ART/CONTOUR
A reflection on a performance by Chattanooga Ballet
Welcome!
You’re reading DanceChatt, a publication dedicated to dance writing centered in Chattanooga, Tennessee. This week I reflect on a performance by Chattanooga Ballet. It’s probably just me, but I went away thinking about Neoplatonism. I’d say that’s a good time.
There’s so much dance happening in town this month that no one person can see all of it. If you see dance, participate in dance, even dream about dance … reach out! I’m eager to feature all your thoughts.
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ART/CONTOUR: A Reflection
By Jenn McCormick
In the writings of Plotinus, the nearer humans come to The One (God, or the first person of the neoplatonic trinity of Being, Mind, and Soul), the more uniform they become. The greater the distance from the center, the more diversity, the more chaos, until you get to the meaningless dispersal of Matter.
I went to see Chattanooga Ballet’s Art/Contour with a friend who had never seen live ballet. We went away engaged in a lively discussion about theology and society. The discussion centered almost completely on the fourth and final piece in the show, “95 Bars,” choreographed by Chattanooga Ballet CEO and artistic director Brian McSween. So strong was the pull of this piece that, looking back, I can’t help but interpret the rest of the concert in its light.
The first number, “Three Theories in Choreographic Discourse,” consisted of three parts. The first and last featured five women and one man; the central section was a solo for the male dancer. Sparkling energy unified the piece — flickers of light on the black costumes, light from the palms of hands presented flat. The dancers continually reversed themselves — rotating from one facing to another in fourth position, or switching from parallel to turned-out stance. Similarly, bodies passed in front of each other, smiles flashing from eye to eye. Despite moments of languor, the dance had a firecracker energy, electric or engine-like. There was also a joyful artificiality about it, an art deco quality — I pictured it as a story unfolding in the restaurant or lounge of a busy train station in the 1930s, especially in the third section where the trumpet’s wail reminded me of a train whistle. That sparkling artificiality was to return in the last part of the final number.
One interesting section was the solo danced by Pierceton Mazell. This was danced in silence, but was certainly not silent — the dance was scored to the dancer’s breath and the patter of his feet. While the artist didn’t seem to purposely enhance his breath sounds, they carried clearly, filling the auditorium and creating a space of tactile intimacy in the midst of the hard surface of the other sections. The choreographer gave us permission to listen, starting the dance with a few deliberate noises of the dancer striking his body and snapping his fingers. That contrast between soft/brittle, human/machine, also returned later.
“Three Theories” ended with another moment of vulnerability. One dancer is alone on stage. He runs — Which way did they go? A hand reaches for him and he takes it.
The second piece, “Rameau Pas de Trois,” with Mazell, Mary Kate Shearer and Tiana Ozolins, was a beautiful, academic pas de trois. I liked watching it as patterns and I liked the winsomeness of the partnering. While brisk, emotionally it served as a break in the high-energy evening.
The third piece, “Wax & Wane,” a duet featuring Alessandra Ferrari-Wong and Hannah Harvey, introduced a troubling note to the evening. The two dancers wore half-black, half-white leotards with pleated skirts. The leotards mirrored each other — the left was white on one dancer, the left black on the other. It’s probably my Generation X mind, but the first thing I thought of was the striking makeup in the Star Trek episode “Let That Be Your Last Battlefield,” in which a white/black and a black/white alien (divided along the midline, like the leotards) are the last members of their races, engaged in a tragic battle of total annihilation.
The image was so strong it may have pulled my mind away from the choreographer’s intention, but the dance was certainly troubling. The two dancers seemed to attack, then console one another — blade hands to throats, palms to faces, feet flexed in the air. There were many suspended balances from which the dancers might fall into mirroring or canon movements. They did not seem to know whether they wanted to care for each other or do each other harm. The flat palms echoed gestures from the beginning of “Three Theories,” and the general atmosphere of unstable truce set the stage for “95 Bars,” which occupied the second half of the program.
“95 Bars” began with a rumble. Towers of lights, like radio towers at human scale, perhaps, lit the stage with a strobe effect. Then the six dancers of the cast, dressed in white coveralls printed with barcodes, went to work.
At first it felt like play. They posed each other in caricatures of romance, in other jokes. Their play became harsher — one held another by the coveralls as if to see the form underneath — Is this one ready to eat yet? Is she hiding anything? Is she too thin, too fat? Next thing they were moving quickly through poses, trying to choke each other, accusing first one, then another, then all pointing at one dancer, isolating her. They became a mob; she cowered.
But before that plot could play out, a new influence took over. They began taking off their barcode overalls. A respite? Half-out of their overalls, with brownish tunics underneath, they seemed like they might become more human.
No. They got worse. The figures now struggled with their overalls, or used them as protective or defensive weapons — wrapping themselves in them, capturing each other, finally actually leaping into an overall held like a fireman’s net only to be dragged away, clutching at air.
A couple of times I felt like the dancers retained too much classical restraint to tell the story fully. I wanted more heft and flop. On the other hand, some really delved in. Mazell transformed the carriage of his head and spine over the course of that dance, neck thrust forward from the base, presenting a face alternating between malevolence and despondence. Ozolins, as the dancer bullied by the rest, was powerful in her terror.
In the transitions they returned to their signal towers, hunkering down at the lower lights as if over screens — Teletubbies receiving a malignant signal.
But that wasn’t all.
In a twinkling they shed the second costume to emerge in golden leotards glinting with circles and lines like stylized suns. All conflict was gone. They danced now in unison, a joyful dance, eyes glowing, lips parted, breastbones aloft. They seemed like motes of light ascending to heaven. The patterning of the costumes called to mind the glittering outfits of the first piece and the art deco feel.
And then it was done.
What? I thought. What!
They turn from machine to beast — they go from bad to worse — and then earn that ascent?
Not to mention, the beautiful uniformity of the last movement recalled the barcode uniformity of the first movement a little too closely, even though the style was nothing alike.
Then I thought of Plotinus, of souls approaching The One to dwell in uniformity, not so much as remembering the diverse events of their previous lives.
I had big, excited, distressed thoughts. It was like watching Fight Club for the first time. What?!
I looked again at the program notes and found a quote: “What is human worth? How do we ascribe, define and feel worth in our world?” And the section names: “Worth Perceived, Worth Revealed, Worth Adorned.”
More questions raised than answered.
There’s a powerful story there, and I want to see all these dancers dig deep to tell it. I’m still having big feelings: Does not compute, does not compute. Which is exactly how art should make us feel — like we have to grapple with it and grow bigger in the struggle. For sure, if I see Brian McSween’s choreography on another program, I’m coming for my next fix.
About Art/Contour
Choreography: My’Kal Stromile, Silas Farley, Autumn Eckman, Brian McSween
Dancers: Alessandra Ferrari-Wong, Hannah Harvey, Maura McHugh, Tiana Ozolins, Mary Kate Shearer, Pierceton Mazell
Costumes: Haley Warner
Lighting: Richmond Terry
About the author
Jenn McCormick is a writer, editor and dancer working in Chattanooga. She shares her dance writing and guest works on her blog, DanceChatt.
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Until then, keep dancing!
— Jenn