By Stephanie Unger
On a crisp, late June evening, Cohort 3 of the Saint Mary’s MFA program presented their current projects in a concert entitled “Imprints.” The title alone lead the viewer to believe that the show would have an introspective quality, while also hinting at the dancemakers’ quests to make a lasting impression on the audience (or even the world). Each piece displayed a great amount self-exploration and glimpses into hardships that have been overcome and joys that have been experienced by these so varied creators. All of the pieces were solos or very small groups, which even further emphasized the personal quality of this multimedia concert.
Multimedia performances have become very popular (and, dare I say, necessary) as dance continues to seek new audience members and to keep up with the times of the digital age. Dance film, elements of film, layering many types of art…these techniques are exciting and fulfilling as an artist. Dance itself has a way of crossing and melding theater, visual art, and music but with personal self-expression that only dance possesses; dance can pull the audience into the emotions of the artist. For “Imprints,” each piece drew the viewer in even further by using multi-media elements.
“Autumn Qi,” a film by Hilary Snider, was the first performance of the evening. The film opened with a sepia-toned shot of the choreographer, dressed in an Amazonian warrior-like costume, dancing near a textured statue. Whether the statue was aged from saltwater or the effect was the sculptor’s intention, the effect of this site-specific prop and the costume choice amplified the dystopian feel of the film. The austere music playing in the background was a perfect choice for the mood, desolate and forsaken.
Hilary’s program notes state that the film explores two contradictory historic events on San Francisco’s Treasure Island: a K-8 school that operated for many years on the island, and the irradiated land that is still a hazard from past nuclear waste at the Navy base. In addition to the Treasure Island history and legacy, Hilary layered in text from a novel inspired by California’s failing school system. These inspiration points share a feeling of ideals and potential that were never reached. To tell this story, Hilary uses dance, film manipulation, music, and spoken word.
Scenically, the audience is taken on an ambitious journey. We see signs warning of asbestos, fingers intertwined in chain-link fence, the gentle waves of the San Francisco Bay. We see the dancer balancing, teeter-tottering, running up stairs, repeated moments of billowing acid green fabric, repeated shots of silent screaming. We see a movement vocabulary of broad sweeping reaches and round contractions dotted with staccato accents. These motifs were repeated and cycled at a rapid speed that was difficult to keep up with, which added to a feeling of being overwhelmed and confusion that perhaps developed from the inspiration points.
This build-up and frenetic energy had a welcome breaking point near the end of the film. In a striking shot, Hilary mimicked the position of the statue by gently outstretching her arms with palms turned to the sky. This moment of reflection was desperately needed after so much activity and sensory explosion. The camera retained its feverish shakiness as it panned out to reveal vibrant purple flowers along the ground, perhaps an indication of positivity for the future.
The film left the viewer with gorgeous imagery, a desire to learn more about Treasure Island, and perhaps the need for a moment to catch our collective breath. The choreographer/director has given the audience so much information to process that the focus of the piece may not be clear in one viewing.
The second piece, “Kaleidoscope” by Stephanie Brumer, also used film as it opened with a projection of collected family photos. The music was layered with the sound of children playing and birds chirping, which gave a feeling of nostalgia and joy when paired with the slideshow. Since the choreographer’s program note indicated that this piece was about being a mother as well as an artist, the audience was primed to delve deep into Stephanie’s personal world.
The film ended rather abruptly and stage lights came up to reveal four dancers. Since three were costumed in rust-colored tunics and one in beige, it was apparent that the dancer in beige was a different character from the rest. She danced first, moving her arms with hands akin to traditional Thai dances, and then each dancer followed with a solo of their own.
These solos felt like introductions. The movement vocabulary was jazz-influenced, full-bodied, and dynamic but still delicate. After each dancer finished their individual part, the rest of the piece fell into a pattern of ripples and group circles, each time slightly different from the other. The choreography is rich in diversity, full of texture and movement with grand, sweeping arms, but the structure of the piece became predictable.
When the lead dancer collapsed in a tired pose at one point, it became clear that she was the “mother,” but it was unclear if the other dancers were to represent her children, students, or perhaps other abstract aspects of her life. All of the dancers had the same movement quality, so other than the lead dancer’s moment of exhaustion and slight difference in costume, it was hard to differentiate one character from the other.
Since the choreographer noted that this piece was an “investigation of the daily struggle” of juggling so many hats as well as the connection of inner and outer self, I expected there to be more conflict. The moment that brought this idea to life was at the very end of the piece. As the three other dancers gathered around the lead dancer and then shifted to line up behind her, the intention that these other characters or forces both surrounded her and became part of her was cleverly presented.
The incorporation of film with dance continued with KJ Dahlaw’s “This is my Body. This is my Blood.” In this piece, KJ explored identity-searching topics related to self-acceptance. The piece used a single dancer (the choreographer), a continuous video projected in the background, music, and spoken word to tell the story. KJ’s piece began with a pair of ornate, red doors on the film screen. The audience was, metaphorically, pulled behind those closed doors to witness an exploration.
KJ entered the stage, dressed in white, and grabbed and swiped at their body. During this movement, images of water played on the film --- perhaps indicating that they were trying to wipe themself clean, to be pure --- presumably purity of self. The movement shifted to hiding, feeling ashamed. The film showed a pile of dirt, perhaps indicating that the character felt dirty, maybe even worthless like dirt. These images of dirt, water, the door and imagery that followed continued to complement the choreography and text in portraying the artist’s message.
The following movement section expanded upon the spoken text. When we heard “This is my body, but it is not broken,” KJ’s movement became very capable, a show of what the body can do. When we heard “I need not be ashamed,” KJ’s arms opened wide, exposing themself. Then when “Not born to sin,” was spoken, KJ appeared captured and impaired as they moved in a circle on the ground, one arm trapped underneath their body.
The stage lighting shifted, and KJ was bathed in red. On the film were images of blood rushing through the body. Then, blood on the hands, blood on KJ’s face, blood on KJ’s nude body. Their movement began to feel out of control. They were falling, unable to stand.
The exploration and self-acceptance changed from those of the individual to a collective history. The text spoke of “whiteness” --- which could be interpreted as either race or to mean purity --- but when we hear mention of “ancestors” and images of mass graves, the message could be interpreted to be struggling to accept the sins of white ancestors such as genocide, the Holocaust, and slavery.
KJ ended the piece standing at the center and very end of the stage, with arms outstretched in offering. The image of water was again in the background, a suggestion to washing oneself clean of these burdens. KJ’s emotive face suggested hints of exhaustion and relief, but more of being in the process of finding acceptance.
Another piece that hinted at self-acceptance was next. “The Arc of the Storm” was the second offering of the evening from choreographer Hilary Snider. The piece tells the story of the choreographer’s spine --- from a car crash in early youth to scoliosis as a teenager --- with some of the movement being inspired by artwork by Frida Kahlo.
The piece began with a dancer lying on the floor and the sound of wind. She brought her hands to her body, moving upward in a ladder fashion from her belly, mimicking how the vertebrae are stacked inside the body. The wind sounds transformed into live, layered horn music. The music sounded forlorn, which cast that emotion on the presented choreography and perhaps further explains the choreographer’s relationship with the state of her spine.
As she stood, her movement was very linear and straight. She began wriggling out of control until another dancer confronted her at the opposite side of the stage. They peered through circles made with their hands, spying on one another, mirroring each other. Their movement had a push and pull of energy, or maybe even time.
The second dancer’s movement was hoppy and shaky with flexed feet, giving the impression of being “broken.” This dancer continued a slight difference of movement quality throughout. If it was intended for her to show a transformation in character or ability or a different part of the story, perhaps that choice could be more boldly shown.
As the dancers resumed mirrored movement, they executed classic body-half movements, which was perhaps a play on the asymmetry of the choreographer’s body because of a curving spine. They moved in a mix of togetherness and separateness, unison and complementary movements, showing two versions of the same person. With a rippling spine, the echoing musical accompaniment fell away and the first dancer was reaching back, looking back, in a moment of reflecting upon the events that changed her. She made contact with the “broken” dancer and physically manipulated her into a pose, which could be viewed as the first dancer reclaiming control of how the body is used. However, directly after that moment, dancer #1 begins pulsing and gyrating, falling apart, and the message became muddled.
Even if the story wasn’t crystal clear, it may not need to be. The images and movement, especially when paired with the unique music of a live trombone, were memorable and impactful. In the very last moments, the dancers turn upstage, holding hands in orange light ---creating a picture of lasting unity.
The next piece focused on the bond of a married couple. “Waist high in the (we)eds,” a straight-forward dance film by Summer Logan, told the story of a husband and wife who lead individual lives but still rely on each other for support and love.
The film began with a blurred shot of a man’s hand brushing long, uncut grass which faded into layered shots of a man and woman seated in the same weathered wood chair in the middle of a field. Two diagonal, intersecting lines were cut into the grass on either side of the chair, representing their separate but converging paths. The woman danced while seated and standing on the chair, moving her hand as if to hold someone around the back. The music was sad and full of longing. Her hands were limp; she is forlorn.
With a shift of energy and a slight change in the music, the film changed to capture multiple scenes of the man and woman slow dancing together. The overlap effect showed that these are happy memories or fleeting moments. The choreographer captured the couple’s support for one another: the woman jumped into the man’s arms, they leaned on each other. Rays of sun were captured into the camera lens; the couple was framed by angelic light.
Then, the film returned to the woman dancing on the chair, finding her balance. Her movement reverses, which results in some lovely choreography. Perhaps this is her solo life: forwards and backwards, day in and day out, all essentially the same. The couple walked along the same path at different times in overlaid camera shots. As the film ends, the woman’s hand brushed the grass --- another allusion to their parallel lives. The feeling as the film ended was gloomy; are they happy when they are apart? The film ended suddenly which was disappointing; the structure was beautiful and the interactions so sweet that the audience could have watched more of their world, even in other settings.
Where Summer’s film was simple and direct, the next piece was simple and complex. Ashley Mott’s “second-most recognizable” began with a projected quote. To paraphrase the quote, this point of inspiration is our inner demons that lay dormant until given a reason to speak up.
A single dancer --- the choreographer --- sat on the stage. She was turned away from the audience, costumed in a top that reveals all of the muscles of her back. She moved from one tortured position to another: wringing her hands, rubbing her sacrum, rocking herself in turmoil. Everything she did was done slowly and purposefully. This is a dancer who is very gifted at the dramatic aspect of holding a moment for maximum implantation in the brains of the viewer. The tone was somber, the movement sparse --- like watching a painting come to life. She used strong effort but made little movement.
She placed one hand down on the ground deliberately, fingers splayed. It is a seemingly simple movement. She traced the fingers as if to leave a memory of herself. She pressed the hand down, making sure it has staying power. Arriving to a standing position was a struggle, and even upon standing her body was in an extreme upper body contraction. Even the simplest gesture took a ton of effort; she is exhausted.
Ashley repeated tracing the fingers, this time as she held her hand in the air. She then brought the traced hand to her heart, as if to remember herself, remember who she is. Her arm rose above her head like a noose and her body flopped as if she was hung --- as trite as this may seem, it was done in a very poetic fashion. When she repeated the tracing of the hand a third time, it is clear that she is displaying an obsession. This piece is most likely interpreted as an investigation of mental health and the fragile boundary between well and unwell that many people traverse.
The imagery of this piece included many sculptural moments before Ashley moved fluidly to the next movement. It would be nice to see if this piece develops further, perhaps to show the character in a more manic state with a very different movement quality. Another area of potential development could be to incorporate the projection of the inspiration quote at a different point in the piece, or throughout the piece. Once the dancing began, it was easy to forget the text that was flashed on the screen.
The final piece of the evening was “4th Wave: Narrated by…” by Emily Denham. This piece started with a dance film and spoken word that was then spread out and repeated throughout the piece. The poetry that was read, from Rupi Kaur’s Milk & Honey, tells a powerful metaphor of city versus country to describe a woman’s perspective of self-worth. Combined with the choreographer’s program note, which was a quote from Virginia Woolf about defining womanhood, it seems that the piece circles around feminism and women’s position in society.
As the camera panned over a rocky coastal scene, two dancers, both dressed in white, came into view. The audience was then introduced to two motifs seen throughout the piece: the mouth in an outstretched position, and a gesture of the hand over the mouth and then rubbing the belly. In the film, the dancers pulled flowers out of their mouths and used the motif gesture to rub bright paint onto their white clothes. This could be seen as their words ruining an image of perfection; outspoken women who smash stereotypes.
Stage fog began to pour from the upstage wings to start the transition that brought the dancers onto the stage, now performing live instead of on the screen. In the live dancing, the pair danced a duet that showed many contrasts, falling and then gathering themselves before embracing. Their movement was often labored and slow with audible breaths.
When the dancers were repeatedly apart and then together, the message got a bit muddled. Perhaps they are stronger together, supporting one another. When one dancer became jittery and struggled, the other calmed her. At one point, one of the dancers broke free into a solo that seemed slightly more exuberant, but what was she trying to say? To end the piece, the dancers comfort one another and hold hands.
Throughout the piece, the poetry added dimension and exposition to the dancing. And while the film was beautiful, the need to transition from a filmed duet to a live duet was unclear. What was clear was the message of strong women, overcoming obstacles by standing together and supporting each other.
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Stephanie Unger is a dancer, choreographer, writer, and mother. She is originally from Florida, danced professionally in Chicago for many years, and now resides in Oakland, California where she is creating new work. She studied dance at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts and went on to obtain her B.A. in English, cum laude, from the University of Florida.
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