Post-modern classics: In Paxton ‘Bound’ and Jingju Peking Circus ‘Women Generals,’ a tale of two countries’ attitudes towards dance preservation

paxton boundJurij Konjar in Steve Paxton’s “Bound.” Nada Zgank photo copyright Nada Zgank and courtesy Theatre de la Ville.

By Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2003, 2119 Paul Ben-Itzak

(To celebrate its 20th anniversary as the leading artist-driven publication in the United States, the Dance Insider and Arts Voyager  is reflecting on Post-Modern classics, as captured by Dance Insider critics in performances around the world over the past two decades. This Flash Review from the Dance Insider Archive was first published on October 26, 2015. To find out about purchasing your own copy of the DI’s Archive of more than 2000 exclusive reviews by more than 150 leading critics of performances and art exhibitions on five continents over the past 20 years, e-mail paulbenitzak@gmail.com . To become a DI/AV sponsor and receive linked sponsor credit in this space for as little as $36, you can make a donation through PayPal in US $ or Euros by designating your donation to paulbenitzak@gmail.com, or write us at that address to learn how to donate by check. Today’s re-publication of this Flash Review is made possible by Freespace Dance.)

PARIS — What do the aesthetics of Steve Paxton and the Peking Opera have to do with each other? When performed by, respectively, Jurij Konjar and the Jingju Theatre of Beijing, as they were last week at the Theatre de la Ville – Abbesses and the Theatre de la Ville Sarah Bernhardt, virtuosity and engagement.

When I asked His Judson Eminence after last Thursday’s opening of the 1982 solo “Bound” (continuing through October 27) what distinguished it from his earlier work, he answered: “Spectacle.” When I asked which parts of the 55-minute piece were up to the performer to create, he smiled like the Sphinx and answered: “The dance.” While the humility of this response, from the inventor of a form of dance, Contact Improvisation, wildly popular in France but for which the 76-year-old creator no doubt gets no royalties, is admirable, it does raise the question of variability: In the hands of a less expressive, inventive, intuitively droll, supple, smart, and well-trained interpreter of Paxton’s intentions and design than the 37-year-old (for improvisation, the perfect conjuncture, in which mental maturity and comprehension still has at its disposal a capable vehicle to execute its intentions) Konjur, who trained at Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker’s P.A.R.T.S. school in Brussels before working with the Ballets C de la B and Boris Charmatz, might the choreographic elements have been less imaginative? The question is partially answered by the slim results when La De Keersmaeker herself apparently left her much younger charges to come up with the moves for her recent “Golden Hours.” And the dancer-dancemakers for that farce (in the ‘rip-off’ sense of the term) had a whole text to work with, Shakespeare’s “As you like it.” But if Paxton doesn’t give his performer a text per se, he definitely furnishes a rule book. It’s easy to forget when Contact Improvisation has become the biggest excuse for aimless and indulgent noodling around that dance has ever seen, but his system for creating dances is as rigorous as those devised by Petipa, Balanchine, and Forsythe. (And a lot more original than recent Forsythe, which regurgitates Merce Cunningham and Trisha Brown.) If the choreography is not set, there are still, Paxton explained to me, musical and scenographic parameters, or put more simply certain tasks that the dancer has to undertake at certain times. Imagine this structure as a scaffold. How the dancer gets to the top (or the bottom from the top) is up to him, but he has to make contact with certain points at certain junctures and arrive by the end at a fixed terminus.

For “Bound,” the physical terrain was circumscribed from the beginning by four planks marked along the side by different colors of tape later sometimes predictably arranged as see-saws, but also arrayed and balanced creatively as abstract art. A screen upstage center became a tapestry whose projected kaleidoscope formed a military pattern when Konjar stood in front of it, probably because of the fatigue formed a military pattern when Konjar stood in front of it, probably because of the fatigue shorts he sported over red pants, the ensemble rounded out by a white shirt, Lennon-esque shades and a bathing cap which made him look like an Olympic swimmer circa 1920, the shorts revealed after he stepped out of a box which had been hung from his shoulders by suspenders so that it covered his mid-section. When I asked Paxton later what differentiated “Bound” from his pioneering Judson work, he answered that he wanted to do more “Spectacle,” and Konjar sets that tone right away. This is no blasé post-mod performer who seems to be pretending the audience isn’t there, but an interpreter determined to engage us, to get us to shut off our cell phones and stop zapping and surfing and watch one man taking the time to create a world out of very few elements, pointedly utilized. Mid-spectacle, he brings onstage a wooden rocking chair and a darker mahogony newspaper bin simply to rock them one by one as he sits between them in his box, only his trunk visible. This arrived, as I recall, during a musically quiet moment, but even when it came to responding to the pure music, the Bulgarian State Women’s Choir, and sound effects — resembling first traffic noise, later garbled military commands to a helicopter pilot — Konjar, as directed by Paxton, once again defied what one often expects from a post-modern dancer and actually seemed to be responding to the score, moving lyrically to the Bulgarian adagio sections, swerving around in traffic to the car noise, parading during martial horn music, and frantic and alienated during the military maneuvers.

I was even more startled about the eminent watchability and appeal of this 55-minute piece when Paxton informed me afterwards that for its creation, he had no “outer eye.” It was mostly “thought up” while he was on tour, ahead of the Rome premiere. Given that the choreography can dramatically diverge from night to night, he explained, he was also lucky in the reconstruction of the dance to have recovered two videos capturing radically different outcomes.

This leads to my one gripe, which has less to do with Paxton than the dance world’s lack of care in preserving its own legacies. If one is to believe the promotional material for “Bound,” if not for the fortuitous discovery of the video recordings, this master-work which opens up a multi-dimensional understanding of a critical dance forefather would have been lost. It was not notated. Contrary to the ludicrous, ill-informed, ignorant assumptions proffered by the journal of the Festival d’Automne, which co-produced this presentation with the Theatre de la Ville, it is not a given that there’s no such thing as preserving the original version of a dance. Not just ballet but also modern mavens like Martha Graham and Paul Taylor have been notated. With a dance whose kinetic core is flexible, the task is not so different; the notator would record the ground rules, structure, and props, and then attend several performances or rehearsals to save the variants, already an improvement on video because the methode de travail itself is preserved, not just one performance.

And yet in dance, there seems to be not simply an illusory exaltation that the art is ephemeral, as if this impermanence is a value to be vaunted and boasted about because as each performance is gone forever when it’s over, you will never see it again, therefore, you have been privileged, but a confounding of the uniqueness of a performance and of an interpretation with the oeuvre itself. Paint is liquid too, but what painter would be happy if his work never dried and kept getting smudged over the years? Freedom of interpretation (by interpreter and audience) can only endure if the work itself is preserved and lasts.

Jingio Theatre Peking Theater CircusJingju Theatre’s Zhang Shu Jing in “The Women Generals of the Yang Family,” directed by Shen Jia Xin. DR photo courtesy Theatre de la Ville.

While they certainly didn’t have video in the 12th century, on Wednesday at the Theatre de la Ville – Sarah Bernhardt the Jingju Theatre of Beijing and director Shien Jia Xin were somehow able to resurrect the nearly thousand-year old but surprisingly contemporary “The Women Generals of the Yang Family,” no doubt in part because while there may not be a Judson department at Juilliard, there’s still a Peking Opera school in China. Like Paxton, Jingju primes the delectably slow and like Konjar, its interpreters prime the well-articulated and etched gesture. The whole first half of the two-hour, 15-minute show was taken up with his warrior brothers and widow (the divine Li En Jie, who doubles as a sort of narrator in high-pitched song) summoning up the courage to tell the 100-year-old Wang clan matriarch (the sprightly Shen Wen Li) that her grandson has been felled by an enemy arrow defending the country from invaders, and in the grandmother’s campaign to convince the prince to let her and the eight widows of her other warrior grandsons lead the campaign to repulse the enemy. And it took almost the whole second half for an expeditionary squad lead by Li to find the high-mountain drawbridge which allowed them to surprise the far more numerous invading army. If this part was punctuated by some acrobatics — somersaults and meticulously choreographed sword, spear, and bow and arrow battles, often crowned with flourishes of brown peacock feathers streaming from the contestants’ helmets — the dose, particularly when the sublimely graceful warrier the general Zhang Shu Jing was charged with the battle-task, was parceled out just sparingly enough so that one never got the impression that the story was just an excuse for the circus tricks and schticks. And the athleticism wasn’t confined to these displays; when the performers weren’t walking about with splayed feet, they were balancing on high platforms.

Not only was Li’s singing/story-telling exquisite, so was her acting, both in an opening segment in which she struggles to keep her husband’s death secret from the grandmother, reluctant to lift a ceremonial glass of wine for a birthday toast to a man she knows is dead, then faltering before being lead off, and in a sword and spear fight with her son (Chen Yu) to determine whether he’s capable enough to join the crusade. “Mom!” he complains as she continues to dominate. “How am I going to be able to join the expedition if you don’t let me win?!”

Holding up the comedy element was Li Yang’s invading king, whose frustrated sputterings from beneath a long black beard and behind a heavy mask or very thick make-up as the women continued to defeat his male minions sounded a lot like Curly Howard.

One of the many miracles from all the Peking-Opera trained performers was that their facial expressions managed to be nuanced and expressive under layers of make-up so thick that if their mouths hadn’t clearly been moving, I’d have thought they were wearing masks. The dramatic oomph of their delivery was helped by the immaculate timing of the music and sound effects being played — humbly, offstage — by Ma Shuai, Qin Qin, Zhen Rui Fen, Wang Xiao Dan, Ai Zao Sheng, Zhang Ye, Ding Rui, Yin Hang, Sun Yu, and Wang Song Hai. Indeed the timing was so well-synchronized with the onstage performers, at first I thought it was a recording.

During the intermission, the Chinese-Frenchman sitting next to me — judging by their presence in the audience, the Theatre de la Ville did a great job of promoting this engagement, part of a mini-festival “Focus on China,” among the French Chinese community — told me that for the Chinese, respecting one’s parents is vital, moreso than in Western cultures. Comparing the deliberate preservation of this 1,000-year-old oeuvre with the accidental preservation of the work of a vital American ‘ancestor’ like Paxton seems to confirm this observation.

Thanks to Denise Luccioni for her help in understanding Steve Paxton’s ground rules, and as always to Robin Hoffman for help in understanding the importance and fundamentals of dance notation and preservation.  

American Stories: From Civil wars to civil rites — Moving beyond John Brown with David Dorfman & Camille Brown

By Maura Nguyen Donohue
Copyright 2009, 2019 Maura Nguyen Donohue

(First published on the DI on July 16, 2009 and re-published today thanks to DI Co-Principal Sponsor Slippery Rock Dance,   this  piece is just one of the more than  2,000 Flash Reviews of performances, books, cinema, and art from around the world by 150 artist-critics covered by the  DI/AV since 1998 . To learn how you can obtain your own copy of the DI Archives, e-mail paulbenitzak@gmail.com. To support the DI/AV’s ongoing work, please make a donation today by designating your gift through PayPal to paulbenitzak@gmail.com or write us at that address to learn how to donate by check. Camille A. Brown performs this Saturday and Sunday at the Joyce Theater in New York.)

NEW YORK — David Dorfman is a messy guy. A subversively messy guy. Not his army of superhuman dancers, nor his luscious, sweeping choreography. Not his design team, nor his vision. Not his workshops for corporate outreach, nor his master classes for athletes. Not his chairmanship of the Connecticut College dance department, nor his stewardship of one of our most important companies — his own. His is not an untidy craftsman, but David Dorfman is a messy artist. Messing with things in disarming, informal, personable, personal, complicated, volatile, well-meaning, demanding, unpleasant and thus deeply, vitally, importantly, and inherently American ways. He will not provide easy resolutions for the violence and chaos of our historic and contemporary foils. But, once again, with “Disavowal,” seen at Danspace Project, he remains ever loyal to banging away at our hostilities in a constant search for our shared humanity.

In “Disavowal,” Dorfman takes famed abolitionist and “race traitor” John Brown as his springboard. Brown’s crusade is as messy as they come, having played a major role in sparking our bitter Civil War. The father of 20 children, he is also considered by some to be the father of American terrorism, a religious zealot practicing armed insurrection and murder. For others, he was a valiant martyr who died so that millions of American slaves could be free. After Brown’s capture and public hanging, Frederick Douglass wrote: “His zeal in the cause of freedom was infinitely superior to mine. Mine was as the taper light; his was as the burning sun. I could live for the slave; John Brown could die for him.” President Lincoln called Brown “a misguided fanatic.” With this figure as one’s model for activism, as with the Weathermen who provided source material for Dorfman’s “underground,” ambivalence abounds.

Dorfman plunders the depths of frustrated fatherhood repeatedly throughout the work, beginning the piece with a propaganda commercial on behalf of the mythic PAPA (People in Advocacy for Perspective Adjustments). Throughout the evening, he embodies a shifting series of patriarchic incarnations — from his familiar role of benevolent company director, persistently warm and affectionately insistent, to dogmatic cult leader demanding violence, absolute loyalty and “tolerance by any means necessary.” Each manifestation of PAPA provides opportunities to consider the easy precipice into tyranny when one is allowed unquestioned influence over another. Kyle Abraham, Patrick Ferrari, Renuka Hines, Tania Isaac, Molly Poerstel, Jenna Riegel, Karl Rogers, and Whitney Tucker devour the space in a number of demanding dance drills and flit between being mischievous urchins and chastised acolytes. They dance like furies, exploding with stunning athletic prowess and seemingly inhuman skill. At times, in the throes of a movement sequence, they seem to have just descended from Mt. Olympus (or the Super Friends Hall of Justice) and then Dorfman yells “Molly don’t run like a girl” and Athena is relegated to humankind once more.

As the piece evolves and the performers reach ever increasing heights of virtuosity, Dorfman manages to exploit the widening gap between good ol’ David and his youthful cadre by tackling the many other gaps that lay between leaders and their people. Regardless of how loving, well-intentioned, or righteous the path may be, those in charge carry a burden of alienation from those they control.

Upon entering the church, I am invited to sit anywhere. Dorfman is seated on an overturned bucket with his arms tied behind him and his legs bound by yarn. The dancers are playing cards on the risers and people are milling around the space in search of good seating. There are no chairs and the atmosphere is that of a town commons of sorts, with members of the company dressed in Civil War-epoch wools. I begin thinking of abolitionism and wondering how far we’ve come from the Civil War, from Civil Rights. We’ve got the Obamas, we’ve got the recent NegrObies — as Village Voice writer James Hannaham dubbed this year’s off-Broadway awards — and while downtown dance seems to be joining the Obie judges in what Hannaham calls the “cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs” phenomenon, I’m still waiting for someone to make a piece about Robert Williams, whose book “Negroes with Guns” offered fair arguments for black armed self-defense. I hate guns, but I’m ready for a darker shade to the hero’s palette.

I find myself happily conflicted for the duration of “Disavowal.” Race and authority are complicated territories and I appreciate that Dorfman offers no answers, but forces us to simmer in the clutter of rights, access, ownership, property and guilt. Hines, a gorgeous recent Columbia graduate who I’ve been tracking in Barnard dance concerts for a few years, proclaims, “I want white. I don’t want to be white. I just want what you have, to be neutral, to be Not a Color. I want to be a person.” The delivery is slightly soft, a little lost coming from a young woman, but the reach is far, for all those who have wished they could find themselves UNmarked, UNpigeonholed, and UNquestioned in their right to stand beside you — in, for instance, a dance piece like this one that happens to need more marked people in the cast in order to foreground the issues of being marked. When Rogers apologizes to Abraham for “everything that’s ever happened to you” and Abraham responds that it’s not enough, the impotency of white guilt seethes through the air. However, when Rogers asks what would be enough and Abraham decides that getting an audience member’s house, a second member’s car and a third to pay his student loans would do it, Rogers then derides him for not earning those things and retracts the apology. It is a witty and biting challenge to a kind of liberalism that wants to achieve equality without sacrifice.

Later in the dance, we are asked to choose the dancer we think we are most like and go sit with him or her. Some of the dancers take some of the audience members who have been sitting by them and bring them on stage, and the fluidity and mobility of the audience experience allows us to feel like we have been together for much longer than an hour. If feels, appropriately, like we are a congregation of sorts, gathering because it is the ritual of our shared community. But the groupings become factions as dancers and audience choose one of two options, with Abraham and Isaac trying to bring Hines and other dancers and audience members over to their small alliance that opposes the growing white majority. However, Hines remains standing, a model of ambivalence.

“Disavowal” is adamantly exhaustive, physically rigorous and staunchly informal, with Dorfman as a democratic despot who revels us with excess and need.

Camille A. Brown is a force of nature; her recent collection of works presented at Joyce SoHo, and seen June 7, was an extensive and exhaustive survey of her unrelenting curiosity. The substantial amount of work offered (after two hours I had to leave with two pieces still remaining) revealed Brown’s abundance of ideas, penchant for hard work, and generosity to her peers — with dances by Francine E. Ott and the ever-exquisite Kyle Abraham included on the roster. Previously known as a dynamic and forceful performer for Ronald K. Brown/Evidence, Brown is quickly making a name for herself as a choreographic voice to be reckoned with. Since her last self-produced concert two and a half years ago at Joyce SoHo, she has been commissioned by the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater and Philadanco, took part in Fall for Dance at Lincoln Center and E-moves at Harlem Stage, and shown why she is a highly sought after commodity on the college repertory circuit, with a jubilant version of “Second Line” set on Hunter College students this past spring. There is broad appeal in her vibrant dance sequences and razor sharp wit.

I was particularly curious to see how Brown’s work compared to Dorfman’s “Disavowal.” A premiere, “Matchstick,” takes a moment 50 years after the Civil War (and 50 years before the Civil Rights movement hits full stride) as its focus. The program also included am homage to Brown’s grandmother and a work in progress looking at more recent “back in the day” junctures in African-American history. I wondered how a younger, black, female choreographer might address issues around race and social responsibilities. Brown does effectively offer a lot to the dialogue, but I soon realized that to saddle her with so much socio-political expectation was unfair. She’s an artist clearly aware of cultural trends, legacies and representations, but she’s also at her best when she is celebrating, joyous, and irreverent. She opens the show with “Mary,” a solo for her grandmother. Though not quite poignant, it is still a lovely dance that I’m sure would have made grandma proud. Here, Brown’s ever-so-fast shifting and super-smooth style detracts from the powerful passage of one woman’s life, revealed behind the performer in a projected collage by Q Ragsdale. Struggles portrayed and efforts embodied are fleeting and become part of a general wash of movement from an exquisite dancer with great command over her physical faculties.

“Matchstick” is danced stunningly by Kevin Guy, Otis Donovan Herring, Juel D. Lane and Keon Thoulouis. It’s a highly theatrical work, set around a table covered in papers laminated onto it that the men repeatedly point at, slap, slice and attempt to sweep away with dramatic arm gestures. With rolling shoulders and fisted punches, they exert tremendous energy matched by the live piano from Brandon McCune and Farai Malianga’s fervent beating on a flamenco percussion box. Brown pushes the dancers until they are drenched and dripping, but as a danced representation of an imagined meeting of community leaders, it wavers around a kind of old-fashioned structure. Not because of its narrative — Bill T. Jones’s recent return of “Chapel/Chapter” to the Harlem Stage Gatehouse shows how narratives can be stunningly and innovatively woven and deconstructed — but because it doesn’t choreographically reach beyond traditional staging and remains mired in literal storytelling. The dancing is passionate, impressive, and dynamic, with expansive and forceful gesticulations reflecting a heated debate. But a deeper poignancy isn’t realized until J. Michael Kinsey arrives to perform poetry by himself and Dana Gournier. It is with this spoken exposition that we gather the specifics of struggle and despair that accompany dreams of migrating north to escape lynching and poverty. As dance theater it works for a general audience and could be highly valuable in dance education settings, but I wanted Brown to delve further into how the movement could have reflected the profound mix of desolation and hope that the text effectively pierces us with.

She’s on much stronger ground in an excerpt of her acclaimed 2007 solo “The Evolution of a Secured Feminine” and a restaging of “The Groove to Nobody’s Business,” a work originally created for her company and later commissioned in an expanded version by Judith Jamison for the Ailey company. Both dances employ highly theatrical devices as well, but the physical vocabularies make for much less generic portrayals and need few words to explicate. Brown effectively channels an abundance of characteristics that are both sophisticated and insistently, deliciously, vernacular.

“1 Second Past the Future,” a group work in progress, begins to a medley sung by Crystal Monee Halls. Antonio Brown, Beatrice Capote, Belen Estrada, Cahterine Foster, Indira Goodwine, Kevin Guy, Eriko JImbo, Juel D. Lane and Rohiatou Siby execute the choreography with expansive vigor. The dance hasn’t reached the complex level of compositional hijinks that Brown achieves in “The Groove to Nobody’s Business,” but Kinsey imbues the piece with lively commentary as a light-hearted heckler who interrupts Halls’s singing and guitar playing with a demand to “bring this to an end.” He critiques the work moving onstage from a seat in the house, complaining that he’s “tired of this modern dance, soul-singing,” calling Halls tired with her “ain’t got no man” blues and telling the “twinkle Joes” to get into position for the next dance. He begins a rant about how people today are different, that men and women behave differently, no longer seeming to care for one another. After a round of playful locking and a mock battle punctuated by Jimbo’s one-handed pike, Halls joins in with Kinsey’s calls for interpersonal compassion, proclaiming: “As we move forward, we’re losing ground.” They call for more sweetness between people and you can sense that Brown has chosen to use this run as a way of creating kinship and not simply as her own showcase. She’s building something far beyond the reaches of any concert — she’s building a community.