely challenging me as an actor. The newest dance [House of Joy, set in a brothel] is probably one of my toughest. It’s a thick role.

And the most physically challenging?
You can’t get away with doing Syzygy halfway. It’s an entirely different way of dancing. You have to start from a center of energy and explode through your limbs. It’s exhausting but satisfying. House of Cards is particularly rough: I’m a marionette. I tried to find inspiration by watching marionettes and Jim Henson’s puppets.

When choreographing on you or assigning you roles, does Paul play to your strengths?
He tends to put people in roles they’re suited for it, but sometimes not. Whether you like it or not, you have to become it. I feel fortunate that he hasn’t found one “way” for me. My roles are really spread out. Last season, I was in Black Tuesday playing a little boy. Later on the same program, I played a little girl in Speaking in Tongues.

What has Paul taught you about dancing in general?
That there’s no way to be ready for the work other than doing it.

And what, if anything, have you held on to from your ballet years?
I’m still pushing my limits, which set me apart in ballet. Everyone noticed that about my dancing. I wish I had known then how to use the floor as well as I do now. I see my experience as an asset. Everything I’ve had in my body is still there, and I’ll have it when I need it.

Paul Taylor Dance Company’s spring season runs from March 13 to April 1 at Lincoln Center’s David Koch Theater. Click here for more information.

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Eating George Balanchine: The First Installment of the Ballet Cookbook Dinner Series

Posted on February 25, 2012 by

Balanchine's fish dinner for two and buckwheat kasha. Photograph by Paul LaRosa

As both a balletomane and a bibliophile, I had little choice but to purchase The Ballet Cook Book, by former ballerina Tanaquil Le Clercq. Although out of print for decades, the book has become legendary in dance circles. Copies are like gold dust, but after a prolonged online search I succeeded in finding one for the relatively low price of $80.

Paging through it for the first time, it was clear the book was worth every cent. Written in 1966, the 424-page volume is part cookbook and part yearbook, with recipes and biographies of the most renowned ballet dancers and choreographers of the day, including Frederick Ashton, Suzanne Farrell, Jerome Robbins, and Edward Villella. I knew immediately that I wanted to prepare the recipes, and to enjoy them with others who love ballet and food.

There was one problem: I’m a terrible cook. For help, I turned to Antonio Carmena, New York City Ballet soloist and graduate of the French Culinary Institute. (We originally met through Twitter.) He signed on immediately, as did Susan LaRosa, whose passion for preparing vintage recipes led her to start her own baking blog, A Cake Bakes in Brooklyn. As our enthusiasm for the project grew, we decided using The Ballet Cook Book to prepare one meal wouldn’t suffice: We would plan a monthly series of dinners.

Dinner attendees: Jeff, Antonio, me, Evan, Susan, and Michael

The first of these — an intimate but lively gathering of people with varying knowledge of ballet and cooking — took place last Sunday at Susan’s beautiful home in Park Slope, with a very-Russian menu of recipes submitted by George Balanchine, whose ballets I credit with sparking my interest in dance. Joining us were close friends Evan Namerow (writer of the blog Dancing Perfectly Free) and gadabout Jeff Gageby, who assisted me with hauling bags of fish, fruit, and vegetables from Manhattan to Brooklyn. Antonio arrived to do the real cooking immediately after dancing in New York City Ballet’s Romeo + Juliet. He was accompanied by his boyfriend, actor Michael Pereira, whose videotaping and wine bottle-opening skills came in very handy. Susan’s husband, Paul, generously took photos.

Jeff and I arrived early to chop fruits and vegetables (my only tangible contribution to the meal). We assumed we were making good time with our first course of blini (a kind of Russian pancake), but disaster struck when a more thorough reading of the recipe revealed the following line: “Allow to rise for 5 hours.” Oops. To avoid wasting the large quantities of sour cream and salmon roe we had on hand to complement the blini, we decided to forge ahead and hope for the best. Just as I was about to turn on some Stravinsky and pray to Balanchine for help, the dough miraculously started to rise. The blini certainly would have benefited from a few more hours, but they were delicious and proved to be the hit of the dinner. (Download the recipe for “blini.”)

The slow beet borschok, in an early stage.

Next we moved on to Balanchine’s “slow beet borschok.” I assumed it would be a version of borscht, but The Ballet Cook Book takes great care to distinguish the two: Borschok is a “light, clear consommé, an essence of beet-beef extract, that should be drunk from thin china cups, not soup bowls, with sour cream and slides of lemon served on the side.” Our soup benefited from homemade beef stock, which Susan generously prepared the day before using 10 pounds of bones. When we served the borschok — in china cups, true to Mr. B’s instructions — opinion was split: Some (myself included) found it satisfying, but others thought the beets overpowered the beef stock. Susan, one of the early dissenters, reported days later, however, that the leftover soup had become richer in flavor. “Most soups improve with time,” she said, “and this one definitely did.” (Download the recipe for “slow beet borschok.”)

The low point of the dinner, oddly, was the main course, Balanchine’s “fish dinner for two” (expanded for eight). Its ingredients — flounder filets, cherry tomatoes, potatoes, lemon juice, and a few seasonings — are simple, and the result was filling but bland. (“Let’s say it wasn’t my favorite,” Jeff said politely.) A piece of advice for those willing to try this dish: Don’t spend a small fortune on fresh fish like we did. Stick to the much-cheaper frozen filets called for by the recipe; they’re sure to produce a better return on your investment. We paired the fish with buckwheat kasha, one of four kasha recipes submitted by Mr. B. He’ll forgive us, I hope, for adding onions to the recipe to enhance the flavor. (Download the recipes for “fish dinner for two” and “buckwheat kasha.”)

Banana sweet

Finally, for dessert, we prepared the easy-to-make “banana sweet,” a concoction of fried bananas, white grapes, slivered almonds, and apricot jam. (Balanchine preferred exceedingly sweet desserts because he was never allowed them as a boy in Russia. “I used to say to myself: when I grow up, I am going to eat as much sugar and candy as possible.) The dessert’s sugary ingredients did indeed sound promising, but after combining them we were a bit, shall we say, underwhelmed by the dish’s messy appearance. We sampled it almost begrudgingly yet were surprised to find it quite tasty. “It’s similar to bananas foster but sweeter because of the apricot jam,” Evan noted. “And I like the crunch that the nuts added.” (Download the recipe for “banana sweet.”)

There was also, of course, vodka. Lots of it, and straight up, because that’s how Balanchine liked it. After taking our seats, we raised our glasses to the man of the hour, Mr. B. To Antonio (who had danced in Balanchine’s Tschaikovsky Suite No. 3 just two nights before) and other dance aficionados at the table, Balanchine’s works are a source of inspiration, and it was touching to learn more about him through the food he regularly ate.

Thanks for allowing us use your recipes, Mr. B. And more thanks for allowing us to watch your ballets.

Watch a video of our cooking condensed to three minutes:

The next Ballet Cook Book dinner — featuring the recipes of New York City Ballet principal dancer Diana Adams — will be held Sunday, March 25. Space is limited, but if you would like to attend, write to ryan@bodiesneverlie.com and tell us why you would like to be our guest.

Posted in George Balanchine, New York City Ballet | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 13 Comments