June 30, 2010 performance reviewed by Jocelyn McGrath.

To the average dance layperson, “ballet jazz” may sound like an oxymoron, two diametrically opposed movement languages derived from wildly different culture bases. For Les Ballet Jazz de Montréal, a company born of a specific time and place (circa 1972 Quebec), the genre of ballet jazz addresses a vital modern dilemma—how to take what we receive artistically from the Past and make it relevant to the Now. The creation of ballet jazz was one solution to this challenge, and this synthesis of forms has evolved over two generations in this vibrant company. 2014 Jacob’s Pillow schedule, Contact info. and links

Artistic Director Lois Robitaille has made a priority of engaging up and coming choreographers to work with his company in a regular series of creative residencies. The pieces on this program represent the culmination of two such workshops with the choreographers Aszure Barton and Annabelle Lopez Ochoa.

The mission of this company is to uplift and to inspire, to connect to audiences in a range of human emotion through accessible dance. Ballet is the foundation for this company’s superstrong technical abilities. The ballet is then combined with the traits we associate with jazz—syncopation, isolations, theatricality, sexiness, and also with the strengths of these dancers—speed, easy athleticism, rhythmic prowess and sensuality. The result for the audience is a torrent of vicarious feeling.

All these marvelous qualities are present in Barton’s piece Les Chambre Des Jacques (2006). Charmingly earthy, poignant moments unfold in a strange emotional logic; wild, spasming possession is contrasted with masterly, sensuous control. A forward undulation toward a potential partner initiates a peeling back motion, the electrifyingly narrow space between the bodies shifting upward. The ladies are archetypally dressed in short, ruffled, white dresses and red-toned corsets while the men, with the exception of one jacket, are dressed in the earth tones of day laborers.

The eclectic musical selections – Alberto Inglesias, Les Yeux Noirs, Gilles Vigneault, Antonio Vivaldi – are deftly arranged, the texture and tonality of the Yiddish and Gipsy music somehow finding an emotional resonance with the soaring classical arias. Each new transition from song to song is like walking through a door into another room in a rambling and elaborately decorated house—all connected, the choices intriguing in themselves.

Ochoa’s half of the itinerary, Locked Up Laura (2008), created specifically for Les Ballet Jazz de Montreal and Zip Zap Zoom (2009), have strong conceptual frameworks. In the duet Locked Up Laura, a female dancer lies on the floor until prodded into action by her partner, a combination boss/assistant/puppeteer. An example of extreme, sinuous pointework, the line between virtuosic technique and mechanical motion, is crossed and recrossed. This piece explores the dynamics between moving for oneself and being moved, and the nature of artistic autonomy in a relational art with unceasing demands.

Online gaming is the theme of the second piece, and a large three-dimensional moving backdrop becomes another presence on stage. We observe the stages of a game: the selection of the avatar; the interactions of the avatars in a series of duets; a humorous Simon’s Says type of dance-off competition; a fantastical trio in which the woman is partnered by two men in such a way that it seems like she is flying – eventually leading to a final crashing-through of real life with “real” dancing at the very end.

“Real” is an operative word for Les Ballet Jazz de Montreal. In describing Aszure Barton’s collaborative choreographic process, Robitaille said that her intent was to find “real life” in the strong personalities and quirks of the dancers. Robitaille thinks that we have just come through a period of time in the dance world where the chorographer took precedence over the dancer. He believes that the time has come again to put the dancer first.

The show runs two hours with one fifteen minute intermission.

2010 Jacob’s Pillow schedule and tickets.

You may be interested in: Review of Nina Ananiashvili, State Ballet of Georgia at Jacob’s Pillow.

June 23, 2010 performance reviewed by Jocelyn McGrath.

Nina Ananshvili has worked practically every day of her life to make ballet look effortless and feel joyful—an extraordinary passion that she continues to share with her company, the State Ballet of Georgia, and on the stage here at Jacob’s Pillow. Ms. Ananshvili is a prima ballerina among primas—an internationally acclaimed dancer who, among many prizes, honors and guest artist appearances, has been a principal for both the Bolshoi and the American Ballet Theatre. 2014 Jacob’s Pillow schedule, Contact info. and links

For the last six years she has added what could be called the most demanding role of her career, that of Artistic Director of the Georgian State Ballet, the country of her birth. She described for us the way in which she was asked to assume the position—summoned by the President of Georgia, he gave her four hours to “decide” to say yes before he planned to go public with her acceptance.

Clearly, he was a wise man, as Ms. Ananshvili has proved to be an innovator committed to expanding repertory and creating international partnerships. She has been determined to add the great 20th century ballet choreographers to the 19th century classics, and this evening’s collection of small works is the fruit of her labors.

The first section of the evening consists of four pieces, three male-female duets and a solo, by Frederick Ashton, created between 1952 to 1985. The solo, La Chatte, provided a humorous contrast to the generally romantic theme. In this piece the ballerina is a precious, white, fluffy pussycat, an interesting change from the more prevalent bird motifs. It’s lovely and refreshing to see an elegant ballerina sensuously rolling around on the floor. For the rest of the Ashton pas de deux, one would think that two dancers would have no trouble fitting on such a modest stage, but Ashton’s sense of the grandeur and spectacle suggest they were designed for much larger venues. Ashton’s ideal still conforms to the romantic vision of woman on a pedestal—resulting in many statuesque lifts, the most strikingly totemic nearing the end of Thais Pas de Deux (1971).

In comparison, the next piece by Balanchine, Duo Concertant (1972), seems easy and intelligent, the partnering naturally intimate and mutual. Delicate, nuanced phrasing; rhythmic, low, passages are all enhanced by a human-sized sense of relationship that is rooted in the music by Stravinsky. The live pianist and violinist on stage, Jeanette Fang and David Southorn, respectively, delineate a home base, literally and figuratively. The initial tableau is that of the two dancers standing musingly behind the piano, listening attentively. It presents a respectful and affectionate family portrait we return to again and again.

Alexei Ratmansky’s Bizet Variations Pas de Six was choreographed in 2008 specifically for this company. After four pas de deux and a solo, this piece with three couples feels wildly expansive and dynamic. Lush, flowing costumes in a palette of cool blues and lavender for the ladies, and Romeo blouses and fitted pantaloons on the men, enhance the pleasure of pure movement. That the women are adored by their men is evident (at one point the men literally kiss the women’s feet), but that the dance itself is the highest love is very clear.

The last piece, Falling Angels (1989) by Jiri Kylian, presents the strongest contrast to the rest of the program. It contains hardly any obvious ballet vocabulary—the drum score and stark, structured lighting; the angular gestures and contracting spines, say Modern all over. Yet, the emphasis on extreme synchronized movement, and the subtle variations by individuals in the group, eventually breaking off to dance duets and solos, draws on the tradition of the corps. Literally forming one body together, this group of eight women exhibit a virtuosic unity that supports and contrasts the ever-changing individuals.

As a complete evening of entertainment, this performance is an exceptional sampler of some of the greatest modern ballet choreographers. Here is a marvelous opportunity to explore the range of artistry directly influenced by the great classics, freed from a three-act storyline. Romantic and passionate, subtle and nuanced, there is so much here to enjoy.

This show runs two hours with two 10-minute intermissions.

August 12, 2009 performance reviewed by Jocelyn McGrath

A pure, silver moon slowly rises up the center of the backdrop. One dancer starts moving on stage, but soon he is joined by another dancer, and another, until the moon is hanging over a scene filled with bodies whirling and leaping into sight, then receding back into the wings like crashing waves. Like a real moon ascending, its motion is incremental, but one notices every now and then how it has risen higher. 2014 Jacob’s Pillow schedule, Contact info. and links

As the dancers ebb and flow, their over-the-top energy and constant motion seem unstoppable. Eventually, the group surges onstage, but leaves behind the first soloist, standing alone like a solitary rock. The piece is Lux, the third in a series of work by Choreographer and Artistic director Doug Varone. Through the evening, we are like the moon, watching as time passes, subtly but inexorably shifting as the experience unfolds.

• Doug Varone and Dancers – Aug. 12, 2009 – Jacob’s Pillow
• Castles (2004) Waltz Suite, Opus 110, Sergei Prokofiev
• Short Story (2001) Prelude in C, Sergei Rachmaninoff
• Lux (2006) The Light, Philip Glass
• Running time: Approx 1 ½ hours with intermission

Loose, organic, easy—from the delicate wiggling of the toes, to the gentle hands-on spiraling tip of a head—the group moves as a total organism. Clasping and unclasping hands, winding in and around each other, they rise and fall with a collective breath. They search out and explore each other’s interior spaces, with plenty of diving and skidding or backing through legs—or as in one duet, when the woman repeatedly slithers through the low angle under the man’s bent knee, as if emerging from a secret passage. Connective gestures abound: rearranging limbs, bumping chests, group hugs, grabbing a hand to fling it away, dizzily falling toward each other. Often one motion seems to leap from one person to another, as if an electric tracing of energy is made visible, traveling through the group.

The middle piece, Short Story, is exactly that, a concentrated vignette of a troubled relationship. In this dance, the layers of casual gesture, emotional resonance, rapid hands-on lifting and partnering culminate in the evening’s most electrified moment of stillness, perhaps the only moment of true stillness. This is the most self-conscious moment of all of the pieces. Otherwise, this choreography resists resting places for the mind to make a decision about what is happening. The pace of the movement is constant and flowing—a visual and sensory stream of consciousness.

Costuming for choreography that dissolves the boundaries between performance movement and pedestrian movement is challenging. Most successful were the simple and playful costumes in Castle, with the flaring short skirts and circus-like red accents. Sometimes the point is to deemphasize the body, as in the dark blue and black slacks and shirts worn by the two dancers in Short Story. Here, the clothes were more like anti-costumes, contributing only to the dark mood via colors like that of a bruise. On the other hand, the variously shaped, flowy costumes in Lux—mostly black, with white inset pieces or large flapping slits—were distracting, and neither augmented the wild kinetic sweep of the dancers’ movement, nor did they have the graphic simplicity of the lunar theme.

The wide variety of body types in this company is striking, and Varone creates fresh experiences with this palette. Very tall Julia Burre’s legs are amazing pinwheeling across the sky in Lux. In the striking same-size duet between Daniel Charon and Alex Springer in Castles, the intimate weight sharing and lifts between equals seem to create a whole new vocabulary.

These dancers have mastered the spooky skill of moving like us, like non-dancer civilians, and then in the next instant seamlessly becoming “dancerly.” The walking, jogging, touching that happens on stage looks like it could be happening anywhere. This begs the question: When does a movement become dance, and when does it stop? Does it ever stop? Varone doesn’t answer these questions, he simply puts daily motion in a continuum of communicative gesture and artistically trained movement; he lets the ambiguity speak for itself.

• review: Les Grand Ballet Canadiens – July 29, 2009
• review: Ballet Maribor in Radio and Juliet – July 1, 2009
• archives: Merce Cunningham at MASS MoCA – Oct. 28, 2000
• archives: Merce Cunningham’s gift (reminiscence)
• JacobsPillow.org
• Free exhibits and archives at Jacob’s Pillow

July 29, 2009 performance reviewed by Jocelyn McGrath.

To spend the evening with Les Grand Ballet Canadiens is something like being with a bunch of long lost cousins at a family reunion; there is a tribal sense of belonging without actually having met each other before. From the first image of a red, hazy sea of undulating arms in Four Seasons, to the raucous and earthy old world dance scene in Cantata, there is a primal connection. The roots of our cultural family tree go deep, deep into the Eden-like fields and valleys of the Four Seasons, deep into social and gender bonds of an old world village. 2014 Jacob’s Pillow schedule, Contact info. and links

Les Grands Ballets Canadiens, founded by Ludmilla Chiriaeff in 1952, is a progressive and eclectic ballet company with a long association with Jacobs Pillow. The company’s American debut was here 50 years ago, and since then they have returned many times. The company cultivates the highest level of artistry in a rich, contemporary ballet vocabulary, choreographed by Mauro Bigonzetti: graceful classical arms and leg extensions seamlessly transition to undulating spinal contractions and quirky, gestural hands. Other traditional boundaries are loosened. These are dancers with voices; they are heard as well as seen. They hum, sing, shout, and yip with delight. They beat their chests, clap and slap, and in one case, audibly blow air like the cherubs painted on a Renaissance ceiling, creating enough wind to roll an intertwined pair of lovers slowly offstage.

The first scene of Four Seasons is lush, a luxurious of sea of bodies (On a stage the size of the Pillow’s, twenty dancers is a sight to behold…). Arms wave in harmony, then differentiate, then couples form. Each couple abruptly embraces and then almost instantly springs apart, as if that one moment time has just reversed. This clutching repeats, rhythmically, percussively. The pointe shoes worn by the women in Four Seasons also become percussive—sometimes in a booming stomp, sometimes in the staccato rhythm of the quickly released releve. The female dancers firmly hold deep lunges on pointe—statuesque in the way of the Roman goddesses. Minimal, filmy costumes in nude and terra-cotta lead to thoughts of natural man and woman, to a time of primal, playful innocence. Humor is an important ingredient in making this familiar musical piece fresh.

The emotional texture of the second piece of the evening, Cantata, originates in the music, performed live by Gruppo Musicale Assurd. Composed of four women vocalists, they are one of the foremost performing troupes of traditional and popular Italian music. In the way flamenco instrumentalist and vocalists are integral to the art, these women sing and play while intermingling with the dancers on stage. Their voices, earthy and raw, lend hope and humanity to the darker themes of human relationships.

For this piece, the back of the stage is exposed, the huge, rustic wooden beams providing a perfect backdrop to a freewheeling old world village scene—a social dance perhaps, with all of the players on stage at all times either watching or dancing. The tenderness and authenticity of the songs balances the disturbing motifs: clustered group of women bite their fingers and hands; the men extend a claw of a hand, mouths wide open; a woman stretches both arms behind her, hands writhing. Women are carried by the men in a strange variety of ways—convulsing, or draped as if dead, or flipped sideways like a board, completely upside-down and then back again.

Though the gender relations are unsettled and tense, the dancers are literally straining alternately toward each other and then away, the emotional resolution lacking in the duets is ultimately found in a joyous full company celebration. Loose-limbed, with flinging hair, the wild energy mounts as the piece culminates in a raucous explosion. And this village is welcoming and generous—we are all invited to join the party—simply as members of the extended human family.

Each piece runs 40 minutes, with an intermission in between.

We are re-posting material relating to Merce Cunningham upon the occassion of his death, July 26, 2009: this reminiscence and review of Merce Cunningham Dance Company came to MASS MoCA that originally were published on NewBerkshire.com in 2000.

The Greenwich Village artists’ scene of the 1940s, as recalled by Frances Benn Hall.

When I graduated from the University of Wisconsin in 1941, I was so eager to dash off to seek fame and fortune in the arts world of Greenwich Village that I boarded the first train for Manhattan and told the college to mail me my diploma.

Getting a job, any job, proved difficult. I finally found a lowly clerical one in the garment district. It paid $17 a week – all my MA in theatre was worth at that time, and the job only obtained when I said I could give Sinclair Lewis as a local reference.

(During the previous Fall at college, I had been one of a group of fifteen to whom he taught creative writing. Only one member of our class seems to have achieved literary fame in later life; Howard Moss was for years poetry editor of The New Yorker.)

In those lean years, The Village still thronged with starving artists. Finding housing was easy. I quickly moved into the front room of a basement apartment on West 13th Street where my rent was $6.00 a week. I shared the kitchen and bath with two dancers from Martha Graham’s group. One had a tiny maid’s room in the back, and the other, Merce Cunningham, slept on a cot in the communal kitchen. Their weekly rent was even lower than mine.

Merce was already honored in the dance world and that Spring was performing the solo “Dear March Come In”; in Graham’s Letter to the World, but was not yet world famous as he would become, and thus as needy as the rest of us. He worked at his dancing like a demon, but he did find time to join, with me, a Village theatre group called The Bendukov Theatre Studio, to which we went evenings to work on, but never have money to produce, exotic plays such as Cummings’ him and Byron’s Cain.

Food was a big problem, and what little our pooled pittances could afford was stored in a small wooden ice-box in the kitchen to which the ice-man automatically came. However, it got to the point where his bill had mounted alarmingly, and because we could not pay it, we avoided meeting him. This had a negative side in that he kept delivering ice even when there was no food in the box.

I can remember standing in the kitchen beside Merce as he emptied the water from the drip pan into the sink and sadly remarked, “There goes another quarter.” In that long-ago Manhattan where a nickel was all one needed for the subway or for a boat ride across the harbor from the Battery to Staten Island, a quarter was not treated lightly.

Since I had a “real” job, I had more ready cash, meager though it was, than Merce usually had. However, once, rather hurriedly, he thrust a dollar bill at me and said, “Buy yourself something frivolous,” before he loped off to rehearsal in Martha’s studio over in a loft just north of Washington Square.

I took my dollar, boarded the 7th Avenue subway at the corner of West 12th, got off at Macys where in the basement bookstore I bought my first copy of James Joyce’s Ulysses. It now sits proudly among the three long shelves of Joyce books on my living room wall among several other copies of Ulysses I have since acquired. But it remains my favorite one because on the fly leaf I wrote the date and the words, “Something frivolous from Merce.”

Had I become the great writer Lewis had encouraged me to try to be, I would know that the above paragraph is my conclusion. However, I must add a coda to round out the picture.

My large front room also, when I was not sleeping in it, served us as a communal living room, and we sometimes held parties there. One night there was such a party at which I was not present. When I returned around midnight, the party had wound down, and the stragglers left so I could go to bed.

They had been having a bit wilder time than usual, and although none of my personal belongings were ever disturbed, that evening a young artist in his glee had painted a mural on my ceiling. It was not unattractive. I remember thinking it really quite good. It was a great angel with outstretched wings that covered most of the ceiling. I felt I could sleep with that angel hovering over me and went to bed.

However, my alarm woke me to a startling and embarrassing discovery. Lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling changed my perspective. That so innocent-seeming angel had been so painted that a foot-long pipe, relic of some long-ago light fixture, had become a giant phallus.

Life among the artists had become too much for me. After work that day, I found a room on West 12th Street with a nosy and prudish landlady, very fussy about keys and using the pay phone in the hall after 8 PM, but willing to rent me a room with which I could cope.

It was only recently, discussing those days with a Graham dancer who was present at that long-ago party, that I was reminded of a fact that I had forgotten: The young artist was named Robert Motherwell.

2014 Jacob’s Pillow schedule, Contact info. and links