Part 1.
Now he maintains five different fragmented lines throughout parts of his body, then with a change of emphasis resolves them into a single satisfying shape. Now he holds a frozen sculptural position from chest down while bringing a hand down over his face as if wrapping a parcel. At another point he shakes his head rapidly while descending slowly; elsewhere he brings his pelvis powerfully into play; later he folds right over on one leg so that his torso, other leg and arms are all like a tight ball as he perches there.
It’s as if he’s ticking off a list of unimaginable feats one after another — but in fact his rhythm, with phrasing far more subtle than mere clock timing, is more astonishing than his balance. A very few of his inflections are briefly psychological, as if we’re watching flickers of a brainstorm; a few are also animalistic, as if we’re watching him in a cage at the zoo; but mainly he’s a miracle of calm control and supple audacity.
“Split Sides” is a work famous for its use of chance in determining the order of the two musical scores, the two halves of choreography, the two sets of costumes, the two décors at a particular performance. Will the Radiohead music play first or the Sigur Ros? Will the half of the dance with Mr. Riener’s solo occur in black-and-white costumes or colored? Apart from this fun, the choreography contains other strokes of wit (notably in a trio for Jennifer Goggans, Brandon Collwes and John Hinrichs) and a recurrent sense of game playing.
The main subject of the choreography seems to be multi-directionality in space. And it makes time for stillness. Sometimes a tiny detail becomes luminous. At the start of a quintet with four women Rashaun Mitchell stands still at the back of the stage, facing the audience, his legs apart and arms outstretched low to either side. Once you realize that one of his palms is facing up, the other down, it becomes compelling. Not all of “Split Sides” is top-drawer Cunningham, but it’s exciting: watching, we might be in outer space.”
Part 2.
The choreographers for “Heaven” and “Movin’ Out” both used repetition and canon, although in “Movin’ Out” the movements focused on individuals and pairs, while in “Heaven” the movements focused on the entire group of dancers as a unit.
When I compared the two pieces “Heaven” and “Movin’ Out,” it was clear that the choreographers were addressing two completely different types of expression, one of a concept and another of an experience.
In both “Heaven” and “Moving Out,” the performers demonstrated considerable skill at movements that required complex synchronization while also maintaining an easy sense throughout their bodies.
Part 3.
I liked how my peer noted the facial expressions in both “Smoke and Heaven.” It is easy to overlook the importance of the facial movements when looking at the rest of the performer’s movements – and learning to show emotion in facial expressions while also performing complex dance movements is a sign of a growing artist. Noticing that the woman looks so desperate in “Smoke” is also particularly insightful. I also found the simultaneity of the movements in “Desihoppers” to be a sign of the clarity at work in the choreography.
