Split Sides

A FEW WEEKS AGO I made a pilgrimage to the Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM) to see the second to last performance of the Merce Cunningham Dance Company. Like me, many of you might think traveling to Brooklyn is on the same adventure level as traveling to Tasmania, but it can be easily reached by subway or a shuttle bus especially for arts lovers who can see the impressive lineup of theatre, music, dance, and film that BAM offers.

At the time of Merce Cunningham’s death in 2009, it was announced that the company would be on a 2 year “Legacy Tour” to show his wide repertoire of modern dance–which had begun in 1953 when he founded the company–and then disband, not to be seen again. This was in response to work that seemed to go on ad nausea after the choreographers were gone. For a man who led the way to the cutting edge of modern dance, it seemed only natural that, when he could no longer make new work, the work was over.

The history of the Cunningham Company is a sorted one and always divided by people who think his work is genius and those who can’t stand it. Once during a Spoleto performance nearly 20 years ago, I watched as people got up in droves and walked out of the theatre. It happened at different moments in the performance and in different numbers of people, and I began to think that Cunningham was choreographing these exits just as he had choreographed the dancers of stage. Of course, I had stayed as I loved what I saw and had been a student at his school after college, immersing myself in a technique that was always challenging, sometimes painfully so, but kept the body thinking and, by default, the heart, too.

Pond Way

The BAM performance offered three dances I had never seen live and some of them only in filmed excerpts or photographs, so it was a treasure trove for a dancer with an interest in its history. I noticed at once that the audience were enthusiasts like me, so I felt sure there would be no deserters during the performance which was comforting and exciting like a pilgrimage should be.

Pond Way was a dance from 1998 with music by Brian Eno, decor by Roy Lichtenstein, and costumes by Suzanne Gallo. In the usual Cunningham chance manner, the collaborators worked independently and did not confer on the overall effect of movement, music, decor, and costume–but  unveiled what they had created at the last serendipitous minute. This works perfectly for Ponds Way which depicts the natural world at any pond where flora and fauna exist independently, but in unison add to the overall environment. The Zen-like atmosphere replete with stillness and unpredictable rhythmic phrasing made me feel like a voyeur on a nature scene. The dancers were brilliant in their razor sharp clarity.  Even their usual austere faces hinted at joy as they danced in the delicious technique where impossibly intricate footwork was topped with  ever changing and counter-intuitive upper-body positions.

RainForest

The next piece was the famous RainForest from 1968 with silver helium filled pillows designed by Andy Warhol, an auditory-challenged composition by David Tudor, and lighting by Aaron Copp. I had always wanted to see this on stage and never had, and it was the effect of the floating obstacles that float freely through the dancer’s space which was the most interesting element. It is when the dancers encounter the silver pillows that this chance shines. This intersection of unrelated entities becomes at once relative and wether the movement smacks the pillow with power to change the floaters pathway evermore, or softly bounces off a shoulder or curved back–like thoughts which move unhindered through the mind–these become the most stunning moments.

Last was Split Sides from 2003 with two composers (Radiohead and Signor Ros), 2 set designers (Robert Heishman and Catherine Yass),  and 2 costume designs by James Hall. To introduce the piece, all artists and dancers came to the stage and each element (including choreography made in 2 parts) was chosen by a flip of a coin–which offers a myriad of probabilities in terms of what dance section would be performed to which music with which set design in what costumes! This spontaneously-generated creation was a delight to observe and the dancers were obviously charged with the constantly changing set of rules. The dance showed Cunningham’s intense playfulness and several standout solos and duets illuminated the off-centeredness and balance that requires great strength and control.

It is ironic that a man whose work was guided by chance had such a firm hold on where avante garde performance should be and what standards were expected. When the curtain comes down for a final time on the stroke of midnight at the company’s performance on the Upper East Side at The Armory it will be the end of an era, but both choreographers and dancers will forever be influenced by Merce Cunningham’s ideas about dance as art.

Prom Dress by Tara Lewis

RECENTLY IN WASHINGTON, D.C., I encountered the city in its cherry-blossom beauty when Spring peeks under the cold hand of Winter and the city can bask again in its glory.

I am always reminded that the style of this city is a perfect blend of aesthetics and ethics which was never protected from the corruption of many but strengthened by the genius of some.

On this visit to see my daughter in school, one of the responsibilities was finding a dress for the Prom—for which the idea of aesthetics and ethics seemed relevant. After all, you want an outfit that will look great for this potentially social highpoint of your year, as well as something that will say the right thing about you.

This, of course, is not easy these days when most dresses for teenage girls are well beyond what I was wearing and a great distance from what their grandmothers were wearing (though it’s safe to say that her grandmother pushed the boundaries amidst 40 yards of tulle). But today’s fashions are just too short and too tight for the relatively conservative who still cares about being on the cutting edge.

Once we found the perfect, not too tight, not too short, aesthetically pleasing dress with a modicum of class, there were shoes to buy. All in all the day had gone quite well and our feelings for one another were still loving and respectful, but when she tried on gold stilettos with straps and buckles and a certain tramp je ne sais quoi, I had to take a deep breath.

“I just don’t like what those shoes say about you,” I said matter of factly. She, too, remained calm, but kept gazing at them, like it was still a possibility. We spoke calmly and kindly when I realized that she needed a parent and not a friend at that moment. “We’ll take these,” I said to the shop girl as I picked up the other pair of shoes that were still higher than I had hoped, but a happy compromise.

As we left the store, my hand went up for a high-five which I received. I was happy that she was still willing to take my advice in a matter that most mothers have diminishing control over.

BACK IN MARCH, I attended the College of Charleston Department of Theatre’s annual dance concert, Collaborations. At first, I couldn’t make a connection between the title and the program.

When the lights dimmed and the curtains opened, I concentrated on the dancers, the songs, the movement—and still no connection. So, afterwards, I went home and reread the Director’s Note and event description, which is when I came across this:

The annual dance performance takes the unique position of centering around the idea that, as sentient beings, we have an undeniable urge to make meaningful connections with those around us. As artists, the collaborative process allows us to fulfill this desire and to explore new depths of artistic creation. Collaborations will present exciting works forged in that spirit of collaboration with others across our department, our campus, and in the surrounding artistic community.

It was then that I realized what this concert was all about. The purpose of the artists was to celebrate the power of working together. To demonstrate that when we work together, using the diversity of each other’s ideas, something great can be accomplished—a lesson we all need to be reminded of.

Along with this message, artistic director Gretchen McLaine challenged the choreographers to “go beyond the traditional ways of working, creating, and perceiving dance.” She wanted them to move away from the norms and stereotypes that people have put on dance for years and show the audience the wonders of dance when it’s unrestricted and free.

With that in mind, the first piece of the program exemplified this immensely. Deconstructed Swans, choreographed by Kayla Brown, presented a different angle on one of the most famous ballets, Swan Lake. But at this lake, the swans broke the spell of perfection and became wicked. Instead of clean-cut white leotards and tutus, the heinous swans wore black semi-torn leotards designed by Evelyn Budiansky. Although the piece was performed classically en pointe, the pointe moved away from its relation to classical ballet and more towards modern dance. Both the music and lightning were darker and more intense, which created an intense mood for the performance.

The dance, however, wouldn’t be anything without its dancers. Jackie Moore, Alexis Patsalos, Georgia Schrubbe, and Victoria Smith did a great job portraying the corrupted swans. The girls immediately established the intensity by stealthily crawling onto the stage, and they kept the mood throughout the entire piece. Their movements were jagged and rigid, cutting sharply through the space, yet they remained graceful in each step. Perhaps most enticing about their dance were their hypnotic glares that stayed on their faces until the last pose. The glares sent a chill down my spine and left an impression on me that I remember to this day.

What had to be the greatest collaboration of the entire concert was My Father’s Daughter’s Sister. Choreographed by Eliza Ingle and Evan Parry in collaboration with the dancers, it showed what it’s like when people come together to inspire each other and produce something amazing. Because it was portrayed as a series of photographs in a photo album, the piece was less of a dance and more of a moving piece of art. Aside from it being represented gracefully through movement, the thing that made it most enjoyable for me, if not the entire audience, was the fact that it was easy to relate to. The “music” came from the voices of the five dancers—Eva Falls, Meg Fannin-Buckner, Margaret Hilton, Ryan Masson and Emily Poff—as they shared memories that brought them sorrow, pleasure, and laughter. There were no flashy costumes; just everyday clothes designed by Ashley Blair.

So there they stood, no music, no synchronized dance steps. Just five average people dancing their memories and sharing their souls with the audience. They were honest, which not only made their stories believable but a reality. The movement was pure and organic, filling the space with true emotions. And though each memory was irrelevant to the next, the fact that they were told from the heart connected the individual monologues into one continuous story. It was one of the truest expressions of human emotion that I have seen in a long time.

As far as the title goes, this concert was not only collaborations with each other, but with the mind and the spirit of one’s self. Each piece used the space wisely and created wonderful pieces of art that were a delicacy for the eyes. If you are one of the unfortunate people who missed this concert, I advise you to anticipate next year’s showing. I can guarantee it will not be time wasted.

Gabrielle Schecker is in the Creative Writing Program at the College of Charleston.

Read more from the Creative Writing Corner

Though it is a delayed reaction to the official calendar, I think there is an internal calendar which we can feel as the shift of a new season begins and our spring self emerges out of the our winter self with a certain lightness of being. Our eyes lift from the road in front of us for a moment, and we take in a 360-degree view. We expose skin that hasn’t seen sunshine, and our feet step into sandals and flip-flops. It’s not always a pretty sight, but the pleasure of the warm air pulls out an insistent and youthful joy that upstages any damp circumstances. It’s a folly and a fancy which makes age and bitterness taste a little sweeter.

T.S. Eliot called April “the cruelest month, breading lilacs out of dead land, mixing memory with desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.”

On a recent bike ride, I encountered the shock of the new in earth’s makeover, like when you see an old friend who has a “can’t put your finger on it” change in their face which you attribute to a new haircut or lost weight.

Rumi, the ever relevant 13th-century Persian mystic, described the constant change in our lives with this poem:

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house,
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
Some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
Who violently sweep your house
Empty of its furniture,
Still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
For some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
Meet them at the door laughing,
And invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
Because each has been sent
As a guide from beyond.

See more of Eliza’s Musings

SHOULD YOU STAND during a concluding ovation for a performance? It depends on whether you think it is worthy of such an accolade. What happens often in Charleston is that a few audience members stand, then a few more, then a few more, then maybe almost all the audience stands. It is like everyone is waiting to see what the other guy is doing. But shouldn’t it be for an extraordinary performance, instead of an obligatory knee-jerk or semi-knee-jerk reaction? Often the performances heard nowadays are superior, but are all of them worthy of a standing ovation?

On Applause

WHAT IS THE ANSWER to applause between movements of a concerto or symphony? In the 19th century, audiences often demanded, by applause, the repeat of a symphonic movement they especially liked. In the 20th century, it became a no-no to clap between movements. Famously, for Charleston at least, Haitink, in that memorable 1970s concert, without turning around held up his hand to the audience when there a burst of applause at the end of the first movement of the Haydn symphony being performed. The audience fell silent.

Sir Thomas Beecham had a more difficult situation when at London’s Covent Garden opera house, audiences would start clapping before the last few bars ended an opera. Finally, Beecham had had it. He whirled around and yelled, “Shut up!”

They did—and did not clap at all at the end of the next Beecham-conducted performance. Whereupon, he turned and said, “Let us pray.” That broke the ice.

If the whole audience applauded between movements, that would make more sense than the scattered, tepid claps often heard, as if a few audience members just woke up, and hearing silence, decided it was all over.

However, there are performers and audience members who don’t like between-movement applause.

But consider this: in opera, it is routine for audiences to go bonkers with applause and yelling after a famous diva or divo sing well a famous aria in an operatic performance. Also in ballet performers, when the prima ballerina often stops the whole show, bowing and preening center stage, collecting her due.

On Gaffes

IF YOU LISTEN to unedited recordings of live performances by just about anyone, there are examples of one type of flub or another. That’s what you get in live performances, and it should not detract from the enjoyment of the music. If you crave perfection, listen to edited recordings with all the wrong notes replaced.

On Acoustics

THE ACOUSTICS in the Gaillard have always been a topic of discussion, usually critical. When Dutchman Bernard Haitink conducted the London Philharmonic in the hall in the 1970s, he declared it to be similar in sound to his Amsterdam Concertgebouw, one of the finest concert venues in the world.

And that was before the orchestra shell was installed. It has certainly improved matters sonically, particularly when the performers are moved forward or down-stage, close to the edge of the apron, namely under and in front of the proscenium where their sound is fuller and has more impact. But…

I am not aware of anything being mentioned publicly about the acoustics of the planned renovation/replacement of the Gaillard concert/opera hall(s?). This issue should be of number-one importance. More interest has been aroused over the proposed exterior appearance of the “new” building: certainly of worthy concern in historic Charleston. Yet, why do we go to operas, ballets and concerts? To see and to hear.

A combined opera house and concert hall isn’t a good idea.

We have the example of Philadelphia’s old Academy of Music which housed the spectacular Philadelphia Orchestra in a not spectacular sonic setting until recently when they moved to the specially-built Verizon Hall in the Kimmel Center for the Performing Arts. Opened in 1857, the Academy is the oldest grand opera house in the United States still used for its original purpose, as well as others.

And what kind of “opera house” is proposed for Charleston: 18th, 19th, or 20th-century style?

Opinions welcome: furtwanglerw@bellsouth.net

Billy Collins

TO CLIMB the stairs of the Charleston Library Society’s historic building on King Street under a full moon on a cold January evening to hear Billy Collins read his poetry for members of the Poetry Society of South Carolina Society was a winter highlight.

Although this exclusive event was offered only to the Poetry Society (whose membership has hovered under 200 for the past near century) I would be remiss not to mention that it happened at all.

Poetry readings are best in an intimate setting such as the crowd of 150 who shared in the gracious presence of Mr. Collins. Laughter, sighs, and awe filtered through the air for the hour that he read in his easy and unassuming manner, warming the audience immediately to his poetry about dogs, parents, students, traveling, and the task of writing poetry. His delivery is direct with a hint of sarcasm that flirts with his listener who feels personally introduced to the poet’s world in a gentle dance of image and metaphor.

From Dharma

If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment she
would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.

Mr. Collins, Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003, was dubbed the “Most Popular Poet in America” by the omnipotent New York Times. His witty charm and accessibility has endeared poetry to many. The envy of any who grapple with the craft, Mr. Collins has published 9 books and received one of the biggest advances for a book deal in the history of poetry. He a is a Distinguished Professor at Lehman College and City University of New York.

Many of the poems he read night were favorites like “Oh My God!” Which pokes fun at the teenage girl’s over usage of the phrase, “The Lanyard” which shows the self satisfaction of a young boy’s simple gift to his mother, and “Litany” which has received greater acclaim after a three-year-old recited it on YouTube.

Finally, this one which prompted a collective “aahh” at its end and proved that Billy is everyman/woman’s poet whose subject of the inevitable makes it so powerful.

Forgetfulness

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

The Charleston Library Society is celebrating its 90^th year of being the oldest of its kind in the United States.

Expectoration, 2005 • J. Henry Fair

An exhibit poster at the Gibbes Museum of Art says it best: “At first glance the brilliantly colored, impasto-like patterns that [Charleston native] J. Henry Fair captures with his camera are easily confused with the musings of an abstract painter. But these large-scale aerial photographs are instead unadulterated depictions of waste byproducts found around coal-fired electrical plants, oil refineries, phosphate mines, and even industrial hog farms.”

Coal Slurry, 2005 • J. Henry Fair

What is meant by ‘waste’ and ‘byproducts’ and the industrial processes that produce them requires some study. But according to the video that accompanied the exhibit, each year 1500 pounds of mercury are released into industrial site impoundments within 100 miles of Charleston. Along with 59,000 pounds of arsenic and 229,000 pounds of lead.

One of the image descriptions adds this: “Unbelievably, coal ash is not regulated by the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), yet its toxins include arsenic, mercury, chromium, and cadmium which, because the impoundments are not lined, leach down and contaminate the groundwater.” Furthermore, there are two (unnamed) “coal-burning power plants near Charleston that are known to be contaminating the ground water with arsenic.”

The trouble is that J. Henry Fair’s images are so gorgeous. As powerful as his ecological message is, it is the art of his lens that keeps drawing you back. And partly because of how beautiful destruction looks from afar.

In the image at top (“Expectoration”) the rust, beige, gray, and white colors could easily be from the sophisticated pallet of a twentieth-century artist with a good eye for compositional contrasts. Whereas the image at right (“Coal Slurry”) looks at first like a microscopic view of neurons. In both cases, Nature’s inimitable symmetry is on spectacular display, albeit in the form of man-made destruction.

Then there’s the image below that looks like a modern-art “splash” painting, but which turns out to be an aerial photo of radioactive acidic waste produced by sulphuric acid in the process of mining phosphate.

Phosphate Fertilizer Mining Waste • J. Henry Fair

The press has been filled with unnerving details about how the 2008 financial crisis was spawned over time, behind the scenes, unbeknownst to those most affected by it, and enabled essentially by utter thoughtlessness and greed. That’s what came to mind as I looked at these industrial waste sites—a meager few among many, many more around the world.

Fair’s images make the surface of our planet look more gaseous than mineral, more like Jupiter than Earth. No, such a conversion has not drastically impacted us in our lifetimes, but these chemical waste products have not been around that long. It makes you wonder just how long it may take to prove overwhelming—far more overwhelming than these stunning photographs.

Visit the Gibbes Museum of Art web site.

See more of J. Henry Fair’s photographs.

Read J. Henry Fair’s blog.

the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center

THERE IS NOTHING more festive than New York City adorned in its Christmas splendor. The department store windows on Fifth Avenue never cease to boost the heart and soul of anyone who sees them, and always at the top of the delights stands the tree at Rockefeller Plaza which, no matter your age, prompts an “AHHH” that stirs the core in an annual pull that comes with the holiday.

The visit was a quick one to meet my mother for a little Christmas cheer before the actual event where we would not be together, but instead with our separate set of circumstances which would unquestionably include missing each other.

We attended the matinee of Emma Rice’s adaptation of Brief Encounter, an adaptation of Noel Coward’s play and later a film based on the same. What Rice has done is take the story of an impossible love affair between two married people whose ride is like the express train that it revolves around, and which ends as soon as it ignites with a fast and furious love that exceeds the normal attraction and makes no usual stops until the journey has ended and their lives are forever changed. Around their microcosm are songs and a little dance performed by a very funny and talented “satellite” cast whose normal love lives hold all the wonder minus the complexities of the main characters played by the talented Hannah Yelland and Tristan Sturrock.

Tristan Sturrock and Hannah Yelland

Layers of vaudevillian elements include a movie screen where memories past and present interplay with the main action. Humor and inventive staging create delightful effects. A charming Chagall-esque moment of how love can transport time and space occurs poignantly when the British lovers meet for tea only to end up hanging from the chandeliers in their elated states. The tragically beautiful show will come to the end of its run soon, so catch it if you can.

The other cultural moment I was able to squeeze out of a Christmas shopping frenzy was a visit to the Whitney Museum of American Art to see Modern Life: Edward Hopper and His Time which will be on exhibit until April. The show explores the development of Realism in American Art from 1900–1940. Contemporaries of Hopper are also included: John Sloan, Alfred Steiglitz, and Paul Strand among others.

Edward Hopper 1882-1967, South Carolina Morning, 1955. Oil on canvas. Whitney Museum of American Art, New York

But it was Hopper that most interested me with the contrast of cityscapes and small-town portrayals of desolation, isolation, and longing in his bold lines and starkly filled canvases. His shadows carry as much power as the bright, white-washed buildings with interruptions of color or a single figure. With the vivid realism there is a hidden abstraction beyond his subject matter where a psychological reality brews beyond the first glance at his work. I have always been struck by the stunning sensuality of his works which include a single woman who stands in a doorway or in a room alone, where there is an urgent story that must be told.

Despite the reports that the consumer-driven factory has closed, there were still plenty of people out and about dipping into the feast of the holiday. The city of dreams continues to hold great things to see and feel and taste, and whenever I go I accept the fact that there is much I’ve missed, and more to dig into the next time.

The drive itself was hassle-free enough, although I again missed visiting the Ava Gardener Museum and South of the Border—but there’s always next time. The bonus was eight hours returning home with my daughter as captive audience, unable to escape my questions and having to fill me in on her stories of new friends and activities that she manages entirely on her own as the independent superstar that she is.

The day before picking her up, I spent quality time with the man I have always enjoyed fleeting visits with, and whom I was relieved to find better that I had expected. His memory is the sticky part. I would describe it as a disassembled jigsaw puzzle, compared to my memory puzzle which is somewhat neatly arranged, and in contrast to my daughter’s memory which is more like a puzzle whose borders are connected but whose picture inside remains incomplete.

When I am struck by things that are missing—a clutch of memories, a loved one who is away, trouble-free days—I am also given the opportunity to see clearly what is still present. And mostly what endures is an ample sense of love and gratitude which make up for the confusion and absence and help identify the ‘loss’ as more of a ‘find’.

Thanksgiving is a day that always magnifies what is here now but which gets clouded by circumstances. We can choose to be blind to it, or notice it—regardless of the hustle and bustle.

Born in the North from a Southern mother, I always felt an allegiance to both places. But it was the seductive pull of the South that won in the end and where I have called home for the past 19 years.

From the start of my life here, I was labeled a Yankee, but secretly considered it an attribute. The winning card, however, was the DNA of the two divinely Southern women whose heritage I would always carry.

Like the movement on the swing so long ago, the needle of my compass constantly moves between two points, but I could sum it up by saying it is my head that comes from the North, and my heart that feels most at home in the South.