Dance Then & Now—Ballet at the Stissing Center

Mónica Lima, Elena Zahlmann, Kristina Shaw, Diana Byer, and
Julian Donahue in Private Angels. Photo: Patrick Trettenero

April promises spring, but winter clung on over the weekend; Columbia County got about half a foot of snow on April 12. So going to Stissing Center in Pine Plains for a Sunday afternoon matinee of Dance Then & Now, a program curated by Diana Byer, presented the chance to gather in a welcoming, vibrant venue and take in a varied ballet program. The works ranged from a 1951 duet by Agnes de Mille, Another Autumn (from Paint Your Wagon), to four contemporary pieces including several premieres.

The hour-long program ranged from experimental modern ballet to musical theater to satire. The latter, by Julian Donahue, titled Private Angels, was a site-specific premiere performed primarily on the auditorium floor, and partly on-stage (we were seated along the perimeter and on the mezzanine). It featured Donahue as a posh ballet taskmaster, controlling and effete—prancing, posing, swinging scythe-like arms, shooting icy glares at us, and eliciting guffaws, notably from a few enthusiastic children in the audience whose giggles were infectious.

Four women (Elena Zahlman, Kristina Shaw, Mónica Lima, and Byer) descended from the space’s four corners, facing one another and performing courtly, contained steps. Each woman took turns being partnered by Donahue, each duet progressing with different dynamics. It built to Lima’s section, when Donahue handled her with vigor, bordering on violence. Occasional piano music by Handel, played by Matteo Mangialetti, accompanied this slightly long but entertaining suite.

The bill led off with the premiere of Calandrelle, choreographed by William Whitener with music by Olivier Messiaen, in which Kristina Shaw hit crisp geometric shapes, bounced, tilted, pet her tutu, and spun with a knee bent. These jottings felt playful even while grounded in ballet. An Agnes de Mille duet from Paint Your Wagon was danced by Zahlmann and Donahue, with Mangialetti playing Frederick Loewe’s music. Though brief, we saw de Mille’s knack for distilling a burgeoning romance into a few key moments—the chaste wooing, and ensuing blossoming into affection and a side-by-side partnership. 

Stephen Pier’s premiere of A Conversation with Keyboard featured Lima and Shaw in elegant short black dresses trading ballet phrases in a rhythmic ebb and flow, and checking in with Mangialetti, playing music by Domenico Cimarosa. Lima and Donahue partnered in Isle of Skye, by Amanda Treiber, with recorded music by Mondrian Villega. Appropriately clad in sky blue costumes, they stretched into elongated lines and tossed in phrases of celebratory social dancing that evoked Scottish reels, perhaps a nod to the title.

All of these dances fit snugly and efficiently into the brief run time, a pleasing sampling of modern ballet that demonstrates the form’s continuing relevance and artistry. The dance programming, selected by Catherine Tharin, is just one genre among many featured at Stissing Center, which mounts a surprisingly robust season in the quietly simmering town of Pine Plains.

Martha Graham Dance Company at 100—Strong Dancers, Dwindling Graham

Xin Ying in Letter to Nobody. Photo: Brian Pollock

Martha Graham Dance Company performed its annual New York run at the Joyce this year, part of the troupe’s 100th anniversary celebration. It was another step in its evolution, a balance of Graham and contemporary choreography. Program A offered just a short bit of Martha, Act 2 of Clytemnestra (1958), which has all the hallmarks of high Graham—fantastic sets by Isamu Noguchi, fabulous costumes by Graham and Helen McGehee, unharmonious music by Halim El-Dabh—but tilts toward kitsch in the absence of the larger context. As Artistic Director Janet Eilber had informed us in her by now habitual, concise, pre-show comments, Agamemnon’s Ghost (Jai Perez) wears high gold platform shoes to indicate he’s in the afterworld, but it still feels like drag. We do get a solid sampling of Graham in the womens’ dancing—the yearning diagonal stretches and twists with cupped hands—and in the final solo by Lloyd Knight, with his repeated, self-flagellating hinges to the shoulder.

 Xin Ying in Clytemnestra. Photo: Isabella Pagano

Baye & Asa choreographed the world premiere of Cortege, to music by Jack Grabow. Eight dancers are hidden beneath a tarp, which slides off them. We hear a voiceover, including, “In times of extreme violence…” The dancers hit vignettes, evoking postures and gestures of torture and incarceration. They cluster, spasming, moving in bursts, giving animalistic Gaga vibes. A woman melts to the floor. Some don burlap vests; are they members or exiles? The movement is hyper controlled and precise, disturbing in its relentless, underlying terror, and undeniably beautiful.

Graham appears on film in the premiere of Letter to Nobody, by Xin Ying, who co-choreographed it with Mimi Yin. Ying, solo, channels Martha in front of a film segment of Graham’s Letter to the World, projected on a giant screen. Shot at an angle from above, it includes segments of social dance, and feels lighthearted; Graham is heard in a voiceover. Ying dances elegantly in flowing and graceful phrases, at one point kicking, swirling, and spinning repeatedly in her circle skirt. The film cuts to Graham fixing her enormous signature bun in front of a vanity. As she turns toward the camera, her face morphs into Ying’s. The effect is chilling, a demonstration of what AI can bring to dance theater, and a reminder that Graham’s heirs must carry on her legacy while always increasing the distance to her.

Cortege. Photo: Isabella Pagano

The program ended with Hofesh Schechter’s crowd pleaser, Cave (2022). In murky light, to a pulsing beat, 14 dancers move subtly at first, like a sea anemone. The dynamic builds, the group peels apart, still beating in sync, throwing in some Irish step dancing for good measure. Golden light hits them from the side, and they continue a trance-like surrender to the beat. It ends in a highly-controlled frenzy, the dancers writhing and throbbing in ecstasy. 

It’s yet another manifestation of the versatile and technically limitless group of dancers that comprise the Martha Graham Company, and that Graham’s elemental technique serves as a foundation for nearly all genres of dance. (That said, Ohad Naharin's Gaga felt more present in Cortege and Cave than Graham style.) The company performed two other programs which both offered proportionately more Graham to other choreographers' work, so the program I saw was an outlier. Graham's mythology-based repertory can now read as melodramatic and campy, but the company must continue to present this canon, along with her formal work, to share its primacy and essence.

Riding the Amazonian Whitewaters

Marzia Memoli, Oliver Greene-Cramer, Daisy Jacobson, Miriam Gittens,
Renan Cerdeiro, and Nicole Morris in Diabelli. Photo by Christopher Duggan

New York dance audiences are truly spoiled with a panoply of genres, the best dancers and choreographers, and incredible choice pretty much year-round. Resident companies such as New York City Ballet, ABT, Alvin Ailey, Paul Taylor, Dance Theater of Harlem, Martha Graham, and many more give annual seasons that are by now a given, and to some extent taken for granted. That’s not to say that it’s ever easy to mount a season, especially with the high costs associated with developing and producing a run. These steadfast beacons have become the tentpoles of an environment absolutely rich with dance; you have to wonder how much of the available pool of resources they absorb, along the way possibly attracting dollars that might go to less-known groups. Always debatable.

I speak of the impermanent groups led by legends of modern dance, prominent among them Twyla Tharp, who has been a semi-regular on New York City Center’s calendar over the years. This year’s program felt particularly robust and lush: Diabelli (1998) in its NY premiere, and this year’s Slacktide, with Philip Glass’ mesmerizing score played live by Third Coast Percussion. There were no featured big-name guest dancers, only gifted and hard-working individuals (some Tharp veterans) with peak technique and presence, and the flexibility to rehearse sufficiently to meet the rigorous demands of the performances.

It is surprising at first that New York has never seen Diabelli, but consider the heavy lift—it’s one hour long, with 10 dancers flying on and offstage in myriad combinations of Tharp’s demanding modern ballet and partnering sections. It’s a prime showcase of dancers’ superb intellects and the ability to memorize the material: the counts, musical sections, and the steps in three dimensions and countless recombinants of all body parts. Geoffrey Beene’s clever, unisex tuxedo tank unitards lend an air of sporty formality, and Diabelli’s 33 Variations on a Waltz provide a lively sonic background, played live by Vladimir Rumyantsev.

The dance feels organized around societal structures—military-like strides, social engagements observed by others, goading and friendly interactions. There’s a perpetual showiness about the dance, a tacit understanding that the performers will entertain the audience, which in turn must pay attention and dispense kudos. It’s Tharp at her finest, demanding balletic finesse, with dashes of ease and humor, all set in a crystalline structure supported by well-chosen music.

Alexander Peters and Miriam Gittens in Slacktide. Photo by Christopher Duggan

Slacktide is meant in part as a coda to In the Upper Room, one of Tharp’s masterworks. At the start, a fist is spotlit, connecting it to the finale of Upper Room. But in contrast to that work’s heavenly allusions, with its blazing lighting and cumulus fog, Slacktide swims in murky depths, all inky blues and blacks, with Victoria Bek’s sly, black, naval side-buttoned duds outfitting the cast of a dozen.

Third Coast Percussion plays Glass’ haunting Aguas da Amazonia live in the pit. Glass may be a household name, but he’s still underappreciated. This score brings many gifts to the table—of course, the driving rhythms, a contained ferocity, but also a witchy breathiness in the flutes and xylophones, and a jam-like looseness to the melodies. Tharp relies on her modern ballet lexicon, veering into lush organic ovals and swooping limbs. In a passage toward the end, six dancers, arranged in two vees, slip, fold, and eddy through hypnotic variations to a kindred musical passage—like rapids running the Amazon. I wanted it to go on and on.

Tharp has been briefly affiliated with large companies, notably with ABT, where she created a number of iconic dances. Her restless intellect and curiosity in exploring myriad other forms have led her to some remarkable milestones, including on Broadway, film, books, TV, and more. But she continually returns to the proscenium stage with her ambitious dances, and we must pay well-deserved attention.

Forces of Nature—Huppert, and One-Upping Nature's Wintry Sky

Isabelle Huppert in Mary Said What She Said. Photo: Lucie Jansch

In Robert Wilson’s production of Mary Said What She Said at NYU Skirball, Isabelle Huppert commands the stage with a 90-minute monologue in French, spoken so rapidly at times that I could barely read the projected English titles. The text (by Darryl Pinckney) recounts Mary Queen of Scots’ life's musings on betrothal, marriage, arrest, imprisonment and exile, and her relationships to the other Marys and men in general. Huppert’s stamina and focus are superhuman and essential to draw us in and hold tight, no simple task in this minimalistic production.

That said, “minimalistic” is misleading when referring to Wilson’s work. We’ve seen him go maximalist in epics such as Einstein on the Beach, Black Rider, Time Rocker, and other ambitious operas with songs, large casts, and multiple dream-like sets. Mary Said is a historically-based, stream-of-consciousness monologue to showcase a 71-year-old star deploying all her powers (plus a silhouette double, seen briefly). Letter to a Man, about Nijinsky’s descent into madness, was a similar tour-de-force featuring another star, Mikhail Baryshnikov, with a blazing lighting scheme and a few striking props, but mainly driven by the physical presence and loaded personality of the performer.

As I write, it's early March, and in the Hudson Valley, a pale pewter cloud bank sits heavily over a luminous white horizon; the sun battling with the remnants of an icy winter. It resembles a version of Wilson's lighting scheme for parts of Mary Said, if dialed way down. Mary Said carries many of the elements that unmistakably mark a Wilson show: the otherworldly Arctic lighting that sears your eyeballs. The hyper formal poses and white pancake makeup. Costumes, often evoking a past (or future) era, immaculately tailored to carve dramatic silhouettes against the light. The frozen, awkwardly articulated poses held for long spells, alternating with frenetic gestures and repetitive pacing. A lone sculpted white shoe popping up on its own little platform, and disappearing just as mysteriously. These all amount to a crash course in Wilson’s microcosm.

Isabelle Huppert in Mary Said What She Said. Photo: Lucie Jansch

At the start, Mary stands stock still in shadow, arms locked in rigid poses, while she begins her recitation. She is a tired soul trapped in a life not of her own choosing, and yet she’s made to bear the consequences of actions she may or may not have caused, including murdering her second husband, Henry Stuart. Outwardly, she appears perfectly poised and groomed. She was as loaded a symbol as could be, Queen of Scots, briefly Queen of France, and yet in the end, simply a woman.

As the monologue unspools, Huppert moves more broadly, venturing downstage in small increments, sussing out her true self buried beneath layers of stiff brocade and make-up. As if possessed, in the denouement she spits out repeated phrases while briskly walking downstage and retracing her steps backward, again and again, in a cathartic rant. (After this frenetic scene, Huppert’s breathing is barely visible—a display of her remarkable training and ability.) Nearing death, her soul is freed from the confines of societal expectations, and yet bound within Jacques Reynaud’s rigid gown and Wilson’s inescapable spotlight, which she can never truly escape.

Mary Said is part of NYU Skirball’s Winter/Spring season under the direction of Jay Wegman. It’s a notably strong, dance-heavy lineup with many participants from abroad. The production has support from Dance Reflections by Van Cleef & Arpels, which has become a major benefactor of the arts in recent seasons. 

A New Paquita by Ratmansky

Sara Mearns and Chun Wai Chan and company in the Grand Pas in Alexei Ratmansky’s Paquita. Photo: Erin Baiano

Alexei Ratmansky’s new Paquita, premiering at New York City Ballet on February 6, at the outset feels formal and a bit dry. There’s no set or projection, unusual for new productions, but evocative of many of Balanchine’s ballets where dance is the sole focus. David Gabriel partners Erica Pereira and Emma Von Enck in the first part, the Minkus Pas de Trois by Balanchine, breaking apart for duets and solos. They hit their marks in the demanding phrases, dotted with moves proving their technical chops (particularly Gabriel, dealt a long chain of double tours en l’air plus pirouettes, and later cabrioles landing on one leg and held). I warmed to the dancers, shaking off some residual resistance to the Grand Prix competition feel of the start.

The second part, the Grand Pas, begins, with groups of women in Jérôme Kaplan’s lovely black tutus with gold satin chest bands and yellow and rose-hued underlayers; eventually 15 join forces in varying groups or solos. Sara Mearns enters, set apart by a white satin camisole band. Of course the dancing is luscious and indulgent—it’s Mearns. (There are two others who perform the role on other nights.) But we really understand that she’s The Ballerina when Chun Wai Chan strides on, his noble carriage and laser-like focus on Mearns revealing his purpose. Until that moment, the dance seemed to be primarily a technical showcase. Now, it’s a romance with passion and intrigue waiting to unfold.

Indiana Woodward in Paquita. Photo: Erin Baiano

With NYCB since 2021, Chan has been a wonderful addition. In general, NYCB’s men are shadows of the women, in part because Balanchine’s work (and ballet in general) revolves around the ballerina, but also in terms of self-regard and presentation. It’s as if men have never been completely encouraged to carry themselves with authority, demanding to be seen; it’s likely subliminal. (Again, I’m generalizing; there are exceptions.) It’s not a bad thing, more of a company philosophy. But because Chan came from Houston Ballet, and before that Guangzhou Art School, modesty doesn’t seem to be an entrained trait. He is bold and assertive even while simply walking, expressed in his confident stride and proud carriage. It’s more the bold attitude of an entitled prince than a support character. And a captivating, and physically daring, dancer like Mearns requires an equally magnetic partner such as Chan. He’s strong as well, smoothly pressing her overhead in numerous lifts. Mearns catches at the heart with her vulnerability and physical daring, nearly always nailing a dramatic rendition. Ambition, daredevilry, drama, and skill.

Back to the women in Paquita. There are six variations following the pas de deux, each dynamically and emotionally different. And each is danced by a principal or soloist, infusing the entire final third of the ballet with a sparkle and snap. Indiana Woodward could barely contain her elation, hitting each beat with precision. Olivia MacKinnon, a lovely dancer now in major roles with regularity; Emily Kikta, with a velvety precision and riveting presence. Unity Phelan, who merits an Iron Woman award for dancing lead roles in the evening’s three dances. Plus the ensemble, who impart the challenging sections with confidence and brio.

Erica Pereira, David Gabriel and Emma Von Enck in Balanchine’s Minkus Pas de Trois from
Alexei Ratmansky’s Paquita. Photo: Erin Baiano

Paquita allows Ratmansky to indulge his wonkery, plunging into historical documents and ballet’s long history, and making it anew. But is it what audiences want to see? Given his success at City Ballet with new works, viewers are eager to sample whatever he offers in his prodigal return to the fold. In any case, the dancers are primed for works like this, even if it could benefit from more rehearsal and finesse. Let’s see what Ratmansky presents next.

New York Notebook, January 2025

Justin Faircloth, Evelyn Lilian Sanchez Narvaez, Wendell Gray II, Jay Carlon. Courtesy New York Live Arts. Photo: Maria Baranova

Super Nothing

Miguel Gutierrez
New York Live Arts, Jan 12-18, 2025

Miguel Gutierrez has, over decades, been predictably unpredictable. He has woven into performances sections of spoken text, multimedia, performance, and dance. In Super Nothing, at New York Live Arts, perhaps what’s most surprising is that nearly the entire 70-minute piece comprises abstract and gestural movement. Also, that movement is set to music (by Rosana Cabán), wide-ranging in style and dynamic, thoughout the work. As Gutierrez says in his program note, his main emotion of late is grief, primarily about the state of politics here and abroad.

And so in the face of what feels like shouting into the wind and being blown backward, he turns to the dancer’s tool kit, the body. He has set the work on four remarkable performers: Evelyn Lilian Sanchez Narvaez, Wendell Gray II, Justin Faircloth, and Jay Carlon. For about an hour, with little apparent repetition, each one moves continuously — thousands of small movements strung together, some gestural and deeply evocative, others freeform, expressing a palette of emotions, or simply conveying joy or sorrow. Carolina Ortiz designed the gorgeous variegated lighting, including a costume change interlude when the lights came to life and took over as the focus.

From my notes on the movement: free, expressive, playful, twitching, arm paddling, staggering around perimeter, spasming, bracelet shaking while ascending stairs, seal flippers pushing forward, whipping attitude turns, self-conscious voguing, fake phone call, tending to an ailing friend. Dancers exit, and the lighting takes over as fog rolls in—the omnipresent kite above, lit hues of white from warm to cool, red/yellow projected discs, flat rectangles, banks of warm sidelights brightening and dimming, with the temperature rising and falling on our eager faces. It almost felt as if the building had come alive irrespective of our presence.

Jay Carlon, Wendell Gray II, Evelyn Lilian Sanchez Narvaez, Justin Faircloth. Courtesy New York Live Arts. Photo: Maria Baranova

The performers return, having changed from black & white slashed pieces to neon yellow and black garments. After another spell of dashed off gestures and freeform moves, they unite centerstage in a square, and begin a multi-measure section that feels much more purposeful and structured. They repeat it facing different directions, snapping into a line, and reclustering. Toward the end, they move as close to us as possible, intensely repeating individual phrases manically, then retreat upstage and trickle off. They’ve left it all on the stage, moving us with their stamina, dedication, and intellect. Lunatics might be running the asylum, but these artists are in full control of their bodies.

Ronald K. Brown / Evidence

Joyce Theater, Jan 14-19, 2025

Ronald K. Brown / Evidence celebrates 40 years this season, believe it or not. There is still nothing like Brown’s work—so ecstatic, full of faith, incorporating challenging techniques and rhythms, and largely presented in proscenium dance venues, with impressive production elements. But it’s mainly the ecstasy and elation, generated through an explosive vocabulary unspooled effortlessly by his dancers and mixed with pensive moments.

Demetrius Burns and
Shaylin D. Watson.
Photo by Whitney Brown

Grace (1999/2003), commissioned by Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre, remains Brown’s most resonant work, and among the great modern dances. The music, by Duke Ellington, Roy Davis, Jr., and Fela Kuti, with guest singer Gordon Chambers, undergirds and propels the many movements—a harmonious artistic creation that feels like the kinetic manifestation of the title. And while it’s difficult to match the athletic prowess of the Ailey company’s dancers, Evidence delivers a more humanistic interpretation, while having the advantage of being closer to us in a smaller house.

Ailey also commissioned Serving Nia (2001); the Joyce performance was Evidence’s company premiere. On the shorter side at about 15 minutes, the piece is set in front of a striking backdrop depicting—depending on your mood—either a cliff face or a wall at a sharp angle, tucked into a corner and evocative of Ed Ruscha’s geometric compositions. Brown’s dancers often face to the side, signifying a private communication with an unseen being, and also favors a diagonal movement path. Sadly, when the lighting shifted to a deep red, I could only think of the LA fires.

In Order My Steps (2005), Kevin Boseman guests as a dancer and speaker. The work began as a collaboration between Brown and Kevin’s late brother, actor Chadwick. Themes of war and addiction emerge in the music and long monologue delivered by Boseman. This piece felt different than Brown’s usual music-driven style, including the more relaxed jazz music (Terry Riley, Bob Marley, David Ivey) and partitioning the stage area with the dancers at left in two lines, and Boseman at right. There was less of the joyful unleashing of energy so prominent in much of his other work, in particular Grace, but it did showcase Boseman’s breadth of talent and Brown’s willingness to experiment.

Nick Cave at Shainman Gallery. Photo: Susan Yung

Nick Cave, Amalgams and Graphts

Jack Shainman Gallery, 46 Lafayette St, to Mar 15

The New York gallery scene surely reflects the real estate market in the city. The mass has shifted innumerable times, mostly involving varying gallery densities in Manhattan’s East Village, UES, Soho, Noho, Chelsea, LES, Tribeca, and Lower Manhattan, among others. It seems that the latest notable shift is onto Broadway below Canal (and a handful of blocks south, east, and west), where huge storefronts that not long ago housed cheap clothing and shoe stores are now galleries.

Marian Goodman now has an entire building at 385 Broadway near Walker. But the other big headline is another satellite of Jack Shainman Gallery in the Clocktower Building designed by McKim, Mead & White, from 1898, and originally the home of New York Life Insurance. It has nearly 30-foot high ceilings, with original marble columns and a massive bank vault door; stand-alone office cubicles dot the mezzanine. 

The space’s inaugural show, work by Nick Cave, seems to have demanded the new outpost’s acquisition; it includes Amalgam (Origin), a 26-foot high bronze casting that echoes his Soundsuit series. Related Amalgam sculptures created on a human scale are also on view, as well as an extensive series of Graphts—wall pieces composed of floral and souvenir map serving tray fragments, needlepoint portraits (including of Cave), and floral elements intricately collaged together by screws. Cave’s work is charged with many levels of meaning and symbolism, and the craftsmanship nears perfection. These latter-day treasures have found a proper temporary home in an architectural manifestation of capitalism. Shainman adds this to a portfolio of reclaimed spaces, which includes The School in Kinderhook, NY.

Favorite Books, 2024

Our Evenings, Alan Hollinghurst

Roman Year, Andre Aciman

Intermezzo, Sally Rooney

Colored Television, Danzy Senna

The God of the Woods, Liz Moore

Real Americans, Rachel Khong

The Editor, Sara Franklin

Table for Two, Amor Towles

Lucky, Jane Smiley

James, Percival Everett

After Annie, Anna Quindlen

Prophet Song, Paul Lynch

Playground, Richard Powers

The Work of Art, Adam Moss