2019's Notables

David Byrne and friends in American Utopia. Photo: Matthew Murphy 

PERFORMANCE

American Utopia, Hudson Theater
If you're like me, do you avoid Broadway? Loud music? Overly enthusiastic crowds? No matter, do not miss this show if possible. David Byrne’s sui generis music, Annie-B Parson’s joyful movement, and an energetic, dedicated cast produce one of the best shows in memory.

Houston Ballet, New York City Center
Excellent rep choices for New York, including Mark Morris’ crisp and vibrant The Letter V. And a good showcase for a top-notch company that we don’t see enough.

New Goldberg Variations, Joyce Theater
In a breakout year for Pam Tanowitz, New Goldberg Variations finally made it to New York’s Joyce in full, and did not disappoint. A perfect evening of pure movement, with Bach’s music played sublimely by Simone Dinnerstein, gorgeous costumes by Reid Bartelme/Harriet Jung, and creamy/vanilla lighting by Davison Scandrett.

One & One, Baryshnikov Arts Center
Vertigo Dance Company, based in Israel and led by Noa Wertheim, presented this work, in which the theater’s floor gradually became covered in dirt.

Michael Trusnovec in Pam Tanowitz's All at Once. Photo: Paula Lobo 

Michael Trusnovec and PTDC moving on
You’ll finally stop hearing me rave as much about Michael Trusnovec, because he retired from Paul Taylor Dance Company this year. However, he’ll reprise Taylor’s solo by Balanchine from Episodes at New York City Ballet this spring, if you missed it at the PTDC gala program.
     About a half-dozen additional PTDC dancers retired from the company, whose evolution is fast-forwarding more than a year after Taylor’s death. The change is probably overdue but the delay, understandable. A smart, bold departure under Michael Novak's direction—to add New York performance runs in smaller venues—the Bach Festival with Orchestra of St. Luke's at Manhattan School of Music, and this summer, a slate of early crunchy Taylor pieces at the Joyce, danced by a slew of young talent.

ART

Agnes Denes
A deserved museum-level survey of this pioneer, yet ignored, environmental artist’s work. It  also validates The Shed’s visual arts program, which until now seemed a bit like an expensive extension of the Chelsea art scene.

BOOKS

Underland, Robert Macfarlane
It’s a bit too neat to parallel this non-fiction essay collection to last year’s amazing Overstory (by Richard Powers), but it makes you think about everything underground, probably for the first time. Each chapter treats a totally different subtopic. Truly mind expanding.

Ninth Street Women, Mary Gabriel
This tome looks at the undersung careers of women artists connected to, and mostly left out of, the oppressively macho Ab Ex movement starting in the late 1940s, including a few whose careers were subsumed by their male partners. Lee Krasner, Grace Hartigan, Joan Mitchell, Helen Frankenthal, and Elaine de Kooning.

American Woman, Susan Choi
This 2004 novel captures the desperation and loneliness of being a fugitive from the government, and the thrill as well. I read this because Trust Exercise, Choi’s lauded 2019 novel, had such a long wait list at the library, and am grateful. The latter book is worth a read as well; it’s completely different in tone and experimental structure, revolving around a theater company. 

The Power Broker, by Robert Caro

Okay, I finally read this 1974 monster on urban planner Robert Moses, and it was worth it. Now, moving around the city, I think about his negative and positive impact on the metro area constantly, and how extensive and deep his power ran. Scary and enlightening.

TV


Jane the Virgin
There were many series I watched that came to an end this year, but this was the saddest departure. Gina Rodriguez (Jane), luminous, hilarious, and relatable; Jaime Camil (Rogelio), somehow incredibly self-absorbed yet lovable; Ivonne Coll (Alba), the wise and stern moral compass of the show, whose lines were mostly in Spanish. Structuring it after a telenovela gave it license to be completely over the top while giving audiences the head-snapping plot twists, including serious themes and the all-important nucleus of the daughter/mother/grandmother.

SPORTS

New York Mets
Yeah, they didn't make post-season, but it sure was fun to watch the new kids anchoring this team now, especially Pete Alonso, Jacob deGrom, Jeff McNeil, JD Davis, and Michael Conforto. Real reasons to say "Let's go Mets."

Taylor + OSL + Bach

Michael Trusnovec in all at once. Photo: Paula Lobo

Most of us don’t want to think about mortality, but let’s face it—we’re all human. Paul Taylor Dance Company is no doubt keenly aware of this now. It is moving forward under the plan structured while Taylor (who died last year) was alive—to showcase older classics by his peers, and to cultivate younger modern choreographers while keeping his substantial repertory vibrant, creating a kind of continuing dialogue and context for the importance of Taylor’s work. This larger project is called Paul Taylor American Modern Dance.

There’s another twist this year—the rescheduling of the main PTAMD season to Oct/Nov at the Koch, and the addition of three, all-Bach spring programs with Orchestra of St. Luke’s in the 2019 OSL Bach Festival, performed at the uptown Manhattan School of Music. (OSL performs music concerts at other venues.) Add to the mix the long-dreaded retirement of the peerless Michael Trusnovec after the OSL season, plus the exit of Parisa Khobdeh, Michelle Fleet, Sean Mahoney, Laura Halzack, and Jamie Rae Walker after the fall PTAMD season, and it’s a tectonic shift in a company that reveres tradition and longevity. Until the PTAMD project began in 2015, the troupe relied on strict programming formulas for its long season—up to 20 dances by Taylor, with three to a program; the dancers listed by tenure.

Paul Taylor's American Modern Dance — A Platform Tilts

Michael Trusnovec and Parisa Khobdeh in Polaris. Photo: Paul B. Goode

What Paul Taylor's American Modern Dance is attempting to do—recognize gems of modern dance and commissioning new work, while staging a regular season of Taylor's dances—is still in its infancy, but this season, some strong threads emerged, at times interweaving the performed works. A nod to Martha Graham came with the Taylor dancers performing her Diversion of Angels, and essential modern vocabulary evoking her style (for which Taylor was a paradigm) popped up in rep. And the new external commissions nodded at Taylor's influence, particularly by the classic Esplanade, which was performed as well. 

It bears repeating—PTAMD's annual three-week New York season remains one of the perennial protean feats of dance. The dancers are heroic—obviously in a physical sense, performing 20 dances—but mentally, keeping all that repertory fresh and at the ready. In the city, even the country or world, perhaps only New York City Ballet and ABT can compare, breadth-wise. But those are much larger troupes, dozens and dozens of dancers, rather than a spare 16. The Orchestra of St. Lukes provided vibrant live music for much of the repertory, under the direction of Donald York, a longtime company collaborator. 

PTAMD's 2016 three-week Koch Theater season added for the company the twists of two external choreographer premieres, plus two Taylor premieres and the performance of a Graham dance. (Dayton Contemporary Dance Company also performed Donald McKayle's Rainbow 'Round My Shoulder from 1959.) Because the Elkins used vocabulary new to the company, there was most likely not enough time for the dancers to become fluent in the quirky style, which derives directly from his body. Keigwin's Rush Hour was ultimately in a more polished state, simply because Larry's style is more forgiving. This also has been demonstrated, with great success, in his dances for crowds, including non-dancers. As for the Elkins, my hope is that if—when—The Weight of Smoke is performed again by PTAMD, then Doug will spend time with the dancers in workshops and rehearsals to immerse them in his brand of movement.

Spindrift, featuring Michael Trusnovec (with a cast from a previous season, including
Michelle Fleet, Annmaria Mazzini and Rob Kleinendorst). Photo: Paul B. Goode  

Casts for Esplanade (1975) rotated within a season for the first time in memory, keeping it fresh and giving repeat viewers some added interest. George Smallwood hops with smart snap; Rob Kleinendorst takes over the spot that Michael Trusnovec has been dancing for several years, which includes a duet with the ever silky Eran Bugge in which she walks on his stomach and legs. In this season, as noted, it takes on great prominence as a source work for the external commissions, as both Keigwin and Elkins have acknowledged its influence, which can be traced through their respective premieres.

Original costumes for Mercuric Tidings (1982) have returned—hot pink and white ombre instead of royal blue, giving the devilishly difficult dance a warmer and lighter feel. They don't change the crisp pace or crystalline structure, punctuated by artful tableaux. Polaris (1976) remains one of Taylor's most conceptually intriguing dances, with its movement repeated with different music and lighting (music by York, reconceived this year; designs by Alex Katz). Is the movement in part two actually more aggressive, or is it the music and the moodier lighting making it feel so? Questions of memory and perception abound, and the way in which dancers replace one another one-by-one feels like a parable of the slowly-phasing makeup of the company.

Spindrift (1993) parallels Beloved Renegade (2008) in that Trusnovec stars as an outsider—in this case, a stranger who perhaps washed ashore, speaking a different movement language than the natives. He crawls like a footless tadpole, wending between all of the dancers' legs. For this piece, Taylor struck a particularly inventive, quirky vein; for Trusnovec, repeated crossing of limbs and pivots on the knee, for the chorus, funny frog-like jumps and leaps. The movement generally evokes the animal world, replete with its naivete and sweet curiosity. In another precursor to Renegade, Laura Halzack breezes on and off periodically, a kind of spirit keeping watch over the interloper, who is eventually welcomed into the fold.

Madelyn Ho and Michael Apuzzo in Sullivaniana. Photo: Paul B. Goode

In a solo, Trusnovec does a slow pirouette and unfolds a leg with his torso tipped back, arms in a vee. It is reminiscent of Aureole, and of Martha Graham, whose Diversion of Angels the Taylor company performed this season. The Graham is a natural fit, and these dancers feel more relaxed than the Graham company, which seems to value tension as a tool. It's also the first instance of the Taylor company dancing a classic work not by Taylor, alongside the season's two premieres by working external choreographers. But many of Taylor's dancers could step right into the Graham Company and be fine. Khobdeh, in particular, is radiant in a red gown and long hair, but it's her dynamism and gutsy tilts that are so affecting. 

Taylor's second season premiere is Sullivaniana, a nostalgic theatrical piece set inside a lit proscenium (designs by Loquasto), indicating a show-within-a-show. The women wear brightly colored flouncy dresses and character shoes, the men gaudy three-piece plaid suits and bowlers. The first part features missed meetings and lonely singles; new company member Madelyn Ho looks beyond the stage for company. (This polished, petite dancer adds another twist to potential lift choreography; she is light enough for the company's strongman, Kleinendorst, to do a one-handed press with her.) Eventually dancers pair off, which quickly leads to an impromptu (if still decorous) orgy mid-stage, before things wind down as they began, with Ho alone. It speaks to a recurring theme in Taylor's repertory, of the restless beast lurking beneath social niceties. The music, by Arthur Sullivan (of Gilbert and), comprises largely bright orchestral arrangements including some familiar, and less so, sections.

Rush Hour. Photo: Paul B. Goode

The second external commission is by Larry Keigwin, who is adept at moving large groups of people in organized, intricate ways. Rush Hour is no exception, in which all 16 dancers cross the stage with urgency, intersecting paths, spinning, and interacting with others. Running is a staple, echoing Esplanade. But the overall feel is urban modern, with gray and black leotards by Fritz Masten, and chiaroscuro, misty lighting by Clifton Taylor, to a filmic score by Adam Crystal. Unlike Elkins' quirky melange of steps, Keigwin's vocabulary is more straight forward, and looks more at ease on the Taylor dancers, who are sleek and cool in a way we've not seen before. Both of these dances also evoke a look and feel that Taylor would most likely not create, and in that sense, they work to complement the repertory. 

Profiles (1979) returned. It is unique—a quartet (Trusnovec, Halzack, Michael Novak, Bugge) that is shorter in length than most of the rep, and is thus paired in an act with a polar opposite, the vaudevillean Snow White (1985). Profile's two pairs appear heroic in the choreographer's "flat" style that resembles figures on a Greek urn. The movement is slow, deliberate, and muscular, with inhuman assisted springs by the woman to the man's shoulder and chest. Hands form fists until the final moment, when Halzack uncurls her fist and places her flat hand on Trusnovec's proferred palm. It's a heart-stopping gesture to close a quiet, powerful dance.

Trusnovec, always magnificent and stronger than ever, returned as the lead in Promethean Fire (2002), with Parisa Khobdeh. While some of the elegiac depth with which it was imbued at its premiere, shortly after 9/11, has faded with distance (as has, it should be said, our raw sensitivity to the massacre), it remains a profoundly moving work that contains a few gestural passages that remind us of its timestamp. In one, Kleinendorst hoists Bugge overhead, paralleling ascension, and in another, salvation, when Trusnovec rescues Khobdeh from a heap of bodies. This gesture takes on the specifics of a relationship, besides making a general statement of survival and rebirth. Another factor of the dance's power is the music, by JS Bach. It's seriousness and pomposity have made it fodder for satire. But paired with the velvet-clad, interweaving bodies of the dancers, and magnificent crescendos and quiet moments, it finds its match in gravitas and elegy.

Orbs. Photo: Paul B. Goode

The repertory included Orbs (1966), an oddity in form (a two-act dance) to music by Beethoven, whose first-act costumes (Alex Katz) resemble Star Trek uniforms plus suave pleated, butter-hued gowns for the women, and in act two, prim wedding garb. The dance wends its way through planetary seasons and earthly rituals, including a marriage, overseen by Sean Mahoney representing a double-faced Sun and a priest. Katz's elegant gold arc shifts positions throughout. As with so many of Taylor's dances, this feels hermetic—delineating a world of its own, with a community coming together and breaking apart.

All the major and minor shifts mean dimensional growth for the repertory and for the dancers. They handled these challenges with aplomb; one wonders how much more they could manage. Perhaps future seasons will furnish even more tests as the platform of PTAMD continues to define, and redefine, modern dance.   

Some Old Things Are New Again at FFD; NYCB's Stylish Premieres

Michael Trusnovec and company in Paul Taylor's Brandenburgs. Photo: Paul B. Goode 

Has Fall for Dance lost its steam? Or has the novelty worn off after a dozen years of mixing and matching divergent troupes?

The program I caught featured Compania Urbana de Dança of Brazil, Fang-Yi Sheu and Herman Cornejo, Houston Ballet, and Paul Taylor Dance Company. Part of the attraction of the festival is being exposed to types of dance you might not see very often. CUD's louche, fluid style (choreographed by Sonia Destri Lie) derived from street dance is at first a refreshing change from canonical techniques, as seen in Eu Danço—8 Solos No Geral. Performing against the exposed upstage wall, with striking raked lighting, emphasized the urban atmosphere. It was when the dancers began making movements most often associated with, say, ballet—a leap with spreading arms—when the vocabulary felt like a foreign language for the performers.

I'd seen Sheu and Cornejo do a beta version of her Pheromones at Works & Process last year. In its more fully fleshed out version, it carried a little more heft, but had shed some of the hungry experimental feel. If it made little lasting impact, how can one complain about seeing two of the most magnetic dancers perform together? Houston Ballet brought 10 dancers, rather than the two or three often employed by large companies at FFD as a way to participate, yet keep down costs. They performed Stanton Welch’s Maninyas (1996), to music by Ross Edwards. The dancers entered from upstage, passing under hanging fabric panels which skimmed over their upthrust fingertips. The couples, sorted by costume colors (the women, on point, notably wore split skirts which they flung about their legs like can-can dancers) performed a variety of duets, from romantic to confrontational. The movement hewed closely to the music’s rhythms to the point of predictability. But it was a substantial glimpse of a company with accomplished dancers.

Taylor, Bright and Dark

Michael Apuzzo in Sea Lark. Photo: Whitney Browne

With Paul Taylor, you never know which side of him will come through in a new work—pensive, elegiac, romantic, dark, crazy, or joyful, to name a few. Sea Lark had its New York premiere by Paul Taylor's American Modern Dance on Wednesday at the Koch Theater, and it falls into the joyful category. Taylor conspired with artist Alex Katz, who designed the set and costumes, to give us a slice of sun, water and sand during the tail end of a wicked cold snap. It's all about the setting, and less about movement invention or deep narrative.

The boat is actually seaworthy looking—capable of holding four, it has a single operating sail (and hidden wheels). The 10 dancers (mainly Francisco Graciano) push it back and forth, marking the passage of time. In the first part, a bright yellow cyc and a foot-high bright blue wavelet provide the dancers with a narrow lane in which to move. Parisa Khobdeh, in a dotted crop top and neon orange shorts, frolics in the shallow surf, doing a back walkover. She is hauled into the boat with a lifesaver, more play than survival. The men wear white sailor pants and fitted primary-colored t-shirts. Dancers pair off; one couple is flirtatious, another boyishly antic. Michael Novak and Christina Lynch Markham compete like athletes on Venice Beach; Michael Apuzzo shows off his biceps and a back handspring. Poulenc's music (Selections from Les Biches) is bright and delineated in broad strokes, suitably cartoonish for this romp. 

Michael Trusnovec and Laura Halzack in Beloved Renegade. Photo: Paul B. Goode

In the season's second premiere, Death and the Damsel (admit it, his titles have always been pretty great) to music by Bohuslav Martinu, he went pitch black. Jamie Rae Walker, whose blond bob and girlish stature are shorthand for innocence and optimism, wakes up in an apartment, as seen in Santo Loquasto's Broadway-scale mural of a fractured cityscape. In her pink gingham sundress, she skips, rolls, does fouettes, makes funny bicep displays. But she falters as black-clad characters infiltrate the stage, foremost among them Michael Trusnovec in Loquasto's trim biker pleathers. The others are dressed like vampires going to a ball, with high collars, long coats, and all sorts of straps and head gear for the women. The music, until then a crisp interplay between cello and piano, starts to blur, and we've soon fallen completely into a dream sequence.

The next scene is backgrounded by a painted drop of a "Dance Club." The darklings conspire, clutching shoulders and circling ravenously, or inch-worming across the stage. Trusnovec and Laura Halzack waltz with deliberation, as if to impersonate people. He casts his spell on Walker, and she's in thrall to his powers, giving in like a rag doll. She awakens, only to be spun to the floor, her legs snapped open like a lobster cracker in a shorthand for rape. Each of the men take turns. (Once again, I found myself wondering, in fact hoping, if Mark Morris, in the house, would shout "No more rape!" He didn't.) If that weren't enough, after Walker rises, stunned, she's slapped by Halzack, evoking audible gasps from the audience, and is mock hit and kicked repeatedly.

Cut to the next scene, in front of Chrysler Building details. Halzack has now bewitched Walker, and they drift through a prolonged duet in slo-mo; the darklings lurk slowly nearby. The cello and piano lines weave tightly. Walker regains consciousness and defeats her demons abruptly, signaling victory.

If the desired effect was shock, Taylor succeeded. He has never shied from the depiction of terrible violence or madness. Is the work about dealing with dark psychological states? Or simply an expression of a dislike for nightlife? Maybe both. Like many of his narrative works, it is as much theater as dance. Its overtness and baroque sensibility, however, weigh heavily.

It didn't help that it followed Beloved Renegade (2008) on the March 13 program, perhaps the most recent truly great work in the company's rep. This tops the list of dances to benefit from live music, played this season by the Orchestra of St. Luke's (here with St. George's Choral Society and soprano Devon Guthrie). The recording that Taylor had previously used always sounded particularly canned, but played live, Poulenc's Gloria gains a needed immediacy and shimmering delicacy. You feel that Taylor was inspired, even frightened, by the idea of a poet (Trusnovec) facing his mortality, and every moment he's onstage, we're reminded of it. How he is a distant observer of playful humans, how fate (embodied by Laura Halzack) guides him unerringly and brutally, how he at last wholeheartedly embraces his peers—his life—during goodbyes. 

The finale on both of these performances was Esplanade (1975), another career high point that benefits immensely from the Bach score played live. It is often remembered for its gaiety and exhilaration, but the dark sections demonstrate how Taylor has ingeniously expressed inner turmoil. The broken family whose hands only hover near one another. The human animals, on all fours, trudging in an unending circle. It's capped by the exuberant ending, following the stage equivalent of a series of pool party cannonballs, now led by Parisa Khobdeh. Michelle Fleet bidding us a warm thank you and goodnight.

The company's season, now with works by Doris Humphrey and Shen Wei, continues through March 29.

Humanity in the Machine

Michael Trusnovec in Banquet of Vultures. Photo: Tom Caravaglia

Marathon Cadenzas, the second season premiere for Paul Taylor Dance Company, evokes the carnival glossed nefariousness of Taylor's Big Bertha (1970) and Oh, You Kid! (1999). Those dances also come to mind when seeing Santo Loquasto's gorgeous atmospheric light string and pennant set, recalling those sultry summer nights in smalltown America where the unexpected is to be expected. The costumes define the characters by type—sailors, middle aged, vamps (which seems to be the only shading for women other than average); wigs and hairstyles play a larger than usual role.

The dance, to Raymond Scott's antic music, depicts old fashioned dance marathons. Sean Mahoney plays the white suited ringmaster inured to the dancers' suffering. He could be interchangeable with a tent preacher, snake oil salesman, or for that matter, choreographer. (Taylor's To Make Crops Grow, which preceded Marathon Cadenzas on Thursday's program, featured a similar figure in the form of Rob Kleinendorst.) Round and round the  dancers go, until they drop from exhaustion. Pullout duets and solos punctuate the monotony; Michelle Fleet, in a sleek jumpsuit, jitterbugs frantically. Sailors James Samson and Francisco Graziano toss off heel kicks and other gee-williker moves. Laura Halzack swivels her hips and bevels her feet, and gets pawed by the emcee. Finally, a depleted Michael Trusnovec wins the contest in a woozy, comic number, in which every move is rubbery, and possibly fatal. As Mahoney forced the weary dancers to keep going, I could only think of the company working tirelessly in the studio to prepare two premieres and 20 other dances for our viewing pleasure.

This season's premieres seem to have found Taylor in a nostalgic mood, reflecting on his role as an artist within the tight context of his de facto family. Seeing Mercuric Tidings (1982) and Arden Court (1981) on consecutive programs drew attention to a particularly fertile spell for abstract dances chock full of movement invention and extreme physicality. Mercuric Tidings contains devilishly quick, filigreed footwork sustained for long periods, and explosive movements that regularly punctuate the proceedings like mini fireworks. Like so many of his dances, it also has several breathtakingly lovely tableaux that crystallize out of nowhere. Arden Court is back in the rep after a deserved rest; it was last performed in New York by the Ailey Company. When it was last in PTDC's rotation and performed frequently, it was easy to take for granted the imaginative time shifts and the seemingly simple lift in which the woman locks her legs around the man's waist while pulling her torso apart from his to form a human tree. Seen anew, these small inventions are far better appreciated.

George Smallwood, Francisco Graziano, Rob Kleinendorst, and Sean Mahoney in To Make Crops Grow. Photo: Jamei Young

Two dark revivals featuring Trusnovec are reminders of how dark and sardonic Taylor can be. Banquet of Vultures (2005) is barely lit (by Jennifer Tipton) and Trusnovec, in his dark suit and red tie—the uniform of ruthless power—appears out of nowhere, ghoul-like, hell bent on utter domination of the soldier minions. His on-point timing and precise positions, the tautness with which he draws his upstretched arm like an arrow, and when he crosses his arms on his chest, tilts his head back, and channels some divine power all work to terrifying effect. The stygian setting is augmented by Morton Gould's glowering score. 

I'd forgotten how funny parts of Dante Variations can be. This study of frustrations is one of Taylor's dances that parcels out solos or duets showcasing the dancers' characteristics. The piece begins with the dancers forming a pyramid shaped tableau of still, torqued bodies; as the wheedling Ligeti organ music starts, they pulse with it, inert beings come to life from the underworld. Trusnovec whirls and darts in his quicksilver way, showing the curving arm shapes and off-kilter stances that comprise the vocabulary. Rob Kleinendorst is at his funniest, dimly aware of a length of toilet paper stuck to his foot. Laura Halzack's knees are inexplicably tied together, as are Aileen Roehl's wrists. Trusnovec and Eran Bugge face off in an angry duet, formidable foes warily circling the ring like scorpions preparing to strike. The dancers return to their sculptural tableau, hell refrozen over.

Every dance company's members develop as individual, and Taylor's moreso than many, given the huge scope of his oeuvre. On Sunday, a version of From Sea to Shining Sea (1965) acknowledged this by inviting alumni onstage for a sloppy group hug of a performance. A handful of current dancers were joined by dozens of recent and vintage departures, including Carolyn Adams, AnnMaria Mazzini, Heather Berest, Orion Duckstein, Hernando Cortez, Rachel Berman, David Parsons, Senta Driver, and current rehearsal director Bettie de Jong. Many were unrecognizable in the motley costumes which ranged from bathrobes, circus gymnasts, Super Mouse, Miss Liberty, land masses, pilgrims, etc. Lisa Viola in particular, with her surgical comic timing and blank facade, reminded us of her glaring absence. The pageant was more about sentiment and the institution than choreography and dance, which happened to bind everything together.

Fibers (1961) provided another look back at the company's roots. Two men (Kleinendorst and Michael Novak, a ringer for a young Taylor) and two women (Aileen Roehl, radiant and pliant, having a break-out season, and newish Christina Lynch Markham) become sculptures themselves with costumes of colored straps, pads, masks or face paint, and bas-relief piping, by Rouben Ter-Arutunian, also the designer of the stunning, rainbow-hued tree-like set. Taylor danced with Martha Graham, whose influence might be found in the work's Kabukian drama, stillness, sculpted poses, and the use of spacious, at times tumultuous music by Schoenberg. On a program preceded by Sunset and followed by Troilus and Cressida (Reduced) and Mercuric Tidings, we saw the full range of the choreographer's visions of poetic romance, seminal modernism, slapstick comedy, and precision machine. Mercuric Tiding is so airtight, and its speed so unforgiving, that, like a Formula One engine, it might explode with one misfire. And yet watch closely, and you can see Trusnovec slide his hands along Halzack's arms in the gentlest of gestures before once again hoisting her overhead. There is humanity in that machine.

Paul Taylor Company—0 to 60 and Back Again

Cloven Kingdom, the perfect gala dance. Photo: Paul B. Goode

Paul Taylor opened its 60th season last Tuesday at the Koch Theater, but there's little time to celebrate this momentous milestone. Yesterday at a press conference, the company announced plans to restructure, and by this time next year we should be seeing Paul Taylor's American Modern Dance performing its first season. 

This reincarnation of the current Taylor company anticipates the choreographer's eventual (but not currently planned) retirement. Work by other modern choreographers will be performed alongside Taylor's impressive oeuvre; the alien works—commissions and existing rep—are sure to be acquired slowly, so the programming probably won't be radically different at first. The release says: "To best showcase masterworks, they will be danced by legacy companies or artists trained in the signature techniques of the choreographers show pieces are being presented." Taylor was reluctant to name companies (and to speak, in general; if he were not a man, he'd be a clam), although Martha Graham popped up, and Merce Cunningham in the context that it might not be possible to perform his work.

Another interesting tenet says that live music will be used "where intended by the choreographer," and/or when possible. This addresses the one consistent criticism of Taylor's six decades of seasons, including by the union—the use of recorded music, which is an understandable compromise, faced with survival. What this means in practical terms is, again, yet to be determined. But in an impoverished dance climate, it is heartening to think of opening up this one-artist institution as a repository for modern dance, while maintaining Taylor's oeuvre.

To help finance this transition, four Rauschenberg artworks in Taylor's personal collection will be auctioned off in May, to raise an estimated $10 million. A representative from Sotheby's was on hand to speak about the specifics. One piece is a mixed media "combine" from 1954; another, Tracer, from 1962, includes a bicycle wheel and was made for the Paris Opera Ballet. Two additional 2D works round out the sale. You can't help but think about the trend of cultural organizations considering the sale of artworks to prolong the life of the institution. But in this case, apparently the Rauschenbergs have been in storage, and might never be seen otherwise. And it stems from personal relationship wrought in the nascent modernist movement of mid-20th century New York—reaping what was sown.

Sunset. Photo: Paul B. Goode

As for the current season, the company looks sharp, with some relatively new faces. Cloven Kingdom (1976) remains one of the gems in the rep; it opened the run, and was included on the gala program last night in a shrewdly sardonic bit of scheduling. As the tux and gown clad gala-goers took their seats, the curtain raised to reveal a parallel universe of fancily dressed women with shiny accessories (albeit mirrored objects on their heads) and men in elegant white tie tuxes behaving alternately like pouncing beasts and society swells, moving to a potent mix of classical music and tribal rhythms. The fact that it was being performed in the David Koch Theater, with its namesake in attendance, only contributed to its pungency.

Sunset (1983) followed, a gentle, if bittersweet paean to a bygone time of chivalry and military service. Each element fits perfectly within the whole—Alex Katz's mint-fresh set, Elgar's lilting string music augmented by the sound of loons, and Taylor's reductive, lyrical mode of movement in which even difficult feats are made to look effortless. Its undercurrents of war casualties and muffled male romance emerge, but never weigh down the mood. Guest artists Tiler Peck and Robert Fairchild danced a duet from Airs (1978). As you might expect, they added some speed and height to the more technical elements like jumps and hitting shapes, and rendered it with a far lighter—airier—touch than the grounded Taylor dancers. 

Piazzolla Caldera (1997) is an oddity in the repertory, with its stylized interpretation of the tango tied to Kronos Quartet's interpretations of Piazzolla's tunes. It dawned on me that in two programs, I hadn't yet seen one of Taylor's "pattern" pieces, often set to classical music, but that Piazzolla Caldera actually contains a fair amount of group traffic exercises and patterns that bind together a series of solos and duets. Michael Trusnovec slices and slips his way through his opening solo and duet with Michelle Fleet, making the tango feel truly dangerous, and in a section with Rob Kleinendorst, the contrast between a warm Eran Bugge and the cool Laura Halzack clicked nicely.

On Tuesday, the company performed Dust (1977). Made a year after Cloven Kingdom, but lacking its sociological and kinetic incisiveness, it features the visual punch of Gene Moore's set—a thick, twisting column, like Jack's beanstalk—and costumes, flesh-hued unitards with blobs of color. Black Tuesday felt like a retort to Cloven Kingdom, with its Depression setting and roster of characters either succumbing to poverty and loneliness, or finding the brighter side. The absence of Parisa Khobdeh (out with an injury) and her current role as the company comedienne and daredevil was felt strongly here. Christina Lynch Markham handled the "Big Bad Wolf" solo ably, while Heather McGinley continues to make her mark as a memorable presence (flame-colored hair doesn't hurt). The season continues through March 30.

Michael Trusnovec Returns to the Dark Side

Michael Trusnovec in Banquet of Vultures. Photo: Tom Caravaglia

The Paul Taylor Dance Company begins its 60th season at the Koch Theater on Tuesday March 11, presenting nearly 20 dances over three weeks. One of the company's—the world's—finest dramatic and technical dancers, Michael Trusnovec, answered a few questions about revivals in which he is featured prominently (in addition to a majority of the other season repertory).

Ephemeralist: I believe that Banquet of Vultures and Dante Variations were among the first dances Paul choreographed featuring you in the lead role (although correct me if I'm wrong.) How is it to return to them after several years?

Michael Trusnovec: It's always incredibly satisfying to revisit a role that Mr. Taylor’s tailor made for you, especially when they are some of the earliest important roles I feel Paul made specifically FOR me. These two are such richly satisfying, physically and emotionally demanding dances—which I love! For me, time away from a work gives an opportunity to come at it with a fresh perspective—with a deeper, and often different, understanding of the character I’m inhabiting. And, years of life and performance experiences definitely affect the way my body and mind approach and respond to the choreography.

Dante Variations. Photo: Tom Caravaglia

E: You are at your scariest in Banquet, in which you paint a searing portrait of evil. How do you psych yourself up for the role—kick puppies?

MT: 
I am not a method dancer—I don't usually need time to inhabit a character before the dance begins. With the disturbing and very dark works like Banquet of Vultures and Speaking in Tongues, I think I start to zip into the role and focus my energy on its demands when I am dressed in the costume, I hear the audience hush, the music begins and the shadowed lighting comes up—it’s as if a switch flips inside me. In rehearsals, I always make good use of that time to be sure I have a very specific understanding of who I am and what my purpose is in the work so that when I get to the stage, everything comes together naturally in an unforced way.

E: Dante is also a somewhat darker dance. It includes a swirling, fast virtuosity that is one strong characteristic of your abilities (among others). How much do the choreography and music push you, technically and/or emotionally?

MT: For me, in all of Mr. Taylor's dances, the emotion, character and story, are built into the movement; it lives in the music. All I have to do is be present and tap into it.

E: Any other thoughts on the rep this season?

MT: The astounding breadth of Mr. Taylor's repertory never ceases to surprise and thrill me, especially as we head into a season filled with masterworks spanning the 60 years of this incredible company of dances and dancers. I feel so honored to be a part of the history, and of the future, of this great modern dance organization.

Dante Variations. Photo: Tom Caravaglia

Notes on PTDC's 59th Season

Eran Bugge and James Samson in 3 Epitaphs. Photo: Paul B. Goode

Notes on the 2013 Taylor season, in the books, comprising 21 dances in 3 weeks at the Koch Theater, where it apparently far surpassed last year's attendance. The process of collaboration seemed more important than ever, particularly the designs of Alex Katz, lit by Jennifer Tipton.

Strongest impressions:

• Le Sacre du Printemps (The Rehearsal): the perfect mix of styles both serious and playful; substance; and technique.
• Lost, Found and Lost: ennui + elevator music, with a vocabulary built on boredom, to brilliant, coma-inducing effect.
• Beloved Renegade (2008): perennially sublime, with crystalline performances by Michael Trusnovec, Laura Halzack, and Amy Young; on my Top 5 PT list.
• 3 Epitaphs: the best Neanderthal dance ever, and casting the 2 most lyrical women (Halzack and Heather McGinley) is hilarious, alongside the quintessentially graceful James Samson, Eran Bugge, and Francisco Graciano.
• Cascade: some simple, sublime moments of tenderness between Trusnovec and Michelle Fleet, as when their outheld arms cross. 
• Promethean Fire: the epitome of high classicism and conveying emotion through form and minimal gesture. Parisa Kobdeh shows her noble, serious side alongside Trusnovec; Samson/Young duet is affecting when they pull powerfully against one another.
• Scudorama: suits, fruit-hued unitards, mysterious blanket monsters, and sanctimony add up to a sort of Cold War, modern dance hyper-Americanism. Sean Mahoney's best role.
• Last Look: if all darkness and edges, an important collaboration in the season, with major contributions by Alex Katz's disco-house-of-horrors designs. Trusnovec's otherworldly fluidity in his Jamie Rae Walker-leaping solo underscores his utter confusion.
• Speaking in Tongues: a terrifying star turn by Trusnovec, who could easily brainwash us if he so desired.

Michael Trusnovec and Laura Halzack in Beloved Renegade. Photo: Paul B. Goode

Premieres:

• Perpetual Dawn: a lovely, romantic, serious work; the Loquasto backdrop and costumes and Tipton lighting are key to the aromatic pastoral quality
• To Make Crops Grow: another strange, memorable entry into Taylor's movement theater canon

Enduring:

• Esplanade: have stronger choreographic bones ever been made?
• Company B: easy to take for granted as it is a constant on NY stages, but perfectly captures that era in American history, and the tension between daily joys and war 
• Junction: quirky, formal, quiet, with musical hijinks
• Musical Offering: an in-depth study of a specific vocabulary, patterning, and musicality
• Brandenburgs: a solid gem with the peculiar equation of 5 women, 3 men

Containing rediscovered gems:

• The Uncommitted: remarkable invention in entrances/exits and fleeting melancholy 
• Offenbach Overtures: another sui generis work within Taylor's oeuvre, high comedy and a distinctive visual scheme by Loquasto/Tipton. Khobdeh hilarious.

Graciano, Khobdeh, and Trusnovec fly in The Uncommitted. Photo: Paul B. Goode

The Company:

• While there is no ranking system within the company, a good deal of emphasis is placed on tenure. "Survival of the fittest" applies here, so the longer you remain (and stay healthy), the more you are cast, and prominently. 
• I've run out of words to praise Trusnovec, the finest interpreter of Taylor since I've been seriously watching the company. 
• Kobdeh is daring, funny, foxy, and deeply dramatic.
• Samson, due to his size, is often typecast, but he makes the most of these paternalistic male roles, imbuing them with a kindness and amplitude, and overturning expectations with his stealthy grace
• On the flip side, Graciano is also typecast in many young roles (in fact, he plays Samson's son on more than one occasion), but can dazzle with verve
• Young, a consistent, lyrical, ideal presence, assumes many of the Amazon or independent women's roles
• McGinley not only has balletic qualities, her natural radiance consistently draws the eye
• When Halzack first joined, it is understandable why Taylor became enamored of her lovely leg extensions; they're almost like a timestamp on his choreography (see Beloved Renegade, The Uncommitted). Her private quality give her an aloofness that is a robust tonic to many of the company's extroverts.
• Eran Bugge, if she were in baseball, could be described as a "five tool player." (A good thing.)
• Michael Novak has a refinement and physique that will serve him well at PTDC.
• George Smallwood, new guy with a long resume, brings winking charm, earthiness, and Broadway chops
• Jamie Rae Walker's adds lightness, lucidity, and precision

The season was another impressive demonstration of the depth and totality of Taylor's output, and the incredible physical and mental capabilities of his company and organization. Onto the 60th.

Katz, York, Tipton, and Taylor—Timeless Collaborators

Lost, Found and Lost. Photo: Paul B. Goode

Katz, York, Tipton, and Taylor. It's not a law firm, but they have defined some reliable rules about making good dances together. I caught some during the second week of Taylor's spring season that runs through March 24. 

Lost, Found and Lost was created in 1982, but its inspiration came from material for Events 1 of 7 New Dances originally done in 1957. What's 25 or 31 years between inspirations when you're Paul Taylor? It's an appealing concept—use non-dance movement such as poses and expressions of ennui, set to elevator music by Donald York—but can it live up to its promise? It far exceeds it, aided in no small part by Alex Katz's swanky, humorously bedazzled black unitards, mesh half-veils, and one colorful shoe for each of the 10 dancers, set crisply against a vacuum of a white, augmented by Jennifer Tipton's vanilla ice cream bath.

Apart from James Samson and Parisa Kobdeh, who are at first situated like energetic poles up and down-centerstage, the dancers stand in contraposto, weight poured into one hip which supports a propped fist. Arms fold, heads droop, posture caves. The dancers walk as if going from the kitchen to the couch, and then lie down like they're watching tv. They bumble and shuffle into a neat line, and you think, aha! He's finally getting to the structured part of the dance! But then they pivot diagonally upstage to stand not just in line but on a line, probably at the DMV from their attitude, peeling off one at a time as York's soaring Muzak medley fills the air. 

Last Look. Photo: Paul B. Goode

Katz, York, and Tipton collaborated with Taylor on another revival performed last week: Last Look, from 1985. Like Lost, Found and Lost, it's another dance that demonstrates the importance of each element. Katz created a forest of mirrors, lit in shades of gloom by Tipton. He dressed the dancers (whom we first see in a big old pile) in louche, disco era, sherbet-hued satins accessorized with rhinestone bracelets and foot jewelry. To York's frenetic score, hey shake, bounce, and careen around, not connecting despite trying. Are they celebrating, or grieving? Michael Trusnovec stares in the mirror, seemingly horrified at what he sees, yet unable to tear himself away despite trying.  

These two 80s dances capture that moment of decadence and debauchery without feeling the least bit dated. Taylor has the gift of making dances that are timeless no matter what era they're depicting. 

Taylor—Enduring Romance, Sacrifice, and Oddities

Michael Trusnovec and Laura Halzack in Le Sacre du Printemps (The Rehearsal). Photo: Paul B. Goode

Was it a stroke of clever programming or serendipity that paired Paul Taylor's premiere of To Make Crops Grow back-to-back with Le Sacre du Printemps (The Rehearsal) (1980) on March 8? Sacre is a wonderful example of Taylor's "archaic" style, and one of my favorites. The broad, cartoon tone and flattened shapes drape a deceptively simple veil over the serious technical and formal challenges, not to mention the melodramatic plot. The structure is a twist on the old "show within a show" ruse, involving a dance company in rehearsal, a baby-napping, a wrongly accused thief, and a crime syndicate's exploits. The three duos that form the chorus (clad in proletariat-grey leotards and head scarves), and the lead couple, are given an extended passage of utmost difficulty—the women leap onto their partners’ shoulders with a bent knee, or spring off the mens’ chests, or step onto a shoulder. The men whip the women in windmill lifts, done swiftly enough to blur their features. 

Michael Trusnovec (a detective) and Laura Halzack (the mother of the ‘napped baby) may or may not be a couple; chivalry and communion always bubble under the surface in Taylor’s work. John Rawlings' graphic sets and costumes underscore the comic book punch; two cops carry an abstracted jail cell in front of Trusnovec, who later simply snaps two of the bars off in a jailbreak. Emotions are expressed in shorthand gestures; Trusnovec rubs his thigh to express concern, Halzack presses her bageled fists to her ears in distress. A hilarious, precisely choreographed knife fight led by stooge Jamie Rae Walker results in a pile of bodies, including the sacrificial baby, which Trusnovec has already used to steady a cartwheel.

George Smallwood, Francisco Graziano, Rob Kleinendorst, and Sean Mahoney in To Make Crops Grow. Photo: Jamie Young

The answer to the putative title question of To Make Crops Grow is simple: offer up one trophy wife in the form of Parisa Khobdeh. This premiere is more theater than dance, in the manner of 2012’s House of Joy. In a twist of genres, it connects this branch of his work to some Judson concepts where anything can be dance, even moving a field of rocks into an offering pile. James Samson makes a convincing farmer dad, with Heather McGinley his wife and Walker and Francisco Graziano their kids, while a slick May/December couple (Khobdeh and Michael Apuzzo) and their daughter show up, among others. Enter Kleinendorst (Ritual Conductor) who dons a freaky feather headdress and makes everyone pick a slip of paper to designate a sacrifice for the crops in a cross between Sacre and The Hunger Games. It’s a strange work that shares Taylor DNA with dances like Big Bertha and Oh, You Kid!

It shared a program with Sacre and two other early dances that defy category: Junction (1961), which plays with tempo and plasticity, and Three Epitaphs (1956), in which a remarkable depth of expression, especially by the masked Samson, is achieved through various exaggerations of those classic steps, the slump and trudge.

Perpetual Dawn, the other season premiere, is a lush, romantic dance to music by Johann David Heinichen (1683—1729), a contemporary of JS Bach. Santo Loquasto’s earth-hued costumes evoke a country social and his set, a painted pastoral landscape, takes on remarkably different versions of dawn—blue, pink, golden—depending on James Ingalls’ sylvan, moody lighting. The vocabulary Taylor uses here is relatively balletic, lending an air of formality to the unrushed pace. A recurring motif: a dancer freezes with one bent leg extending and flicking from a slightly backtilted torso, arms angled at 90º, and steps into a bent-kneed attitude. It’s an exclamation point in a dance otherwise filled with lyrical ovals, loops, and seamless fluidity.

Amy Young and McGinley play an intriguing game of charades (anyone know what clues they were signing?), and Graziano and Eran Bugge gently spin one another on a bent leg. Trusnovec and Halzack dance a gentle, private duet that ends with them seated in pinwheels; he pulls her close in a hug. Michelle Fleet does a bit of her Esplanade pit-a-pat running, seeking perhaps Michael Novak, with whom she finally dances. The curtain closes as the silhouetted dancers lope in endless figure eights. Romance endures. It’s a lovely ending to a gracious, intoxicating dance.