The Critic As, A Dance Criticism Zine, Spring 2021

thought provoker

educator

initiator

artist

advocate

constructive peer

THE C Ri nI tTe rI pCr e t e r t a s t e m a kAe rSc h a l l e n g e r

base of knowledge

passionate fan

collector

mirror advertiser q u e s t i o n e r a dance criticism zine historian intermediary sp ring 2021

analyst

record keeper

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CONTENTS

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04

introduction

06

on dance for the camera

28

dancer appreciation

42

on dance in daily life

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bios

AUTHORS: Rebecca Aronson, Dalia Bereket, Kendall Bottjer, Sarah Cecilia Bukowski, Charlotte Chandler, Maya Clark-Self, Sabrina Delafield, Mariah Hesser, Olivia Hussey, Isabelle Mollicone, Elise E. Schlecht, Brittany Shinay, Isabelle Stromberg, Krystal Zhou PRODUCTION TEAM: Rebecca Aronson, Sarah Cecilia Bukowski, Sabrina Delafield, Abigail Melbourne, Brittany Shinay Throughout this zine, between pieces by individual writers, you’ll find interludes with words generated collectively by the class. These include contributions from: Rebecca Aronson, Dalia Bereket, Kendall Bottjer, Sarah Cecilia Bukowski, Caroline Caldwell, Charlotte Chandler, Maya Clark-Self, Sabrina Delafield, Mariah Hesser, Olivia Hussey, Christina Lin, Carla Melaco, Abigail Melbourne, Isabelle Mollicone, Zoe Novello, Elise E. Schlecht, Hannah Seibold, Brittany Shinay, Isabelle Stromberg, and Krystal Zhou.

The interludes were inspired by the following videos: Eiko Otake,A Body in Hong Kong, Miami, Wall Street The Nicholas Brothers in Stormy Weather ”Riverdance” at the Eurovision Song Contest, UFly Mothership (Tendayi Kuumba and Greg Purnell), U.F.O.: “The Mixtape” The hand-written interludes were designed by Sarah Cecilia Bukowski.

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The work in this zine was created for the Spring 2021 semester of Dance Criticism, a course offered by the Barnard College Department of Dance and taught by Siobhan Burke.

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introduction A N OT E O N T E A C H I N G D A N C E C R I T I C I S M AND THE MAKING OF THIS ZINE

The writing in these pages reflects on recent dance films and social media trends; the artistry of individual dancers; and simple or spectacular dances of daily life, from making breakfast to surfing at sunset.

Directly or indirectly, it engages with some of the course’s guiding questions: What are the roles and responsibilities of a critic? How do our own identities and experiences inform how we see and write? What makes criticism an art form in itself?

In past years, students in this course have always attended and written about live shows. Embarking on this semester, I wanted to approach the absence of live performance not as a limitation, but as an opportunity to explore forms of writing other

than the response to a single live event. With the abundance of dance in digital spaces, what new possibilities might arise for dance criticism? And at a time of relying so heavily on our devices, how might we turn our attention away from screens, toward the movement that surrounds us in everyday life?

This zine was an extra-credit project; contributing to it was voluntary. But it includes the work of every student in some way, if not through a full piece of writing then through the words assembled on “interlude” pages. These bring together musings generated as a group during in-class writing exercises and on our virtual discussion board, often in response to a short dance video. The cover and title come from a prompt given early in the semester, to complete the phrase “the critic as…,” as we began to think about the many roles a critic can take on.

As both a teacher and writer, I’ve been inspired by a semester spent thinking and learning alongside the creative, insightful, inquisitive people in this class.

Thank you to each of you for your work. A special shoutout to the zine production team, who helped this all come together in just a little over two weeks!

Thank you also to our brilliant guest speakers this semester, Eva Yaa Asantewaa and Claudia La Rocco, who expanded our ideas of what criticism can be.

—Siobhan Burke, April 2021

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About halfway through this semester of Dance Criticism, I reached out to the class with a question: Would people be interested in contributing to a class anthology, a collection of their writing for the course? It occurred to me that collectively, students were producing an extensive record of this unusual moment in the dance world, when live performance has been on hold, and digital dance has proliferated.

In a fully virtual class with people scattered across the world, from Hawaii to London, creating a group publication also seemed like a way to build stronger connections, beyond our online discussion board and once-a-week Zoom meetings. The idea sparked a lot of enthusiasm, and we were on our way to making this digital zine.

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on dan the ca

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nce for amera

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One hand holds a bouquet of flowers, the other a bowl of water. As she hurries forward, away from the crowd who has gathered to watch her, she uses the flowers to fling water out of the bowl A process that may never arrive

The body crouches, and stutters as it rises.

The body eases itself into decay, falling onto its back with morbid slowness. The body rushes itself away from society, and turns in on itself. The body jolts forward with arms outstretched, red cloth billowing from the arms.

The body slurps up water and kisses the leaves of wilted flowers

What is the body doing?

A collective response (via Zoom chat) to an excerpt of Eiko Otake’s A Body in Hong Kong, Miami, Wall Street

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She seems to surrender her mind to her body, instinct; it’s as if we are watching the process of growth

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Eiko is mourning, her body is guided by emotion Inverted, inward gaze, retraction and reach of fingers, very conscious awareness of fingertips to toes in space

This dance is quite disturbing, a quality enhanced not only by the haggard, fragile appearance of the dancer herself but by the schizophrenic nature of her movements that suggests a break with reality. The dancer’s posture is Gollum-like, her movements natural, yet not fluid, her obsession with the material vestiges of her surroundings seemingly emotionally inappropriate

Hyper attention to detail

Moving in infinitesimal increments, jarring into sudden large scale movements, hands and fingers tense, rigid, delicate, alive with thought, sensation, and response

I found myself becoming impatient, I was wondering when something would happen before I realized that the motion itself was the piece

Movement emanated from the wrists to make the chest go concave much of the time, pleading. Drawn to the edges of things, whether it be the chainlink fence, the railing separating her from the ocean. Slowness.

I found the dance to be slightly jarring and disturbing. it seemed to be moving art through sadness. especially when she was screaming around 5:30 it reminded me of a mourning older woman

Eiko’s body is holding a funeral for itself Her wrist rotates with focused intention, almost imperceptibly

Her hands are held in deliberate intention, not claws, nor flat palms—rather in between as if moving from one position to the next. Frozen in this middle ground of becoming or undoing Eiko performs like a misplaced relic, with hunched, choked movements that contribute to an image of an anachronistic ritual

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She is alone, unbridled, surrendering. her honesty is captivating. it is disturbing because it is familiar

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Dancing during the pandemic Reflections on Slothian Days OLIVIA HUSSEY

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t has now been over a year since the coronavirus began turning worlds upside down and eternally changed our lives. With a creative, lighthearted delivery, Kat Válastur’s Slothian Days gives an artistic account of one predisposition that many of us have developed over the past year: slowness. The five-minute film, shot in Berlin last spring as part of the Onassis Foundation’s ENTER series, taps into the consciousvness of dancers whose fast-paced routines were transformed into days full of stagnation, sluggishness, and simplicity.

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The next section introduces bubblegum and trees as passions that the dancers have developed. For over a minute, we see slow-motion scenes of them blowing bubbles and Katz hugging a tree much like the sloth pictured earlier.

The narration about how the bubbles function as a source of “tranquility and happiness,” along with the slowness of the scenes, feels like a test of patience for the viewer. In this digital age, it’s easy to become used to always scrolling between different stimuli. The piece communicates how the pandemic can function as an opportunity to break this cycle and find satisfaction in something as simple as blowing bubblegum.

The movement of the bubbles provides a visual for slow breathing and invites a moment of meditation in the viewer, carrying the endearing sense of serenity.

Perhaps the most masterful part of the piece is how it ends. The narrator describes changes to the dancers’ gazes and shows how they see blue with every gesture. The final sentence of the narration stands out: “Dancing became more fun. Slowing down made them enjoy every part of it. And the rest of the world slowed down with them.” With sundown as a backdrop, the dancers freely move for about a minute. They’ve managed to make slowing down fun and even joyful for viewers. Slothian Days delivers a clever, entertaining account of emotions that are commonplace in the pandemic.

With an enjoyable combination of playfulness and tranquility, it calls upon the viewer to embrace their inner sloth. sp r i ng 20 21

The video begins by introducing the dancers and describing how they developed “characteristics similar to the ones of a sloth” according to so-called scientific tests. The quick transitions between images of lab scientists, a sloth, and molecules in a petri dish come across as very childlike and playful. Combined with the smiling images of the dancers that precede it, the scientific imagery sets the tone for the whimsy of the piece. The dancers then plod through their surroundings, with the narration describing how long it takes for them to get from place to place. Omagbitse Omagbeni and Ty Boomershine lay down in the street and in a bed, respectively, forming positions rooted in ballet and postmodern dance. Leah Katz is briefly shown posing on a bench, and the narrator describes how they could take a nap anywhere.

This section of the piece personifies how the pandemic has affected our daily routines as dancers. Personally, I have felt the fatigue brought about by hours of screen time and chaos erupting throughout the world weighing on my movements, even on the best of days.

There is an unshakeable sense of solemness and sleepiness that I feel occupying my mind every time I step on the dance floor. As I observed the dancers walking and forming poses, I felt not only these emotions, but their eventual acceptance of them. The dancers express no frustration or disappointment in how slowly they move—rather, they calmly allow the light to shine down on them as they wade through the space.

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WHAT BECOMES OF LOVE? BEGETS LOVE Brittany Shinay

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rms intertwine with arms. Chests press together taking breath in and out. Repeat. Everyone’s touching.

Fingers caress fingers, reaching for something, for someone. Man holds woman, woman holds woman, man touches man. This opening, conjured from the otherworldly mind of Tony-nominated Sonya Tayeh, begins her recently released What Becomes of Love?, a dance film co-commissioned by National Sawdust for six artists of American Ballet Theatre, with music

by Rhye. Cory Stearns, Zimmi Coker, Courtney Lavine, Jose Sebastian, Ingrid Thoms, and Joseph Markey do such justice to Tayeh’s choreography that I’m left at the conclusion knowing full well that dancers and choreographer were on the same page in mind, body, and spirit since day one of this creation.

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Sonya Tayeh (right) by Shervin Lainez.

Rhye by Emma Marie Jenkinson.

What Becomes of Love? came together in a “ballet bubble” in upstate New York during the fall of 2020, a COVID-19-induced rehearsal pod configured for those selected for Tayeh’s piece.

Intense safety protocols were taken for the dancers and artistic staff, which meant that no one could leave the bubble for the duration of the project. The closeness among the dancers is immediately evident from “lights up.” With silk dresses adorning the women complemented by silk pants for the men, it appears as though the fabric is a part of their bodies, an additional layer of smoothness that allows for the movements to unfold with a raw and seamless elegance.

In an interview on American Ballet Theatre’s Facebook page (March 4, 2021), directly following the film’s release, Tayeh elaborated on an inner

Moving through the elements of this everevolving phenomenon that we call love

Zimmi Coker, with her fiery red hair and intuitive way of moving, separates herself (figuratively) from the other females almost immediately. I sense that she’s experienced the deepest love but also immense loss simply from the range of emotions that play across her face from the beginning of the piece to the final undulation.

Even her à la seconde extension in a partnered move with Joseph Markey seems to express an emotion; it’s as if the unfolding of her lower leg resists full extension for fear that as soon as it does, Markey will cease to exist.

Markey is the other dancer who draws me into his personal story through his revealing interpretation of the movement. About halfway through the piece there is a dramatic change in the mood of the music. Markey tears down the centerline of the studio like a butterfly making its fiercest attempt to break out of its cocoon.

What is Markey so fiercely trying to break away from? Could it be the invisible restraints of a relationship that he feels at this moment? Or possibly, haunting memories from a past love that he can’t shake? Whatever his truth, his commanding gesticulations force the audience

to understand an uncontrollable angst that emanates from his torso, up to his neck, and out through his fingertips.

What Becomes of Love? asks many questions of the dancers and the audience alike, inviting both groups to search inside themselves for answers to queries like: “What initially drew me to this person? What continues to draw me to this person? Is it over? Will I ever find love again?”

These deep introspections have arguably become more difficult to answer for many due to the state of the world over the last year. In-person connection has decreased exponentially, yet most of us have had much more time to think about our pasts because of the extra mandated time spent inside our homes (and, subsequently, our heads).

I would be remiss not to mention the exquisite partnering sequences choreographed for the same-sex couples. Security, trust, and sheer vulnerability is apparent. The majority of professional dance careers have been on hold for over a year, and this creative time with Tayeh was surely precious for the performers. Their gratitude is felt; it suffuses the screen. After so many weeks of separation, these dancers were all each other had during their time in upstate New York. They had to rely on one another both physically and emotionally to produce the transformative piece envisioned by its creator. Rely they did. Achieve they did—because it is impossible to watch this piece without remembering how we were tested, and how we prevailed.

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calling that urged her to proffer authentic human connection into the universe via dance at a time when the world was continuing to deal with the isolating aspects of social distancing. She wanted viewers to see human beings touching closely, moving through the elements of this everevolving phenomenon that we call love, after being apart for so long.

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Krystal Zhou

Chinese traditional dance has become known for its strict

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technicality and conventions over thousands of years. Having grown up training as a traditional Chinese dancer, I find the dance form surprisingly difficult to write about. Especially when I'm writing in English, the awkwardness of translating history and traditions forces me to find ways to fit a piece into a set of western dance vocabularies.

For critics, the struggle of effectively presenting significantly culturally based choreographies to western audiences is more than evident, but without the effort, the choreography would never gain the significance it deserves on western mainstream platforms. The lack of recognition of Chinese traditional dance culture in western societies has created a natural gap between eastern and western dancers, audience, choreographers, and critics. Personally, I have been avoiding writing about it because I am not confident that I am up to the task as a critic. But Tang Shiyi’s performance of Xi He Jian Qi, as seen in two videos from 2019 that are available on YouTube, has made me realize that the modernization of Chinese traditional dance is not waiting for a critic but a new generation of dancers and choreographers to be the bridge between two culturally divided dance societies. Xi He Jian Qi is a multimedia piece that perfectly

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Image by Acfun: At the beginning of the dance when Tang first picked up the swo

The story of Xi He Jian Qi goes back to the Tang Dynasty. It was first performed by Gong Sun Da Niang, who used to be one of the top dancers in the emperor’s palace. She danced with a sword that was commonly used by many soldiers at that time. The fluidity and strength in her movements inspired one of the most famous calligraphers, Zhang Xu, to create his signature style that is still admired and passed on today after more than a thousand years. The music Gong Sun used has also influenced generations of traditional Chinese musicians. Although no detailed description can help us visualize how the dance looked at that time, there are ancient paintings that show us the bright colors worn by Gong Sun and the flow of her movements with a heavy piece of weaponry in her hand.

The sword, Jian, is the essence of her dance. From the poems about her, we know that audiences were amazed by how she connected and danced elegantly with Jian as a woman. More than a thousand years later, Tang, one of the most famous Chinese dancers today, recreated this choreography's scale and magnificence through a modern approach while preserving and showcasing its historical background.

In the videos, the work’s most spectacular and innovative aspect comes from the interaction between the stage and the performer. Unlike in the original Xi He Jian Qi, Tang's costume is bland and neutral in color, allowing her body to blend with images on the floor and walls around her. When the music starts, the sword lies sp r i ng 20 21

ord.

combines tradition and modern elements in its music, costume designs, lighting technologies, and staging, allowing a rich culture to be translated into an art that can be appreciated among international audiences.

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quietly as if it was at the bottom of a river, and when Tang slowly walks toward it, the LED projection onstage follows her while creating gleaming ripples every step of the way. When she picks up the sword, her ripples and the waves from the sword become one and light up the entire stage, as if the sword had suddenly come alive in her hands. At first, she seems unfamiliar with the sword, scanning it up and down and trying to control it. The sword is still the initiator of their movements, leading Tang with its heaviness and its own will. However, she quickly takes over and becomes the owner of the sword. She swirls it as she pleases and uses it as she needs. The weapon starts to become a part of her while the stage transforms into a space filled with Chinese characters in Zhang Xu's famous calligraphy. When she becomes the confident female warrior controlling the sword, the landscape of China flies by under her feet while she turns, jumps, and pauses fiercely. Then, returning to the palace of the Tang Dynasty, Tang with her sword leaves the world spinning. The show ends back at the bottom of the lake with her returning the sword to its place, echoing the description in the poem written by Du Fu for the dance a thousand years ago: “when the dance starts, it starts with thunders in the sky, but when it stops, it stops in the resting ripples of the lake…” Tang as a dancer is capable of so many fancy or eye-catching tricks, but the choreography does not feel the need to show off her technical ability in an obvious way. Her strength lies in the subtleness of the movements, as believed in the most authentic philosophy of Chinese traditional dance.

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Image from 西河剑器 official poster

Tang Shiyi’s Xi He Jian Qi brought alive a story in history

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while exhibiting cultural context and evaluations from the poets a thousand years ago. Du Fu’s poem was an early form of dance criticism, where he described, analyzed, promoted, and legendized Xi He Jian Qi. The original choreography has been transformed into a piece that should have been valued more significantly on the international stage, representing traditional Chinese dance and culture. For a foreign dance to build its reputation on mainstream platforms, critics with Chinese cultural backgrounds must be given chances to start introducing the art to western audiences. English as a language might not be enough to interpret Chinese culture, but dance might bring two societies closer through the common language of art. To me, dance criticism is a bridge and a start to more cultural conversations between fields.

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Living with Death in Ligia Lewis’ deader than dead

by Sarah Cecilia Bukowski

deader than dead is that what it felt like when was that the lowest point when have you ever felt that when? body immobilized invisibilized spirit mobilized immaterialized what is it to be dead more than not alive dead is death is we are vulnerable surrounded subsumed overtaken numb death has always been all around us living inside us with us within us dark silent undeniable inevitable true

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now we see it more

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or do we?

Ligia Lewis’ performance piece deader than dead was conceived for the Hammer Museum’s biennial and reconceived for the screen amid the pandemic. The resulting short film is an intensely fragmented multimodal journey through the embodied experience of death in daily life. The four performers—Lewis, Jasper Marsalis, Jasmine Orpilla, and Austyn Rich—are vibrant artists of color whose insistent voices and powerful presences haunt every frame of this compact yet expansive 20-minute film.

Lewis is a Dominican-American choreographer, director, dancer, and performer whose work uses the body to question and disrupt social constructs and the dynamics of performance itself. In the notes accompanying deader than dead, Lewis states her intention to explore the “farce of progress” by employing themes of repetition and recursion. This persistent circling back—to pain, suffering, silence, and death—speaks to the marginalizing patterns of harm experienced by people of color, for whom it seems fate never truly changes, but merely alters the shape of its cruelty.

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A sense of fragmentation runs through the work, reflecting the performers’ internal spaces. Percussive, disjointed movements contort their bodies into a rigor mortis of impossible angles, and a latent joy beckons their spirits into a fluid trance. The score spans music from baroque to electronica, snippets of Shakespeare, and the sounds of flesh striking floor. The performers’ voices—muffled by brown fabric surgical masks—run from whispers to songs to screams, breaking, overlapping, and electronically distorted. Fluorescent bar lights on the walls, floor, and ceiling flash and dim, decomposing and recomposing the visual field. Cameras move with and against bodies, seeing the action from all sides, close and far, handheld and posed at a high remove as god or surveillance. The screen space shatters and rearranges into two, three, four channels to show conflicting angles

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or shock the viewer into focus with detail: a hand held in perfect sculptural stillness with one finger raised.

The work unfolds on a smooth field of pale-yellow mat in an industrial-looking gallery of the Hammer Museum. The polished concrete floor creates cold, hard margins and the hyphenate lights shift the tones and shadows on the high white walls. The mat is territory, arena, and battlefield; never does it quite feel like a stage. There is a sense that no sound escapes this room, that these bodies can never leave it; they are suspended in time, space, and fate. They move as if trapped, clawing through space and clinging to walls, falling and rising, expiring and reanimating. The four performers are mostly alone and disconnected, their scant intersections cold, removed manipulations. Yet flickers of solidarity arise in the midst of their lonely journeys. The pleasure of watching three performers move together in a brief rhythmic unison creates the atmosphere of an intensely poetic, almost hypnotic ritual, amplified by intensely strobing lights and rising layers of beats. It is the first moment they feel truly human together.

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Sound is an integral part of the scenic environment, almost seeming to compose the space itself: the sharp thwack of a rigid body hitting the mat; the dull fleshy slap of a limp limb handled like so much meat; the tangible pressure of voices straining against masks, struggling for air and grasping for expression with the shadow of lips and jaws pressed tightly to fabric. The piece of baroque music that recurs twice—Guilliame de Machaut’s “Complainte: Tels rit au main qui au soir pleure (Le remède de Fortune)”—strikes an ominous and almost ironic tone in this pulsating aural sphere (perhaps an allusion to the song’s tragicomic title and medieval provenance). The remainder of the film’s score, designed by Slauson Malone

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with excerpts by S McKenna, weaves electronica with sung and spoken text.

Shakespeare—Macbeth’s “tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” on the theme of repetition—is interspersed with commonplace utterances and circular ruminations on the nature of facts, surfaces, and perceptions. The performers hold tense one-sided conversations with unseen interlocutors, their overlapping voices made unintelligible, but the emotional effort starkly apparent. These sounds strike close to the heart and straight to the gut; even the silences are thick with tense unpredictability.

In this otherworldly arena, the performers face down death in its many forms: the deaths of the body, of the spirit, of mind, voice, and hope. There is no resolution, only resignation. The closing shot frames the four performers from above, their prostrate bodies lightly touching, artfully and haphazardly arranged as if fallen from the sky. They appear relaxed and softly beautiful in ways that almost belie their suffering. What do they have to say to us? As a society struggling through a global crisis on a scale we’ve never known, we are facing death in new and frightening ways, many of which serve only to illuminate the horror of untold deaths that have been there all along. deader than dead gives voice and body to all these dimensions of death and shows how we might live with them and work through them together.

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All images via hammer.ucla.edu/made-la-2020-version/ligia-lewis Ligia Lewis, stills from deader than dead, 2020 Mixed-media performance documented on HD video, color, sound Courtesy of the artist

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aliver than alive what is it to be alive more than not dead seen heard felt held alive with life alive with death

alone together

resist surrender

what is it to live in the face of unceasing death

invisible and silent am I alive? screaming into the void

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am I alive?

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TIKTOK A PANDEMIC ESCAPE Dalia Bereket

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H

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ip swinging and rapid hand movements that match the lyrics and the upbeat rhythm of the song: On the surface, that describes the 26-second dance to “Supalonely” by BENEE, choreographed and posted by the TikTok user @zoifishh on February 7, 2020. This dance represents the beginning of the global pandemic in the United States and is referred to as “better times” when nostalgically remembered by TikTok users who often say it has all gone downhill from this period. On the original video, the comments include: “I miss this era,” “the nostalgia is real,” and “came back just to feel something again.” Similar comments are posted all over original TikTok dances from the beginning of quarantine.

Perhaps this song went viral at the start of quarantine because everyone was in fact feeling “Supalonely.” This universal feeling is a main appeal of TikTok; anyone can be feeling or going through whatever, and they are guaranteed to find other people on the application with videos expressing that exact thought or emotion. This creates a community, in which a network of people find safety within others.

TikTok is a mobile application that was launched in September of 2016 (originally under the name Douyin) by the Chinese internet entrepreneur Zhang Yiming. Zhang began to develop an application which enabled users to create short talent or comedy videos, either lip-syncing to an audio clip or using their own original sound.

In alignment with the pandemic, TikTok was the most downloaded application of 2020. Being confined to their homes and with many other forms of entertainment out of scope in quarantine, people of all ages joined the app, and now it has over one billion users. Evidently, the need for excitement and/or an escape from our families was a universal feeling: the application became a global phenomenon.

The content on TikTok is limitless, but it is most known for the dance videos that circulate.

Users record themselves dancing to the latest trends, within the app’s time limit of 15 or 60 seconds.

This usually starts with one person creating an original dance to a catchy song, as @zoifishh did with “Supalonely.” The choreography to this song is rather basic and reflects

Right: A screenshot from @

the simplistic dance moves of when the application was first becoming a viral sensation. For example, when BENEE sings the lyric “I’m just here thinking,” you point both index fingers to your head. It’s an easy dance to learn, as are the majority of the viral dances. The significance of this trend is less about the dance moves and more about the universal feelings and memories brought up by this choreography and audio.

As quarantine went on and TikTok exponentially grew more popular, the dances evolved while still keeping their lighthearted, playful energy. Nowadays, a lot of the viral dances require two people. A dance to the song “Up Down” by T-Pain, choreographed by @mstringy, is an example of this duet dancing. The song starts with a sound similar to that of a heartbeat. Here, one dancer sticks out and brings in his or her chest to the rhythm of the beat, while the other partner lifts and lowers both palms, seemingly controlling the first partner like a puppet on a string. While most of the dance can be completed alone, there are added elements that require two people, such as the beginning portion, or in

the middle when the two partners high five. It is interesting to observe how the main appeal of the application—the lighthearted, fun, and expressive energy—remains intact and unchanged, despite the chaotic, unpredictable environment witnessed when we lift our heads from the screen.

TikTok users have found a lot of joy and liberation from using the application, reflecting a cultural shift in what newer generations crave. Audiences are being cultivated to enjoy shorter, more immediate dance moves inside the frame of an iPhone screen. What does this mean for the future of dance? How will this affect live performances, which do not satisfy newer generations’ need for immediate gratification?

The answer to these questions might follow a more complicated narrative, but one thing we know for sure is while the world grows more chaotic around us, TikTok remains a safe haven.

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zoifishh's "Supalonely"dance

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Another Dance Review REBECCA ARONSON

When I open an app, the kind that is littered with hearts waiting to be filled, I am not expecting to fall in love. I don’t even unmute as I scroll to the next.

Until I do. It might have been because I recognized the

dancer—New York City Ballet principal dancer Sara Mearns—or the location—the East River Park Amphitheater—but whatever happened in that moment when algorithm aligned with something more than a passive like, it made me grab my headphones and play from the beginning, first on the small screen (my phone), then again on the big screen (my second monitor).

The post in question is Another Dance Film, a five-minute

piece that was choreographed by Andrea Miller, founder of GALLIM; directed by Ariel (Rel) Schulman and Henry Joost, a duo most recently known for their Netflix superhero hit Project Power; and released as a part of Jacob Jonas The Company’s Films.Dance series.

Since late January, the global project has presented one new film per week on Instagram and Vimeo—a time capsule, in both content and form, of the world in which we’re still living. The fifteen Films.

Dance films represent more than 150 artists in 25 countries living through one pandemic. Together they ask: what is it like to create the kind of art that relies on connection when isolation is our safest bet? Can you make something “good” with the tools and platforms that are left?

Another Dance Film considers these questions and dives

head-first into cheeky self-reflection—it is billed as a satire, after

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all. Layered on top of an electronic score by Antonio Sánchez, a

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phone rings, a machine beeps, then a voicemail plays: “Hey Rel,

it’s Sara. So, Andrea’s choreography is um, how do

At the same time, the score shifts to an epic

I say this, different…than what I’m used to and I

soundtrack, a fitting backdrop for dueling dragons

just don’t want to look bad doing it you know.” Her

or climbing Mount Everest. But it’s too earnest, too

uncertainty is echoed in the visual on the screen:

emotional. It screams cliché. I can’t stop thinking

stretching over one leg that’s propped on a fence-

about The Lord of the Rings. Another voicemail

turned-barre, Mearns goes through a familiar

from Mearns mirrors this concern: “I don’t want

warm up while she grimaces at the task ahead. She

to make it look like I’m searching for a reason for

wants to look good. She wants the piece to be good.

anything, people are always searching in dance

If only she had the rehearsal time and studio space

films and you don’t know what they’re searching

to get it right—or at least know that the camera is

for.” As new ideas for the piece are introduced in

already filming. As Mearns walks from the running

audio and visual vignettes, the comic tension of

path to the back of the outdoor amphitheater

each successive miscommunication builds. The

where Miller is marking steps for her to learn on

choreography, sound, performance, and direction

the spot, Mearns’ voicemails, movement, and facial

never resolve into a single focus. The rough seams

expressions all become increasingly frustrated.

of creation are exposed for all to see.

This creative process is too rushed, too opaque

compared to what she’s used to—she protests,

is the real beginning. Wherever we are, the camera

it just doesn’t “work like that.” In between the

presents, for the first time, a head-on frontal view

dancer’s messages, we hear Miller’s vision for the

of the amphitheater, what someone in the audience

film through fragments of voicemails. The scale

would see. Reminiscent of a ballet coda, Mearns

of her vision is laughably grand: drones, jumping

jumps and runs in circles, her limbs flinging with

between rooftops, New York State Theater—all

abandon, eagerness, and virtuosity. But it’s too

nearly impossible in the midst of a pandemic. I

late. The natural light is gone. Sputtering sparklers

start to wonder if they’ll ever see eye-to-eye, if the

illuminate the edge of the stage. I’m laughing. Of

piece will ever get made. And yet this—the process

course this is what the piece turned out to be. Trying

of negotiating those aspirations with reality and

to create a dance film in the middle of a pandemic

each other—is the piece.

is absurd. A dance film about making a dance film

in this world had no chance to be anything but a

reconcile what the artists say they want with

comedy.

whatever the film turned out to be, our experience

of their prior work with our expectations of

audience with an older man, a passerby who, like

what fits on a three-inch screen. There are brief,

myself, has stopped to watch the performance.

exhilarating moments when visions align—after

They both look out at the amphitheater stage

Miller’s voicemail detailing her desire for high

and, slowly, start to clap. Whatever the outcome,

drama, the camera follows Mearns from the back

whatever the presentation, their applause suggests

as she dives across the empty amphitheater stage.

making art is still worth the attempt.

She jumps, spins and steps out, her arms and hair

I fill in the heart.

swirling in slow motion to exaggerate the expanse.

I scroll past a picture of a cat.

The video ends with Mearns sitting in the

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With each new section, we’re forced to

At last, we reach the finale—or maybe this

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dancer app

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K N OW T H YS E L F A Dancer Study of FKA twigs Isabelle Stromberg

A young woman bursts her arms wide open in her

she turns on the bright, buoyant song “’Til It’s Over”

city apartment, pressing the walls apart into rainbow

by Anderson .Paak, and immediately her body fills

abstractions, and spirals through the space with

with life and motion as she rises up to explore her

controlled punctuation. A goddess-like figure melts

apartment with a newfound zeal. As Twigs grooves

her levitated body towards the floor, then twirls

and stretches through her home, she engages in

herself into the golden sky as she ascends up a

the delightful and meta act (made possible through

pole. A domineering woman clad in black leather

editing technology) of dancing with herself. She

fills a live arena with screams of approval as she

turns around to the beat, crawling her fingers

contorts her body to the gnawing electro beat.

around her back as if embraced by an imaginary

It seems impossible that a single person

lover. The clone Twigs laughs at this absurdity, and

could have the breadth of talent to groove with

immediately jumps into her own sporadic response

psychedelic joy, pole dance with sensual artistry,

to the choreographed banter. Twigs and her clone

and command an arena with her coy saunter.

are friends with one another, a simple yet surprisingly

Yet songwriter and performer FKA Twigs proves

poignant realization for the viewer to make. In

herself to be a dazzlingly competent, versatile,

dancing with her own counterpart, Twigs reveals

and multi-faceted dancer through three pieces: an

a vivacious and radiant partnership with herself. It

advertisement for the Apple HomePod, the pole-

is a delightful display of self-love and befriending

dance music video to her song “Cellophane,” and a

one’s own image. Through this performance, Twigs

live arena performance of one of her songs, “Figure

introduces herself as a wry, playful, and inquisitive

8 & In Time.” Twigs approaches each performance

dancer, and a true companion to herself.

with her full self, and a remarkable ability to shape-

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shift into distinct roles as a dancer.

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Twigs has mastered the art of dancing on the earth—so she must take her dancing to the sky.

In a widely circulated Apple commercial, Twigs

In the music video for her song “Cellophane,” she

exhibits her capacity for clever and responsive

expands her bare limbs and spins around a pole in

movement. The video begins as Twigs stands

the center of an elegantly lit stage with understated

somber and lifeless on the subway, jostled through

grace. While the video itself devolves into a CGI

her evening commute home. She exists among a

fantasy, the most astonishing aspect of the piece

sea of anonymous and confined bodies—a stark

comes from the poise and languid strength that

contrast to the radical selfhood that she embodies

Twigs exhibits on the pole. Pole dance acts as an

once home in her own space. When she gets inside

ideal medium for Twigs, as it allows her to combine

her physical strength, abstracted movement, and

unit; compact, organic, and in sync with one another.

her astute attention to beauty. In this performance

Similar to her friendship with her clone in the Apple

Twigs savors a spiritual experience with herself, and

commercial, one gets the sense that Twigs truly sees

we as viewers witness the admirable self-awareness

her team as equals and companions in the endeavor

that Twigs evokes through this provocative solo.

of live performance.

The sultry concert for “Figure 8 & In Time”

When we look for a common thread among

accentuates two more of Twigs’ fortes: live

these three distinct performances, one shines

performance and group choreography. Twigs

through: Twigs is a dancer that knows herself. Twigs

approaches this performance not as a passive

knows her own playfulness, she knows her own

object of attraction, but as an active and formidable

sensuality, and she knows her own power. If we

force of self-possessed control. Given that this piece

can learn anything from her, it is that the real awe

is filmed live, we see Twigs’ ability to seamlessly

of dance comes not from the genre, or the music, or

weave together commanding choreography with

the choreography. Rather, the magic of it all derives

musical performance — without the forgiving crutch

from the euphoric experience of watching another

of film editing. While Twigs can hold her own as a

human inhabit their own body with assurance,

solo dancer, her prowess only expands with a team

depth, love, and an unyielding commitment to move

of backup dancers. Instead of positioning herself in

through space with resolve. To watch Twigs dance is

the spotlight as the main attraction, she engages

to watch the magic of this intrinsic awareness.

with the other bodies on the stage as a complete

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FKA twigs in Spike Jonze's short film for Apple's HomePod

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Kida The Great: The Contemporary Embodiment of Hip-Hop

By Maya Clark-Self I have always been drawn to the relationship between

rhythm through their bodies

dance and music and how they

across all styles of

simultaneously reveal nuances

movement, making any kind of

of one another. Dance has the

sound exciting and alive.

ability to enhance and extricate parts of music that one might not have noticed before, just as music has the ability to shape our perceptions of dance. For me as a dancer, embodied rhythms through movement remind me of certain rhythms in music and vice versa. Musicality has always been a quality that I hold in a high regard in my own dancing and when I watch other dancers. The dancers I

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admire the most are the ones

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who can seamlessly channel

Leon “Kida” Burns, a.k.a. Kida The Great, a 19year-old dancer from Sacramento, CA, makes the top of my list when it comes to not only his exceptional

musicality, but his precision

he is also known for his

of technique heightened by

early appearance on the

the ease with which he performs. To say that he is simply “musical” is a vast understatement; he closely marries the vocals rhythms, beats, and textures of the music to the ways he glides,

televised dance competition,

pops, vibrates, undulates,

So You Think You Can Dance:

and syncopates his body. His

Next Generation, where he was

dancing reminds me of how

anointed “America’s favorite

especially in hip-hop

dancer” in 2016. Since

culture, there is a direct

SYTYCD, Kida has made

cycle of influence between

multiple TV show appearances,

dance and music that is

choreographed and danced in

impossible to untangle, as

music videos, and has

inspirations between dance

performed live with

and music are constantly

superstars like Usher and The

being exchanged.

Migos. On top of this, Kida

Great gained popularity through his 4.3 million followers on Instagram, but

teaches workshops all over the country and values his role as a mentor to help others achieve their dreams

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Not only has Kida The

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switching between fluid and sharp textured movements was of being a professional

mesmerizing. Kida moves with

dancer.

such precision that if you

I remember scrolling through my Instagram feed just to see if Kida The Great had dropped a new video of him and his friends dancing in his famous kitchen, where much of his fame on social media skyrocketed. I swear he was one of the only reasons that I still bothered to look on Instagram. I could not take my eyes off of him, as

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his ability to isolate every

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part of his body while

were to pause the video every few seconds, the position of his body is still clear during his transitions, like his body is completely frozen. For instance, in his 2018 World of Dance performance in New York, Kida sways his hips side to side to the music of Super Mario Bros, like he is doing the salsa, and then suddenly freezes and moves his whole body in one unit, tapping his

foot to the beat. Later in

slightest bump of the chest,

this same performance, every

can actually have a greater

part of his body is like an

impact than an expansive

instrument of the song, as

traveling step where multiple

each turn of the head or pop

parts of the body are moving

of the chest goes along with

simultaneously. Even when

a beat or a vocal adlib.

watching videos of his live

Kida’s body amazingly

performances, the audience

captures every rhythm of the

cheers him on the most when

song while still managing to

he does the most minimalistic

tell a story through his

motions, especially right at the major beat drop of the song. As an audience member, you might expect a dancer to do their big trick at this moment, but Kida intelligently puts

One of the most striking qualities in Kida’s dancing is his emphasis on the smallest movements. The most minuscule movement, like the waving of a finger or the

all the emphasis on his meticulous isolations, which is what makes his dancing dynamic and entertaining. Not only can he move like Gumby, transferring a wave through his arm or shifting to the

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string of actions.

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floor on the inner edge of

Kida The Great not only

his foot and knee, but he can

embodies this complex

punctuate his movement

bricolage but continues to

sentences with isolated

innovate and influence others

vibrations of his head and

not only within the hip-hop

chest, like the sound of

dance community, but within

rolling your tongue.

the broader online dance

Kida’s juxtaposition of movement textures mimics the multidimensionality of hiphop music as having a fragmented yet smooth nature.

The culture of hip-hop is built on bricolage, as it is constructed from a diverse range of sounds and gestures that are constantly being

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recycled and transformed.

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communities as well. His energy through the screen makes me want to get up and start dancing, so I could only imagine what it is like to see him perform live.

Hopefully one day I will have the opportunity to watch him perform live… and maybe even take a masterclass!

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Between Predator and Prey SABRINA DELAFIELD

A

ballet studio is a dangerous environment

can’t remember. She was a kid. I was something

made up of mirrors, walls, and limited

else, clawing my way to my first job as a

exit points. In this space predators and prey

professional dancer.

exist in cautious hierarchical harmony. The dancers’ positions are clear and enforced with

A is an example of the power of (un)natural

ruthless frequency. Egos need to be fed, and

selection in ballet. She is tall with long limbs

the dancers at the bottom of the food chain,

and a small head. Her extensions skim the

the young gazelles, are waiting and expendable.

sky, reaching unbelievable heights. The curve

Yet some move up and become more valued.

she creates through her back is awe-inspiring,

These dancers inhabit a liminal space between

exploited by choreographers and envied by her

predator and prey. It is uncertain if they will

colleagues. She also has an animalistic grounded

ever have the power to chart their own course,

quality of movement that is surprising in

but there is a chance and sometimes hope.

someone with her stature and length of legs. She

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dances barefoot with fluency, falls to the floor

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I first met A at Canada’s National Ballet

easily, and throws her body fearlessly across

School (CNBS). In my memory she is not yet

the stage. Her movements can embody primal

an individual, rather part of a vast herd of

screams. Yet she is sensitive offstage. She grew

budding ballerinas. They are all legs, dreams,

up in a very different environment, cosseted at

and boisterous bouncing energy, skipping down

CNBS and her suburban Canadian home, living

the halls with the chilling ability to pivot to

in pink tights, ballet slippers, and pointe shoes.

militaristic focus and discipline in the studio.

As a member of Martin Schlapfer’s Ballett

Facebook says we became friends back then. I

am Rhein, A was often given the steps of an

Amazonian warrior and paired with C, a worthy

make A go to the hospital. She nods as the doctor

opponent. C is a god among men, all rippling

schedules her an MRI, and I help her hobble out.

muscles

Schlapfer’s

She mumbles something about seeing how it is

Seven, A and C’s steps force them into constant

in the morning. I stay quiet, wondering how I

competition

can help her get up the stairs to her fourth-floor

and

visible

and

sinew.

tension.

A

In

white

woman

and Black man, they are like a 21st-century

apartment.

update of Diana Adams and Arthur Mitchell in Balanchine’s Agon. C lunges to support her

Schlapfer became the director of the Weiner

weight, while A juts her chin in determination

Staatsballet at the start of the 2020/21 season and

and digs her pointe shoes into the stage. The

invited A to join him. I watch their first premiere

competition resolves as C hauls A onto his

for the Staatsballet, Mahler’s 4th Symphony, on

shoulder and she takes the position of a queen.

my laptop in a Covid-19-necessitated digital performance. In the new work A has a new

A and I are roommates in dressing rooms and on

partner. C has been replaced—a victim to

tours. In Moscow I hear her sing in the bathtub

age, the true apex predator—with a chiseled,

“I don’t want to wait” from Dawson’s Creek.

somewhat shorter white man. The steps, built

I chime in too. We are overcome with jetlag

on an undercurrent of aggression, are similar

and exhaustion. In that moment the life of a

to what I have seen A dance before. But this

dancer and its beautiful possibilities rise to the

choreography no longer features well-matched

surface. We are in a luxury hotel in the heart of

competitors. A dominates her partner as her

Moscow, not our usual habitat. We fill the space

legs wrap around him, and he fades into the

with delirious laughs that ignore the current of

background. In this stage pairing A has won.

pressure that comes with performing in Russia, such a sacred and ruthless place to dance.

I don’t want A to make the same mistakes I did.

Moments of doubt haunt her in the studio. She

In Schlapfer’s Ein Deutsches Requiem, A slinks

has the tendency to feel too much, to let her

out of the back of the stage and drops to the

armor down when not onstage. The new assistant

floor in anguish. She crouches barefoot as the

artistic director senses A’s vulnerability and

voices of the Brahms choir build. With a flick of

targets her with verbal attacks during training.

her leg she takes the position of a scorpion at

In WhatsApp messages I try to offer words

rest or ready to sting. Alone onstage her gaze

of comfort. I tell A to use her voice, that true

slices through space, eating at the darkness as

artists are both courageous and vulnerable. I

she dares another dancer to enter.

don’t want her to needlessly suffer. I want the

I see A tear her hamstring in a stage rehearsal.

beast she can be, and for her to ignore those

It had been bothering her for days but she was

above her who attempt to set her off course. I

trying to push through when her muscle threads

hope and wait for her to become the predator

finally collapsed. Her parents are flying into

she is onstage.

Dusseldorf from Toronto for the new premiere. I

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other animals in the studio to respect her as the

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on dance in

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OAHU'S DANCE Isabelle Mollicone

“I make a distinction between seeing daily life and seeing art,” wrote Edwin Denby in his essay “Dancers, Buildings, and People in the Streets.”

When I take in my surroundings on the island of Oahu, I cannot help but disagree with him. Undeniably, seeing Oahu is seeing art. Every morning and night the sky is painted streaks of gold, pink, teal. The ocean shimmers a deep blue. At least every other day the rainfall will cast bright rainbow arcs over my house.

The serene sunsets, clean waters and plentiful rainbows are undeniably nature’s art, and they serve as a backdrop for the true dancers of this island: the surfers.

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Perhaps it is the magic of this place, the natural beauty that touches every corner. But it does not take much (if any) imagination to watch surfing and view it as a dance performance.

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Rockpiles at sunset. All photos by Isabelle Mollicone.

It is 5:30pm on February 24th. The theater is Rockpiles, a reefy surfbreak near Ala Moana Beach Park. Winters on the South Shore are flat, and this theater in particular has been vacant all season.

However, today is different. An unexpected swell has come in, bringing with it audience members and dancers alike. The waves are crisp, with clean peaks and frequent sets. Locals gather on the black rocks that frame the beach, calling out greetings as the dancers head towards the stage. If the surfers are dancers, the waves are the choreographer, and it looks as though everyone wants to see what the new choreographer has brought to town.

The dancers paddle out, with smooth, efficient strokes. There is an eagerness to their movement as they head towards the waves—today’s swell is a winter treat.

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There is no stage manager calling for places, but the dancers find their beginning poses anyway. They

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arrange themselves where the waves will break, staggering according to skill level and personal preference. They perch on their boards, bobbing patiently. As they face outwards with erect spines and alert eyes, there is a sense of anticipation akin to that found moments before a curtain rises.

It doesn’t take long for the performance to begin— within seconds a set of deep blue waves has begun to roll in. In canon, the dancers perform the same sequence of steps—a swift 180-degree rotation of the board, a lean forward onto their stomachs, and a rapid paddle forwards.

The coordination among the cast is impressive. As they lurch forward with the swells, you half-expect for them to collide with one another. Instead of crashing together, pushed by the heavy waters, they slide gracefully over the sloping waves.

Casting eyes behind and around themselves, the dancers display an acute awareness of their

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If the surfers are dancers, the waves are the choreographer, and it looks as though everyone wants to see what the new choreographer has brought to town

Among the sea of men in black wetsuits, one soloist in particular stands out. It is easy to spot her, with her sun-bleached hair and bright pink bikini. Her banana-yellow longboard floats higher among the pointed white shortboards. As the boys paddle laboriously, splashing hard and racing against one another, she glides. One wave in particular stands out as she executes a cautious cross-step, tip-toeing forwards carefully as her board skims the edge of the peak with grace. Zooming past the cast of bobbing heads, she outstretches her arms for balance and wobbles with each step, like a baby giraffe. The awkwardness of her posture is symptomatic of the extreme difficulty of the feat.

The clumsiness of her movement feels honest.

Denby claims that art is “even more mysterious and nonsensical than daily life.” If this is so, my daily life must be art, for it is far more mysterious and nonsensical than plenty of the live performances I have experienced. How nonsensical, for twolegged mammals to jump into the ocean and

subject themselves to enormous crashing waves for no practical reason! They allow themselves to be tossed about by the salty sweeping swells purely for the fun of it. How mysterious, that people can love something so dangerous and evolutionarily useless. Watching these dancers weave, balance, splash, and crash, I am confused and amazed.

As the sun creeps below the horizon and the water turns glassy and dark, the dancers paddle back in. They rinse off their boards, tired and satisfied.

Panting and smiling, their expressions are identical to those of dancers taking their bows at the end of a performance.

The show is over and I have the same feeling I do when leaving Lincoln Center: Something very special has just occurred. This performance happened only in that moment. Much like the union of musicians, choreography, and dancers on a stage, the exact waves, surfers, and sunset will never exist together in the same way once more.

Dance is sacred because movement is temporary.

Although the indoor theaters are currently closed, live performance is not dead. Every surf break on this island is proof of this.

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surroundings. They take turns on the waves: As one dancer stands, the others pull back or paddle around him, like a corps de ballet weaving in and out of the center spot.

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DEFINING PERFORMANCE J F K A S A N O B S E R VAT O RY

Charlotte Chandler

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T

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erminal 5 is an endless stream of travelers who heave duffel bags and squeaky suitcases and speed walk with stiff legs off into the jungle that is JFK. Staticky voice-overs come over the speakers every few minutes. At Gate B6, I stand with my back plastered against the window doing my best to look intimidating and someone not to be bothered. I can see the gate directly in front of me and from the Starbucks on the left side of the passageway all the way to the Heritage Booksellers on the right. I can follow a person/couple’s path from one side to the other until they disappear and I have to shift my gaze back to the left to find a new subject. I scan the passageway a few times, somewhat bored, before lazily shifting my gaze to my gate.

Huddled a safe distance away are a couple and two young children. Both young girls wear yellow backpacks that reach towards the ground with their weight, banging against the backs of their legs with every step. They’re skipping in circles around the couple (their parents, I presume), who stand facing each other

with their suitcases upright in between them. The girls continue their orbit for a dizzying amount of time until their parents reach out in unison and each latches onto a child’s arm, almost as if it was choreographed. They gently push on the girls’ shoulders to get them to sit down and the two plunk themselves into cushioned blue seats. Their chasing each other would have been bothersome if I hadn’t been envisioning it as a performance, but it was somewhat entertaining and I have to find something else to occupy my gaze.

After standing at the gate for at least forty minutes, what I notice most are the differences in how people walk. I’m not sure if it’s the masks that force me to compare something other than people’s facial features, but I find myself focusing on the lower body and people’s gaits. One man keeps trudging back and forth to the attendants at the desk to ask when boarding will begin.

The cuffs of his dark jeans skim the blue carpet given that his feet hardly lift off the ground. He walks with his weight forward and a slight curve in his upper

As I’m forced to stand up to board, I feel like I’m walking out in the

back that brings his shoulders in front of his hips. The next passenger I observe is a younger man who comes to wait at the gate shortly after me. He’s tall, I’d guess 6’3”, and he lopes in wearing grey joggers and a bright red sweatshirt. His left arm has a deadweight sort of swing to it and his right is gripping the handle of a black duffel bag. It takes him only a few strides to reach the middle of a row of seats from the vinyl flooring of the passageway. He appears uninterested in anything happening at the gate, and I don’t blame him. The only reason I’m not staring at my phone is because I’m picturing the terminal as a stage. I’m trying to tune out the voice-overs and television sounds of the airport and stay immersed in the performance I’ve created. I realize I’ve gone from observing the gate obligatorily to actually watching with genuine curiosity now that I’ve created characters out of the other passengers. Drawing parallels between what I see in the terminal and what I’ve seen in theaters has made for a much more absorbing viewing experience. This also means that I’ve altered

in my head what I observe in order to fit my preferences, which speaks to my biases as a viewer and critic and how I view performances according to those affinities.

That there is no end to this performance is the most unsatisfying observation I make. I want there to be a clean finish, a closing that leaves me feeling content with walking away. I know that I won’t get that here, and it makes me think that maybe a performance never really ends. Had this period of time been staged and finished with a closing curtain, it still wouldn’t end. If it was someone’s greatest performance, they would remember and it would live on in their memories. Same goes if it was someone’s worst performance or someone’s first. Maybe I construct endings for myself in order to feel closure and not wonder how the art continues to evolve in ways I miss when I leave the venue.

As I’m forced to stand up to board, I feel like I’m walking out in the middle of a show, and I’m left to contemplate whether there’s ever a true finish line.

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middle of a show

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Confessions of a Butcher Shop Academic

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Elise E. Schlecht

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P

erhaps the most interesting rhythms are those found beyond the conventional theater. Take a butcher’s shop as an example.

Or more specifically, the butcher shop in which I find myself each Friday and Saturday as I attempt to finance a life in the city. The girls behind the counter—of which I myself am one—in their aprons and padded shoes maintain a practiced routine each morning, rotating product and preparing the case for the day ahead, chatting amongst themselves.

Uninterrupted by interloping customers, their movement is delicately choreographed. There is the waltz-like tempo of chicken breast being placed on foam trays 1-2-3, the marching slap of slabs of beef as they hit the scale, the endless pirouetting of the marinator, the rhythmic chop of the butchers in the cuttery behind the counter. There is the delicacy of seasonings being sprinkled, the splashing of scallops being dressed, the beep of product codes being typed, the scream of knives being honed against a sharpener so violent that it would be more fitting for a skating rink.

each other’s sympathy, just needing to let their feelings out. The girls are eternally conscious of the fact that they are quite literally behind glass, preserved like insects for examination.

Even when the time of performance has passed, the unsettled audience demands an everlasting perfection extending beyond the walls of the store and into their own private experiences with the product sold, a fact they cannot bear.

Fleeing into the wings to package products in film and mark their contents with stickers presents its own tempo, one dictated by the wrapping machine. And yet, the machine itself is not above interruption, as the demands of the public periodically require its operator to reluctantly emerge from her quiet haven backstage to meet the masses.

Time is not suspended in these moments— each member of this worldly performance is acutely aware of how much time has passed, but none more so than the girls themselves, who at night’s end flee their theater with exhausted feet and crumpled spines, soaking in every minute of respite. The synthesis of art and pain is hardly unique to the ballet stage, yet in this case, of course, there is no applause.

The tempos of the modern era are nothing new, having been the subject of artistic discourse even before the advent of digital innovation. And yet, each microcosm of modern choreography is a stark reminder of the humanity behind the eyes of those we pass each day and the beauty of each thing they do.

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In such moments, the girls embrace their singularity, getting lost in the sound of the radio and imagining their eventual escape from this blood-soaked cage, what they will do with the money they have earned and how their future plans will ensure that they will never have to return to this place. Their role is necessary in the present, but they would love it to end. They are here not for the joy of the dance, but for the security it will yield upon the lowering of the curtain. In all this there is a certain reluctant elegance. Preferring to remain anonymous, the girls work in spite of the tags suspended from their collars. They perform each task excellently, not out of pride, but out of diligence and a sense of duty to each other by which they are guided even in moments of despair.

Yet such quiet is not maintained for long.

Crowds force the girls into a scherzo, and they fly to wrap everything neatly in paper and move on to the next. Collisions are rare, but possible, and marked by a seemingly endless string of apologies when they occur. Smiles remain, but they are forced, and are quickly done away with when frustration and fury cannot be contained.

Once the crowd has abated, the depth of this frustration can finally be revealed, as they exchange their reflections on the day’s business.

“There is no such thing as a quarter pound of shrimp,” “How lazy can you be, slice your own cracker cuts at home,” and “If we run out, we run out; we don’t keep an endless supply of crab cakes in stock,” they sigh, not needing

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DISCIPLINE AND EGGS Kendall Bottjer

W

hen my mother made breakfast on March 4, I was not struck with a higher meaning. No, that would take some time to develop. As she whisked and sliced, I noticed her skill, the same way one might admire a perfectly executed petite allegro. Skill alone, however, does not make something dance; in many cases, it is a communication of something greater than the movement itself. It took sitting with her movements after the fact to see the value in them.

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Everything started promptly at 8:43 a.m., when my mother declared that she was hungry. Eggs, an English muffin, avocado, pan, bowl and cutlery were brought out one by one and placed on the kitchen counter.

Wasting no time, she cracked two shells and poured their contents into the bowl, then began whisking with a particular ferocity. With her eyes cast down on the bowl, she concentrated on her actions, but her mind was undoubtedly focused elsewhere.

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Going over the events of the morning—the pouring of the eggs into the pan, the removal of the avocado pit, the ding of the toaster—dynamism became the common denominator between dance and making breakfast.

Like dancers at the ballet barre, whose movements reflect the peaks and valleys of the musical score, my mother’s movement escalated with the growing sounds of the kitchen. An intensifying sizzle of the eggs cooking in a hot pan, the swift whack of a knife to remove the avocado pit: she was preparing for a crescendo.

part of her knows that she likes these flavors, too, otherwise she would not keep returning to them: these flavors cause her to move.

She might not think of this as a creative outlet, much as a dancer doing the same barre every day struggles to put their own creativity into the routine.

Yet with her movements, she nonetheless communicates a personal history. Much of ballet is doing as you’re told, and this, too, was a meditation on an action that someone told my mother to do at a young age, now perfected. She knows that the ingredients in this breakfast will ultimately serve her well: they are healthy and hearty, allowing her to function well for the rest of the day, just as a barre prepares a dancer for the day ahead. A large

Watching my mother make scrambled eggs, slice an avocado and butter an English muffin allowed me to reevaluate dance as a practice. The cooking bore a likeness to dance by communicating a history with movement that’s handed down from generation to generation.

Would I put her on stage with this daily practice? Perhaps, for an audience who understood the value in eggs for breakfast.

While not exciting at first glance, understanding these movements as dance gave me a greater respect and appreciation for her routine.

The meaning of the movement has surely changed throughout her lifetime. When first learning how to use the toaster, how to whisk an egg so that it became light and fluffy, she found a sense of liberation, no longer having to depend on parents for a good breakfast. Now she whisks as if it were second nature; some days it is a chore, others it is an accepted routine, and most often she adds something new to regain that feeling of liberation. Perhaps liberation in scrambled eggs is an overstatement, but the history is there nonetheless.

"Like dancers at the ballet barre, whose movements reflect the peaks and valleys of the musical score, my mother’s movement escalated with the growing sounds of the kitchen."

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It came with each element of the meal coalescing in succession, one right after the other. The toaster dings; she rushes over to make sure that the muffins can be buttered. The eggs have reached the perfect consistency; she uses the spatula to guide them off the pan and onto her plate. This is the time where her thoughts cannot wander, where her focus is crucial to the production of an edible meal. The crescendo is practiced, with all of the elements having been timed to avoid a disjointed finale. There is a certain buzz, a loudness produced not solely with the growing sounds of the kitchen but with her now constant motion. The whole preparation is seemingly executed with one breath, the exhale coming after every element is on the plate.

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Slow Bloom

MARIAH HESSER

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T

58

here is a stiffness in the air. There always

walking next to someone; of gingerly reaching

is, this time of year, when small breaths of

out for a person’s hand. No longer did we use

warmth begin to melt the hard edge of winter,

our bodies to assert our confidence and assume

and the world must remember how to move

center stage in a room.

again. The buds on trees are hard and tiny. The

Instead, we covered our bodies in sweatsuits

grass still feels rigid on my skin. People wrap

and our faces with masks, and we used our

their arms around themselves as they begin

limbs for purely practical purposes: to walk to

to shed heavy winter coats, only to remember

the bathroom, the fridge, and sometimes to the

that 50-degree temperatures still feel cold

pharmacy or grocery store. Our homes became

in the shade. But this year the stiffness feels

our performance venues, our roommates and

stronger, and the breaths of warmth feel

immediate families became our audiences.

hotter. There is a feeling that we have been

At first, people seemed to relish this time

collectively paralyzed under the heavy weight

away from the fast-paced theater of “normal”

of the pandemic for so long. Last year, in the

life, in the way dancers soak up time between

spring, our movements became smaller and

seasons to rest their bodies. Grocery stores

smaller, when we were confined to our homes

struggled to keep flour and yeast in stock, as

and apartments for months on end. No longer

people indulged the joys and frustrations

did we participate in the daily performance of

of

weaving through crowds on the street, like a

discovered the novelty of happy hour on Zoom

carefully choreographed corps-de-ballet. No

(however fleeting that sense of novelty was).

longer did we attempt the tepid pas de deux of

People dyed their hair and regretted cutting

making

sourdough

bread.

Old

friends

their own bangs. Office workers embraced

learning, as it seems will be the case for many

the hours they gained when they lost their

people.

I’ve watched as two strangers on the street

But soon we felt more than rested, and

approach each other from opposite directions,

then we felt anxious and claustrophobic and

and how their gaits slow as they come nearer.

annoyed. There was seemingly nothing to be

They look up from their phones and become

done about the virus that was around us and

uncertain, as neither is sure of who will step to

in us; nothing to do but wait in the wings for

the side, or in which direction, to let the other

the performance of daily life to resume. There

pass by. Their strides become smaller, their

have been small moments of reprieve from this

weight shifts into the balls of their feet. They try

state of restless anticipation. Over the summer,

to make eye contact to establish some fleeting,

when case numbers were low, I felt the streets

invisible agreement of how to avoid collision.

of New York begin to stir. People traded sweats

But we haven’t yet readjusted to coordinating

for sundresses, and they took sweet, cautious

with other bodies as we move through space.

steps back onto the stage of the city’s sidewalks

And so these strangers falter: one steps to the

and parks, under the spotlight of the sun.

right, the other to the left, then each switches

Those sweet steps soon became strong strides,

to the other foot, continuing to mutually

as bodies gathered together and marched to

obstruct the path. It looks, momentarily, like a

protest the ruthless killing of Black women and

pas de deux, sustained by tension, frustration,

men.

and amusement. Eventually, one person takes a

Winter pushed people back into their homes.

large step to his side and allows the other to walk

Everything was still and empty and dark again.

past, in seeming recognition that more practice

A vaccine is coming, we were told. Be patient,

will be necessary before such interactions

stay home just a little bit longer. Please.

become seamless again. But the performance is

And soon enough, as the days stretched

over now, and both strangers continue walking

longer and the light began to feel warmer, a

in different directions, unlikely to ever run into

delicate pulse of hope could be detected in the

each other again.

air. Thin needles pricked the flesh of people’s

It was once so easy to weave through crowds,

arms, giving them immunity against the

like the dancers do in the ballet Glass Pieces,

invisible, microscopic virus that had crushed

by Jerome Robbins, which drew choreographic

the world beneath its weight. With our bodies

inspiration from the patterns of New York City

both immune and restless, it seems New York is

pedestrians. Before the pandemic, we were all

finally beginning to stretch its legs after more

moving to the same tempo and were acutely

than a year of relative stillness.

aware of our bodies in relation to others, and

But the muscles are stiff and tight, like

we will get back to that place. We will learn

those tiny pink buds on wiry tree branches. We

how to dance again, together. We will learn

must become reacquainted with our bodies, just

how to dance with each other, next to each

as a dancer must rebuild the relationship with

other, around each other. How to hold and

their muscles after a prolonged injury. I hoped

lift and carry each other. How to kiss and hug

that my body would remember how to exist

each other. Our stiff muscles, like tiny buds on

alongside other bodies, but there will need to

spring trees, just need time to bloom again.

be a period of awkward and uncomfortable re-

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commutes.

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...criticism is fundamentally subjective because art is subjective; [criticism] must be an open door, not an absolute ...say something to illuminate the hows and whys of arriving at an opinion

...I have been on a journey to uncover what art and criticism mean to me and in the larger community ...where in the past, the world of criticism and the role of the critic was cold and void to me, it is now open and warm ...I was able to combine my love for political science and philosophy with my passion for art and writing

...introduced me to through and around

...I have gained so m artistry that goes in

How have your ideas about dance and d changed over the course of the semester Excerpted from responses by Rebecca Aronson, Dalia Bereket, Sarah Bukowski, Caroline Caldwell, Sabrina Delafield, Olivia Hussey, Zoe Novello, Brittany Shinay, and Krystal Zhou

...there is so much more to it than meets the eye

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...evaluation is not only incredibly subjective, it’s almost (but not entirely) beside the point

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...what is more interesting (and more fun to write) is the dissection of what grabs a critic’s attention, where they choose to focus, what they decide to leave out

...discussions significantly grew my knowledge on criticism and altered the way I thought about it ...whether it’s a test, a paper, a performance, a speech, everything involves feedback and criticism. ...I also grew an appreciation for detail. I learned to pay attention to all aspects of a performance

...the dance industry is changing. It's okay to ma accessible to everyone, an dance criticism that haven

...I’ve learned to ask myself WHY, identifying and explaining how to question one’s self before forming a critique ...context, evaluate, describe, interpret, these elements were a road map for me

...crafted with care and creativity, with an eye to the potential of criticism to be an art that reflects art, rather than an opinion that tyrannizes art …depth of dimension a critic can plumb in illuminating dance through words

a new way of making art d dance

much appreciation for the nto a good dance review

dance criticism r?

...responding to a piece in a critical manner doesn't just have to mean giving an essay-form analysis, but rather can engage artistic mediums in order to interpret other art ...it is okay and in fact a good thing to have personal, anecdotal thoughts in our criticism

...still unsure of what it is, but I explored many possible things that it could be

what we make of it, and it is constantly ake criticism a field that is inclusive of and nd if anything, it will add new dimensions to n't yet been explored

...I feel that my understanding of what dance criticism is has been completely destabilized and challenged in the most refreshing and expansive way ...I see now the artistry in criticism that is inspired if not almost independent of dance ...the dance can be a vehicle for the critique to expand and shape

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...dance criticism is its own art form, and critics are artists who create arts with their thoughts and words

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th e c r iti c as

bios ZINE AUTHORS

Rebecca Aronson graduated from Barnard with a degree in Comparative Literature and is now a second-year MBA student at Columbia Business School. In between, she edited books for young readers at HarperCollins. Next up, consulting.

Olivia Hussey is a current junior at Columbia College studying Political Science and Dance.

She has enjoyed staying connected to the dance community throughout the pandemic, and finds dance to be an escape.

Dalia Bereket is a junior at Barnard College majoring in Economics and minoring in Political Science.

Isabelle Mollicone (’22) is currently studying Neuroscience and Behavior at Barnard College.

Her passions include science, surfing, sunshine, and sharing.

Sarah Cecilia Bukowski (Columbia GS ‘25) is a dancer, writer, and community activist.

Charlotte Chandler is a senior at Barnard College majoring in Sociology and minoring in Dance.

Maya Clark-Self is a rising senior studying dance at Barnard College.

Sabrina Delafield is a former professional ballet dancer and a senior at the School of General Studies studying Political Science. She has been awarded a Fulbright scholarship to study Dance, Politics, and Sociology at University of Roehampton in the fall.

Mariah Hesser is a student at Barnard College of Columbia University, where she is studying for a degree in English Literature and Art History.

Prior to matriculating at Barnard, she trained as a pre-professional ballet dancer at the School of American Ballet in New York City.

Elise E. Schlecht is a master’s student at Columbia University’s Harriman Institute studying Russian and Eastern European Regional Studies.

Brittany Shinay, who is majoring in History at Columbia University (GS ’23), has performed as a principal ballet artist with Rochester City Ballet, the Georgia Ballet, and City Center Ballet. She is currently a member of the Columbia Ballet Collaborative.

Isabelle Stromberg '21 has majored in English with a concentration in film during her time at Barnard.

She is especially interested in the opportunities for film in dance, and she is excited to see how criticism continues to shift towards a multimedia focus.

Krystal Zhou is a junior at Barnard majoring in Political Science. She was professionally trained as a Chinese traditional and ethnic dancer but fell in love with ballet and modern dance after moving to the US.

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Kendall Bottjer is a sophomore at Barnard College studying Anthropology and Dance.

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thought provoker

educator

initiator

artist

advocate

constructive peer

base of knowledge

passionate fan

interpreter t a s t e m a k e r challenger collector

mirror advertiser q u e s t i o n e r historian intermediary analyst

record keeper