It is an interesting experience to watch a performance
and be continually flooded throughout the viewing with other
images and thoughts it conjures in ones mind. I felt that way
this evening, watching the Mark Morris Dance Group at BAM.
Accompanied by a few stragglers running from the train though
the slush coming out of the sky, I was temporarily seated in the
back of the orchestra for the first piece, Behemoth. Being level
with the dancers for this part was ideal, to see the patterns, the
repeats, the prints in the space made with their bodies and
limbs.
each one
would twist and
and sparks all over
is that someone’s watch
you realize it is the dancers
brings a quiet smile.
I was thinking about Atomic City, a beautiful, thoughtful show with
acrobats that my brilliantly talented previous roommate, Aidan
performed in.
loved that about Behemoth,
movements, flopping feet like fish,
and to witness the reverb of these motions.
in between become motions in another thought,
A scene started with five bodies, lying slightly to the side, feet facing
us.
Camus'
the house on the
they melt with pleasure.
book, being lazy, carnal creatures
stretching long and crawling across the stage, seemingly worshiping
the warmth of something and slowly scampering to reach it.
I started to think about those old wristwatches where you can see all
the springs
there does appear
but as if there was honey
between a flux.
I loved the tenderness when one of the male dancers picked up his lady
counterpart and held her up, displayed to the world and then laid her
back down, sliding her on to his back. It was quiet. I liked that.
The second piece ‘Looky’ was hilarious and fun. The backdrop was
like a
dancers were running around in what I deemed to be Dolce and
Gabbana pajamas (but there was one star printed Miu Miu bodysuit,
I swear!) and making a tableau vivant turned barnyard hoe down.
But, don’t get me wrong, it felt so entirely Italian. This transformed
into a drippy gossip heavy formal ball a la Jane Austen. From there,
we turn to the jazz age, straight out of the chapter in The Great Gatsby
where Fitzgerald is writing about the citrus fruit for the lawn party.
It was drunken and erratic, with saltwater taffy melting soft Bob Fosse
struts and then wrapped with a slight resemblance to a Greek tragedy,
which is not too far off because the final dance was exactly that,
the death of Socrates.
I got all referential in this entry and that is not my intention, but I wanted
to stay
my notebook.
for all your own set of inspirations and images.
February 26, 27 7:30pm
