Coverage and Posts Archives - Page 13 of 17

Yona Harvey, assistant professor of English at the University of Pittsburgh, sat down to talk with Anthony Williams about his performance for the New Hazlett Theater Community Supported Art Performance Series, Loving Black.

Anthony Williams on Loving Black

“If I was telling on somebody, I had to sing a song to tell.”

Loving Black implies two ideas. There’s loving as an action and loving as a descriptor. How did you first begin thinking about these ideas?

When I first [performed Loving Black] at the Alloy Studios, in 2014 [I asked], “How do we love black?” This version [at New Hazlett] moved into the space of, “How do we love this person named Black? And the ways in which we do that. And I definitely went back and forth [between the two ideas]. Do I want to make this a political statement? Yes. Do I want it to be literal? No.

What do you mean by that?

[I asked myself], “Do I want to continue to make an overall or generalized statement about how black people are loved?” I wanted to move away from that. I wanted to get really specific… [focus on] the effect that choice has in love. So when we choose to love a certain type of blackness or when we choose not to love a certain type of blackness, how does [our choice] affect the person?

At your rehearsal the other evening, I thought I heard echoes of Ntozake Shange’s choreopoem, “for colored girls who’ve considered suicide / when the rainbow is enuf.” Is that correct? Were you thinking about that?

No. I wasn’t thinking about that at all. So I actually was really pleasantly surprised because it added another [layer] of content I didn’t foresee. That whole scene is about flamboyant boys being flamboyant in a comfortable, safe space. That’s really what that’s about. And it honestly represents the adolescent, gay, black boy who’s over-the-top and really cast out by the community and has to find friends who are like him and needs to be able to feel a sense of [comfort] with his comrades…

I’m not sure once you get a second listen if you’ll have that thought [of Shange’s work], but it was damn cool when you said it.

I noticed, too, in that rehearsal that [there seemed to be] a lot of trust among you and the dancers. Is that true? Have you worked with [everyone] before? How does that trust work –

–In the process? We did not have a lot of trust at the beginning.

Okay, wow.

Ironically, you call them “dancers.” But I call them “performing artists” because they are doing more than dancing. They’re speaking and singing. What you saw definitely evolved from a series of questioning. I’m wearing a lot of hats I’ve worn before, but never at the same time.

Everyone picked up on that and knew that. And in that first week, everyone didn’t understand. [They asked], “Why do we do this? What’s the intention for that?” They question it… And then a day later they go, “Oh, okay, that’s why you had me do that!”

When you’re rehearsing, do you leave space for changes… for yourself or for [the performing artists]?

I think that’s what you saw. I’ll give them structure… and then I always say, “Now let’s play. Let’s play with these ideas.” I’m very strategic… but there’s a balance between me directing [the performing artists] and [them] organically moving through the work.

How do your previous training experiences inform Loving Black?

Since I was 14, everything I’ve participated in [or studied] has come up in this show. I play the trombone. We [perform] the color guard. Dancing. Acting. Singing. Miming. Costuming. I’m doing all of the costumes. Everything I’ve ever studied is coming through me in this production. I’m giving it everything I have.

What do you want audiences to take away from Loving Black?

This [will] sound so unprofessional. But I want them to be emotionally engaged. I want them to walk away with inspiration to continue the conversation about young black boys who are gay, who are not straight-acting, and who really aren’t talked about. The black community is still rooted in the Christian belief of heterosexual versus – versus – homosexual. And it’s interesting the amount of tolerance I see in my own personal experience for our white counterparts. It is so interesting.

So that speaks to what you [mentioned in the Indiegogo video]. You mentioned wanting to expand what black masculinity means – it’s fixed in people’s minds. And you’re opening that up.

This production isn’t about “this is black masculinity” and “this is not.” It is literally the telling of a story.

Why do you think it’s important to make that distinction?

It’s important because at the end of the day, I want this to take off. So if I tell the audience what they’re supposed to think when they watch it, that limits my audience. But if I give them a story that’s authentic and encompasses [multiple] experiences… then I think my chances are better for educating my audiences… on the ideas of black masculinity, youth, and the effect of losing your parents.

When folks are like, “Is this your personal story?” I have to say, no. [But at the same time], it is my story. I had to experience things like this. I think everyone in the cast experienced moments like this.

I challenge people to think about times in their black community when they knew someone was different. And if you didn’t [speak up] and you felt like it had nothing to do with you, why is that?

Because if you define community in the most American way, [which is to say] that my community is anybody with the same color skin as me, then, I’m sorry, you’re not a part of mine. And I’m not sorry about that.

In this story, Black loses his mom because she’s addicted to drugs. Black’s father didn’t understand Black was an artistic kid who wanted to play. And wanted to do things that were different. Why are those things labelled as feminine?

You use that word a lot: “play.”

Because it takes away a lot of stress. And when we are most creative I think it’s during playtime. When I’m teaching, the children will feel freer if I ask them to play. Adults have a difficult time – they overthink. When we use words to free them up, more magic happens.

By Phat Man Dee

On the Northside of Pittsburgh, PA, at the New Hazlett Theater, there rose a music with driving new African melodies and polyrhythms. Mathew Tembo, a well known musician in his home country of Zambia in the south of Africa, along with his band, The Afro Roots, were completing their residency at the CSA program and the evening was a glorious celebration in song. The songs were sung in multiple African languages, but Mr. Tembo explained the meanings of each song so that even those who speak no Bemba, Nyanja or Tonga (the most widely spoken languages of Zambia), the meanings of the original compositions were clear. The songs all had messages which were important to understand. “It’s not enough to listen to African music, your body must be involved” said Mathew, and so the audience was encouraged to clap along and sing. Even as physical enjoyment of the music was encouraged, the stories of the songs helped the attendees understand this powerful artist’s drive behind his upbeat music.

Tembo played his music on a homemade “calimba”, known as a “thumb piano” which is a box with tuned tines of metal on a box or gourd and also on a “silimba” which he crafted himself. He carved the gourds beneath the wooden planks or “notes” and they rest atop a wooden and rope stand. His voice has a soft huskiness , which accompanied by his bright smile, draws in the listener to pay attention, even if they don’t fully understand all of the words. His back up musicians included Dr. Colter Harper (PhD in Ethnomusicology and recently returned from a 2 year stint teaching music at the University of Ghana) playing a “seperewa” which is a traditional Ghanian harp and electric guitar. Other musicians included Hugh Watkins on electric bass, Gordon Nunn on a drum kit and a horn section which included baritone and alto saxophonists.

Mathew’s first song “Saba” spoke of a queen of “Habesh” or “Abyssinia”; 3000 years ago she ruled a land known today as Ethiopia. We know her as the “Queen of Sheba”. Her beauty and wisdom were so legendary it was praised in both the Old Testament and the Koran. He dedicated this song to the women of the world, especially those living in so called “third world” countries, in hopes they someday achieve equality. His second song was more upbeat and poppy, very reminiscent of African high life sound, and everyone in audience was bouncing up and down in their seats. The kind gentle spirit of Mathew Tembo carried these songs to a deeper place, which went well with the them of his third song in which he asked “Why” over and over again in song, with driving drums and poly rhythmic bass challenging the beat while simultaneously supporting the form. The theatrical lighting upheld this musically insistent query as they changed from earlier warm pulsating reds and oranges to pulsating harsh whites, while the drums and bass responded in a classic call and response very common to African music. The horn harmonies emphasized the call, while the calimba danced about while Tembo’s vocals demanded an answer to the continually unanswered question of “why”. The song ended on unresolved note, which further underscored the needed answer which many, regardless of familial and cultural origin, crave.

His next trio of songs illustrated the life of the child known as “Africa”. In these songs Tembo sings of a child who became a man unable to care for himself. A man who needed handouts for himself and his family to survive, who fought with friends and loved ones. This suite was a prayer to God that “Africa” could someday be independent, care for himself, and live in peace. Mathew sang a musical prayer that peace could exist not just for “Africa” but for everywhere where there exists violence and injustice. This he dedicated to Syria, to Palestine, to Illinois, to Oregon, to wherever there is shooting and death and war. For these songs Dr. Harper played his electric guitar, fingers moving as raindrops on morning grass in the form of a jazz solo backed by tight horn arrangements. The rubato opening became a driving 6/8 tempo, and in this prayer Tembo’s voice took on new power as he beseeched the universe in song as his band provided a solid driving sonic bed to support this prayer, to which one could waltz. It was truly lovely to see how well attuned the musicians were to Tembo and how well the arrangements went seamlessly from one song to next regardless of difference in tempo and rhythm. None of the music performed by these North American musicians is commonly taught in many schools of music in the USA. Today there are more African music programs than in previous decades, but when these musicians were coming up, resources in musical diversity were limited. It is a testament to both Mathew Tembo’s teachings and his players’ dedication to the music and their instruments how well they mastered the intricate rhythms and the breaks in the specific arrangements of Mathew’s compositions. Cialis Tadalafil best price at http://www.dresselstyn.com/site/buy-cialis-ed-pills-online/ guaranteed.

Other songs later in his set touched on serious issues. One song dealt with “ufumu” a Zambian word for governance, and Tembo dedicated this song to the politicians of the world who care more for their power than they do for the people they are supposed to be governing and supporting. Another song spoke about a young girl who was taken from her village to the city, to learn, she thought, but in truth to be a servant, abused by those who should have cared for her. This song he dedicated to all young girls who deserve a better life where they can go to school and learn and be free. His final song sang about how so many people spend so much of their lives running after material things that they tragically miss actually living their lives. The beat got faster and more frenzied and the rubber mallets hit the silimba so hard the notes were jumping up and down off their gourds culminating in the entire band’s staccato finale of power.

Mathew Tembo is a talented, dedicated musician with much to say and many who want to say it through music with him. It was an honor to be in a packed house full of people who wanted to hear it and I appreciate the CSA program for giving him a platform and opportunity to flesh out full arrangements and celebrate this musician who has made Pittsburgh his home.

The New Hazlett’s very own Bill Rodgers sat down with upcoming CSA artist Mathew Tembo to talk about his work, Chachacha, premiering October 15 as part of our Community Supported Art Performance Series.

You are a Zambian born musician now living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and traveling the world playing music – looking back, what motivated you to come to Pittsburgh? And from now, what new developments do you see on the horizon?

I decided to move to Pittsburgh to be with my six year old daughter who lives in Pittsburgh with her mom. Lately, I have been thinking about going back to school for a PhD in Ethnomusicology at the University of Pittsburgh. I am also excited about the future of my band, Afro Routes, in Pittsburgh and the surrounding areas. I am also looking forward to collaborating with more artists in Pittsburgh regardless of what style of music they are into.

How would you describe your sound and style of music that people will experience at the New Hazlett? Is there anything you would compare it to?

I am not sure if I can compare it with a style that people in Pittsburgh are already familiar with, but I have heard people calling it “Afro pop” here in the US. My music is very rhythmic, happy, easy to sing along to, and very danceable. It features the silimba and kalimba, both traditional musical instruments from Zambia, with a pop band including a horn section.

Your instruments are not only handmade by yourself; they are also made using natural elements such as gourds. What does this craftsmanship and preparation add to your relationship with the music that you play, compared to instruments bought from a store?

I feel very connected to my music and the musical instruments that I play. Making my own musical instruments gives me the freedom to tune the instruments the way I want them tuned, giving my music style a truly unique sound.

You perform in as many as six languages other than English – what are the advantages of singing in these languages and do you find there to be any challenges communicating with English-only audiences?

All the six languages I perform in are spoken in Zambia, where I am originally from, and some neighboring countries. The advantages are that I can express myself more strongly by singing in the languages I grew up speaking, and I am able to communicate to a wider audience in those places where these languages are spoken. I don’t find it to be a challenge communicating with an English-only audience because I make an effort to explain what I sing about when I am performing.

What kinds of people, places, and ideas are developed in your song narratives?

Politics and social commentaries have become the center message in my music. I try to be as inclusive as I can when I am developing my music ideas because I understand that I also play music for audiences that do not understand the languages I sing in.

Do you see positive change currently happening in Zambia?

Zambia is currently going through an economic struggle. There has been some gross mismanagement in the running of the country’s affairs, but it is a great feeling to see that more and more people are getting to know their rights and getting more education and, hopefully, this will see the country’s young democracy grow and better people’s lives.

What impression do you hope your audiences leave with after your performances? Does this change depending on where you are in the world?

Performing in places where people understand what I am talking about it is for sure different from performing before audiences that do not understand my language, but I hope that my audiences feel more connected to my culture, my struggles as an African, and our struggles as humanity after my performances.

by Alexandra Oliver

Whatever else The Reduction is, or might be, or might be about, it is not reductive. Quite the opposite. Although the performance begins quietly enough with the artist alone on stage, the first few minutes are a feint, a few breaths of calm before a long stretch of uninhibited, celebratory maximalism. This piece has everything: dance, video projection, live and recorded music, poetry (in the form of a voiceover), crafted objects, found objects, machines, audience participation, and three photographers who do not stand by discreetly but roam about the stage, following their moving subjects in pursuit of the right shot. Time and space become so densely packed it’s hard to know where to look.

All of which is typical of David Bernabo, who created The Reduction for New Hazlett Theater’s 2015 CSA series. A talented musician, visual artist, choreography, dancer and filmmaker, Bernabo has long pursued “thick” multi-media experiences. This is no accident: Bernabo has expressed his admiration for Merce Cunningham and John Cage, both notorious anti-purists, and has referenced the Judson Dance Theatre in his sculptural work and interviews. In his first solo show, at Pittsburgh’s Modern Formations in August 2007, Bernabo decorated the walls with paintings and nails joined by lines of string. Calling this a “score,” he and the violinist Ben Harris “played” it for a live audience. With The Reduction, Bernabo continues his engagement with this avant-garde legacy, which is actually less a dialogue and more a form of friendly banter.

The Reduction is divided into three acts. As I noted, it begins quietly. In Act I, as the audience enters the theatre and settles into their seats, Bernabo is already standing on stage, supporting a long wood plank on his shoulder. He has 20 minutes to wait in this posture until the theater’s Executive Director launches into a welcome speech. The lights dim. Then, slowly and gingerly, Bernabo begins to walk about the stage, carrying the plank. As he walks his body parts appear to expand and contract, each moving independently of the others, until his hips and torso threaten to detach and go their separate ways. In this bit and later, when performing a sequence of gestures that mime practical tasks, Bernabo is equally mechanical and graceful—a mesmerizing mix.

In the second act Bernabo is joined by three dancers (JoAnna Dehler, Ru Emmons-Apt and Lauryn Petrick) and shortly after by three photographers (Heather Mull, Mario Ashkar, and Stephanie Tsong). They are all outstanding; Emmons-Apt danced with a leg brace, which impacted her performance not at all. In one of the most terrifying segments their bodies became rigid and began vibrating, as if possessed or violently ill. The Reduction is not without a curious darkness, which was enhanced by a hollow shrieking sound, periodically produced by an apparatus of brass mouthpieces and tubes that musician Darin Gray amplified through his upright bass.

Each of the acts is intercut with another formal welcome speech, variations on the one given by the Executive Director before the show. In the final act the dancers build a barrier of props at the front of the stage, and Bernabo addressed the audience directly, explaining that we had just been reorganized into a new society with a new social hierarchy based on our seating location—which of course, was as arbitrary as the social circumstances of our birth. The audience chuckled, suggesting that if Bernabo had intended this as a Verfremdungseffekt, it had missed its target, sailing over the audience’s heads

In a printed artist statement Bernabo indicated that these self-conscious conceits were designed to explore the relationship between reality and simulation. In an email to me, he elaborated:

What I’m hoping to achieve would be the audience’s awareness of the different ways reality can be perceived. When the audience enters the theater, I will be on stage. Is my presence onstage part of the performance’s environment or is part of the theater’s day-to-day operation? … I’m hoping that the piece can use some of the tools of a theater and performance to question what systems are real, what are simulations.

In framing his work this way Bernabo situates it in a larger artistic field occupied by artists as diverse as Hito Steyerl, Cindy Sherman, Omar Fast, Duane Hanson and the people behind the Museum of Jurassic Technology. In that past 15 or so years, this growing field has largely been theorized as a response to the advent of mediation in our (affluent, Western, urban lives), as typified by virtual currency, Second Life, reality TV, drones and Twitter bots crashing the Dow Jones. How can anyone tell what’s real anymore? One answer, by far the most radical, was proposed by French post-structural philosopher Jean Baudrillard. On his view, there is no reality, only a simulacrum. “The simulacrum is never that which conceals the truths—it is the truth which conceals that there is none. The simulacrum is true.”

To understand The Reduction in these terms seems plausible enough. For example, consider the photographers. Are they actors, or photographers, or both? Clearly they are acting as photographers but also, in some non-trivial sense, are also acting as photographers. They follow the dancers with their cameras, matching their location and pace, becoming photographers as “virtual” performers—the shadow of the reality they hope to capture. In the process of “performing” their role, they also create photographs, a second version of the performance, which is “virtual” in a different sense, since it is a trace of a past event that has yet to be experienced as a trace. In recounting how he became involved in this production, Ashkar, an experienced photographer, joked, “To play a cameraman as a cameraman was a great opportunity. I’ve been practicing a long time for this.” Photographer Heather Mull added, “Really, I have no idea what just happened.”

I would add to this, though, a distinction between how this idea is expressed at the level of content and the technique. Where Bernabo focuses overly on the content, the technique seems less successful: in one segment Bernabo grasps a shrouded object, and holds it out in front of him, gradually pulling back the white cloth dramatically to reveal a mask of his own face. Purchase Priligy online USA from http://howmed.net/priligy-dapoxetine/ free shipping. Better are moments of raw technical experimention. One of my favorite moments came in Act I, where Bernabo is throwing a ball against the wall; as it bounces back he catches it and repeats. Finally he misses one catch but just then, another ball comes flying towards him in the same direction, thrown by someone off stage. The sudden appearance of the second ball was totally unexpected; it had a hint of slapstick, an echo of countless gags in which normally inert objects suddenly display an unexpected agency. In the context of the overall work, this feels so fresh because it both catches us off guard and still fits tightly into the rhythm of the scene. I was less concerned about whether the gesture of bouncing a ball on stage exists as a real gesture (it does) or a simulation (it also does), than in the artful way a second ball jolted my expectations and pull me—if only momentarily—into a new register of attention. Indeed, I would argue that this is what characterizes Beranbo’s work at its best.

Consider, once more, the photographers. Following the dancers’ movements and are isolated from the surrounding reality of the performance by their viewfinders, the photographers become intensely absorbed in what they see. On one level this dramatizes spectacle of the dance, since it intensifies our awareness that the dancers’ bodies are on display. At the same time, it also intensifies the spectacle of the photographers themselves, who by virtue of their narrow fields of attention are unaware of the audience’s gaze—and that much more vulnerable to it. Much of the intensity of the piece derives from the amplification of visuality achieved through the photographers’ presence, and long stretches of improvised dance would probably be much diminished without them.

In a way, Bernabo’s interest in the relationship between reality and simulation, however, sincere, may be less important to the final work than a good intuition about audience attention. When it comes to changing how we see and how we feel when we see, there is no possible simulation.

Art critic Alexandra Oliver interviewed David Bernabo about his upcoming project for the New Hazlett Theater Community Supported Art Performance Series.

People may be surprised to learn that you’re essentially self-taught. What did you study in college?

Business administration with a finance track. And a poetry minor. [Laughs.] I took film classes, too, because they counted towards electives.

Nevertheless you have an incredibly diverse practice that cuts across every medium. I always assumed you were primarily a visual artist, but you’re actually best known as a musician. How did your creative trajectory lead you to visual / performance art?

I started in music. My AP English teacher had this band, Boxstep, which I joined when I went to college at CMU. A couple of years later the drummer and I spun off into our own band, Vale and Year, which included free improv, so people would ask us to do sound installations. That was kind of the first art thing we did. From there, the thought of being an artist and creating work crept into and around the process of making music.

Around that time [2001-02], I found John Cage. Then I found Merce Cunningham. And then I found a student dance group at CMU, Without Flesh, and I did my first dance collaborations with them, but music remained the focus. We were playing at Modern Formations gallery a lot. [Owner] Jen [Quinio] gave me my first solo show. I was interested in music scores. On the walls were nails and strings, and I called that a “score.” There were pieces—nails in wood, paintings, paintings between glass. Violinist Ben Harris and I gave two performances where we walked around and played the scores live.

How has collaboration informed your work?

Based on past movement creation exercises with Maree ReMalia, during rehearsal, we break, take five minutes, and come up with a solo idea. So everyone has some ownership over the movement as a collaboration. Then we’ll all edit those movements. So there’s a section in this piece where Ru and JoAnna [Dehler] contributed six movements; I contributed one. Now they’re “options” that can be danced within a three-minute duration.

When complete, will the performance be improvised?

Yes and no. The movements are fairly strict, but you can push and pull them. During the performance, you can pick any order.

What were you looking for in the dancers?

I guess I was looking for people who didn’t have a preconceived notion of what doing dance had to be. JoAnna is extremely well-trained, but I thought her excitement would be very good for what we wanted to do. One thing I’ve been attracted to is awkward forms—looking at different ways the body can be stretched and bowed. That kind of conflicts with how ballet dancers are taught—or jazz or in some sense hip hop.

How would you describe your creative process?

The process of editing drives a lot of my projects. In my film work, it’s sitting down and editing that I really like. Mixing found footage with original material, too. Painting a big pink square really bores me, but having one to use in a piece is interesting.

11145219_10153516519936115_7061230250612493576_n

What are the major thematic concerns in this piece?

I think it deals with reality and artifice and—this is going to sound so trite—life. Simulation of something real, versus a simulation of a simulation and getting into those layers as a way to—not too bluntly—get at some political statement. There’s a thought that [art]work should be addressing the atrocity of today. That goes really badly sometimes, really heavy-handed. I like playing with structure of theatre and forms, without content. I’ve gravitated to that, which I think is kind of inconsequential. So I wanted to put some other statements in there but not in a blunt way. I feel that working at different levels of reality—onstage reality, the fourth wall—I’m able to pepper in a couple of other statements. And I’m happy with how that’s turning out.

What is the biggest risk you’re taking with this work? What do you fear?

I think I’ve been focusing so much on making sure the concept is solid and the big themes are apparent, I hope the movement is interesting. I hope it’s good to watch.

What surprised you most about this piece or the process of making it?

Just finding out what the concept is. As of about two weeks ago, I still didn’t know what this piece was. When I started I had an idea but I couldn’t really explain it.

11836719_10153534793746115_6601782486921494144_n

What inspired the piece?

Since 2011, I have been creating and working with a dance structure called MODULES, which is based in small part on Cunningham’s Events and John Zorn’s Cobra game pieces. MODULES is intended to be a mechanism to encourage democratic movement composition where performers can contribute ideas to an evening’s performance. The Reduction includes a number of MODULESS—the Shake module, Creature, Looper, Crawl and Pose. Throughout the 13 performances of MODULES, we have played with audience expectation—opening remarks with false information, endless bowing sequences. This piece provides a chance for us to work with expectation on a larger scale.

Full Shares and Single Tickets are now on sale

by Pearlann Porter

In choreographer Roberta Guido’s debut exposition we can witness that the artist who has been created by the piece is clearly different from the person who began the creation. Her dance was foremost a non-fictional exploration of touch and its associated memory, showcasing a narrative of vignettes on the theme of what it means to be alone, both in medley with others, and in solo. In effect, the audience is brought with the artists through their self-reflective process to the same destination of a shared present.

Entitled RETREAD/together/apart, Roberta’s work is an exhibition in repetitions that linger as influences upon those alone within moments of questioned purpose. It is expressly the ‘revisiting’, in echoes of self-similar gesture, that illustrates the dancers’ internal evolutions, along with the latent effect of other’s touch in our own continuation.

We witness the lingering touch, the touch withdrawn, and the absence of touch, offered through the cumulative evidence in the residue of chalk on bodies and backgrounds, traces that may be revisited, remembered, and re-encountered. The introspection of the dance dwells on the question of why we find ourselves retreading the same paths, experiences, and relations. What is it we are seeking that keeps us returning to the comfort of the habitual, the familiar, the safe?

The abstraction of this loneliness is clearly and simply manifest in moments of contrast, moments of absence highlighted against shared experiences immediately past. The clear choruses of recognizable phrases exploited the effective and elegant understatement hallmark of skilled dancers, leaving room for them to return again and again to punctuating moments of stillness and silence, apportioning the opportunity to be changed by experience. The choreography remained flexible enough in tempo to leave room for both the dancers’ open premise to occur, and time for the audience’s consideration, coupled with music aptly chosen to commend unity between vignettes, as well as protracted silences where the dancers were left unsurrounded by any sound.

Variable use of available depth and height to showcase distance and proximity turned the entirety of the stage to advantage as negative space surrounding the dancers, with that space made meaningful as a stain where bodies and light had just been. A present character alongside the three dancers in their darkness was an eggshell basin of chalk acting as an oasis for the persistence of memory and reservoir for the indelibility of touch. The prop of chalk was employed to mark courses traveled and others encountered, the one effect that could have been accentuated even more and benefited from a greater visual contrast to the skin and surroundings.

The most prominent dynamic overall was the dancers’ simplicity and humble relation to the idea. The delicate nuance of direction closely juxtaposed unison with independence, evidencing a maturity and unboundedness in the thematic movements that denoted channels cut in experience by repetition. Essences of improvisation meshed well with the choreography, such that the relationship between director and dancers confessed the common language requisite for the comfort that denotes cohesive ensemble and that permits the witness of an idea, rather than the projection of idea upon the viewer.

With delicacy of sentiment and fluidity of structure, the direction felt spontaneous and natural. Though Roberta’s first solo, choreographic experience, we can hope we’ll find these premises similarly echoed, and further evolved in future works.

By Wendy Arons, The Pittsburgh Tattler

On April 2 the CSA audience was treated to the rare opportunity to give feedback on a new work-in-progress. JH: Mechanics of a Legend is a new play by Anya Martin (artistic director of Hiawatha Project) that has been in development since 2012. Because Hiawatha Project is committed to making work that speaks to social issues within the community, Martin has adopted a multi-phase creation cycle that loops stakeholders and audiences in to the development process. The April 2 workshop presentation represented the middle, crucial stage in a creative process that began two years ago with identification of a social question and its story (in this case, the legend of John Henry and its connection to institutionalized racism), moved through an intensive phase of research and investigation of source materials, and then, in the last several months, brought the inventiveness and inspiration of a number of artistic and community collaborators into conversation and physical exploration to devise and create the work. The workshop production was something like a “beta release” of software, offered to the public in the spirit of learning how the piece functions and resonates with an audience. Feedback gathered from the post-show discussion and from comment slips filled out by audience members will then help Martin and her creative team revise and reshape the work in the coming months, with the aim of fully producing a final version some time next year.

Given these circumstances, it would be neither fair nor useful for me to write a traditional “review” of the play, especially since, as a member of both the creative team and Hiawatha Project’s board, I do not have the necessary critical distance to review the play even if it had been presented as a finished product. So in lieu of a review, I offer here some reflections on how the work came to take its present form and on the audience responses shared in the post-show discussion.

JH: Mechanics of a Legend steps back from the well-known ballad of John Henry to ask: what social and political issues are being addressed in that legend’s figuration of a battle of man against machine? In seeking the language and ideas to answer that question, Martin harvested text and insight from two very different fields. On one hand, inspired by Scott Reynolds Nelson’s historical investigation of the “real” John Henry in his book Steel Drivin’ Man, Martin unearthed primary source documentation from the reconstruction period (slave diaries, news articles, historical speeches) as well as secondary historical accounts of slavery and reconstruction to contextualize who “John Henry” stands for in the ballad and to understand the social and institutional forces encoded in the song. The historical John Henry, according to Nelson, was likely a free black man who had fallen victim to the newly enacted “Black Codes” in the post-Civil War South, codes that essentially reinstituted de facto slavery by allowing judges to sentence criminals convicted of minor crimes to chain gang labor on the railroads. On the other hand, in pursuit of language that would allow her to talk about the “machine” John Henry dies fighting, Martin looked to physics, mechanics, and engineering for explanations of how machines work. Grade school physics textbooks provided definitions of simple and complex machines and the physical laws governing them that resonated beyond engineering and spoke – often quite poetically – to the socio-political-economic machinery that extracted profit from enslaved black labor, both before and after the Civil War.

The found text from these two sets of investigation was then interwoven into what Martin likes to describe as a “long form poem” that traces how the “machine” of slavery, having been broken down by the Civil War, had its constituent “parts” repurposed into new social and legal institutions that effectively continued slavery by another name. Together with set designer Britton Mauk, Martin found visual symbols for the practices and forces of slavery that were taken up again to continue to oppress African-Americans after slavery was abolished. For example, in the play the whip – a symbol of the violence and torture used by white slaveowners to discipline black slaves – becomes the noose of the lynch mobs that terrorized free black men in the post-Civil War era. The play’s conceptual scaffold – realized mainly through scenery and movement – was built upon the circulation of these symbols. Components of the machinery of slavery, having been dispersed by the war, became the mountain John Henry was tasked with breaking down. As the Engineer (Kyle Bostian) – symbol of capitalism and of the “mechanical advantage” conferred on whites by their exploitation of black labor – discovered the need for each component for the new “machine” he was inventing, the Mechanic (Tom Driscoll) – the white working class man caught in the middle – scoured the rubble for the necessary remnants of the slave driving system and coerced John Henry (Monteze Freeland) to exert labor to heave them back up to the Engineer for reuse in his new machine. The steam drill of the legend, then, here represents a new machine for the exploitation and oppression of African-Americans, extracted – as was the original wealth of the nation – from their compelled and unpaid labor. John Henry’s desire to defeat the steam drill becomes, in such a context, a metaphor for an act of political defiance. Threaded through this story of the social, political, and economic mechanisms that cemented white power over African-Americans is the ballad’s love story between John Henry and his wife, Polly Ann (Delana Flowers) – a story that not only gives human dimension to the play but also reminds us of the ways in which slavery and reconstruction had lasting aftereffects on African-American families, through forced separations of husbands and wives and through sexual abuse and exploitation of black women by white men.

It was clear from audience feedback that the play’s intertwining of the language of mechanics with the legend of John Henry helped open a window into the history of African-American experience; audience members were moved, disturbed, and provoked by the history revealed in the found texts and understood the metaphorical connections between the machine of the legend and the “machinery” of oppression. Comments made by audience members during the hour long post-show discussion ranged from observations about the play’s structure to the ways in which John Henry’s experience at the hands of a racist and rigged justice system continues to resonate: one spectator observed that the play was a “scary realization of the chains we still wear today.” For the creative team, the fact that those parallels surfaced for audience members was particularly gratifying, since many of the initial developmental conversations centered on this history’s relevance to the current conversation about institutionalized violence against African American men. John Henry’s victory against the steam drill was, sadly, a tragic one: dying with his hammer in his hand, John Henry joins a long history of African-American men who sacrificed their lives in an attempt to assert their humanity in the face of white power.

Wendy Arons, professor of dramatic literature at Carnegie Mellon University, sat down with Anya Martin to talk about the upcoming JH: Mechanics of a Legend.

Wendy: What originally drew you to become a director/writer of theater?

Anya: It’s twofold. The first is a kind of sentimental story but it’s true. The specific moment that I had, the “aha” moment was in the summer going into first or second grade, and I was at Mennonite Church Camp, Cove Valley Camp – and every year there’s a cabin talent show, there’s this competition of all the cabins all week long – the best soccer team, the team that cleans up their cabin best, the one that memorizes the most Bible verses – and our cabin was sadly lagging behind in everything. And I was, like, “we gotta do something here!” So I decided: we’re gonna take the talent show!

So I wrote this play about one of our devotional verses: “He who is in you, is greater than he who is in the world.” In it I was a little girl jumping on a bare mattress, and Satan came with his little demon, and it was like a comedy. Satan wore a cape, and he had this little demon who went “Yeah, yeah, uh-huh” after everything he said, and there was even this Vanna White character who broke the fourth wall and would tell the audience when to applaud, like when the little girl won. I chanted that verse til Satan ran away yelling “Aaaaahhh” as if he was melting. Needless to say, we won, and everyone talked about it all week, and I thought: this is what I’m supposed to be doing, this is how I am brave, this is how I chase off evil in the world.

Another important influence was and is my Aunt Marianne, my father’s sister. She is one of nine children and she went off to college and studied theater at a time when not a lot of people in her community did that. She was a huge inspiration to me, saw that I had talent and was really supportive of me. I knew that she was a director, and while most kids who have the theater bug end up wanting to act I knew very early that I also wanted to direct. I had one of those aspirational poems in middle school, the kind that say “Be what you want to be!” and I wrote DIRECTOR over top of it, and it was hanging in my bedroom for a really long time.

Wendy: What was the inspiration or impetus behind JH: MECHANICS OF A LEGEND?

Anya: There’s a long trajectory for that as well. I can remember being in elementary school and singing John Henry in fourth grade music class, and I found the irony of the song quite striking. I mean, the music’s playing and my class is singing so happily “he died with hammer in his hand, Lord, Lord, he died with his hammer in his hand.” And I’m thinking: this is really a sad song. It stuck with me.

So then when I started Hiawatha Project, that legend had always stayed with me, and one of Hiawatha’s missions is to use myth and legend. So, I thought: I really want to do a show about John Henry. For a hundred and fifty years artists of all kinds – musicians, painters, writers – have all been inspired by the story of John Henry, and I guess I am one of them. John Henry’s legend is in many ways a man versus machine story.

At first I thought the show was going to be about technology. I started by asking myself “What machines are we racing against now? What hammers will we die holding?” Thinking the show would be something about iphones, screens, and disconnection. And then in my research I came across Scott Reynolds Nelson’s book Steel Drivin’ Man, and the conversation took a dramatic shift. Nelson’s book is about the “real” John Henry – a black man who lived through the Civil War, only to be unjustly imprisoned and leased out to a railroad work camp in the 1870’s. As a result of the horrific work conditions there, he tragically dies working – or perhaps racing — along side a steam drill. But the steam drill wasn’t the machine that killed him – rather the machines that killed him were complex and insidious societal machines at work during Southern Reconstruction – machines devised to maintain a mechanical advantage to a certain class of white men — machines such as racism, industrialization, and capitalism built on the backs of an oppressed people.

This realization began a whole other turn of research into the economics of slavery and into the historical context of the Reconstruction era, and to many conversations about machines, to the science of mechanics, and definitions of mechanical properties, and to ideas of how to use these in poetic ways to create metaphors for societal machines.

Wendy: What has been the most challenging thing about the process for this show?

Anya: The most difficult thing about the show has been the research. Not the magnitude of the research – although there has been a lot – but the continued reveals within the research pertaining to the horrors of slavery and the human condition and in understanding the historical context of America’s wealth and power as a result of slavery. Just when you think you know how horrible human beings can be to one another, there seems to be a new realization of that on different levels in the research – of the reach of the atrocities during slavery and into Reconstruction. And then, as an artist, internalizing that and empathizing with those stories has been really difficult. Really important, but very, very difficult. Particularly, the research into slave babies and children and the abuse and systematic torture they endured. It’s so difficult to read it on the page, and then continually internalize it through the work. I’d say that’s the hardest part of this particular show.

Wendy: What has been the scariest thing about this work?

Anya: The scariest thing is how topical the work has become. That is also why I’m doing it, and why I think it’s really important, but in some ways that is also the scariest part of it. I chose the piece because I believed the social issues were relevant, but throughout the last couple of years tragedies like the one that occurred in Ferguson have brought a new urgency and relevancy to the work. As the ballad of John Henry says, “A man ain’t nothing but a man” and to be just one person, an artist, trying to interpret such an important and large story is a lot of responsibility which can feel overwhelming, even frightening at times. However, I think “A man ain’t nothing but a man” also means that we are all equals on some level, you work with what you have as a person and as an artist and you give what you have to give – you interpret and offer up your perspective as a part of this greater conversation. So this is also what is inspiring about this work.

Wendy: What has been the most exhilarating thing so far?

Anya: I’m just really proud of the work. The work came from really big ideas. From this notion that we could use ideas of machines and mechanics in a poetic way to talk about man-made machines, and take this ballad and the legend and combine it all and make it work. What has been the most gratifying is that all these really big ideas and metaphors that I’ve been formulating in my head and grappling with over the past 2 years – they do work, and that the piece has evolved as a kind of long form poem.

To take many ideas that appear dissimilar and find out that they hold similar truths within them has been really satisfying. It’s in Hiawatha’s artistic statement to find the universal and infinite in the ordinary and specific. Thornton Wilder said he believed he found the universe in the most mundane things. To take these two abstract ideas that stand for various metaphors in my head and to put them all together and they end up commenting on each other and having a conversation and revealing larger truths in a poetic way that I could never have imagined has been really satisfying.

That and getting to work with an amazing group of people on this show has been really exhilarating and wonderful. Everyone has been truly invested, and has brought their personal reflections as well as their own research, heart, and ideas. The conversations we’ve had creatively and about the issues have been really grounding and purposeful.

Wendy: What do you hope an audience member will take from JH: Mechanics of a Legend?

Anya: I hope they have a really entertaining evening, and that they are surprised and engaged and pulled into the story and to the issues being explored in a way that was completely unexpected for them. I also hope that they will look at the piece and begin to recognize the societal machines that they are currently in and their place in them, whether they’ve chosen to be there or not, and contemplate how we can build a better societal machine, going forward.

Wendy: What will be the next steps after this workshop?

Anya: We’re going to take the feedback from the talkback and reflect and mull on it and sit with it for a time. Then the goal is to revise the script and have a staged reading sometime in the next six months. And then to fully produce the work for a month long run. We’d love to partner with a producing organization here in Pittsburgh to fully produce the work. Or Hiawatha will fully produce it. But the goal is to revise, reflect, engage with the communities that are interested in the story, and then fully produce the work within the next year to year and half, depending on how funding cycles pan out.

Wendy: What are some of your favorite theatrical conventions?

Anya: I love breaking the fourth wall. I love clean and concise blocking that reveals something not necessarily in the writing, that’s telling a parallel story. I love playing unexpectedly with the subtext of a line. And I also love throwing a good love story into every show.

Wendy: What makes Hiawatha Project unique within the Pittsburgh theatre community?

Anya: Hiawatha Project is the only company that produces only original work through a long term creation cycle. I believe we’re the only company dedicated to only devised work. I also think we’re the only company dedicated to only devised work about specific social issues. Some companies in town occasionally do a devised piece, but the level of investment and intention that Hiawatha Project employs in developing its works is truly unique in Pittsburgh.

Wendy: Tell me more about the process you engaged in for devising this work.

Anya: Hiawatha has what I call a seven-phase creation cycle, which generally takes place over the course of two years. The first two phases are about identifying a social question or story and then researching all aspects of that initial impulse – allowing the research and ideas to lead me as an artist down unexpected roads – to let the work direct me so to speak – before I start directing it.

In phase three I begin to develop the work with artistic and community partners. For this work I immediately reached out to Monteze and shortly thereafter to Britton and Kyle. Monteze and I had conversations about the oral history of John Henry and its significance in his own memory and community as a child, as well as many conversations about Nelson’s book. Britton and I probably had hundreds of discussions about mechanics and the six classic simple machines, and the societal metaphors within those mechanizations. Kyle helped to break down the dramatic structure of the legend and of Nelson’s book as well as aided me in an immense amount of research – digging through primary source material for references to machines and hammers and the like.

Since September all of the designers and performers have participated in monthly workshops exploring the major ideas for the show. At these workshops we discussed everything from our personal experiences with racism to some of the most shocking slave narratives, to news articles connecting our discoveries to current issues. We tried to be honest with our investigations and ourselves. We made ourselves vulnerable to the work and to each other. We created machines out of 150 year old tools from Carrie Furnace, on loan from the Rivers of Steel Heritage Area, as well as made machines out of our own bodies, and machines out of sounds and song. Now we are in phase four of the creation cycle, when I mold all of the material we have been developing into a more formal script and direct the show for a work-in-progress presentation. This presentation is meant to gather feedback and responses to the work – as a means of further developing and deepening the artistic work – and as a means to further connect to communities interested in the social issues explored in the work.

In phases 5 and 6 – I reflect on the feedback from the work-in-progress and further revise the script. In phase 7 the work will be fully produced in Pittsburgh.

by Jennifer Keller

A sold out audience packed the house at The New Hazlett Theater for the premiere of WaywardLand, a new creation by Jil Stifel and Ben Sota on Thursday, February 12, 2015.

The show included stellar performances by the creators, along with Anna Thompson and Taylor Knight, as well as freshly composed music by Dave Bernabo, masks and sculptures by visual artist Blaine Siegel, costumes by Casey Droege, and lighting by Scott Nelson.

A rich visual design teased our imaginations during the pre-show, with carefully placed set pieces suggesting events to follow. A trapeze hung from the center rafters, along with a frayed, colorful rope that was draped in a triangular canopy over the audience. A mirrored image of the rope appeared on the stage floor, along with white, stand-alone “doors” that populated the space in unusual cutout designs. A stage door opened into blackness on the first balcony, with an enigmatic bull’s mask resting in front of it. Thin wisps of fog contributed to the mystery by snaking their tendrils across the set.

The evening officially began “looking at the stars” – a single upstage light focused down on the audience and performers. Thoughtful and intentional in their layering of images, Stifel and Sota took the audience on a journey that descended from the stars into a world that hybridized dance, circus and physical theater. At the center of their exploration was the interest of hybridizing the solitary man with his animal, communal self.

The theme of man as beast was introduced early on by Stifel’s powerful and articulate solo. Her slinking torso and clawing hands hinted at her inner transformation before she disappeared behind a low-lying “door” to don her foot-high minotaur mask, adorned with a real bull’s horn. With the mask covering her head, she reappeared with staccato, cloven hoof stomps, repeating many of the same solo movements to chuckles in the crowd, who embraced the humor and context of her physical language.

As the transformed Stifel slowly exited, framing herself in a doorway, Sota entered through a doorway of his own. Sota’s solitary human world was interrupted by the toss of a lifeline by Knight, who offered rope for Sota to create a maze of pathways on the floor. The ensemble of dancers eventually found themselves travelling this tight-wire highway, signaling one another, and finding brief moments of comfort and repose on this precarious landscape.

Further illuminating the man as beast theme was a delightful and humorous women’s duet: Stifel expressively mouthing and gesturing to the audience while Thompson succumbed to her animal slump. After a short time, Stifel would notice her companion and prop her up. The audience got the joke, and Thompson reveled in a deeper transformation with each repetition of this exchange.

Throughout the evening, all the dancers performed self-examinations, often looking at their hands and affirming their motor abilities with wrist flexing and finger-scooping. These small gestures became large statements throughout the work about our humanness, animality and desire to be part of a community. Growls and grunts abounded, whether Sota stomped on high stilts across the stage, or virtuosically hoisted the German Wheel into the air as his oversized dream-catcher. The performers repeatedly sought connection with one another, be it on the rope turned tight-wire, or German Wheel-turned-lifeboat. At one point, Sota’s life was literally in the dancers’ hands as they hoisted him up and down during his trapeze solo, a man hanging by a thread.

Profound moments of connection came when Stifel and Sota took the German Wheel into duet form. Beautiful and endlessly fascinating in its balance and dependency, the German Wheel became a metaphor for their relationship. Counterbalanced on opposite sides of the wheel, they communed with one another, gazing through its frame, while Knight and Thompson explored a much closer, intimate duet in the balcony, minotaur head-gear attached. Seeing these two relationships exposed in the space gave the audience much to consider about intimacy and connection in our man-made world. During the talk-back session after the performance, Stifel explained her discovery that often “being a bull was more human than being a human.”

The cast inhabited an unstable world – slumping from man to beast and back again, while precariously navigating stilt walking, German Wheel riding, trapeze slinging and tight-wire balancing. They seemed to find their grounding in their final hybridization, relaxing comfortably in the German-wheel turned hot-tub, all four adorned with their individual minotaur masks and fur embellished costumes, nodding at each other in intimate conversation under the stars.

Jennifer Keller sat down with the latest Community Supported Artists, Jil Stifel and Ben Sota, to talk about their process of collaboration and creation of WaywardLand, a new work that explores metaphoric relationships between physical theater, dance, and circus.

Q: What is the history of your partnership together? How did you find one another?

We met in high school. The cool thing is that the first time we worked together was at the New Hazlett, in our early 20’s, dancing with Attack Theatre in 2005. Then we performed “Faust” together for the Pittsburgh Opera. Attack Theatre and Zany Umbrella Circus were performing at the Three Rivers Arts Festival, so our paths were crossing a bunch in Pittsburgh.

Q: How do you approach the concepts of collaboration and/or fusion?

Jil: My ideal for collaboration is that the final product exists as a special entity that could not have been created without the specific vision of each collaborator. In my career I have worked more frequently with visual artists and musicians; this journey into co-directing the movement and arc of a work with Ben is new and exciting. The collaboration grows from our collective interests and what is happening around us at the time of creation. There is an inherent excitement and charge as we find the intersections between our interests and approaches as different disciplines hybridize to create something new.

Ben: A collaboration requires perspectival switches and numerous approaches. Embrace improvisation and get rid of your ego. The ego is particularly important because it can calcify thoughts. I’ll define the different components [in our collaboration]: dance is an ability to work with moving images, physical theatre is an ability to work with connected pictures, and circus is an ability to work with and embrace spectacle. To create a true hybrid it’s necessary to have a solid background in the [selected] disciplines. For me a hybrid honors the foundation, and through this respect, our piece emerged.

Q: What does your collaborator bring to the process that has served as a catalyst for your own creative thinking about this piece?

Jil: Ben’s process embraces the freedom to create in an authentic/emergent way that asks questions and follows tangential impulses as a pathway to uncovering the unexpected. This way of creating is incredibly satisfying because we are constantly discovering the work and allowing it to crystallize and to speak to us. Working with Ben feels very natural; we have similar goals in our work and shared interests. I have always been incredibly inspired by Ben both as a performer and as a director. When he is performing he draws the audience in allowing them to have an experience of what he is creating rather than just watching from the outside. His gentle demeanor and powerful presence are infectious both in life and in performance. As a director Ben has a way of creating images and surprises that hold the audience spellbound in a state of constant discovery. His ideas are impossible to me at times but I trust and watch and wait. When the impossible becomes possible I stand back enjoying the moment of discovery and magic that settles around us.

Ben: Jil as a mover brings movement that is subtle, explosive, dynamic and she has a style that resonates with both dancers and non-dancers. The movement is authentic and lives in the moment – the moment is inclusive and exists in a down home place. Jil values her strengths and weaknesses – this is a hard thing for an artist to do. She has lived through the unimaginable and despite hardship she still dances. She really values every rehearsal and every moment we have and that electrifies her work. Jil as a choreographer uses all of her resources and keeps asking the important questions. Big questions, little questions, provocative questions, humorous questions. Whenever I’m figuring a part out, she listens and then says ‘yeah and could we try adding this to it?’ Goodness yes – these are my favorite parts of rehearsal. When Jil says these words I know we’ve discovered something unique. I think a good choreographer/ director notices what their collaborators are offering and organizes them. In rehearsal it often feels like we’re on the hunt. We’re on a very exciting adventure and the piece constantly becomes more charged at every moment in an unlikely way. Time and time again over the one-year rehearsal process I’d think this really isn’t going to get any cooler, and time and time again my thoughts would be proven wrong.

Q: In this work there is trapeze, German wheel, a rope, masks, gesture, stilts, and large scale movement. Are any of these elements evolving to something else as you’ve worked together over the last six months?

Ben: The circus elements are always evolving the piece, but perhaps in a different way than you’d expect. Instead of becoming high octane and encouraging force and spectacle, the circus elements are encouraging the piece to have greater sensitivity. Ideally the circus props become a magnifying glass that teases out and funnels our humanness. Sometimes it seems that working with these elements is akin to baking with blow torches – we could very easily destroy our project, but it also is incredibly exciting to explore these non-traditional tools.

Jil: One of the profound things about creating this show together has been the significance of weaving circus into a piece that is constructed in many ways from the perspective of physical theater and dance. We’ve slowed down some of the tricks and momentum based things. As we explore the various apparatus — that for some of us are brand new, and for Ben are old friends — we have asked ourselves why are we choosing the apparatus, where does it fit into the arc of the show, and how does it fit each performer’s role? Ultimately the apparatus [has evolved] in a way that exposes our reliance upon each other, creating a greater metaphor for our human desire to be supported and to be part of a community. When we do the trapeze, you literally see us hoisting Ben into the sky. His life is in our hands.

Q: What challenges have you faced as a creators and performers in the work?

The main challenge is rehearsal schedules with people that are on the move. That is 90% of the challenge. That being said, it’s helped us form the piece with long marination periods, and in a weird way it’s been really good. We’ve faced our challenges with the mantra “be yourself.” When Ben learns a dance phrase, it can get pretty damn scary. When Jil is in the German wheel, we say the mantra. We have had to live in uncomfortable places in this piece, and take leaps into the unfamiliar.

Q: What has been easy about the process?
Jil: Ben and I seem to approach making stuff in a similar way. It’s almost been surprising how fluid the process has been in terms of working together. One person will have an idea and we’ll try it. There has been a natural back and forth that has been exciting.

Ben: Our aesthetic is surprising similar. There’s a difference between “being” versus “doing.” Jil and I are “be-ers.” We’re not putting on a façade. We’re letting things happen to us that are genuinely interesting. We’re not trying too hard, just teasing out what’s already in existence. We are working with minotaurs and stilts: they are dynamic elements, and there’s so much there already that “to be” is a great choice. We don’t need to glam it up more. Am I sounding crazy?

Jil: No…Some of the material is set, but it maintains its authenticity. We have a reverence for the individual and an understanding of the fragility of the moment. That’s the philosophy of performance for me. Generic Levitra vardenafil sale from https://www.caladrius.com/levitra/ and read about Levitra warnings. What makes the performance special is the audience coming into the space for that particular hour. That approach is one of the reasons I wanted to work with Ben, and one of the things that’s been easy in our process.

Q: Are there other surprises in the process?

Ben: We’ve discovered Jil’s “inner circus apparatus” is the tight-wire. She has the ability to uber-focus and get shit done. I’m a juggler at heart. Jugglers are a bit dreamy and spacy.

Q: What are the themes and metaphors you’ve been working with?

Ben: Playing with time. Landscapes. We are playing with the idea of DNA and its percentage of feral-ness in relation to its percentage of humanness.

Jil: …not exactly feral, but like we are playing with the idea that human beings have become removed from their species. Sleep, fresh air, movement and things like that equate with the animal and species nature of who we are. By living in boxes and travelling on concrete roads, a lot is lost. This piece is finding these [lost] things in the modern world that we live in. Our themes started with metaphors of travelling, searching, traversing mountains. There’s a constant yearning to be somewhere else. The tight-wire is a yearning. The trapeze moves through the space. Dance moves through space.

Ben: The German Wheel is a metaphor – it’s a dream-catcher, hoisted into the sky, an offering up to the gods. It crashes down, funnels energy, catches me like a net. If I do one thing, it will affect someone else; it tilts the balance. I don’t have a relationship with Jil, but I have an effect on Jil – an effect that lives in physics. Through that physical effect, Jil has an emotional reaction to the movement.

Q: The work I saw in rehearsal was episodic in nature. What kind of process are you using to shape the “whole?”

Jil: Ben brought techniques from experimental theater. Ben would talk us through an exercise. We found nuggets that were interesting to us that seemed to have a space in the larger work. We looked at the chunks and started to form an arc. I tend to like things that evolve throughout an evening. The piece starts very high up in the sky, but mostly it’s a downward progression. The space gets more condensed over time; we move closer together. These are deliberate choices. Humans are not meant to be lone wolfs. We are meant to be in community. We become more and more entangled as a group as the piece moves through the evening. There is a sense of progression and change. We are working with time and the pace of the show. Music is going to be important to finding the arc.

Ben: We are dealing with loops. We’ve just let it bleed together. We’ve let the parts that need to speak, speak. The parts that didn’t speak we’ve let disappear. This is the marination part. Whenever you leave something alone, it’s easier to throw it away. We don’t have a director, so it’s made the piece very much Jil’s and mine and given us control. At the same time, we have to be very careful that this whole piece has what I call “permeation” – that our themes and metaphors are penetrating all parts of the work. A lot of times I work backwards to go forwards. We know the ending. How can we create an arc to get to that ending? [That arc will allow] people to come with us through the whole journey and want to live in the piece the entire time.

Q: What will you do next?

Jil: We will continue to perform WaywardLand and let the work evolve in new spaces. We will also look for opportunities to build new work under the platform Albatross Movement. Now that I have had a taste of what can happen with circus apparatus when it is used to create meaning rather than spectacle, I will definitely continue my training in the German Wheel.

Ben: Ditto! There is lots of possibility for this piece and further collaboration. The CSA has been incredibly supportive and excited for opening night and what awaits.

Recent News & Updates

Join Our Mailing List