Things I know/Things I'm not entitled to know but I know anyways

Midnight on a Friday and I'm staring into a tiny ceramic dish in the kitchen holding three bobbypins, two quarters, a nickel, some incidental coffee grounds and a screw. I'm sure everyone has a vessel like this, and I can't remember the last time I wore the bobbypins. To my left is a letter that's not addressed to me, the magnetic pull is strong. My focus on the dish is belittled by my side eye on the letter, but to be honest I've already read it. 

How exhilarating it is to be a validated fly on the wall. Being mute but also unasked, all the while knowing the ending to the chapter or story in your bones. If I was a better writer I could've taken a close compositional guess at this letter years ago, but instead it's been lurking in the back of my brain, every now and then drifting into the present for contemplation. The time hadn't been right. 

I'm building a new duet where my primary twosome maintains gripping communication with each other while they are surrounded by observing bodies that don't get to engage, and I'm fairly sure this would be a moment akin to one of my silent observers. I've been struggling with the presence and tasks of the observers as their task is just to be present, making a sort of internal captain's log of their experience. This is the most difficult part as a creator of performance: importing enough sensation, cause and effect from this exact point in time into the work so that maybe my performers can find it, and maybe just maybe the audience members can pick up on the magic that's happening live. It's impossible to bottle experience, but perhaps possible to rediscover.  

In other thoughts, how great would it be to be a professional fly on the wall?

i hate performing/the quest for self exploration

For the last several years I’ve been quick to state that I hate performing, though I love dancing and moving. Growing up taking dance class after dance class I was always the blank-faced kid on stage, feeling openly resentful towards the artificiality of ‘pulling face’, but so eager to take on the physical challenge of dance. (Spoiler alert: I still feel that way - even as a choreographer that asks for facial involvement in some of my work - more power to those of you who enjoy that sort of thing.) In college I was really aware of my imperfect technique and lack of natural flexibility and a ‘dancer’s body’ and with the beginning stages of a hip injury that followed me through the past decade, my distaste for the ‘being on stage’ part of dance grew and grew and was easily justifiable in my own thoughts. Honestly there was nothing to miss by taking myself out of the performance equation; I’ve always wanted to create, never perform, and I find no greater personal satisfaction than in developing new work on a group of performers and watching it become their own physical and mental property - magic.

This year something happened.

A month ago I found myself in the midst of an hour-long solo performance, engrossed in what I was doing and truly enjoying it. Yes, it was a safe space and I was surrounded by peers. Yes, I had created the work from a completely genuine place with a collaborator I trusted. But… I [think I] was performing. And enjoying it.

I’m curious about everything - especially the inner workings of the brain - and have the tendency to crave the search for ‘why’, we can blame this on being the offspring of a therapist. Of course my brain jumped on the task of determining how and why this shift snuck up on me. I could track threads back to fall 2014, when I was participating in a choreographer’s residency at Green Street Studios (immediately after hip surgery) and had to share work that I was exploring with outside eyes. I remember being slightly terrified and equally thrilled when Karen Krolak and Lorraine Chapman pushed pushed pushed me one weekday morning just to be real, to be present, to deliver the movement I made as my own impulse dictated at the time. What felt right? Where did my body want to pause, and why ignore it? Karen, who I consider a great mentor, spent a few more mornings on the hunt for the identity of this phrase, continuing to (delightfully) challenge the process. Another evening Andy Taylor Blenis pushed me through that same phrase focusing on owning the physicality in the present. Real… present… These were things I totally stand behind as a human, and my conception of a performer based outside of one’s own true self started to melt. I’m not sure any of these wonderful women artists know what they jumpstarted, as they kindly shared their time, compassion and thoughts, or that it took me a full year and a half later to find the depth of my gratitude!

Another opportunity to be grateful for and the point of this entry... through the entire fall I was fortunate enough to work with a friend and fellow artist, Wolf Luman, and to sustain a deep dialogue through music and movement. He would communicate through brilliant sound that streamed into my ears, I would answer by following what my body needed to say in honest response. We never met in person, but kept a steady flow of tracks and filmed rehearsal sessions volleying back and forth. A few months later, Wolf had created an entire new album and without knowing it I created an hour of movement, obviously the fruit of both of which was a stand alone performance piece. And when you create such a beautiful performance piece, you have to perform it! And we did. And it felt incredible. And the audience was enraptured. There’s more to explore here about creating such a personal work through organic mediums (body and sound) with completely digital communication, but I’ll save it for another day.

I think the greatest takeaway is that a performance experience doesn’t necessitate ‘performing’ if you’re simply being authentic and present in live movement research. During each second of my hour long performance/sound exploration I was making choices - to move or not to move, if I decided to move what did my body need to do to fulfill my internal needs and the needs of the relationship between music and myself at that split second in time? What was I feeling at any given second and how could I merge that with what I wanted to say with my body? Yes, I recognized the fact that I was being watched and yes, those individuals viewing the performance shifted the goal ever so slightly just due to the fact that they were present in the space and all focusing their energy on the same subject (me!), but it was ok.

Looking ahead, where does this new found intrigue in exploring movement in front of others lead? Perhaps for me, a performance that is enjoyable and satisfying will always be improv so I can be absolutely authentic in any given split second of movement. In any case, I’m happy to have the beautiful ability to evolve, grow and see where the self exploration takes me.

Image from performance at Goddard College, Feb 1, 2016. - Photo Credit: Dan Goldman

Working with Sound

Often when I engage in a conversation about what I do, the topic of music comes up. I'm frequently asked 'how I find music to make dance to', which is hard to answer since I so rarely work that way.

My process typically begins with making movement based on thought; the generated material is soundless, or danced over something minimal to set a general tone. When I start this way I can clarify what I'm trying to say and determine how I can then use sound to develop and enhance the idea.  I often end up either making the piece some sort of sonic environment to live inside, or listening to music endlessly - live, recorded, recommended by friends, stumbled upon by accident - to find a fitting match. This is not to say I don't ever work narratively with music, it's just less common in my methodology. When I do work from music, I gravitate towards work with certain character of its own that demands I create movement to it - it often feels like my current Bach piece choreographs itself - or I opt to work alongside a composer to make dance that compliments music and vice versa.

However there is a third way music comes into my work (and probably many more ways beyond that), which is music as strictly early-phase inspiration. I experienced this to a new level of intensity over the last several months.

In the early days of planning for Spektrel I was lucky enough to get to join the talented musicians of Jaggery on stage at the Museum of Fine Arts for a collaborative piece in their da Vinci inspired show. The opener was Rabbit Rabbit, a duo comprised of musicians Carla Kihlstedt and Matthias Bossi, and while at the time I was unfamiliar with their music, I was so quickly blown away by their gorgeous sound and lyrics. Towards the end of their set they played a song called Hush, Hush, and I fell in love on first listen. More importantly, the song catalyzed early ideas for a new work (coincidentally/tentatively already named rabbit hole cycles at the time) that had been slowly marinating in my brain.

Rabbit Rabbit's Hush, Hush is beautiful, an ambient acoustic lullaby that morphs into a creepy sing-song omen and then to terrifying rock ballad before returning to its original sound. Live, it was haunting, lush, devastating, lifting. (Possibly interesting to note: before I had the good fortune to be exposed to Rabbit Rabbit's Hush, Hush, I was struck by Timber Timbre's Run From Me - which also borders sweet and scary - as I thought about my new work.) Each transition to a new style in Hush, Hush is seamless, and unquestionably the right decision for where the lyrics wander. As for the lyrics, they paint very specific and familiar images through scenic metaphors; vague and yet incredibly universal glimpses into life. The music, words and flow to the song grabbed my interest in such an intense manner that I found myself painting mental pictures for several bits of the song. These in-head images started growing into the seeds of a warped piece that transpires across several separate worlds in the same stage space, like all of the events transpiring in one house, one life, that Rabbit Rabbit's Carla Kihlstedt sings of. 

Now here's the weird part.  After making a new piece that was so heavily fertilized by the composition, performance and overall feel of a song, there was no way I could use said-song in this piece (even if the artists obliged)! It is just too complete a creation of its own to think I could/should add anything to it. It should exist just as it is forever. Also, for all of the inspiration and thought Hush, Hush provoked, its sonic aesthetic didn't end up as the perfect fit for what I was making (I decided instead to utilize a lot of altered sound from varied environments to make a new world for this work).

While rabbit hole cycles has developed its own very specific identity as we explore, experiment and refine in the studio, I'm incredibly grateful to have snuck into the MFA audience before I danced that night as so much of the development of my new work is due to what my ears and brain took in in that seven minute song.

To the artists reading this post, how do YOU work with sound? What are your experiences of being heavily influenced by visual/auditory stimuli that aren't visible in your final product?

Side note: Take a minute to check out the musicians/groups mentioned above, maybe even more than a minute... I promise it'll be time well spent.

Spektrel tickets and info here!

Authenticity

As I write, reflect, watch and create my way through my graduate studies, I've discovered an increasing frequency of the word authentic popping up in my writing.

Why? Authenticity is the most important quality in my interaction with art, a constant goal for my own practice, and subsequently a lens through which I view performance.

Why this blog post? As I recently thought about a personal definition for the word, I realized that while I value it to the same high degree in both creation and performance, I define it differently for each of these situations. 

Yes, this is what life is like when your full-time job is pursuing an MFA.

Authenticity in Creation

To me, authentic in terms of the creative process means the artist is finding genuine ways to express what needs to be said in message, medium and means.

If you didn't catch on, this is an opinion piece. I don't intend any judgment against those who don't agree or work in this way, nor do I practice what I preach without fail every now and then. 

The message, what your art attempts to say, is something one cares about, believes in, stands behind; even the exploration of a sudden interest in a new idea can count. The passion and care for the message should carry through as you create, even if you get into a rut or fall in and out of love with any part of the piece itself. In theory (and I have a long career ahead to test this, let's check in a couple of decades down the road), the authenticity behind and commitment to the message could even be the jury for what stays and what goes. What truly fits what you're trying to say? Is there an actual need for the extraneous stuff besides not wanting to cut things time was spent on making? Perhaps you're making work about extraneous stuff; then, I suppose, it would stay. Bring on the high kicks and confetti.

When thinking about authenticity in terms of medium I don't mean one should fiercely commit to a sole genre, or the pursuit of showcasing stellar technique (to be honest I think sometimes technique gets in the way of expression, though it's a good thing to have in one's toolkit). What I believe is that the medium should be the best possible vehicle for the message. Even if it's five different genres delivered at once, or a painstakingly crafted classical ballet abandoned for throat singing, or simply standing in an empty space and reading a letter. 

I view means as the logistical process of making a piece, and it's easy to stay on track here; either make the piece with full effort, or don't. It's usually evident (as a viewer) when the maker stopped caring about their work, or perhaps ran out of time for a particular section or component. If you don't care to make something to the best of your current ability, why should someone care to watch it?

While my rambling thoughts could continue forever, it's this trifecta of message, medium and means, all carefully attended to, that makes an authentic piece. (Though I bet we can think of more important m-words if we try...)

Authentic Performance

In performance, I define authenticity as embodiment on both a mental and physical level. Authentic is the performer that finds the reason to be truly present onstage, the reasons for doing the action they've been given to do and finding a new and genuine interest in doing it multiple times. It's a serious skill; you know you're watching such a high caliber performer when you can't look away. I'm not entirely sure how this works outside of theatre, dance, or forms where the human body delivers the content directly. I would be curious to know how this exists for those that perform through an instrument. 

Authentic performance can be informal as well. I personally don't enjoy 'performing', but I do love to move. Lately when I'm improvising or moving without agenda, I try to match my mind to my body, following physiological impulses and making them into an internal dialogue, or my body to my mind, letting the thoughts that roll through my mind influence how my body corresponds. Very similar to authentic movement, but in my case the internal choreographer is sporadically distracted by aesthetic as I move.

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That's all I've got on authenticity, for now. It was important for me to personally define what it means for art to be authentic as I carry on looking for it in my own work and that of others, historic and contemporary. If you got through the entire thing, congrats! 

What is YOUR single most important quality in making, performing or viewing of art?

A fugue for a fugue

As a classically-trained pianist (in a past life) I have an inherent love for the challenge that is a Bach fugue.  While difficult to play well I have always thought there was no comparison to the satisfaction of mastering Bach. There's a sort of pompous sassy joy to be found as your fingers romp over specific bits of rhythm, runs and jumps all over the keyboard.  I could always luxuriate in Mozart but Bach made me sit up straight and bounce around as I played - especially the Well Tempered Clavier preludes and fugues. 

That bit of nostalgic romanticism aside, a few months ago I had the urge to create a new trio based on the idea that 'getting there is half the battle', exploring lateness, procrastination, the inability to get things done and proceed through life triumphantly and efficiently. Funny and a bit depressing (maybe just maybe hitting close to attention-deficit-home), and entirely set to Bach. A movement of the piece would be based on life/unforeseen circumstances getting in the way, another would be a sort of real life-chutes-and-ladders where the dancers got in their own and each others' ways as they crossed the space, and the third would be a sort of examination of internal and external distraction and discontent.

(This is where the fugue comes in...)

Obviously the second movement of the piece had to be a fugue! Well Tempered Clavier's Fugue no.2 in C minor? Absolutely. Three dancers, three voices, a tone that varied from bubbly to stately, the first time in the piece they would actually interact with each other through movement... it made perfect sense. Then came the idea of setting a fugue to a fugue; not just creating movement that corresponded to the music as a whole, but breaking the music into its three voices, digging through each of the three parts to find the content and repeating motifs and phrases, and making a compositional structure that could snap into the form of the fugue. Sure, there would be importance placed on the movement corresponding with the initial musical statement, but all of the other content and musical phrases wouldn't be swept under the rug as they, too, carry the piece from point a to point b.

(For those of you playing at home that are entirely lost, learn about fugues here or through a quick video here.)

How?

How quickly became the challenge. My dancers are incredible and rhythmic and eager to learn and master, but as it turned out, no one else spent babyhood to age 18 training at the keyboard. Turns out the knowledge I took for granted wasn't entirely an easy concept to teach - especially as I felt out of practice myself.

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We started by listening to the piece as a whole and watching this terrible-sounding visualization.

Next step: I whipped up some color-coordinated sheet music as something to use as a visual aide as we continued watching and listening, just to capture the sense of motion in each voice and perhaps timing. 

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Above: Mardi-gras highlighted sheet music and a really chaotic chart! 

Below: a first stab at fugue form

I isolated similar phrases and motifs, breaking each voice into several parts (A through E, with some phrases played backwards/with other modifications). Each part got a set movement idea that I hoped would propel the action through space; for example A is the main theme and sends the dancer forwards, D (what starts at measure 9 in the lowest voice) runs down the keyboard dizzily, stopping here and there to regain power and focus. 

KHolman 2015 - Getting there is half the battle.

The last technique was plucking out the phrases on the baby grand in the studio as the dancers danced them individually. This was a sort of depressing reminder of how out of shape my fingers are, but helpful as a learning tool.

As each dancer learned her sequence of movement, how it correlated to the music, and how she might interact through the crossing phrase work with the other performers, I realized that my complicated scheme worked. I'm not a fastidious planner and when the movement lined up well from a structural perspective, as I had hoped it would, I was thrilled.  (Here I also almost made the mistake of trying to incorporate the concept of a fugue state, probably over complicating things - but think about the similarities of the two, it would be fun to play with... next time.) How others try to create a movement fugue, I'm not sure, but I'd very interested to find out. 

Onwards.

Our new challenge as a group is continuing to hear the line you are dancing to, as you dance to it. I get the sense that my dancers are quite comfortable with the main theme and the overall flow of the phrases, but listening to all three parts at once while performing just to one is difficult, especially to capture the Bach-isms, and tiny differences between repetitions of ideas. Making the listening/dancing experience even harder, is that melodically this piece is all over the keyboard - the soprano and alto voices cross a lot, it's really chaotic and tricky to keep them separate while listening to both. That being said, each of my wonderful dancers is working, making clearer musical connections with every run and starting to bring their own sense of individuality into the fugue. 

I'm SO pleased with how things are coming along and can't wait to see where we are at in October, once we have the two other accompanying movements finalized (think a giant elastic band, artistic musical chairs, lots of frustration and maybe a stage selfie or two) and put this entire piece on the stage. (Spektrel tickets here!)

I've asked the dynamite Merli V. Guerra, Amy Mastrangelo and Brittany Lombardi (aka the liberally aforementioned dancers) to send me their responses to this post and the process so you can hear their perspectives. Stay tuned! Also, if you've had interaction with a fugue in any genre I'd love to hear about your own triumphs, struggles and quandaries.