On Stage: Marjani Forte

October 7, 2014

23FORTE-articleLargeThis was a program with a heavy-duty sense of purpose. Addiction. Poverty. Mental illness. But in the hands of Marjani Forte, being Here… /this time was woven together like a feather-light pashmina. It’s something that we don’t find much in American choreography, which likes to be direct, almost obvious in its intention. Here there was almost a sense of beauty about this project, despite the subject matter.

It induced a sense of respect for those suffering.

 

Audience members had the chance to see the work from beginning to end from three different perspectives. Chairs divided The Alloy’s spacious studio. My favorite was the first, where the seating backed against Everett Saunders’ 3-D audio installation, allowing for the widest physical perspective. Viewers wore a headset in this section, making for a spellbinding sensory experience. There was text: “It’s okay. You’re okay.” Laughter (a monkey/baboon?). Mixed with piano. It had the ability to subtly grab the attention, but not away from the three dancers who moved about the room. (And something I’ve never encountered.)

For the second installment, I headed to the foyer, where Marjani herself had set up shop (actually a chair) on top of a bench in a very confining space. The musical accompaniment came from (probably) her iPod and a ghostly slide played next to her on a loop. This was the most difficult segment to watch. “I had some weary days.” “I had hills to climb…” She grabbed her mouth. Her body shook. She was physically bound and emotionally bound to the material. And there was nowhere to escape for those of us who gathered around her, even mentally.

I watched the final segment from the diagonal slice of chairs that cut the studio in half. This put the emphasis on partially-bound wheelchair dancer Alice Sheppard and the luminous Jasmine Hearn. They were performing again, but I had a partial view before. This time it heightened the dramatic impact as we wove through the laughter, through stoicism and ultimately through strength.

One of the best programs of the dance season.


On Stage: New East Liberty “Store”

November 9, 2009

Kate Watson-Wallace's "Store"It was a carefully staged entrance to a show. Kelly-Strayhorn Theater patrons received their tickets at an adjacent storefront where a retro hostess bid them “Welcome!” on a video loop. Beneath the video, a live female performer seemed to hoard assorted clothing.

Next door to that there was a 5-minute loop of three live performances, real twist on window dressing. As it turned out, they were flash forwards of the performance that was about to begin.

With these sneak peaks in place, it was time to dive into another “Store,” this one directed and choreographed by Kate Watson-Wallace on the theater stage. It didn’t have the conventional arrangement of a store with racks and shelves and clerks. Watson-Wallace displayed an array of clothing carefully arranged in rows of color-blocked samples. The packed floor was backed with cardboard boxes and pockmarked with several television sets.

Shades of Andy Warhol! Watson-Wallace was taking the idea of pop art, that which surrounds us and is part of our culture. But instead of familiar names and faces, the Philadelphia artist granted anonymity to her store (no neon sign), the clothing labels (too small to make an impression) and her performers (who began with their faces covered).

The performers emerged from the clothing rubble, although one barreled in from the back of the theater. The movement often hinted of social dance, but given more structure. This “Store” was, at its best imaginative in its perspective, at other times awkward, perhaps because the audience was removed from the activities in the usual theater setting. I would have seated some of them on the stage, perhaps collected on box-like risers, so as to be a part of the production.

“Store” was actually performed in an abandoned Rite Aid, and this, I think, would have given it more immediacy and more punch, particularly in the “emcee” section. As such, “Store” looked like a crumpled bit of American society that had lost its way.

 

 

 


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