Losing Merce

An image from Merce Cunningham's "Roaratorio." Photo by Julieta Cervantes.

The past two weeks have put into sharp focus all that will be lost at the end of this year, when the Merce Cunningham Dance Company will close for good, as announced two-and-a-half years ago. At the time, it seemed like a far-off event, but when Cunningham died, in the late summer of 2009, the finality of the decision took on a new hue. Now, as the date approaches (quickly) and the milestones pass, it’s difficult to shake a sense of doom: what will happen to these dances, and to this marvelous technique on which they are built, carefully developed over years of studying the body and the different ways in which its parts can move, together and separately? Two weeks ago, the Merce Cunningham Repertory Understudy Group (or RUGs, as they’re affectionately called) danced their last dance, a series of four shows at the Cunningham studio in Westbeth (a lovely, workaday space with gorgeous views of the Empire State Building). The following week, it was the turn of the main company, putting on its final repertory season in New York, at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. Next week, they are off to Paris for eight performances at the Théâtre de la Ville. After that, all that stands between us and the end are six performances of a custom-made Event (a collage built from segments of other works) at the Park Avenue Armory, Dec. 29-31. The final night, New Year’s Eve, will be the company’s last night on this earth. Both the RUGs and the main company reminded us of what is so powerful about Cunningham’s choreography. The clarity, the complexity, the multi-dimensionality, the intelligence, the lack of artifice, the rhythmic diversity, the constant surprise. And also, of what can be challenging: the lack of conventional logic, the independence of movement and music, the avoidance of psychology, the sheer volume of images, phrases, movements, and coordinations of the body. I’ll admit to feeling exhausted at times, especially while watching the longer works created after 1990, when Cunningham began to work with a computer program called LifeForms (which helped him to come up new, ever more complicated ways of moving the body). But the more one watches, the more one sees; these works are mind-bendingly rich. And they are virtuosic as well; there are many times when one asks how, exactly, it is possible for the human body to sustain such speed, such stamina, such feats of balance, elevation, and strength. The choreography pushes the dancers, makes them become more than what they were before. The dances can also be intensely emotional, though not always—and of course, the question of whether dance need be emotional is a whole separate matter. Some works, like, say, “Pond Way,” from 1998, can be experienced more neutrally, observed from afar; they don’t necessarily tell us anything about who we are. But it would be misleading to say that this is true of all, or even most of Cunningham’s works. Quite to the contrary. They may be difficult to read, at times, but many of them pack quite an emotional impact and are indeed about something, at least in part. The emotions they elicit can be very varied. Take “Winterbranch,” from 1964, performed by the RUGs: it begins with a figure trapped in some sort of black sack, thrashing on the ground. Dancers with black stripes on their cheeks—Robert Rauschenberg’s idea—fold, tilt, and fall, one after the other, or drag each other across the floor, or pull each other down. There is nothing neutral about this piece. I’m not sure what it’s about, but whatever it is, it’s not good. Or, on the opposite end of the spectrum: “Roaratorio,” from 1983, one of the most joyful dances I’ve ever seen, in any style (it was performed at BAM on Dec. 7). Set to John Cage’s wild Irish romp (entitled “Roaratorio, and Irish Circus on Finnegans Wake”), it is a celebration of couples dancing, of the dance hall, of Irish step dance and hornpipes, of fleet-footedness, of light and color and jumping from one foot to the other in every way imaginable, and a million other things. The stage is lit, by Mark Lancaster, in warm,  golden tones, as if the events were taking place on a summer day. The costumes, also by Lancaster, are mix-and-match pairings of tights and t-shirts, skirtlets, leg warmers, shorts, and polos. A couple comes out and begins to rock side to side, the woman’s long pony-tail swaying happily. A man does a little soft-shoe, alone, for the fun of it. Another couple does a series of pas de chats and skips, side by side, their arms crossed above their heads and hands linked. A woman (Jennifer Goggans) leaps into a group of boys, who toss her up in the air and put her down; then they go on a walkabout. Two girls do a silly walk. A couple dances a serene, shy duet, their eyes looking down, to the side, up, and around, with quiet formality. Meanwhile, we hear bagpipes, cats mewing, babies crying, an Irish jig, a bit of “Figaro qua, Figaro la,” and John Cage’s mumbling voice uttering nearly incomprehensible mumbo-jumbo from “Finnegans Wake.” The whole thing is a wonderful lark from beginning to end, and, as the dancers walk off, stage left, carrying their stools with them, the last girl on her tippy toes and leaning against the man in front of her, one wishes it would all start over, from the beginning.

“Second Hand” (1970), which the company performed the following day, moves the spirit (and the heart) in a different way. In this case, the dance was actually inspired by a piece of music—something that Cunningham would never do again. The piece, Satie’s “Socrate,” deals with the philosopher’s death, and the dance is suffused with sadness and a sense of withdrawal from life. Robert Swinston, who has directed the company since Cunningham’s death, danced the role of the aging philosopher. His opening solo, which takes place on a dark stage, in a single pool of light (shining from above), is a vivid portrait of an older man’s inner struggles. His feet are rooted to the ground; he reaches, grapples, twists his torso as far as it will go, looks behind him. Later, a nymph-like woman (Andrea Weber)–reminiscent of the figures at the Villa dei Misteri–comes to him. She lightens his mood. They dance together, arms about each other’s waists. There is an infinite tenderness between them. She may be a memory, of a lover, or a daughter. The rest of the company files in, one by one, moving slowly, sliding their feet across the floor. Each dancer has his own private series of gestures, his own message. Sometimes Swinston is able to communicate with them, sometimes not. At the end, he is alone again, reaching up toward the light. If this piece had been performed at the end of the week, I would have broken into tears. The second half of the program that night was “Biped,” a complex, sophisticated work from 1999. It is justly famous for its use of motion capture images of dancers, their ghostly figures projected at various sizes across a scrim at the front of the stage. The live dancers seem to dance with these ghosts, or through them, or among them, throughout the piece. This heavenly image is abetted by Gavin Bryar’s elegiac, glistening score, which maintains its soaring lyricism (cello, violin, electric guitar, all played live) throughout the forty-five minutes of the dance. The lighting scheme, by Aaron Copp, is no less sumptuous, creating a living checkerboard that seems to morph with the movement of the dancers, as well as colored lines, circles, shadows. The dancers eddy and flow through this extravagant landscape, sheathed in short metallic unitards, later layered with translucent, Asian-inspired tunics. The dancers look like godly creatures, glamorous and lithe, their arms outstretched heroically. It is the closest Cunningham comes to showiness; “Biped” is certainly dazzling, but I could not help thinking back to the stirring simplicity of “Second Hand.”

And so the week rolled on. The final program consisted of three works: “Pond Way” (1998), “RainForest” (1968), and “Split Sides” (2003). The first, a placid, even Zen observation of nature with a touch of humor (I especially enjoyed the frog jumps, accompanied by elaborate movements of the forearms and hands); the second, a study of frenetic, even violent animal (or human) behavior; the third, an almost didactic demonstration of Cunningham’s use of chance to play with order, contrast, and texture. Before this dance (“Split Sides”) began, the die was cast several times onstage to decide which section would be performed first, which music would be played with each section, which costumes would be used, which backdrop would be seen, and which lighting plot would illuminate the dancers. Of course, if one is only seeing the dance one time (as I was) it is difficult to compare the effects of all these chance pairings. I can say that both backdrops were beautiful—one was a frosty gray-and-white, the other, a kind of Impressionistic wash of color—and that the music (by Radiohead and Sigur Rós) felt contemporary, youthful, almost hip. (In the first section, which on this occasion was performed with the Radiohead score, it almost seemed at times as if the dancers were moving to the music, which felt, oddly, very strange.) It’s a busy, fast work, with ever-shifting patterns and intentionally illogical phrases for the arms. There is an exciting passage in which a woman keeps falling—with all of her weight—almost to the ground, and her partner keeps catching her and propping her up again. But the climax of “Split Sides” was an extraordinary solo, danced here by Silas Riener (it was originally made for another dancer, Jonah Bokaer). In it, Cunningham asked Riener (for whom he re-worked the choreography) to move in ways that look almost impossible: to divide his body so that each part (head, torso, arms, legs) seemed to be headed in a different direction; to move at different tempi and dynamics with his upper and lower body; to complete a series of manoeuvers, with jagged, sharp changes of speed, all on one leg, while his arms moved convulsively, apparently of their own accord. It was one of the strangest, most disturbing, most wonderful things I have ever witnessed, and I was not alone in feeling this. As the solo ended, the audience erupted in applause, in the middle of the piece, something I’ve never seen before. The moment passed, but its ghost lingered. It lingers still. This will be a great loss.

* If you would like to receive an alert when new pieces are posted on the Dance page, please drop me a line at dancinginthefastertimes@gmail.com. You can also check my updates on Twitter: @MarinaHarss