Guest Post: Rethinking Q & As

A Note from Kim: Last fall I wrote a blog post regarding dance audiences' wariness of 'understanding' a modern dance performance instead of just sitting back, taking it in, and discussing genuinely without feeling the need to 'get it right'. Read the original post here. In my ramblings on how to remedy this issue I forgot about a major tool... Monkeyhouse's SPORKS (this will make sense if you keep reading), which so brilliantly and humanly ease audiences into talking about dance. Karen Krolak has graciously contributed the following entry to explain her monkey-methods for the betterment of dance viewers everywhere, and I'm grateful for her kind reminder that we as artists can help our audiences feel comfortable and get involved. Don't forget to share your thoughts post-reading!

Rethinking Q & As

By Karen Krolak

Leading a SPORK after Luminarium’s Spektrel at the Multicultural Arts Center. I am the one with the spider fascinator on. Goofy headwear also helps make the conversation less intimidating.  (Photo by Jason Ries)

Before Monkeyhouse’s tour in 2001, my dear friend Fred, a family therapist, suggested that Monkeyhouse organized regular company meetings to discuss problems of life on the road. Each person who brought a complaint, however, had to also bring at least two ideas for how to improve this problem. It was a helpful strategy that lowered the tension level in the van. Oddly enough, it is also how I discovered that everyone went to sleep much earlier if they put me in a separate room…but I digress.

One of the things that artists and audiences frequently bemoan is the post show Q & A. Raise your hand if you have ever been to one that has felt awkward, stilted, or just plain uninformative.

Exactly.

While it could be easy to simply stop attending/hosting Q & As, they can provide necessary insight for both the artist and the audience. Especially now that the number of dance writers is decreasing at newspapers and magazines, these dialogues become even more valuable when done productively.

So in the spirit of Fred’s wisdom, Monkeyhouse began brainstorming about how to improve the Q and A process. We began by renaming our events as SPORKS -forking out questions and stirring up conversations about choreography. This may seem like a small detail but reframing the experience to be about questions and not answers made a huge difference for getting people on both sides to relax a bit more. Nobody is seen as the all knowing expert. Audience members no longer feel ignorant. Artists no longer bear the onus of being able to answer every question thrown at them.

Second, we invite someone to be the moderator. By having someone begin the questions, you do not have to wait for a brave soul to finally speak up. It also gives the artist some reassurance that the first question will not attack their creation. In a best case scenario, the conversation quickly spreads to comments and questions from both sides and the moderator can recede a bit. I love it when audience members begin debating ideas at our SPORKS. Even if that does not happen, however, the moderator can keep people chatting and avoid those pregnant pauses where everyone just stares expectantly at each other.

In choosing our moderators, we look for people who are curious, humble and naturally smile a lot. This last quality may sound frivolous but smiling at people as you ask questions can help open them up. Russell Holman, host of Luminarium’s Backlight Boston, is an excellent moderator by the by if you are ever looking for someone.

It helps tremendously if the first couple of questions encourage the artist to tell a story about their process or about their background. Not only does this prevent people from giving one word answers but it also humanizes the artist. In turn, we find that the audience tends to respond with more supportive questions rather than with harsh criticisms or off topic comments.

While they often occur as pre- show or post-show events, Monkeyhouse’s SPORKS can happen at any point in the production of a work and they can happen anywhere. We have had them at people’s homes, in restaurants, etc. Sometimes just changing the venue so that everyone is sitting around a table can make the conversation more lively.

Obviously, there are many more ways to improve Q & As and I would love to hear about ideas that are working in other organizations. Liz Lerman’s Critical Response Process is a marvelous guide for people who are looking for more resources.

Are you an artist? Audience member?

Have you had a positive or negative talkback experience? Attended a Monkeyhouse SPORK?

None of the above?

Any and all thoughts are welcome below!

Karen Krolak is a free range collaborator and a curator of experiences based in Boston, MA. Since 2000, she has been the co-founder/Artistic Director of Monkeyhouse, an award winning non profit that connects communities with choreography. Her creative works involve some combination of  choreography, text, fiber arts, and storytelling and have been presented regularly throughout New England and in New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Philadelphia, Rome, and Winnipeg, Her favorite collaborators are Nicole Harris, Jason Ries, Kwaq7aj', Ralph Farris, Anne Howarth, and Barry Duncan and she is a huge fan of Luminarium. She earned her B.A. in Linguistics at Northwestern University and is currently pursuing an MFA in Interdisciplinary Arts at Sierra Nevada College. Much of her recent work has centered around the theme of finding physical poetry in imperfect bodies and around mourning as she grapples with the car accident that killed her mother, father, and brother. 

Warmth

It's 72 degrees in Boston today - "unseasonably warm" as the news proclaims - and I feel the need to stop and think about that. Thoughts on climate change aside, I'm wearing a shirt with no sleeves (and a pair of pajama shorts if we are being honest here, because I've done nothing but read essays and paint a room this morning), and as I flip pages in my backyard I can feel the warmth touching the outermost layer of skin and intensifying as it soaks into my body. This sensation is just about my favorite feeling in the world (though I'm hesitant to admit I also love the helpless, out-of-my-control feel of being tossed about on a good roller coaster).

I've been thinking a great deal about sensation from the inside out, but this first brilliantly warm day is a definite outside-in sensation that's a constant in each year of my life. While I can conjure up the essence of many internal sensations after the fact, this is one of few external sensations I can replay. "Unseasonability" aside, I wait for it all winter long knowing that the first bone warming day of the year will always arrive.

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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

2/3/16

Today I spent a considerable chunk of a 2.75 hour meeting admiring the distinct silhouette of a completely average black desk lamp sitting against a window allowing diffused light from a grey drizzly nondescript day to gently enter the room. It was beautiful but entirely unimportant and my intent was to grab a quick photo of the moment on my phone at the end of the meeting - before becoming distracted by the next task - but in the last 5 minutes of conversation the lamp was knocked off the windowsill, lightbulb glass shattering everywhere. 

all-important

Note: This opinion piece speaks frequently of art and entertainment; it’s important to note that I’m referencing each in regards to the performing arts, specifically dance and theatre, as those fields are what I know. Perhaps the content relates to visual art, music and writing, but I’m not familiar enough with the worlds of those genres to comfortably discuss.

I often worry that the reason I make art isn’t important enough, the art itself isn’t important enough. Yes, this is completely ridiculous and self-defeating, but as someone who enjoys not just making but observing and participating in the art of others I’m very aware of the distinction of what’s purpose-driven and what is just pretty. As an individual who choreographs, designs and directs for the purposes of both making art and making a paycheck, often taking on gigs that aren’t as meaningful as the work I’m driven to create, I’m hyper-aware of a subconscious pull to ground my work in purpose (i.e. even if I’m working on a basic musical with kids there is still an immense take away from the experience for the participants), and am very aware of the boundaries of and gap between art and entertainment. I think it is an honor and a privilege to be able to be an artist for several reasons - reasons that would triple the length of this blog entry - and therefore believe there’s a responsibility to use one’s artist status to communicate, share, improve the community.

The debate on and space between art and entertainment will likely exist forever, and while my own internal discussion continues infinitely, my art-self-awareness was heightened when I started grad school a few months ago and by much of my recent reading. To clarify, I think both art and entertainment serve a purpose in society. I questioned this opinion over the last few months while learning about the incredibly talented artists also in my MFA program, many addressing the issues running rampant in current society and making important social change through their work.  I deeply questioned this opinion in the last few weeks when an essay I read described work made for aesthetic and pleasure as projecting an image of “a better order”, consequently taking the pressure off society to change. This is a bold charge and quite honestly true of entertainment, but I think that’s why entertainment exists - as a foil to art.

Art is participatory, thought-provoking, a statement, however subtle or brash it is presented. It is an exploration, an experience, carefully crafted by the artist who needed to create it. We attend art to think and to be challenged; art is about the content being presented, whereas entertainment focuses on the presentation. Entertainment is an escape in its tendency to provide easy enjoyment, and shock and awe. I go to musicals to be impressed by their lavish design and their unrealistic but wholly enjoyable tendency to break out into song and dance, to the ballet to see athletes exhibit their technical prowess. I enjoy myself at such events, but I’m never overly moved or challenged as the content itself, outside of glamorous trimmings and brilliant individual performances, is often too familiar and simplified.  One perk: entertainment does have the potential to be a gateway to art. I know several individuals that started attending dance performances by way of the ballet and other spectacle-heavy types of dance (think So You Think You Can Dance-esque), that slowly but surely have started taking chances and venturing deeper into art territory. Perhaps these two aren’t simply stand alone foils, but the two extremes on a possible-to-traverse scale.

All that being said, I think the balance of consumption of art and entertainment is far from ideal. If the average individual made as regular an effort to see impactful performances, projects and movements as they did the latest blockbuster, the millionth tour of Wicked, the annual Nutcracker, I can only imagine how different society would be. I think most opt for entertainment because we are afraid of being challenged. We are conditioned with the notion that the degree of understanding equals success, most students go through school getting numbered grades, the highest ranking student getting a special title at graduation, and there are many other similar situations through one’s life. I can imagine such a conditioned society has a hard time in a setting where they’re being provoked to think at an often abstract stimulus, without ‘right’ and ‘wrong’.

As I approach the end of this blog post I am revisiting my first sentence: I often worry that the reason I make art isn’t important enough, the art itself isn’t important enough. (A quick justification - what artist doesn’t spend some of their time questioning the validity of their work?) While I deviated from this initial thought, what I’ve learned from the examination of art and entertainment is that my art is important because it takes place in space and time, at a moment that was once the present moment. What I’ve learned about my own work by reading, thinking and applying is that I consistently create work on the human experience, social interaction and behavior.  This isn’t a catch-all; it, too, is important to examine commentary, narrative and abstract glimpses from the world we live in.  A recent work about artificiality, performance and interaction, a duet enacting a complicated relationship between females and a secret, a piece exploring trust in a system and overthrowing authoritative power - all of these come from my world and ask an audience to see and perhaps formulate an opinion upon these presented situations. The art, mine and that of others, is important because I cared enough to present something I needed to say in the best way I could possibly find to say it.  Similarly, perhaps entertainment is important due to society’s need to escape… and one step further, perhaps my need to explore my world and present it as an artist and my simultaneous need to be an audience member (not just for art, but for entertainment) are what are butting heads and causing this conflict-ridden internal discussion.

rabbit hole cycles: Spektrel retrospective

Photos by Ryan Carollo from Luminarium's Oct 2015 production, 'Spektrel'.

Once upon a time (otherwise known as earlier in 2015) I set out to make a visually driven trip of a piece, simultaneously charmingly quirky/wacky and terrifying in what it could expose. As the work started coming together I learned that I wanted to seriously challenge but not entirely alienate an audience in exploring performance, the performance space, artificiality, social behavior/interaction, light, shadow and the personas of my five very willing and open-minded performers.

(Dig through old posts if you want to know more about the process.)

What I discovered after watching the piece over tech, dress, press night and a three night run, was that we are far from done with this work. There is so much more to learn, unearth and create... this is something that I've never done before post-show. Post-OBERON I'm looking forward to diving back in, but until then, check back here often for more thinking aloud.

If you caught the piece last weekend and haven't yet shared/want to share your thoughts I'd love to hear them, below!

rabbit hole cycles: new thoughts

It’s important to me that I continue to discover and clarify themes in this work. My current opinion of rabbit hole cycles is that it inspects a performer’s role in a new space and in changing environments, and the roles of the individuals in a group, in a quirky performative sense. The space(s)/worlds in the piece are far from real, and yet they are indicative of real life; a crowded street carnival or parade, the rehearsal space, a unpopulated outdoor space. The performers’ actions and impulses on stage are far from how people act in real life, and yet they’re representative of the human condition. The piece explores behavior in space, a closed experiment of sorts, while exploring artificiality in performance and day to day life. The dancers’ over the top faces and gestures are artificial moments usually confined to theatrical settings, but artificiality is similarly prevalent in the normal everyday life we experience. How often do respond “I’m ok” instead of speaking our minds when asked the question “how are you”?

More questions for the piece to explore: How do we act in a variety of new spaces, how do we act to each other, when do we perform, when are we the most artificial, how does being part of a group affect our actions, what happens when the dynamic of a group changes, is it possible to escape a cycle? References I’ve been exploring and utilizing throughout the process include the sound that I previously mentioned (Rabbit Rabbit’s Hush, Hush, Timber Timbre’s Run From Me), Dr. Seuss’ Star-bellied Sneetches, The Truman Show (yes, the 90s Jim Carrey movie), the work of M.C. Escher, Lewis Carroll and more.

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!

rabbit hole cycles: light experiments

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What feels like a million years ago we showed a glimpse of my new work, rabbit hole cycles, at the Luminarium Gala. At that point I knew what the work was about, knew roughly what I wanted to accomplish, and knew the deadline to find a stable stopping point (yikes). More on the content of the work another time, though. 

Since the gala, I started a grad program to work on my MFA (as you probably know) and continue to work away at this new piece. I've never been so actively aware of my process, and as I reflect on my work I've been generating a series of screenshots from rehearsal footage to take snapshot assessments of where I'm at! In case the world is interested, one of my major goals was to house this piece in multiple worlds, all located in one stage space. I am differentiating these worlds through the use of light, so it's vital that each has a very unique look and feel, while the light-source/technique is fully integrated into the work so that it doesn't feel gimmicky or extraneous. The piece is also designed to repeat endlessly (with the dancers' roles switching), if only we had concurrent stage spaces. Someday...

The images below are really rough and experimental, of course! Most looks involve cheap clamp lights as placeholders (there's only so much a gal can haul through Central Square), and other makeshift equipment. I'm SO excited to show off the polished lighting and other scenic elements of this wacky piece but you'll have to come check out Spektrel if you want to be the first to see it! Tickets here.

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World I: Multidimensional Shadow

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World 2: SIlhouette vs Shadow Interplay

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World 3: Stripped. Hanging Bulb/Mobile Light Source

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What do you think? Curious enough to come fall down the rabbit hole with us?

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?

Performers' Response: A fugue for a fugue

Yesterday I wrote a blog post based on the process of creating a fugue. Original post can be found here. As part of my grad/MFA work, I've been discussing process through correspondence with my advisor who suggested I might give the dancers a chance to respond if I blogged about a process that so directly involved each of them. Exciting! Many thanks to Merli V. Guerra, Brittany Lombardi and Amy Mastrangelo once again, who are integral to the piece I'm creating and the spirit inside it!

Amy

Historically, I like Kim's movement. Kim is a sweeping, swooping, jumping choreographer. Her phrases are big and wide. They stretch to all corners of the studio, to all seats in the house. They travel, they move you, they take you places. Long lines of energy shooting past the physical limits of our extremities. 

This is the kind of dance that I especially like to dance. 

So, suffice it to say, I was a bit concerned when in our first rehearsal for the "Fugue," Kim presented us with paper, sheets of music, dotted incessantly with teeny tiny black notes all over the scales. They were everywhere and abundant. They were frantically scattered about the page in no seemingly logical order, as if a clumsy waiter had spilled fresh ground pepper all over someone's beautiful song. 

We're gonna Kim-move to this? 

Well, as it turns out, yes we are. 

The "Fugue" is turning into a top favorite Kim piece for me, and that's not just because it's topical in this piece of writing. It's making me think in a way that I've never had to dance before. It's forcing, forcibly forcing me to listen and hear music in an entirely new and active way...and also dance while I'm doing that. As we work along in this piece and things become more and more ingrained and natural to our bodies, I'm noticing that I've started to hear the choreography in the music. While I truly know nothing of notes and the letters assigned to them, I can hear where my arms are supposed to be, or the jump that I'm already late for (oops.) 

Even tonight I had to remind myself, in rehearsal, that I really ought to count the music, use the tools that I've been using as a dancer for the past one thousand years. But then again, this is an entirely new experience of dancing to music, or rather, dancing WITH the music, and maybe even, dancing BECAUSE THE MUSIC SAID SO. I remember once performing as a high schooler in my studio's dance recital, and I caught myself, on stage, realizing that I wasn't counting at all. I was just doing the routine that had been drilled into my body after hours and hours of rehearsal. It was exhilarating. I felt like a real dancer, to move so seamlessly with the music, quite literally without even thinking about it. 

This is a similar, and yet slightly more enlightening experience. While I look forward to further drilling of this routine (my muscles need to make some memories, if you know what I mean) it's fascinating that, from the very very beginning, it wasn't about the counts, but it was very much about the music. While that seems like it should be an inherent concept in dance...it really isn't. The counts always go to the music; you can always find the 5, 6, 7, 8, somewhere in the song you're listening to. This time around, we're listening for our parts, we're listening for our movement, and oh, by the way, maybe there are numbers in there, somewhere, but don't worry about them just yet. 

So truthfully, when I come to rehearsal, I don't come ready to dance as I do come ready to think. And listen. And hear. And that's not entirely appropriate, because even though I need to think, and listen, and hear, Kim-movement is still Kim-movement, and even though the Fugue is fugue-ing at a thousand black dots a minute, my arms still need to stretch, my legs still need to swoop, and unless I'm instructed otherwise, my toes still need to point. 

Oh and also, there are two other dancing humans on stage, who are occasionally tethered to me. 

It's active, physically and mentally. It's hard, physically and mentally. It's slightly absurd, but all the best things are, aren't they? 

Despite our beloved Kim's calm, cool, and eternally relaxed and easy-going demeanor, this piece is not easy. But when has a bit of a challenge ever detracted from our love of dance? When has it ever stopped us? Um, I'll tell you; it hasn't, and it certainly won't now.

Merli

The other night when Kim first approached me about writing a response to her post on creating the fugue, she phrased it as "My adviser would love me to gather your take on the challenges of this work, from the dancer's perspective." Only one tiny problem… What challenges? 

For me, this piece has been a delightfully intuitive break from the typical Kim Holman rehearsal process (and believe me when I say that I love the typical KH process!). Allow me to give you a little tour of the typical work flow when Kim creates—having been in many of her works over the years. We, as dancers, enter the studio with only a vague understanding of the work as a whole. Gradually, through experimentation, and the additions of phrasing and sense of purpose, a piece unfolds—with the final step being the ultimate layering of a finely-tuned sound score that magically fits our own internal timing of each moment, movement, and phrase.

Let me boil that down: Typically, the musical timing is taken off of us, and appears at the very end of the process!

Now, welcome to the fugue: A piece dictated by the rigorous timing of a musical genius long since departed. Yes, the first rehearsal was without a doubt daunting, with Kim showing us a color-coded sheet music nightmare of notes, while the end result of a perfectly coordinated fugue seemed distant. Yet within the first two rehearsals, it became apparent to this musically-driven performer that this would be one of the simplest, most straightforward Kim Holman pieces I've performed to date! 

The beauty of the fugue from the dancer's perspective is that not only am I always easily aware of my own timing and choreographic phrasing (as Kim's done a wonderful job of carefully linking each movement phrase to fit the musical phrasing naturally), but I'm also constantly aware of my fellow performers' movements as well. The three lines of the fugue provide me with an auditory reminder of what Amy's up to as I perform phrase E and what Brittany's up to as I perform phrase B, as if an audible cheat sheet.

And thus, the very reason this piece is incredibly challenging for the choreographer is the same reason the piece is so simple for the performers. Through Bach's complex structuring, Kim's work has been multiplied, while ours has been simplified. Yet I would be remiss if I did not in part credit this ease to Kim's planning behind the scenes. Without that careful planning, I'm sure all four of us would be sitting there scratching our heads week after week, as Bach giggles with glee from the grave.
 

Brittany

During the first few moments of our first rehearsal, I have to admit I was a bit confused; how was I supposed to interpret the notes within this piece of music without losing complete self control? The rhythm was complex, bubbly and somewhat hard to follow count-wise. Unfortunately I never had interest in learning an instrument growing up, needless to say I am kicking myself for it now! 

Within the first few weeks of rehearsals, after looking at Mardi Gras color coded sheets of music, a trippy YouTube illustration of notes in the composition and observing the movement quality on video, I discovered that I can learn how to follow music like a pianist. Tonight's rehearsal focused on the beginning stages of the prelude, a six minute integration of speedy pitches and mind boggling rhythmic obstacles. Each time I went through the motions of the choreography, my body slowly became one with the music; so much so that I forgot to count!  For the next six weeks my goal is to be as invested in remembering accents within the different sections of the music as I am with becoming comfortable with sequences of steps. 

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. 

Is it Dance?

I think it's important to note that my lens is modern dance, sometimes shifting towards a postmodern preference (movement for movement's sake) and more frequently towards the dance theatre need for image-based expression. I am curious to see if this problem comes up in forms that focus on showcasing a technique. 

Everyone seems to know what dance 'is'. Any person walking down the street could offer a definition of dance and maybe even give an example of their best ballerina-esque pirouette, a loose interpretation of tap dancing, or (my least favorite, even as a sometimes-musical-theatre-choreographer) jazz hands. Merriam Webster is no help, suggesting that dance (noun) exists as "a series of movements that are done as music is playing; an act of dancing." The problem I'm considering this week, is when that need for definition gets in the way of actually watching dance. 

Just last year, a well-meaning reviewer came to a Luminarium show and puzzledly noted that while she enjoyed the performance, it seemed that the dancers barely scratched the surface of their technique in the material given. 

A few years prior I found myself sitting in a studio showing in Chelsea, after watching my Luminarium co-director and friend Merli Guerra show one of her dance films, a striking piece that integrated a live performer. An older man (who we seemed to hear from endlessly throughout the evening) was the first to shoot a hand in the air and to state, "I just don't think that's dance." There was a quiet smattering of opinion whispered through the crowd, and the discussion ended; shockingly no major objections from the NYC crowd.

Where are we going wrong in that audiences are needing to outwardly contest a work's genre, and in turn that classification/misclassification effects their consumption of the performance? I recently attended a showing's talkback where everyone was so eager to chime in (a good thing), but all shared the same anxious look in their eyes as they shared an interpretation of the work with its creator and asked if they were right (not a good thing). Why do some audiences truly need the affirmation that they 'got it'? What happens when there is nothing to get?

After some thought and reading many critical reception essays of some creative icons (Cunningham, Bausch, Cage, etc) I believe it's the inherent assumptions that allow anyone to define and recognize dance that trap us in rigid boundaries.  Preconceived notions of dance are frequently challenged in the modern dance setting, which can lead to an uncomfortable combination of frustration, confusion and maybe a little bit of fear in the average audience member.  Perhaps by seeking affirmation in a talkback a viewer is seeking to redeem themselves after a perceived dig to their intelligence (again, sometimes there is nothing to get), but wouldn't watching dance in this manner be exhausting - ala frantically searching for symbolism through the curriculum of a literature class, and missing the enjoyment of just reading the works?

What can we do to demystify modern dance and its sub-genres? How can we get audiences in our performances that are ready to openly receive what we have to share without clutching so tightly to what they consider as dance, and measuring the difference between the two? How do we provide a safe-feeling viewing experience that might house some unsettling content; to make everyone feel like they belong, if they are ready to receive, and that all experiences are valid? 

I've certainly been in an audience myself when there is a pre-show reminder that all experiences are 'correct' and important, there are no wrong answers, and at others where the creator provides an immense amount of program notes to (over?)-explain what viewers are about to see. Do we have other options, can we improve upon what we have?

While I certainly don't think the ultimate remedy to this problem is creating work with an audience's safe-zone as an absolute limit, I also don't mean to insinuate that the choreographer can do no wrong in fighting such an uphill battle.  In my opinion it's definitely the responsibility of the creator to make work that is as authentically embodied and thoughtfully crafted as can be - no shoddy workmanship - but that is another post for another day...

Thoughts?

Also, follow the discussion on Facebook by clicking here. 

The first entry

Welcome to my newest blog...

Here I hope to discuss thoughts prompted by my reading list and studies, share glimpses into works in progress and collaborations and simply converse about what inspires me. Chime in anytime!

If you MUST catch up on what has preceded this blog, you can check out my former attempt here (be gentle). 

Thanks for visiting,

Kim