Yesterday I was sitting at brunch, looked up and saw this fragmented mirror light. I took a picture from my side of the table, then whirled around to the other side and took a picture from that angle. Special thanks to Jackie and Michael for giving me their fiercest post-mimosa stares.
Nothing welcomes fall, or brings out the kid in all of us, quite like Central Park. I recently spent a Sunday afternoon there with my friends Daniel and Jackie, and let's just say we were operating at the level of a five-year-old...with expensive camera equipment.
(With Blaine and Marcelo saying goodbye for a few months.)
Setbacks are frustrating, whether they are professional, romantic, mental, or physical. Over the past eight months I seem to have encountered just about every kind of setback there is. With the recent addition of a horrible cold into the blender of my life, I’m confined to my apartment for what were to be my last triumphant days in New York until Spring.
The past week has been extremely emotional for me. As my departure to Montana draws nearer and nearer, there is no doubt that I am a little bit in denial about it. While my friends assure me that it is just the type of thing I need right now, I am scared for a variety of reasons.
Most pressing of those reasons is my health. After eight months of trying almost everything except drinking my own urine (urine was the answer to every ailment to one of my Russian teachers in high school) I seem to be inching, rather than leaping along to full health. Over the past two weeks, I was bouncing around more than ever and reveling in the fact that people were taking note of my improved spirits. But every time someone noted the improvements, I heard silent thunder echoing in my brain. What I’m starting to learn, as I ride the ups and downs of my illness, is that I always have an impending sense of doom. I have started to live a bit in fear that for every good day I have, there will be a horrible day in the near future. So far, I’ve been right.
Even as I type this, I can logically say to myself that this is no way to live. People in peak health have ups and downs. To have every day bring constant sunshine and singing birds would become nauseating in its own right. Yet, after eight months of fighting a sickness that still lingers, I have adopted this negative mindset, much to my dismay.
With the arrival of my Dance Spirit article, I am elated to finally have a (fairly) definitive and concise account of my battle. All of the friends who have stood in front of me, bewildered by my seemingly healthy self, will begin to have a sense of what has gone on beneath the surface.
When I started writing the article, and working on different drafts, my editor and I joked that by the time the issue hit newsstands I would be living a normal life again. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. If I were healthy, I wouldn’t be surrounded by two large bags and piles of books that I’m transporting to Montana tomorrow.
I haven’t lived at home with my parents for more than a month since I was thirteen. Suddenly I’m dependent on them monetarily, and leaning on them more emotionally than I wish to be at twenty-one. Again, I’m able to see the foolishness of the words I type. Parents are there for you to lean on and I’m fortunate to have fantastic parents that can support me through this difficult time. Yet after years of working towards financial and emotional independence, it’s jarring to know that I need them more than ever.
It will be nice to spend time with my family and a variety of friends who I haven’t seen much since jetting off to boarding school at thirteen. I’m looking forward to working on photography, writing, and perhaps I’ll even start breeding dogs, or capturing leprechauns; there are so many possibilities. Whatever I’m doing in Montana, there will always be the fact that my friends in New York are continuing on their own journeys. The other night I had to say goodbye to Marcelo, Jackie, Blaine and David which was harder than I imagined. Walking home through the wind as snow attacked my face, I noticed how much my inner mood matched the outer tumultuous night air. Let’s hope that my mood and health will match the spring flowers upon my return to New York in March.
HERE IS AN ARTICLE THE MISSOULA PAPER DID ABOUT ME LAST WEEK:
A Bittersweet Homecoming
At almost exactly the same time this blog started, I became obsessed with a certain man in the dance world known as Ohad Naharin. His name was as foreign to me as his movement and with the first performance I saw by Hubbard Street, I knew I was hooked on his work. Ever since then I’ve devoured anything of his I’ve been able to see, first by his company Batsheva at Lincoln Center Festival (the absolutely brilliant “Telophaza”) and most recently with Cedar Lake Ensemble’s showcase of the Israeli choreographer (the fantastic and exhilarating “Decadance.”)
Explaining his work is always a challenge for me because the excitement it provokes from my body while I’m sitting in my seat is unlike any other art I’ve seen. At moments it transcends dance into absolute euphoria and I’m constantly in awe of his unique movement and the way he fits it to his bizarre choices of music.
It was with a bit of hesitation that I brought along Carson, Jackie, Blaine and Isabella with me to BAM last night for Batsheva’s performance of “Three.” All of my friends are “Ohad Newbies” and my descriptions, peppered with gasps of excitement, had built up the evening before it even began.
From the moment I walked in and saw the completely bare stage at the Howard Gilman Opera House, with boxes on the side for wings and a single line of illuminated light at the edge of the stage, I was excited. The dancers filed out during a blackout and with a jarring change of lighting they were revealed, scattered about the stage staring at the audience; it was a typical Ohad moment.
(I spy two dancers struggling to find their Metrocards.)
There was a tameness to the beginning of the evening that seemed almost comatose compared to the previous works I’ve seen. After a few minutes of adjusting to the change of pace I was again riveted by the type of movement that he creates.
His technique, known as “Gaga,” is all about a personal exploration of movement within each dancer’s body. (During a master class that I took of his, he covered all of the mirrors which to a ballet dancer seems as severe as amputating a foot.) This is evident in the incredible unison sections that Naharin creates, where each individual dancer interprets it in their own way, sometimes hitting an ever so slightly different pose that never deviates from the group. Instead it makes it like a large firework where the whole image is created by individually colored explosions all aiming for the same final product. This allows for each dancer’s personality to come through and to a corp dancer in a ballet company, it’s a rather startling thing to witness.
There is a tribal quality to his group movement that fascinates me. On top of doing unexpected things physically, I started to realize that part of what I like about his work is how unpredictable it is in every way. This was most evident in a section that I refer to as the “blackout” movement, a duet that is periodically interrupted by eight counts of darkness. Just as the dancer’s image fades from our view, my mind would try to predict what the next illumination would reveal; I was always wrong. During the larger group sections, he starts to create choreographic rhythms with the bodies on stage and the moment you think you’ve caught on the pattern, he changes it up. It’s a brilliant way of keeping the audience invested in the piece. In a way it reminded me of viewing a Jackson Pollack painting where every time you think you’ve found your focus point it’s interrupted by a new string of color that you hadn’t noticed before.
(The much debated Robert Wilson Baryshnikov installation.)
Most of the evening consisted of smaller duets and group sections, and while the piece was technically separated into three sections, there wasn’t much difference between them. The first had the company dancing to Bach, the second to Brian Eno, and the third everything from Israeli techno to the Beach Boys (who accompanied the euphoric finale that found the dancers chugging and scattering wildly around the stage as the curtain came down.) Between each movement, a man would march out to center stage hugging a television screen underneath his arm displaying a head that narrated to the audience what was about to happen. This was the clearest sense of the type of humor that Naharin usually brings to his pieces, although it was evident (more subtle than usual) throughout.
When the curtain made its way down, I could hear my “Ohad Newbies” gasping out hoping that they could see just a few minutes more. While I wasn’t as blown away by this performance as the other ones I’ve seen, I was excited to see that it elicited such passionate responses from my friends. There is so much of the evening that I find impossible to describe. The evening, a short hour and ten minutes, runs through the weekend at BAM. Check it out!
(Carson and Blaine (working the cheekbones) discuss the performance as we head for an after show romp in...)
(Cue the angel choir.)
(Not the best score ever, but who couldn't use some Soy milk and Christmas lights? It's a recipe for a fun night.)
