New York Notebook, June 2024

Catherine Hurlin and Daniel Camargo in Wayne McGregor’s Woolf Works. Photo: Marty Sohl

 

ABT performed the company premiere of Wayne McGregor’s Woolf Works (2015) during its 2024 season at the Met Opera House. It was presented alongside weathered classics such as Romeo and Juliet and Swan Lake, and newer works such as Christopher Wheeldon’s Like Water for Chocolate (2023). With rare exception, it’s a formula they have followed for many years; kudos to them for adding a truly contemporary ballet—actually three differing, short ballets. If only it had more choreographic appeal.

I confess that McGregor’s choreography has not spoken to me over the years. He pushes already extreme artist-athletes’ bodies in superhuman ways, often distorting a split past 180º, kicking a foot out rather than simply extending it, and having the men energetically manipulate their female partners. Rather than creating fluid phrases that read like sentences and paragraphs, his choreography can come off as a series of one-word exclamations. And that’s tough when you’re faced with a long evening to fill.

Alessandra Ferri in Woolf Works. Photo: Kyle Froman

At least the sections of Woolf varied enough to feel like three separate works. The first, I now, I then, based on Mrs. Dalloway, received the most traditional treatment. It’s set among three large, revolving, abstract wooden frames that presumably mark the protagonist’s eras. Perhaps the most significant coup of Woolf Works, and the probable connecting tissue, were the performances of longtime (“retired”) ABT principal Alessandra Ferri, now 61 and the originator of two of the three lead roles in WW, partnered by the sublime Herman Cornejo. Her abilities are ideal—chiefly, a paradigmatic ballet line and captivating expressions of vulnerability and wonder. I also caught the cast led by Gillian Murphy (with Joo Won Ahn), who, while technically crisp, exudes too much efficient capability for such a sensitive character. Perhaps the narrative is meant as a general outline for stage action, but it's somewhat impenetrable given the scant program notes.

Becomings, the second act based on Orlando, discards any narrative. Instead, we see gender fluidity and same-sex pairings, and similar courtly costumes of gold lamé worn by both women and men, until toward the end, all are in flesh-hued leotards. The movement is largely hyper-expressionistic, suiting fearless dynamo Catherine Hurlin to a tee. But the main event is the laser show (lighting design by Lucy Carter), which is probably no big deal for Cirque du Soleil in Vegas, but at the Met, with ballet, breaks literal spatial barriers. Dancers’ bodies pierce a vertical plane of light bisecting the stage, creating an electric outline. Several horizontal planes beam into the house, above our heads, while clouds are projected onto them. It brought the stage into the entire auditorium, and garnered huge applause.

Spectacular, for sure, but these bold production strokes often made the dancers look shrunken and inconsequential. Several duets or small groupings were performed at the same time, making it difficult to focus. Some small ensemble passages—the women performing a simple port de bras phrase; the men lying on their sides—provided rare satisfying choreographic moments. It made me think on how, in the classics, a duet (like the pas de deux in Swan Lake) can command the entirety of the stage, fake lake or not, and why. Tuesday, the third act based on The Waves, contrasts the independent and childless lead (Ferri/Murphy) with her sister and her children, with their oddly literal frolicking. A magnificent slo-mo film of crashing waves (film design by Ravi Deepres) hovers overhead, once again belittling the small humans below (and grabbing attention), but conveying the recurring theme of water in Woolf’s work, and all the life-giving and -taking symbolism therein.

The score by Max Richter offers little in the way of a framework, with its cinematic feel—pulsating, crescendoing, repetitive. It provides an aural parallel to McGregor’s choreography, but nearly two hours of both turns out to be a stretch. You have to credit ABT for taking a flyer on Woolf Works, but its lack of legible substance in light of the evening’s inspiration disappoints. In the context of the rest of the Met season, it at least promised a lauded, contemporary varietal, but don’t be surprised if it doesn’t return.

Eran Bugge and Alex Clayton in Runes. Photo by Steven Pisano

In contrast, I saw two programs at the Joyce—Extreme Taylor. The slates offered some less mainstream or smaller scale earlier repertory by Paul Taylor alongside some chestnuts. Big Bertha is one of Taylor’s most egregiously shocking creations; a carnival automaton (Christina Lynch Markham, a notably dramatic dancer in her final run with the company) waves her wand to unleash violence and incest on a family. It exemplifies a highly dramatic subset of Taylor’s work that, without words, expresses radical societal behavior that simmers just beneath the surface—American Gothic on steroids. 

Lee Duveneck, Christina Lynch Markham, Eran Bugge, Kristin Draucker
in Big Bertha. Photo by Ron Thiele

Post Meridian (1965) and Duet (1964) are among his more rigorously modern dances, performed in color block or patterned unitards. They emphasize plastic experimentation and rigorous partnering, both examples of early Taylor choreography where there are no extra steps—models of economy and necessity. Private Domain (1969) combined spare phrasing with the simple dramatic device of downstage partitions (Alex Katz) that obstructed a viewer’s total stage picture, akin to the daily urban theater of peering into residential windows. In Runes (1975), Taylor added a layer of ritual (and fur pelts, designed under his alias), plus the timepiece of an orbiting moon. The sheer physical requirements of being a Taylor dancer hoved into view when Devon Louis, calm and solid as a tree, crossed and spun upstage bearing a woman pressed overhead.

Lisa Borres, Jessica Ferretti, Jada Pearman, Devon Louis, Lee Duveneck
in Post Meridian. Photo by Steven Pisano

Handel and Bach’s ebullient music drives both Airs (1978) and Brandenburgs (1988), respectively. Of Taylor’s “pattern” dances, the movement hews closely to the score, sometimes doubling or halving the tempo. And as lighthearted and buoyant as the dances read, they mandate incredible strength, stamina, and rehearsal drill time to appear so effortless. In particular, the corps of five men in Brandenburgs were synced like the atomic clock. Taylor’s mastery of entrances, exits and a satisfying variation in section dynamics were on full display.

Wayne McGregor has accolades in spades, but I continually wonder what I’m missing. Clearly my expectations from an evening’s work don’t overlap with Woolf Works. As his motor was the oeuvre of Virginia Woolf, I craved more narrative clues to link to her novels; longer program notes might assist, but the action onstage should be able to stand alone. More charismatic music also might provide support, and choreography to draw the focus to one primary passage on the vast stage peppered with groups. Taylor’s more intimate repertory delivered these things in a smaller setting, and from seeing his larger work on big stages, it scales up.

When I thought, “why am I watching this?” I couldn’t provide an answer during Woolf Works, other than Ferri making a hero’s return, and filling a slot with contemporary ballet. Is filling two hours too much to ask these days? One wonders where the rep goes from here, riding alongside than the old classics. 

Note: McGregor's work receives more stage time this weekend at Jacob's Pillow, performed by the Royal Ballet of London.

Thomas Adès—Composing and Performing with Friends

Polaris. Photo: Andrew Lang

Thomas Adès: Concentric Paths—Movements in Music featured four choreographers who set dances to pre-existing works by the British composer, produced by Sadler's Wells London and at City Center as part of the White Light Festival. The highlight—the composer played piano or conducted for all four works, with the Orchestra of St. Luke's and the Calder Quartet. Two veteran dancemakers were included—the ubiquitous Wayne McGregor, and Karole Armitage. But the revelations were the dances by Crystal Pite, who created a giant 264-limbed organism, and Alexander Whitley, whose velvety, muscular style captivated. These four dances and their requisite personnel—prime among them the composer, hard at work—make this scale of presentation a rarity. 

Pite's Polaris was easily the most popular piece on the bill, deploying 66 black-clad NYU students in mesmerizing shapes and formations, through which energy rippled and parted, like "the wave" done by fans in a baseball stadium, or magnetic filings being drawn to and fro. It is set to the pseudonymic 2010 composition by Adès, which includes a wondrous, yearning piano line, shades of a Bach symphony, and fractured notes coalescing into harmonic, organized order in the finale as the crowd looked up in anticipation, as if greeting ET's ship. 

In one scene, the dancers look like praying mantises, crouching low to the floor, elbows up; the insect evocation recurred in roiling swarms and mind-hive behavior. Kudos to lighting designer Tom Visser, who created an atmosphere of eerie moonlight and darkness, and Jay Gower Taylor's plowed-field-textured backdrop augmenting the alienscape feel. Pite's fluid and incredibly well-drilled piece would not be out of place on So You Think You Can Dance, or in an Olympics opening show, and it was a welcome addition on a highbrow slate.

The Grit in the Oyster. Photo: Andrew Lang

Alexander Whitley is a British choreographer who has spent time with the Royal and the Birmingham Royal Ballets, but whose work is rarely seen in New York. For The Grit in the Oyster, he chose Adès' 2000 Piano Quintet, which the composer played onstage with the Calder Quartet. Dancing were Natalie Allen, Wayne Parsons, and in particular the pliant and warm Antonette Dayrit, who led off and finished with an absorbing solo passage. Whitley's style is informed by ballet, but it's performed barefoot. At no point does any movement appear to be catalyzed simply for its own sake; the impetus arises unbidden and is carried through the dancers' bodies and limbs organically. It comes across as unaffected, muscular, and feline in its elegance and innate physicality. He frequently integrates floor work, building upon it with deeply planted lunges and triangular braced limbs; lifts include diamond- or scissor-shaped leg formations. The music begins with a dark piano line, and grows as all five instruments join in—fractured violin lines, warm cellos, darting rhythms, plucked and sawed strings. 

It's in contrast to McGregor's phrasing in Outlier (2010), which feels abound with random starts and stops. His ballet looks effortful and self-conscious, decorated with mannerisms and oddities. Adès' Concentric Paths violin concerto (2005) shocks from time to time with a seismic "boom" chord, threaded with keening or tumbling melodic lines. The dancers of McGregor's company wring the most out of his inside-out, hyperextended vocabulary but apart from its impressive athleticism, it fails to move.

The fourth work stands apart for its literary derivation: Armitage's Life Story (1999) which uses the same-titled composition by Adès and poem by Tennessee Williams. Ruka Hatua-Saar and Emily Wagner take the stage in front of Adès on piano and soprano Anna Dennis. The narrative ponders the aftermath of a feverish romantic encounter, apparent in the dancers' brisk flirtations and forthright exchanged gazes. Armitage injects wit and sassiness into the duet, which mirrors the character of the aria—vaulting octaves with free abandon in dialogue with the piano part, and in turn, in dialogue with the dancers. 

The Royal, Ranging Far & Wide

Natalia Osipova in The Dream. Photo: Bill Cooper

The Royal Ballet was in town after a decade's absence, presented by the Joyce Theater Foundation at the Koch Theater. The first program comprised The Dream, by Frederick Ashton, which is familiar to ABT audiences, who might also have felt a fleeting inferiority complex as Natalia Osipova danced Titania, as she also dances with ABT, but missed the last couple of weeks due to an injury. She fell here, eliciting gasps from what seemed like the entire Koch house, but seemed alright subsequently in this role that places fewer high technical demands on a ballerina than many of the classics. In any case, her impish charm and ethereal bearing supported the supernatural aspects of Titania. Matthew Golding danced Oberon with a compatible lightness (although he seemed confined by the stage), and Valentino Zucchetti the role of Puck, bounding into split jumps and lending the character some witty humor. 

Song of the Earth. Photo: Johan Persson

Song of the Earth, by Kenneth MacMillan, balanced out the program. This multi-part suite to Mahler, sung live onstage by Katharine Goeldner and Thomas Randle, utilizes a highly formal, inventive vocabulary that ranges from geometric to emotionally expressive. The simple costumes and lack of set elements (apart from some masks) and obvious storyline shifts the ballet's entire impetus to the dancers, movement, and music. Edward Watson (eloquent, if slightly early in his timing) danced the Messenger of Death, with Laura Morera (who moved with muscularity and great intention) and Nehemiah Kish in prominent roles as well. The exactitude of the steps and positions requires the dancers to rein in excess emotion; every carved step is meaningful.    

The second program offered a view of the variety in the Royal's repertory. Wayne McGregor's Infra is marked by a graphic set by artist Julian Opie, a horizontal video board with simplified images of people walking, hovering above the stage. The dancers below, in tops and trunks, mirrored the walkers at moments, and in between, wielded their bare gams in McGregor's brand of exaggerated balletic lines emanating from the pelvis, forced pointe shoe arches, and split developpés. The general chilliness of McGregor's aesthetic is humanized by the physical interaction and kineticism on display.

Edward Watson in Infra. Photo: Bill Cooper

An act of Divertissements followed, mixing in ebullient classical (Ashton's Voices of Spring) with its deceptively breezy looking one-armed lifts and skimming assisted grand jetés. Contrasting male solos followed—Borrowed Light (Alastair Marriott), an expressionistic romantic morsel; Le Beau Gosse, (Bronislava Nijinska), a humorous number featuring athletic poses and references; and The Dying Swan (Calvin Richardson), a robotic male interpretation of everyone's favorite ballet cliché. Wheeldon's duet, Aeternum, showcased Claire Calvert's enviable high insteps and arches, and Carousel Pas de Deux featured the charming tomboy antics of Lauren Cuthbertson and the suave, leggy Golding, looking a bit Chippendale, shirtless in a vest and scarf.

The Age of Anxiety. Photo: Bill Cooper

Most fascinating was Liam Scarlett's The Age of Anxiety, evoking shades of Jerome Robbins Fancy Free with its musical theater underpinnings, a Leonard Bernstein score from which the dance derived its title, and a first-scene bar setting. Seemingly taking place post-war, one woman and three men drink separately in a well-worn bar, eventually gathering and moving on to a swanky modern apartment, most likely the woman's (Sarah Lamb). They mix and mingle, taking turns pairing off with the woman, and the men with each other. The finale features one of the men, apparently elated by the imminent freedoms on the horizon, rejoicing in the city's golden dawn. With the city's upbeat mood from the Supreme Court's ruling for marriage equality still prevalent, it's hard not to think of Age as somehow prescient.

The second program was gratifying as it showed unfamiliar repertory. The choice to present The Dream is somewhat mystifying; even though it is well-liked here, and is a sensible balance, both aesthetically and length-wise to Song, it is maddeningly familiar. I also wish I could have a better acquaintance with the company's wonderful dancers (who aren't shared with ABT). May they visit sooner next time.  

Program alert: This fall through spring, the Royal Ballet will be featured in ROH Live Cinema broadcasts and will include classics (Giselle, R&J, repertory) as well as premieres of Scarlett's Frankenstein and a production of Carmen by Carlos Acosta.

Fall for Dance—Maturing, But Still Sweet

Vuyani Dance Theatre's Keaoleboga Seodigeng and Gladwell Rakoma. Photo: John Hogg

Fall for Dance has continued to evolve over the years. Less prominent are the super young crowds, the spontaneous whoops and hollers, and the programming that targeted these. The fare has become moderately more ambitious, less blatantly accessible, and the programs edited to run two hours or less (in early seasons, they were jam packed and exhausting in length). While the zazz and hysteria are gone, the festival is still a terrific sampling of dance from all over, at a reasonable ticket price. I caught three programs.

Black Grace, a troupe from New Zealand, performed two works choreographed by Neil Ieremia, displaying strength, precise timing, vocalization, and body percussion. The men, bare chested and muscular in Minoi (1999), embodied the fearsomeness that would surely rank them as dominant among humans. The women, wearing flowing slip dresses, moved more fluidly in the New York premiere of Pati Pati (2009); all joined in the ending. 

San Francisco Ballet's Variations for Two Couples (2012), by Hans van Manen, included Sofiane Sylve, in a welcome return to New York (in her prior time with NYCB, she exuded the glamour and fervor comparable to current company diva Sara Mearns), with Luke Ingham, Vanessa Zahorian, and Carlos Quenedit. The dance appealed in its simplicity and calm pacing to a varied and atmospheric medley of music by Britten, Piazzolla, and others. A simple straightening of a curved port de bras spoke volumes.

Two stars—Fang-Yi Sheu, lately pursuing independent projects, and Yuan Yuan Tan (a principal with San Francisco Ballet) performed Russell Maliphant's Two x Two (2009). A bit of an oddity well-suited to mature dancers looking for divergent dance vehicles, it was all about Michael Hulls' lighting—two distant boxes, with increasingly bright borders which illuminated slashing feet and hands. The women moved their arms and torsos fluently, writhed, and extended their legs on occasion, but with such eloquent dancers, it was a disappointment not to see more of their artistry.

It was kind of a big deal that Mark Morris' Words (to Mendelssohn performed live) premiered

Mark Morris Dance Group, Words. Photo: Ani Collier

at Fall for Dance, which primarily showcases tried and true works. It was the eve of the company's diverging tours to Europe and Asia. Morris explores the simplest of human moves in this work, punctuated by a silk drop carried cross stage to hide dancers' comings and goings. They wear multi-hued, unisex surplice tank tops and bermuda shorts (designed by Maile Okamura, a company member sadly absent from the stage for this performance), flattering to no one but satisfyingly functional. 

Morris' movement of course emphasizes the rhythms within the score, sometimes obviously, at other times playfully. Two men gesture conversationally; a pair of dancers take turns curving themselves in attitudes with arched backs around the other. Skipping and spinning looked novel and fun, as if we all might be able to hop onstage and join in, although Morris' dancers are experts at making it look easy. The dancers trudged and leaned on one another, exhausted children, or wound and rapidly unwound their legs, fluttering their hands. They swung invisible baseball bats, and formed lines and then rings of three, tossing their heads gleefully from side to side. Words will be performed by eight dancers on tour; 16 danced here, providing 16 interpretations of innocent pleasures.  

The third  program was all over the place, mixing genres, but feeling jagged and heavy in the process, in part due to the works chosen. South Africa's Vuyani Dance Theatre opened with Umnikelo (2011), choreographed by Luyanda Sidiya. This admirable troupe spares no effort toward gender equality, which is so far from classical dance's norm. The same shiny white tunics and pants are worn by all members, who have shaved or closely-cropped heads. When the company is not moving in unison, women partner men, lifting and suspending them in the air. The lead drummer is female, extremely unusual. The movement is an amalgam of modern, African, and martial arts, and one or more of the dancers at a given moment join in the vocalizing. While overly long for this program, the group was met with raucous applause in its choreographed ovation.

Sarasota Ballet's Nicole Padilla & Kate Honea in Frederick Ashton's Les Patineurs. Photo Gene Schiavone

If there could be a more jarring juxtaposition than shifting to Sara Mearns & Co. in Stairway to Paradise, I can't think of it. Choreographed by Joshua Bergasse (agh, Smash, you were too something for this world) this MGM number, with its nine Fosse-esque men giving us their best forced smiles and biggest jumps, features the uber ballerina—well, mainly her nonpareil gams, well-displayed in her tiny black costume with fringe and rhinestones, and capped by sparkly character shoes—stepping on the mens' hands, or being vaulted precariously in the air to be caught in various louche positions. Apart from looking fabulous, Mearns did appear self-consciously showy, which is not typical for her—or at least in this "please love me" manner. 

Trisha Brown's Son of Gone Fishin' was a tough piece to include in FFD; even for Brown fans, it's among her grittier works. Performed by her company, in a state of transition and uncertainty in the wake of her absence, it felt all the more urgent to appreciate its fleeting moments. But this piece in particular takes a certain state of mind, with its structure: A-B-C-center-C-B-A, and its fractured and at times irritating sound track. It left me impatient while trying to soak it in fully. It was another display of gender neutrality, which Brown has always put forth.
Peony Pavilion, by the National Ballet of China, with choreography by Fei Bo was an oddity. This version was adapted for the City Center stage, and focused on the lavish costumes—embroidered silk robes in jewel tones, or modernized interpretations—sheer silk with silver embellishments, and clean black and white costumes. I suppose it was gratifying to get a taste of the company, which hasn't been in New York in years. A glimpse is better than nothing, but it did seem a minor waste to see just 20 minutes of this work.

National Ballet of China_Zhu Yan and Zhang Jian_Photo by Liu Yang and Si Tinghong

The final program of FFD was another ambitious mix. Wayne McGregor|Random Dance's Far started it off with real drama—four women held flaming torches to light a couple's first several minutes of dance, exiting one by one as the stage lights warmed. To a soprano aria, it felt intoxicatingly romantic. The work extended into several more sections of groups and pairs, lit inventively in a matrix of light squares, or a wash of silvery light. McGregor pushes and tweaks the classical language expressionistically, pushing arches and developpés ever deeper, sending waves through torsos. The music (by Ben Frost) grows snarling and harsh, with wild animals tearing through now and again. I can't decide if it's a utopian or dystopian vision of future ballet.

Pontus Lidberg was commissioned by FFD to create This Was Written on Water, a duet for two of ABT's newer principals, Isabella Boylston and James Whiteside, to music by Stefan Levin for a live string trio, and will become a part of Lidberg's upcoming film. Dance is but one creative element for Lidberg, who designed the falling-leaves decor. Harriet Jung and Reid Bartelme, who just performed with Lar Lubovitch last week, created the costumes, which included an elegant jade dress that fits Boylston like a glove. The movement was fluid and pretty, particularly on these two clean-lined dancers, but apart from a flexed foot or half cartwheel, felt fairly unremarkable, and more generic than Lidberg's ground-hugging passages seen in Within.

Aakash Odedra supplied the requisite indigenous dance on the bill. A variation on Kathak, Nritta was distinguished by rapid spins, loud stomps, rising on his bare toe tips, and space-eating stage crossings. But the main attraction, and festival closer, was the Sarasota Ballet in Les Patineurs (1937) by Frederick Ashton to music by Giacomo Meyerbeer. It's been awhile since this ballet has been seen in New York. The clever adaptation of skating moves—chassées, spins, backward chugs, even humorous falls—to ballet remains irresistible and innovative. The sets and costumes, by William Chappell, add confectionary appeal, and the young, fresh-faced dancers performed sparklingly. It was a delectable and memorable close to yet another Fall for Dance.  

Ailey—Pleasures and Lessons

The Pleasure of the Lesson. Photo: Paul Kolnik

At this point, the Ailey company has more active repertory not by Alvin Ailey than by the company's founder. It has become one of the world's larger commissioners and remounters of contemporary dance, by default. One of the season's premieres, The Pleasure of the Lesson, is by Bay Area-based Robert Moses, who also created the score with David Worm. It was performed in the company's Koch Theater spring season.

Moses knows how to craft handsome stage compositions. The dancers arrange themselves in columns, ovals, and lines both parallel and at 90º angles. A woman, lying on a raft of men, rolls atop them and is subsumed by bodies on occasion. In a repeating series of funky lifts, the women sail upward with limbs askew. There's a lot of new stuff to look at, plastically speaking.

The five female/male couples, clad in Jon Taylor's hot- or flesh-colored pieces—panel skirts, short for the women, long for the men; shoulder shrugs, halter tops—were bathed in similarly warm-hued lighting (by Al Crawford). The score varies between sounds, rhythms, and spoken text, most of it unintelligible, and therefore transformed into frustrating background texture. If its meaning underpinned the movement, it was lost in space.

Jacqueline Green in The Pleasure of the Lesson. Photo: Paul Kolnik

Midway through the dance, when the group coheres and does a kind of ritualistic stamping and heel-rocking phrase, I realized that until then, the movement was a series of stop/start poses and sculptures. It was less fluid dance than snapshots—gifs—linked together. This thought was only reinforced while watching Ailey's unavoidable, yet continuously rewarding Revelations—specifically, "Sinner Man," which is the finest section of this condensed anthology of the choreographer's work. Sure, it's one bravura move after another—leaps (Sean Aaron Carmon, sleek as a dart), multiple spins (boy, can Kanji Segawa spin), layouts—but they surehandedly flow across the stage as cursive from a pen. It's simple to take for granted this masterwork from its ubiquity, but it continues to mete out profound, and yes—pleasurable—lessons about the craft.

Rounding out the bill was Wayne McGregor's Chroma, in its second season with Ailey. It worked better at City Center where the shadow box set fit more tightly within the proscenium, and where the audience sits closer to the stage so the dancers are more visible and accessible in this somewhat remote, often dimly-lit piece (that is, when it's not lit bright white). The mostly berry-hued spaghetti strap camisoles are still problematic, at least for the men, and their thigh-joint length chops the dancers' lines in half. McGregor's style might be suited better to ballet-dedicated bodies, as it felt lacking in crispness, if imbued with power. But it remains an interesting curatorial choice. And a note on Jacqueline Green, who performed in all three dances, and who is fast becoming one of the most thrilling dancers in this top-level troupe.

Ailey—Celebrating Matthew Rushing, and 3 Premieres

Aszure Barton's LIFT. Photo: Paul Kolnik

Ailey is like a big ocean liner, steaming along, impervious to swells, waves, sharks, and other crazy things in the water. Likewise, it's so big that it's not easy for one person to change its course, even if that person is Artistic Director Robert Battle. But the effects of his hand on the wheel can finally be felt after a couple of years. The Dec 22 evening program featured three new works, and not a revelation to be had (repertory-wise, that is). It included Wayne McGregor's Chroma, Aszure Barton's LIFT, and a classic from Bill T. Jones, an excerpt from D-Man in the Water.

LIFT checks off pretty much every item on a theoretical "Ailey commission wish list." Dramatic chiaroscuro lighting (by Burke Brown). Rhythmic drumming akin at times to a pulse (by Curtis Macdonald). Shirtless men whose muscles gleam in the (see #1). Women dressed in beautiful halter dresses with rippling fringed skirts (by Fritz Masten). Everyone in gold chokers. Large group sections of hopping, like a show of strength in a celebratory tribe, a refrain of which ends the piece. Various sections of shifting tempo and dynamics, from [previous item] to a unusual deliberate duet by Linda Celeste Sims and Jamar Roberts in which they cross the stage while continuously touching. While Barton doesn't create many connected dance sentences, she has a good sense for what provides maximum dramatic effect. Add to this the stunning visual impact that this beautiful company possesses, and the result is affecting and powerful.

Home, by Rennie Harris. Photo: Paul Kolnik

Chroma, originally done in 2006 but new to Ailey, is quite a contrast. McGregor's style—rippling torsos, thwacked splits, everything pushed—adds a new note to the Ailey canon. It  fit the more balletic dancers best, such as Sarah Daley. The music by Jack White and Jody Talbot ranges from visceral rock to more tempered violin + piano. It's rare to see such a completely overhauled set at Ailey: John Pawson designed a white box with curved seams to eliminate sharp corners, and a punched-out rectangle to provide most entrances and exits. Lucy Carter's lighting design shows just how far white can be pushed, from subtle warm gradations to eerie ice blue. The multi-hued unisex camisole and trunk costumes by Moritz Junge worked better for the women; the spaghetti straps looked too delicate on the men.

Bill T. Jones' D-Man premiered on his own company in 1989, but this tribute to then-company member Demian Acquavella, who died of AIDS, has retained as much vibrance and freshness as its Mendelssohn score. The cast showcased the high energy Kanji Segawa, who I hadn't yet seen so prominently featured. The only drawback is that Jones' own company remounted the piece recently at the Joyce, diluting the impact of its remounting after so many years.

On December 17, company veteran Matthew Rushing was celebrated in two of the company's keystones, Grace and Revelations, plus a medley of excerpts from Pas de Duke, Love Songs (both choreographed by Ailey), and Home. We were assured in a pre-show speech (by either Judith Jamison or Robert Battle—were two speakers necessary?) that Rushing isn't retiring, that he's simply being honored. And deservedly. No one has a finer internal acceleromater, which leads to a great economy of movement, nor greater precision, nor inner drive. Even what might be construed as a flaw—not "selling it" to the audience by smiling or making constant eye contact—comes across as humility. With this in mind, Rushing looks least natural in Pas de Duke, with its Vegas showboating and shiny costumes, and most comfortable outwardly expressing inner emotion in Love Songs to Donny Hathaway's gorgeous rendition of "A Song For You." 

As one of many men in Ron Brown's Grace, he looked like a man setting to some serious work, and along the way discovering wonder and moments of, well, grace. In Rennie Harris' Home, Rushing read as the 16-year-old he was when he started with Ailey, skipping and strutting in circles around the cast. A lovely bonus came in Revelations—the recently retired Renee Robinson guest cameo'd as the woman with parasol. It was one instance during the evening when spontaneous applause wasn't directed at Rushing, and proved the loyal Ailey audiences take pride in treating the dancers like family.

The tyranny of pointe shoes

Ready, aim, fire: Australian Ballet's Kevin Jackson and Lana Jones in McGregor's Dyad 1929. Photo: Lisa Tomasetti

There are many reasons to be infatuated with ballet, but one major element has become a double-edged sword—the use of pointe shoes. Yes, they elevate the dancer off the floor for a weightless look; they make for sleek lines and endless weaponry/spider metaphors; spinning on them looks effortless and just plain cool; and they're usually pink and shiny. But as much as I have affection for them, I think they've fostered a sort of modern day tyranny over ballet.


Choreographers seem obsessed with using them, even when there's a lot of running, or work not on pointe. (I'm always fearful that a dancer will slip; occasionally one does, and it's nearly always because of the ludicrous lack of traction from walking or running, flat-footed, on pointe shoes.) Obviously traditions within the classical repertory, such as Swan Lake (which ABT performs this week), demand their use, but it is surprising to me that so much new choreography utilizes pointe. It is the one choice that will automatically dictate many things within a ballet, more than the music or story.


For women dancers, it will implicate many of the standard steps done to emphasize the line on pointe: pirouettes, fouettés, developpés, arabesques, attitudes, and the thrilling fast chainés or piqués. Even the smaller steps are made extra refined, such as tendus, échappés, and standing on pointe. I won't deny that these lines are superbly elongated and pleasing. At the same time, it will vastly inhibit a dancer's ability to run, walk, corner, and change direction. This reluctance will be diminished as much as the dancer is able, but she will be reticent about these simple human moves.


It will induce the choreographer into more traditional role casting. For the guys, this means more partnering women in pirouettes, which leads to making very pretty poses in arabesque on relevé, with the man always behind, shadowing and supporting the woman. Which leads to dips and tilts where the toe shoe is the only point of contact between the woman and the earth, dragging the woman on the box of her toe shoe, then little lifts, then big lifts through splits, or overhead. It's a predictable menu of actions that limits artistic expression, even as it produces the desired traditional effects and predicates gender and psychological determinations.


Then there is the issue of technique. We in New York are spoiled brats, seeing the very best of the world's ballet dancers all the time, and whining about how there's too much to see. This means Osipova, Copeland, and Murphy at ABT, and Peck, Fairchild, and Mearns at NYCB as our usual fare. These women are basically superheroes, making this gritty, tough work look like swinging in a hammock. But not everyone is Tiler Peck.

The complicated process of physical selection, the mastery of dancing on pointe at a standard of world-class excellence, plus the ease of global travel and dissolution of nationalistic tendencies, has allowed the finest dancers to become our home-town heroes, but these standards are ridiculously high.

The world's leading companies make it their business, for better or worse, to prove themselves on New York stages; the Australian Ballet recently showed how excellent its dancers are. But there are many smaller companies, including local ones, that perform here regularly, and often the toe-shoed women are simply not up to expectations. But it's that omnipresent ideal—tyranny—of the pretty ballerina on pointe that provokes this backlash. It's a choice the choreographer makes, in a way reflecting the seductive gloss and promise of Ballet. 


One work presented by the Australian Ballet instigated this post: Wayne McGregor's Dyad 1929 (which I reviewed for Dance Magazine). The women changed from pointe shoes to soft slippers as the piece went on, except for one. This shift was not some major dramaturgical fulcrum: to me, it emphasized that traditional expectations need not be fulfilled in order for work to have artistic merit. And was a subtle statement on the future possibilities of dancing at times in soft slippers, which opens up so many options. Now that so many women are as athletic as the men, why not let them back down to earth once in awhile so they can show us?


Note: Here's a fascinating video on pointe shoes, featuring NYCB's Megan Fairchild. It's a reminder of the time and material resources consumed by the prevalence of the iconic shoes. They estimate that principal dancers use a pair a day, which must include breaking them in (these somewhat barbaric rituals include slamming the boxes with doors, and using files to increase friction), sewing ribbons and elastics, and getting them to conform to one's feet, or vice versa. Just the management of shoe inventory alone is a major task.