Returning to McCaw Hall last Friday night was not a return to the old days--it felt more meaningful than that. The pre-performance buzz of the audience was softer, due in part to limited seating capacity and maybe also to a general awe of the moments we lost during the long months since the pandemic irrevocably changed, well, everything.
But the excitement and energy of an audience hungry for live performance was thick in the air. With mask-muffled shrieks of recognition, we greeted beloved artists and company administrators, ushers, fellow arts fans. And with this new sense of appreciation for the things we love the most, the opening performance of Pacific Northwest Ballet's 49th season didn't need to harken back to old times. On Friday night we were given a gift: a powerful new lens through which to gaze at our grief and our joy. Through the deeply emotional choreography of PNB resident choreographer Alejandro Cerrudo, PNB dancers performed three pieces that captured their greatest technical gifts and artistry, along with an immense love of art and people that every facet of the company has shown over the last year.
PNB decision makers could have packed every seat in the house and boosted much-needed revenue. Instead, they limited ticket sales to ensure safe social distancing. Some ballets were staged with real-life couples performing pas de deux to limit physical contact between artists' households. None of the ballets that opened the season required a huge amount of dancers onstage. And everyone rehearsed in masks.
But after so many long months away from the studio and stage, the dancers still have it. Some of them even got stronger. I had a hard time tearing my eyes away from corps member Leah Terada in "One Thousand Pieces," her leg strength and musicality so fined-tuned into the soul of the ballet that she seemed alone onstage at times. Soloist Elle Macy, forever one of my favorite dancers for her exquisite combo of grace and power--like a fairy who could fight off a whole army with one fierce gaze and a few pointed roundhouse kicks--danced through "One Thousand Pieces" as if there was not a single drop of rain onstage.
Noelani Pantastico and Lucien Postlewaite's duet in "Silent Ghost" pushed Cerrudo's choreography to new limits; Pantastico balancing on Postlewaite's back until it seemed she would flip over his head onto the stage, but remaining still long enough to appear that she floated in midair. This balancing act and the grace with which Pantastico and Postlewaite perform captures that magical balance of movement and stillness that we've all struggled with personally and socially during the pandemic. It was a perfect way to open the season, with perfect dancers at the helm of the performance.
Most of the music for the "Singularly Cerrudo" program was pre-recorded, including pieces from Philip Glass, Max Richter, Tom Waits and Kathleen Brennan, and the rock group Beirut. But that "singular" moment for me came at the very end of the performance, when I looked down into the orchestra pit and glimpsed PNB musician Alexander Grimes on his viola. As I watched him play, it sank in that I was in the same room as the beautiful music hitting my ears. I was back. We were all back in the theater, the place where we remember what we love, why we love it, and what we are fighting for.
I had tickets this past spring to take my son to what would have been our first ballet together. Then the pandemic happened, the show was canceled, and 8 months later performance venues in America remain shuttered. But artists across the country are finding ways to make it work, and for two of our family favorites--Iowa singer/songwriter William Elliot Whitmore and Seattle's Pacific Northwest Ballet, this means performing in front of cameras instead of the stage. So on Saturday night, my husband and our kiddo brewed up a pot of hot chocolate, put on our comfy socks, and cuddled on the couch for a couple of stellar shows.
Will Whitmore premiered his new album, "I'm With You" from Bloodshot Records, to fans across the country via a livestream. Performing alone in the studio on his Iowa farm, Whitmore sang all nine tracks from the new album along with a few old favorites. "These songs aren't exactly road-tested," Whitmore laughed, "because I haven't been on the road!"
Masterfully picking banjos and guitars and knocking a drum with his left leg while sipping whisky and operating the computer, Whitmore sang about the burdens of rural farm life, losing parents, and facing societal and environmental degradation. The melodies and lyrics to the songs on "I'm With You" feel ripped right from the hearts of creatives locked down under the months-long quarantine. In "Black Iowa Dirt," Whitmore sings "I've got that dirt underneath my fingernails/Got that dirt running through my veins." That dirt, that foundational ingredient to life and creativity, runs through the veins of all of us during this shit time. It won't go away. Learn more about Whitmore and the new album here.
Pacific Northwest Ballet's 2020-21 season, titled "Dance Happens Everywhere," opened online Thursday night October 15th with "Rep 1." The pieces were filmed in an almost empty McCaw Hall. Dancers rehearsed for weeks in small pods. Everyone involved in rehearsals and production wore masks. PNB produced "Rep 1" with as much reverence for health and safety as they exhibit for the art of ballet. That is love. That is leadership.
"Rep 1" opens with Lucien Postlewaite in Jerome Robbins' jaunty, welcoming "Opening Solo" from "Dances at a Gathering." Postlewaite uses music as an invisible body part, delicately lifting and dropping the notes as he jumps around the stage. The occasional footfall at the end of a high jump can be heard just enough to make it feel (kinda) like we're sitting in the theater.
Excerpts from Eva Stone's 2019 audience favorite "F O I L" follows Postlewaite's solo, including the powerful trio of women performing with their backs to the audience. In choreographer Albert Evans' "One Body," Chris D'Ariano resurrects a solo originally performed in 2003 by PNB artistic director Peter Boal, back in his New York City dancing days. Set to the haunting vocals from composer John Kennedy, "One Body" feels liturgical and deeply sad, as if we've snuck up on a monk performing a moving meditation.
The rep continues with three sections from Kent Stowell's Swan Lake, during which Stephen Loch's airy tour jetes in the Black Swan Pas de Deux caused my preschooler to scream into my ear, "Did you see that, Mom? That is the BEST!" And it was. Also fabulous was the ever-badass Angelica Generosa in her debut as the Black Swan. The rep followed with three section from Balanchine's "Jewels" and a reprise of choreographer Jessica Lang's "The Calling."
But if we have to pick one specific piece of dance to title this strange, life-changing year, it is James Moore's performance in Marco Goecke's "Mopey." Just as we commonly assign songs to important life events like breakups or weddings, sometimes there is a particular ballet that expresses our feelings when words cannot. Goecke's choreography and Moore's emotionally mature and physically stunning performance paint the erratic feelings of a slow dissent into madness, made more perfect by a split score by Bach and the Cramps. "Mopey" alone is worth the price of admission.
Excerpts from choreographer Robyn Mineko Williams' "The Trees The Trees," and Ulysees Dove's "Red Angels" complete this first rep of the PNB 2020-2021 season. Accessible via season or one-off tickets, all performances are available to watch for a limited number of days. More information about tickets on the PNB website here.
We gotta start small. When our kids are small. The conversations can be "brief, simple, and honest as we can be" with these tiny brains, but we need to tell our children what's going on inside and outside their tiny communities. Especially our white children. They will ask us why we let it happen and we will not have a good answer for them. But we can give them (and us) tools that they can build with. Here are some places to start:
Anti-racism resources for White People - Google doc compiled by Alyssa Klein. Instructional materials, lists of books, videos, podcasts.
Beyond The Golden Rule - A Parents Guide to Preventing and Responding to Prejudice - Teaching Tolerance. Free PDF of an instructional handbook for educators, organized into age groups for quick reference. The best guide for talking to preschoolers about racism.
Highlights: For preschoolers, be honest about the state of racism in current affairs; answer their questions; talk about inclusion from an early age and *act accordingly*.
How to Teach Your Kids to Fight Hate: An Age-by-Age Guide - Parents Magazine. Geared more toward anti-Semitism and a bit light, but a good place to get an idea of what kids can handle developmentally as you decide how much to tell them about current affairs.
Highlights: Start when they are young, teach kids to name racial violence and hatred, and teach them coping skills so they can discuss racism instead of getting stuck in discomfort and fear.
Supporting Kids of Color in the Wake of Racialized Violence - Embrace Race. A soundcloud discussion on supporting children in your community immediately after a violent episode.
Highlights: Know what questions children are asking, correct misinformation, and provide a safe space for children to talk about fear and anger.
How to Talk to Kids About Race - ParentMap. Seattle author Imani Razat presents 8 ways to integrate race discussion into everyday life.
Highlights: Kids pick up our signals and cues and will emulate our actions, attitudes, and biases. Learn how to be a better role model. Take diversity training.
Your Kids Aren't Too Young to Talk About Race: Resource Roundup - Pretty Good Design. A treasure trove of resources for kids and adults, including books, podcasts, and articles.
Resources for Talking About Race, Racism, and Racialized Violence With Kids - Center for Racial Justice in Education.
I joined Suleika Jaouad's journaling project at the invitation of a dear friend. Here is the website for more information http://suleikajaouad.com/the-isolation-journals
Today the world inside and outside is not quite awake. Midmorning, the might is still dim as if the planet didn't make a full revolution toward the sun and is stuck a few minutes after dawn. There's no sound except the sitar on my Spotify playlist and the occasional yells from my four year old, who is completely out of fucks and will not be tamed. It's ok. I'm not going to make him try to act like everything's ok. Everything is not ok.
When he was born and people asked me "how are you doing?" I'd either break down and sob over the phone or tell them that everything was amazing and wonderful. The majority of the people to whom I sobbed either stopped talking to me or tried to make me feel better with platitudes: "you'll look back on these days with so much joy," "there are the best years, cherish them." But these were not the best years of my life. They were almost the end of my life.
If I were to go back to those long months I'd say this instead: "Holy shit. I cannot fathom the dichotomy of beauty and terror I am currently experiencing. This new life in my arms is the best thing that every happened to me and I am thinking about killing myself. My brain is so scrambled I am hearing voices look at my son isn't his laugh the best thing you've ever heard?" Because it was all one package. The good was not separate from the bad. The joy was not separate from the suicidal thoughts. The sleep deprivation and the hormones and the social isolation was rooted in the same thing. So were the results.
We're all stuck inside our homes for fuck-all who knows when. We have plenty of food and money to buy more when the fridge empties out. We have a bedet if we run out of TP. We're really freaking lucky. People around us aren't as lucky, and at some point we may not be either. I spend the days reading to and playing with my son, my favorite tiny person, building fairy houses out of scrap wood and cooking together and bringing tea to his father, working downstairs in our cold unfinished basement. These are sweet days. They are days filled with silent terror. We are laughing and running in the backyard. We are yelling and dropping f-bombs around our kid. We are throwing fits and refusing to get out of our jammies in the morning. We are fine and not fine. We have learned that these are not separate things. We are learning to feel again in ways that are human and not in ways that are defined by a society that does not want to hear about our pain unless it can make money off of it.
We are learning to ask each other "how are you?" and really mean it. We are learning how to listen again.
I loved the Disney Cinderella movie as a child. Still do. That poignant duality of evil and silly so prevalent in the old Disney films is tuned to a fine art in the 1950 classic. Cinderella's deep grief is hammered out in eerily realistic cartoon facial expressions, her mice sidekicks' vaudevillian antics moving Cinderella through her daily routine of physical and emotional abuse. As a kid it was mere entertainment but in adulthood we recognize the parallels between Cinderella's struggles and those of so many of our neighbors. In this world of blatant social inequality, the most talented and humble are often overlooked. And only in stories do we get a Fairy Godmother to save the day.
Sometimes I like to get lost in a fairy tale like this, just for a couple of hours, so I can regroup my inner Gus Gus and keep fighting the good fight. Two and half hours of Prokofiev and countless glittery tiaras later (even my favorite communications director wore one), I was revived. Kent Stowell's Cinderella, premiered by Pacific Northwest Ballet in 1994 and performed again this season, is the ballet lover's ballet. It is long, it sparkles, and it shows off the very best classical ballet technique has to offer. Stowell's version takes full advantage of Prokofiev's big waltzes: well-synchronized groups of corps de ballet members in bright costumes sweep in large circles around the stage, so happy and grand the ballroom essence fills the theater. It is a celebration of dance as much as it is a telling of the classic story. Laura Tisserand's Fairy Godmother/Memory Mother was strong and delicate, her dainty fairy qualities interspersed with astounding leg extensions. Tisserand will always be one of my favorites and not just for her passionate dancing: a mother to a young child and a business owner as well as a principal dancer, Tisserand's strength and grace on and off the stage astound me (I can gush, this is my very own blog).
Ben Griffiths' performance as the Jester made me realize that there's a lot more whooping and hollering at ballet performances these days, and thank ye gods! Griffiths' Jester showcases his very best: incredibly high jumps, quick, perfectly-landed turns with multiple revolutions, and an unrivaled humor and artistic expression. Sarah-Gabrielle Ryan and Price Suddarth as Columbine and Harlequin received an equal number of well-deserved whoops--their onstage chemistry and presence energized a packed McCaw Hall.
And last but definitely not least is principal dancer Noelani Pantastico's Cinderella: perfectly gentle and kind but with a fervor for love and adventure that transforms her into the most convincing hero. To the very point of her curved foot, every aspect of Pantastico's dancing is finely tuned. With Seth Orza as an appropriately strong and charming Prince, Pantastico's Cinderella made it possible to disappear, just for a while, into a world where the ending is always happy and just.
Choreographer Eva Stone's new work, "F O I L," is a love letter to women in the arts. One of three new works by local artists commissioned by Pacific Northwest Ballet for its "Locally Sourced" program, Stone's new contemporary ballet features eleven company members, mostly women, in a series of five dances with intensely disparate moods and energies.
The intensity is pleasant, a journey in feelings and sparkles and pastel colors. "F O I L" is all pretty. The music, mostly piano and airy strings, is a collection of pieces by important but lesser-known female classical composers. Lit by local lighting designer Amiya Brown, the immediate mood of "F O I L" is set by an array of sparkly ballroom chandeliers that lower and rise with each section of the ballet. A dancer announces the title of each section to the audience: "Now," "Be Still," "Hold," "Wait," and "Exhale." The titles are more than mere suggestions, and along with these prompts "F O I L" uses movement, music, light, and the power of the female body to create very specific moods.
The second--and best--section of the ballet, "Be Still," features Cecilia Iliesiu, Margaret Mullin, and Emma Love Suddarth in slow, darkly-lit movements performed entirely with their back to the audience. Costumed in wide hoop skirted tutus the dancers look topless from the audience. The section is sensual but not sexual, commanding but gentle. The dancers' rippling back muscles cast tiny shadows as they move their arms up and down conjuring a spell that leaves the whole of McCaw Hall in complete silence.
The second piece in the program, "Love and Loss," from local (but nationally renowned) choreographer Donald Byrd is a fun twist to Byrd's recent style. Local audiences are used to Byrd's creations for Seattle's Spectrum Dance Theater, where he bases full-length contemporary ballets on themes of social justice. The complexity of Byrd's subject matter sometimes requires so much attention that the dancing is hard to focus on. In "Love and Loss," Byrd retains his signature communication of the complexities of the human condition but weaves it together with classical ballet steps and the individual artistries of PNB dancers. Byrd may be giving the audience another social commentary but this time he makes us figure it out on our own.
Composer Emmanuel Witzthm's music for "Love and Loss" is a long, dramatic, classical score punctuated by subtle, sometimes creepy, electronic pulses and beats. The large cast of "Love and Loss" feels heavy on the men, but this could be due to the distinct emotional energy devoted to the men's choreography. Each pas de deux involves a painful separation of the man from the woman, the most dramatic and beautiful in dancer Amanda Morgan's backwards bourrees as she tears herself away from partner Ryan Cardea. Costumed in close fitting pants and partially buttoned dress shirts, the male dancers are the epitome of strength and capability but exude such isolation and melancholy that I wonder if Byrd is alluding to that male vulnerability so rarely discussed in the arts. In classical ballet, men are the stalwart supporters of their female partners, performing impressive leaps and turns when alone onstage. Whatever his thesis in "Love and Loss"--if there is one--Byrd commands the emotions of his audience by bringing out the very best artistic and physical qualities in PNB dancers. The growing strength and artistry of corps de ballet dancer Cecelia Iliesiu and Madison Rayn Abeo are particularly special in this piece.
And then there's "Wash of Gray," the new work from company dancer Miles Pertl. Another love letter, "Wash of Gray" pays tribute to Seattleites and the stuff we love the most. It's sweet and lovely to watch but the narrative to "Wash of Gray" is so literal it frequently washes out the dancing. Each piece of "Wash of Gray" is its own entity: the constantly-changing backdrop art, the costumes made to reflect Seattle weather and landscape--it's all important but gets lost in the jumble.
The choreography has its bright moments. Principal dancer Liz Murphy's physical abilities and artistic grasp on ballet technique is more badass with each season. Her lines and arching back are tiny works of art in themselves. Her partner, new corps member Luther DeMeyer, dances with a lyricism and grace not usually seen in younger dancers. And the crowning moment in "Wash of Gray," dancer Sarah Pasch's short but gorgeous solo in her 28th week of pregnancy, narrated perhaps the most memorable theme in "Locally Sourced." Everything that is here, here now, has its own unique beauty that makes this place what it is: strong, wise, and moving forward with the times.
Autumn Knight just drama therapied the shit out us. Her one-woman show, "M___ER," is less of a theatrical production and more a deliciously intimate investigation into two things that terrify people the very most: audience participation, and forgetting our mothers' birthdays. And perhaps beyond that, Knight's show (at least tonight) was an fearless incursion into what happens to a group of mostly white theater-goers when a powerful black woman breaks the fourth wall and inhibits the passive consuming of art.
Knight opens her show by wandering through through a pitch-black theater while making a series of common human sounds: breathing, crying, sniffing, bellowing, yelling in ecstasy, whispering. Knight's sound collaborator Rena Anakwe weaves the sounds through a pattern of soft clicks, raising and lowering the volume so that it feels as though Knight is moving through the crowds like a ghost, unidentifiable until the lights slowing raise to reveal her sitting on a weird wooden throne, moving around objects that were unidentifiable to me by sight or sound.
At the beginning I couldn't see shit, as I was seated at the back of one of six clumps of chairs thrown so weirdly together that people had to climb into some of them. Between the groups of spectators were piles of brown butcher paper up to five feet high and hanging from heavy rolls suspended from the ceiling. Backlit by soft pastel colored lights, the paper piles resembled rough mounds of toys and random stuff that might be laying around a house, heavily present but unidentifiable and unimportant. Knight spoke to the audience as if she were our collective mother, sometimes speaking to us a group and sometime individually, so easily making up names as she addressed her "children" that it felt as if she had studied our faces for longer than a few seconds. Some people responded to Knight's questions--"Why did you forget my birthday?" "What did it feel like when I died?" with no effort, some offered way more material than seemed necessary, and some didn't answer at all. In this role as mother, Knight dug into the audience's psyche with every question and as people's individual body language reflected their discomfort, Knight would address them: "Perk up!" "Perk down!" and look them square in the eye. I have a cold, and she turned to me directly to ask if I needed a tissue and told me that I looked cute even when I was sneezing. People looked at me when she said this. I was uncomfortable. I don't know why.
Knight's background in psychology and multi-disciplinary performance gives her the tools to take her highly gifted intuition and insight into humans to levels that might scare the shit out of some people. Continuing with the birthday theme of the rough storyline, Knight walked through the crowd of audience/children offering spoonfuls of dairy and nut free artisanal ice cream from clean, individual utensils. And some people refused, even looked repelled at the suggestion of being fed a bite of ice cream. Volumes could be written about the reasons for these refusals but the one visible emotion I could see was fear. What the shit? Knight's presence is gentle, feminine, nurturing, loving, and true, but that makes her art impossible to hide from (as do the bright lights shining down on the faces refuses spoonfuls of ice cream). We are used to watching art, loving or judging it from the dark anonymity of our theater seats and then going home. Knight does not let us do this--maybe because it was never really our right to view art this way in the first place.
"M___ER" closes after tomorrow's 5pm performance. That one might be vastly different than the one I saw tonight, but the gravity of Knight's message about art consumption and bodies and black bodies and the inescapable hold of motherhood over society will not change, nor will it ever not be relevant. Go see it. And eat the fucking ice cream.
“When Your Arms Ached, I Watched the Mountain Hold it’s Fragile Form"- A rehearsal and conversation with artist Alia Swersky
Alia Swersky holds my arms over my head by the wrists, whispers something softly into my ear and then lets go. It is the middle of Swersky’s new solo performance piece, "When your arms ached, I watched the Mountain hold its fragile form," and I, who usually balk at audience participation, am in the middle of the stage.
When Alia approached me during a rehearsal viewing and whispered, “I’d like you to join me in the space, you can say no, it’s ok,” I followed her without a second thought. Alia led me around the performance space and prompted my body’s movements, holding my arms up and letting them fall, gently guiding my steps while I kept my eyes closed and walked by her side. When she picked up my arms I kept my muscles mostly limp, trusting her to let them fall only when they were safe from hitting anything that might hurt me. I felt completely comfortable, more powerful and at home in my own body than I remember since giving birth to my son.
Alia Swersky’s artistic and physical power is contagious. The culmination of two years of creative and physical preparation, "When your arms ached, I watched the Mountain hold its fragile form"is a combination of durational performance, dance, art installation and dance improvisation that communicates the parallel traumas experienced by female-identifying bodies and mountains. The show requires an incredible amount of energy to perform. In the first two hours Alia rolls around on the floor of the performance space at Base Experimental Arts in Georgetown in a “silent durational ritual,” designed to demonstrate the passage of time and to engage the audience in silent reflection.
“For me,” says Swersky in a phone conversation, “the passages of tribes and women and migration through the mountains is right there with the image of the female body rolling around.” Alia incorporates a huge swath of pink fabric into her movements, her hair and the fabric blowing slightly around from wind produced by small fans on the corners of the room. “It’s sensual and sexy with the pink fabric, a soundscape, an environment that I hope people will come into to feel as opposed to being expecting to be entertained. My hope is that people will feel comfortable coming in and laying down, writing, thinking--the ritual deepens the experience of the performance because it contextualizes it.”
Accompanied by music and soundscape by Monika Khot, an enormous mural of a mountain by artist Mya Kerner, and lighting by Amiya Brown, Alia Swersky’s performance is an experience, something to think about rather than to just observe and go home--but there’s also a lot of room to enjoy art and the presence of other people.
The performance section of “When your arms ached” is packed with symbolism, intense emotion, and beautiful dancing. Swersky’s background in classical dance, improvisation, yoga, meditation, motherhood, and life come together with choreography that is packed with technically brilliant and unique movements. At one point, Swersky faces the audience and points one long, perfectly arched foot at the ground while vibrating her upper body almost violently. The juxtaposition of visually stunning physicality combined with disturbing violent messages are synonymous with “the onslaught of violence of our culture and our environment and on woman and woman’s body,” says Swersky. “I’m not trying to be an environmental activist in this piece, but the metaphor of the fracking of mountains and rape are there.”
Despite these heavy themes, "When your arms ached, I watched the Mountain hold its fragile form" isn’t a piece about sadness or panic in the face of cultural and environmental degradation. “While there were some things going on in my life while I made this piece, some of the actual physical movements like the shaking and holding my arms up demonstrate a rite of passage back into my purpose after abandoning my art in some ways.”
Swersky wants her audience to experience this rite of passage as a way to connect to the idea that “we aren’t alone, that connections to one another are essential,” she says. This is why the section where she holds an audience member’s arms for them is so important.
“I’m from Colorado and I’ve always had this sense that I had to be as strong as the mountain,” says Swersky. “We think that it’s strong and stable but the mountains are always changing and eroding, just like us. None of us can get through this alone. You can be belittled by it or you can take charge of it. Be as big as the mountain and look into the male gaze and be in charge.”
"When your arms ached, I watched the Mountain hold its fragile form" runs May 17-19 at varied times. Schedule and tickets here, more about Alia here
A beautiful fairy princess falls in love with a donkey who prefers to chew on grass instead of returning her affection. We've all been there. It can be a bit depressing to watch stories of unrequited love unfold onstage, but Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream" includes brilliant comedic twists and heavy social commentary that aren't lost when the story is presented through dance rather than script. Pacific Northwest Ballet's current production of "Midsummer," in the company's repertoire since 1997, delivers a solid storytelling experience with fast paced choreography.
The beautifully detailed sets from the legendary Martin Pakledinaz are intentionally reminiscent of a Pacific Northwest Forest scene--giant pinecones hover over the stage while evergreens hang in the background and a giant toadstool and buggy-eyed frog bookend the dancers in selected scenes. On opening night, the always lovely and technically perfect Laura Tisserand danced a charming Titania and a stern-faced Kyle Davis performed a strong and convincing Oberon. But Jonathan Porretta's Puck was the highlight of the evening, nailing that fine art of comedic timing and jumping many more feet into the air than one would expect of someone who recently sustained a torn achilles tendon. Porretta will retire from PNB at the end of this season and although dancer retirements are inevitable and always a bit sad, this one's really gonna sting. Porretta is that rare ballet dancer whose artistic mastery and technical proficiency seem to be matched by a deep spiritual maturity that makes his performances particularly memorable.
Other notable performances* this evening include soloist Ezra Thomson's Bottom: the donkey-headed tailor doomed to fall under Titania's lustful gaze. Thomson has an almost eerie ability to communicate story and emotion with his body, he can write an entire character with the sweep of an arm and performs a solid duet with Tisserand even though it looks like he can barely see out of the donkey mask. Angelica Generosa molds gracefully into almost any role she's given, but fairy flitting and quick, pristine footwork are among her most noticeable masteries. Additionally, soloist Elle Macy just keeps getting stronger and more expressive and shone in her solo as Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, although her pas de deux with Dylan Wald's Theseus lacked the same energy and flow as her mile-high leaps and killer fouettés. And the bugs! 25 Pacific Northwest Ballet students in charming little antennae danced in a variety of formations throughout the whole ballet with perfect timing and coordination that rivaled a professional corps de ballet. Go Bugs!
I'm not usually a big fan of the pomp of classical story ballets, but according to the program notes Balanchine wasn't super keen on it, either. Jeanie Thomas' reprinted 1997 program notes talks about how Balanchine eschewed "the excesses" of traditional story ballets and opted to choreograph "Midsummer" with fast-paced mime and exacting choreography rather the hallmark slow, sometimes painfully boring plot-setting scenes common to ballets like "Swan Lake" and "The Nutcracker." Instead, the flow of PNB's "Midsummer" has the same feel as the flitting fairies that decorate both acts, as jovial as you'd expect your Shakespeare to be and as filled with steamy, unpredictable encounters as Burning Man at sunrise.
Pacific Northwest Ballet's Midsummer Night's Dream runs through April 19-21, info here https://www.pnb.org/season/midsummer/#casting
*I didn't talk about Lesley Rausch's Divertissement pas with Jerome Tisserand because I ran out of time--there are two children climbing up my back as I type this--but Rausch's performance Friday night was breathtaking. See the brilliant Marcie Sillman's fine review of Rausch's performance here.
I took my three year old son to see performance artist Cherdonna Shinatra's current show, "DITCH" at the Frye Art Museum last week. Perched on my lap on a bench in a windowless gallery covered with carnival colored fabric and tiles, my child sat rapt through the entire hour. His first dance performance outside of a studio. His first feminist performance art. His first Cherdonna--an artist whose ethics and artistry I've deeply admired for years--and it appears my tiny offspring is also quite the fan. Proud mama, right here.
Cherdonna Shinatra--the performance persona of Seattle artist Jody Keuhner--is a contemporary dance performer and choreographer who also describes her work as as "part bio drag queen." For the uninitiated, this means that Kuehner's Cherdonna is female, like Kuehner. She looks like a drag queen with large, expertly painted and caricatured feminine makeup and sometimes a huge blond wig perched atop her glittery head. "DITCH," an hour long performance shown six days a week for three months at the Frye (the free art museum!) is easy for a three year old to watch, and a little like church for his mother*.
"DITCH" is performed by Cherdonna and her dance company of six, DONNA. The choreography starts out light and airy with a 1980s Jazzercise feel, but gets dark and heavy as the piece progresses. For a kid, "DITCH" looks like a bunch of women in bright shorts playing around with a clown, all of them making exaggerated facial expressions and skipping and playing with hula hoops. For me, "DITCH" is a look inside the mind of every female-identifying person who stresses about being judged. Because she is. We all are.
The dancers move around the small-ish gallery, surrounded by audience members seated on a few low benches or on the floor. The walls are covered with giant swaths of brightly colored cushioned cloth, the corner of the gallery made up to look like a headless torso. Dancers emerge out of a vibrantly patterned vagina and skip around the floor, eyes wide with the faux innocence and delight of little girls at a country fair. As the piece progresses, the music changes from carnival-themed to something dark and foreboding and Cherdonna's movements become slow and pained. All the while, she smiles and makes occasional happy squeaks. Cherdonna, ever the perfect woman, never sacrifices her joyous facial expression even as her costume falls partway off or she loses a shoe in an effort to execute a warped version of a relevé. The other dancers begin to frown and shake their heads at Cherdonna, meanwhile still smiling and flirting with the audience. No one stops moving, and eventually they all disappear back into the pretty giant vagina. The colors on the walls are still loudly pink and blue and yellow and polka dotted, the lights still bright--everything is still pretty. That's the way we're supposed to be, right? Pretty and vivacious in the face of, well, anything?
This show is stunning. It is weird and loud and made me *feel* a little more than I'd planned on, but it's been stuck in my head for a week. Cherdonna's movements--breathy, slow, hunched over at times, startling and rambunctious at others--call out the shitty parts of living in a female/femme body while also making fun of societal norms that force these expectations. We're all done with it. I'm done with it. I want my son to see these expectations as weird relics instead of something he has to fight, but I'm still a bit lost on exactly how to teach him to think differently. Thank god we have Cherdonna to help us out.
DITCH runs at the Frye through April 28th. Tickets are free! Take your kids.
*This is a compliment, I like church.