September 9, 2007 Archives

Like it or not every TBA performance begins with a paragraph description in a little portable catalogue. In the first weekend of the festival when word of mouth is scarce we measure this writing against all other potential priorities and make a decision. I will go. I will not. So when I read the words “planet Hip-Hop” in Marc Bamuthi Joseph’s paragraph I read, ”Art Institution’s self-conscious, conscience soothing attempt at DIVERSITY” and I decided, don’t go. I went.

Joseph, it seems is equally suspect of what he describes in the break/s, as something akin to the golden ticket of festival programming: the magic word “Hip-Hop”.

Mos Def interlude 1:
People talk about Hip-Hop like it's some giant livin in the hillside
comin down to visit the townspeople…

But “Hip-Hop” like “Black” like “American” is just another flag on a ship in an ocean of “Performance Art.” Strip away the categories. A man stands on a stage. He is saying something. It is an authentic language and the rhythm of it, the bop boom of his feet, the bop boom of his words, the bop boom of his microphone falling against his shoulder tell us, THIS IS IMPORTANT. Not because it is Hip-Hop, but because it is Life.

Mos Def Interlude 2:
We +are+ Hip-Hop
Me, you, everybody, we are Hip-Hop

And there is nothing that taps our collective insecurity more than a person who has to be honest not because his fingers are strapped to a polygraph but because his heart is chained to a present past. His heart is chained to a present passed to us.

Mos Def Interlude 3:
So Hip-Hop is goin where we goin
So the next time you ask yourself where Hip-Hop is goin
ask yourself.. where am I goin? How am I doin?
Til you get a clear idea

Through Joseph’s telling it becomes clear that prejudice at its most dangerous, is an action inward. The magic word in this performance was not, Hip-Hop. It was Word, word. Joseph encouraged audience response to the work. It is “in progress” and applause is more than helpful. At one point he ended a statement, word? like, you know what I’m saying? This prompted the audience to reply in their best white try, word, like, I got you but why does it sound so smooth in your mouth and so round in mine. So he encouraged us, say, “Word, word.” And by that we new he meant Amen. And we said “word. word.” And by that he knew we were trying, but honestly, we sounded like sick parrots with balloons in our mouths. He repeated, Amen! and we repeated Cookoo Cookoo. And we were exposed.

Mos Def Interlude 4:
So.. if Hip-Hop is about the people
and the.. Hip-Hop won't get better until the people get better
then how do people get better? (Hmmmm...)

Joseph might suggest we start in the middle, the break. This is the place where we break, the place where something of ourselves is let out, the place where we get through.

Mos Def Interlude 5:
Well, from my understanding people get better
when they start to understand that, they are valuable…

And from my understanding people get better when they start to understand they are vulnerable.
That is the power of the break/s

posted by: Marty Schnapf
(Mos Def Interludes from his track Fear Not of Man on the album Black on Both Sides)

Reggie Watts is an incredibly talented man. A brilliant storyteller, master of the non sequitur, fine singer and songwriter, multi-vocalist and funny performer, Watts charms as he confuses. “Disinformation” is a purposefully disjointed mishmash of styles and media: hip hop, scripted comedy, physical comedy, film, dancing, singing, sampling, turntablism, and more. The heart of this piece is that 2012 is approaching fast, the world is nearly over, there’s not much time left, so let’s party. Break out of your routines, embrace randomness, and feel good.

Much of his humor is based on juxtaposing seemingly-arbitrary characters or events, such as a thin white man wearing a hard hat and orange vest dancing hip hop, or commercials for a malaise-curing drug next to a preview for some medieval warrior movie. He voices several characters, including lecturers, badasses, divas, Brits, and Bill Cosby, sometimes letting his story veer into static, a manifest disconnection that nonetheless leaves audiences attentive and laughing. Some stories trail off into another piece, another character, or are just dropped altogether.

Two highlights include Watts’ supporting cast members. Orianna Hermann’s bright and hearty voice on one duet, where she and Watts keep singing “The more you buy, the less you are,” makes comedy of consumerism. Amy O’Neal’s limber, electrifying hip hop dancing takes all eyes off Reggie during a different number: she is an amazing dancer. I should add, too, that fellow collaborator Tommy Smith’s spot-on pharmaceutical employee routine is also hilarious.

Reggie Watts is the kind of person who makes you laugh without saying a word: a simple twist of his head, a raise of his eyebrow, a smile. He also astounds with his song craft, looping voice-created rhythms and melodies as he sings/squawks over his own material. It seems that, rather than feeling sole ownership over his material, he is willing to work together, improvise, and lose himself in the party that is “Disinformation.”

Posted by Dusty Hoesly

-posted by Patrick Alan Coleman

And here I thought I would be able to fortify myself with coffee and a Bloody Mary. I did get the coffee, the Bloody Mary is yet to come. I have a feeling that it is all part of the evil, mesmerizing plan concocted by the monochromatic fellows from Cartune Xprez.

In the ease inducing seats of Living Room Theater, we are lulled into complacency, waiting for the caffeine to kick in. But as the morning fuzz clings to the brain, Christopher Doulgaris begins our animated cult inculcation with the glimmering, anthropomorphic, rainbow castles of Whaterfalce. Over the next forty-five minutes of madness from the likes of Chel White, Amy Lockhart and E*Rock, a thought began to occur to me… “I should be making stuff like this!”

Of course, the reality is that it takes a whole mess of time and work to give life to the surreal, mumbling, mewing, limping characters of Lockhart’s Walk for Walk. However, as the kaleidoscopic freak out of Nicolas Pittman’s Synaesthetics II spun before me, the thought of hard work was erased from my mind. I think this is the Cartune Xprez plan: to hypnotize the masses and turn them into a zombie army of underground animators.

From my experience, I believe they can do it.

Join Cartune Xprez’s zombie army of underground animators next Thursday at the Works and next Sunday at Living Room Theaters

State of Heads, Leap to Tall

-posted By P.A. Coleman

What are we waiting for? The dancer standing on stage (his back towards us, his clean white suit), inhabits a posture we have all shared at some time, looking absently at nothing until something better happens. There is a slight shuffle in the sold-out audience. Time passes. What are we waiting for?

The ponderous start of Uchizono’s State of Heads is a set up for a dynamic meditation on the mechanics of anticipation. The dancers appear to be filled with the objects of potential: hinges, springs, marbles, all placed precariously inside of them. When this internal scrap yard is triggered, sprung or pushed, the dancers are suddenly animated.

The choreography in State of Heads is sharp and angular; a pile of sheet metal given agency and momentum. And, like anything given momentum, once in motion, it tends to stay in motion. The waiting of Uchizono’s piece is not simply static. The dancers wait for forces of gravity and momentum to move them, and once moving, their bodies are given to it, completely. Then, they wait for it to stop, to slow, for the spring to recoil. The dancers are not completely lost, however. They have the recourse to change, but this change is only superficial. It seems no matter how hard we try, we are bound to the rattling world of movement within all of us.

In Uchizono’s second piece, Leap to Tall, we are blessed with the fascinating grace and agility of Mikhail Baryshnikov. He is wonderfully suited for the far more lyrical choreography of this piece. Having just turned sixty, he still moves as if gravity could not touch him.
Something I find incredibly satisfying in Uchizono’s choreography is the strength that she allows her dancers to express: they flex and pound fists, become bold and angular. However, there is still softness and compassion as the three dancers of Leap to Tall support and carry one another. There is a sense that to become tall, we must be given the height and space and support to do so. Slowly, over the course of the dance, Baryshnikov appears to cause a darkness to lift, like a curtain, creating more space and light to breath and move. Uchizono has also allowed some comic moments to shine through, giving the piece another dimension of lightness and leaping. In the end, we are freed from the cloaking heaviness of darkness and we are allowed to leap free into the blinding light with a sigh.

Both of Uchizono's pieces are full of an extraordinary depth. The dancers use every bit of space as they move through the echoing, dynamic choreography. This is true modern dance, free from gimmicks and heavy technical diversions. The weight of the performance rests solely on the strong shoulders of the company, and they deliver.

Is pink the new black? If you’re a contemporary artist these days and you don’t use pink––the right pink magenta it, hon’––well, come on down to Reed college to the Cooley Gallery. I ventured down to Reed, Wednesday eve September 5, around 8ish, excited to see who this Peter Krieder was because we went to the same school (Tyler School of Art). Walk by the volunteer gallery guide. Acknowledge her/him. Say, “Hello, I’m fine. How are you?’ Then face what I call the wall of Big Pink. There is no escaping the large white type "social housing for billionaires". Around you will find an array of art artifacts using a wide range of materials and video.

Okay. So here I am in the gallery and a usually locked door is open to the other side of the gallery where the loading dock and offices are. People walked in and out from there through the opened loading door not sure if this was part of the show. I overheard visitors fascinated by what they saw. “Is this part of the show or is this the other side of the gallery? Who is Silas Cook?” Why were visitors grouped around hanging bags of Styrofoam packing peanuts? Was the cart full of paint cans an art piece? Even though I assume it was not intentional, people stood transfixed by the postcards displayed on Mr. Cook’s door.

Step back, my friend, into the gallery and you have two artists brought together by the renowned curators Stephanie Snyder of Reed, and Kristan Kennedy of PICA. An assemblage of different cultural ideas and art practices from Marko Lulic and Peter Kreider. Reactions I overheard were to individual pieces of work. The framed photo of a beer bottle replete with bubbles made me crave its contents. Its placement on the floor and not hung on the wall, struck a visitor in her late ‘70’s with jet black hair as her favorite piece. The ceramic gallon milk jugs of upside down skeletons created a metaphorical image––milk is murder? Death by dairy? The sounds of Lulic’s Austrian language video played at the other end of the room. Kreider’s work was more playful; Lulic’s more Austrian post war intellectuality. I lean to playful imagery. I couldn’t help noticing a few bewildered kids looking at the fork jammed into the light socket––kids don’t try this at home. Then the child turned to see the larger than life extension cords sculpture. “Honey, that’s a sculpture not a toy. C’mon daddy‘s going to go outside and get a beer.” I want a beer too, I followed them out, and this is a show I definitely want to return to after these crowds leave.

Posted by Ben Killen Rosenberg

The Be(a)st of Taylor Mac

-posted by Patrick Alan Coleman

“Comparison is violence.”

If what Taylor Mac says about comparison is true, then all reviewers are, essentially, the journalistic equivalents of Jack the Ripper. When it comes to certain reviewers, I don’t think many artists would disagree.

But in the spirit of the incredible Taylor Mac, I will do my best to eschew comparison. I will leave out allusions to the Cockettes and Portland’s own, now disbanded, Sissyboys. I will forego any discussion that might mention the love child of Eric Bogosian and Devine. I will not utter the words, “Tiny Tim.” Alright, go ahead and call me passive aggressive.

Taylor Mac leaves little for a reviewer to go on- I mustn’t use the term “universal” to describe the show, either. So, my best recourse is to simply gush: Taylor Mac’s amazing drag show is emotionally dynamic, deeply moving and ultimately entertaining. His ease with an audience is impressive. It’s as if he has known us all of his life. We are his people and he is our flag bearer, leading us towards a Mylar revolution. In Taylor Macs world, the streets will be littered with drag and we will all be fierce.

But in order to have a revolution, we must be honest with one another. Taylor Mac exudes honesty, which is odd, considering that he performs behind a mask of make-up and sequins. Never the less, he lays himself open to reveal the vulnerable human being inside, hurting and loving and wanting.

The gorgeous Mac jokes that his show is not accessible to heterosexual audiences. At least, I think he’s joking. Either way, his songs and dialogue rest deeply in human emotion (see, I didn’t say universal) shared by all of us. I doubt that heterosexuals would be lost among gay references and stories of male homosexuality. I mean, even though I am bi-sexual, I feel that I was able to connect with way more than half of the show.

It is a drag show at 6:30 in the evening, but Taylor Mac manages, in his Protean way, to transform the cavernous Northwest Neighborhood Cultural Center. By the end of his set he, sits in a tight spotlight at the edge of the stage, singing softly, accapella, about fear. I am no longer in Portland in the early evening, I am in a smoky club in some furtive basement bar in Manhattan and I am falling in love.

The Be(a)st of Taylor Mac is inspired and inspiring. Don’t be surprised if TBA sees an increase in Fabulous.

Sit in awe of Taylor Macs “suspicious package” Sun. and Mon. night at 6:30pm, NWNCC.

I’ve known Jeffrey Mitchell for about 22 years, going back to Tyler School of Art days, drinking tea and making art. His personality and his work have always intrigued me. Since moving to Portland in 1990, I haven’t missed one of his shows at Pulliam Deffenbaugh Gallery, the gallery in town that represents him and where he currently has a show this month. The playfulness, whimsy and childlike personality of his work is like an airy confection and always a pleasure to view.

Friday, September 7, PICA’s Kristan Kennedy introduced Jeffrey. It was a good sized crowd for his 3pm Salon talk; a mix of collectors, Jeffrey Mitchell fans, art dealers, PICA personnel, the grand dame of art writers, Lois Allen, and even a brief walk on from the mail carrier. Dressed in a white shirt and tan pants he seemed to have just stepped out of one of his pieces.

Jeffrey is an artist who works like a scientist. He weaves together the cut outs that appear in his works and spoke of how they relate to his interests of flowers and botany. His imagery is camouflaged and requires a viewer to look and look again. He spoke of his selective imagery, how he revisits the beautiful and intricate drawings with ballpoint pens, graphite pencils, and watercolors. Discussing his fondness for literature, the image of butterflies and how they radiate light, the use of the elephants and memory in his works and he shared with us what’s under the surface of his work––the underlying layers that explores “a liberation from my own tightness about sexuality”. With a background in printmaking Jeffrey continues to work in sculpture, drawing and clay. His interest in decorative folk art, and the Native American influences in his works channels his own highly personal fascination that brings about a unique flamboyancy into the world that he has created in his work. So put down that newspaper, get your mind off the chaos that is happening all around us, and go see his show before the end of the month. You’ll be glad you did.

Posted by Ben Killen Rosenberg

Outside, it was blindingly bright, and my companions and I had to cross a steaming chainlink-fenced parking lot toward a white brick warehouse to get to the exhibit, about which we knew nothing, just that Something was there. So when we stepped inside and turned a corner into a dark cavernous room, the contrast was so abrupt we instantly fell silent. An eclipse burned overhead through a hanging black cloth--an eerie fringe of light. And behind it, another, and another, all, it turns out, burning from a single beam mounted high behind us. The air was cool and had that sweet dustiness that says, A Smoke Machine Was Here, and that gave the beam substance and weight.

We whispered our way through the space, then snaked through a narrow pitch-black passage and emerged into a taller, darker room with a delicate, shape-shifting circle of green light on the floor. It was mesmerizing. And we couldn't stop whispering.

UPDATE: This exhibit, while right next to T:BA at Corberry Press, is not actually part of T:BA, but rather an Elizabeth Leach Gallery production. Hit it up when you're at Corberry Press if you get a chance, though.
--Chelsey Johnson

The Break/s is mostly autobiographical, focusing mainly on Marc's role as an ambassador for hip hop to the world of high art. The accaptance that this role is self-imposed, and self-perpetuating, forces you to question his motives, and your expectations, and then to shut the fuck up and listen. By relating experiences of his travels throughout the world, (hip hop!) which counterbalance being a African American in America against being a Black American in Africa, and his expectations as a Black man in Japan, you get a deep, inviting, and honest view of Marc as he struggles with the shrugging off and stumbling over his "credibility," as he says, "how hip hop can I be if they let me on the set?."
This insight is not clinical, however, and if you are starting to have flashbacks to that terrible hypocritical race studies class you took at liberal arts college, don't hang up, in fact, you have all the more reason to attend and be taken in, as you must be by Bamuthi's charm and wit. Despite the large audience, Marc keeps a comfort and intimacy about him that makes you relax as if you were meeting him at a party. He is not trying to out-marginalized you or out-hurt you, or out anything you, in fact he's quite candid about his middle-classness,* and that duality is what makes this show so real and compelling.
Sold yet?

By abe

Hollaback?

*or middleclassity-just cause I wanted to type it

Posted by Chloe

I'd venture to say that kids are among the toughest critics; they want instant gratification, tell you loudly when they are bored through their words and actions, and don't suffer silently through performances feeling they are somehow inadequate for not getting it*. My kid is no exception. I will spare you the litany of failed cultural excursions that I have endeavored upon in the name of early childhood enrichment. Suffice to say, my 6-year-old has trained me well. If it doesn’t involve high intensity physical activity, non-stop and familiar music, relentless knee slapping humor (like a knock-knock marathon), or at least the promise of abundant elevator rides, forget about it.

So, I’m pleased to report that PICA got it right with their Tiny TBA with Greasy Kid Stuff event at Wonder Ballroom. Like the monkeys at the Oregon Zoo – the kids had a choice: inside or outside. Outside there were free play zones set up with different activities, such as dress-up, face painting, and drawing. Inside was the GKS dance party, interspersed with video shorts from Indiekid Films, plus brown bag lunches, bubbles, and balls. Not wanting to brave the blacktop again, we missed the Sprockettes performance, but I have seen them before and they are a lovely all-lady synchronized mini-bike dance troupe – who wouldn’t love that?

The neat thing about Greasy Kid Stuff is that much of the music they play was not originally intended for the pint-sized set. A single GKS playlist is probably cooler than most of our music collections combined. GKS doesn’t patronize the kids with sonic pablum, and therefore doesn’t send me running for the nearest sharp object with which to poke my eardrums out. Indiekid Films, however, showcases work for kids, by kids. Which are a nice complement and a great reminder to kids and parents alike – art and culture doesn’t need to be handed to you on a silver platter – you can make your own!

Here’s my wish list for next years Tiny TBA: more comfy seating, bubble machines, balloons for all, and GKS go-go dancers!

*One of my favorite moments of TBA 2005 was when a kid loudly blurted out “This is boring!” during a quiet moment at a puppet show. I was bored too, honey. But to be fair – it wasn’t meant for kids.

Posted by Cody Hoesly

"Awesome" is a bold name. If meant honestly, it implies an amazing show -- a promise that may be hard to keep. If meant ironically, it implies that the show might not be so good -- an odd promise to make. Ready for amazement and disappointment both, I went to see their show "Here's What Happened" at the Wonder Ballroom last night.

The TBA catalog promised an odd show. Typewriters and theremins, whales and fruit. I like the idea of a quirky show with quirky musical instruments, and "Awesome" certainly provided that. From the narrator with the orca cap to the apple revolution which was the plot, "Quirky" would be an apt name for the 8-member ensemble assembled on the stage, each dressed up like Angus Young from the "Who Made Who" video.

And, through most of the show, "Really Great" would also have been an apt name. The story was funny, the songs catchy, and the audience pleased. Halfway through the show, however, it bogged down as the troupe introduced more characters into the story, creating too much exposition. A quirky show, to be good, must be short, because quirk loses its luster all too quickly. An exception to that rule might be if the quirk is especially or increasingly funny or moving. "Here's What Happened" was not, however, and it would benefit from further editing.

The show did pick up after the middle, as "Awesome" rebounded with more catchy songs and a general quickening of the pace. The performers seemed to really enjoy the show, and the great majority of the packed house stayed well after "Here's What Happened" ended and "Awesome" was just playing more songs from their catalog. A personal favorite: the shout-outs to Reggie Watts' 'fro.

“In Spite of Everything,” a spoken-word performance piece by The Suicide Kings, is a powerful, insightful, and often funny look at the way society treats young people and the way those young people treat society. Centering on a narrative recalling the 1999 Columbine High School shootings, the three actor-poets perform a series of vignettes highlighting different elements of youth violence. Several feature interrogations of the poets for possibly triggering the shootings during their poetry workshops. As one character says, “words are weapons.”

The actors portray kids who cut their faces to gut pimples (“my only friends were blood and pus”), who play chicken with guns to their heads in hazing rituals for gang membership, who live in fear from bullies and awful parents, who started taking drugs before the D.A.R.E. officer visited their class in 7th grade. They play the onlooker who, after seeing the massacre on television, happily and creepily declares, “Somebody finally did it!”

Rupert Estanislao, Jamie DeWolf, and Geoff Trenchard are all alumni from Russell Simmons Presents Def Poetry episodes, and all actively involved in their local communities with arts education. “In Spite of Everything” has been touring for a while now, off and on: the performance seemed both rehearsed and slightly unpolished on Friday night. Each actor moved between comedy and tragedy with speed and grace. Still, at times, the production felt like an after school special with charged dialogue and grittier violence: take it easier on the kids, learn to express yourself in positive ways, and make a difference in the world. Newsweek and other weekly newsmagazines covered most of the same issues in 1999, but The Suicide Kings raise them again in a fresh style, reminding audiences that these problems have not gone away.

The play covers a lot of ground: cultural influences such as death metal music and first-person-shooter video games, televised violence, newscaster sensationalism that reduces complex situations to pithy epithets, adolescent acne and self-mutilation, feeling ugly, bullying and the teachers who ignore bullying, gangs in schools, child rape, parental and adult hostility to non-conformist youths, paternal embarrassment and antagonism towards “weak” sons, divorcees battling each other using kids as leverage, parental negligence and denial, easy access to guns in homes and elsewhere, the availability and hip-factor of hard drugs, suicidal thoughts and self-abuse, and the desire to become someone strong or immortal.

The performance asks not “Why are kids so violent,” but rather, “Why aren’t more kids violent?”

For example, one scene explores old video games vs. new video games. Tetris is extolled as a constructive, architectural, vision-building game, and Pac-Man is a harmless blob who eats mushrooms. On the other hand, Doom and other first-person shooter games replace the main character with the barrel of a gun, hit counts are equated with point counts, and the more brutal the death the greater the victory (and the heartier the laughs as an enemy character’s head is rent open). While research seems inconclusive as to whether these more violent video games instill a sense of violence in players—many people play first-person shooter games and never enact that violence, successfully separating fantasy from reality—there does seem to be an intuitive link. Our American army uses first-person shooter video games to desensitize soldiers to mass death. Yet thinking like this may lead us on a path to assert, as one character in the play does, that the childhood game of Tag is actually a “thinly veiled reference to mass murder.” I thought about Hide and Go Seek, too: ready or not, here I come…

One irate father, considered an expert by the newscaster covering the school shooting live from the station, says teachers need to strap up. “There are dead white kids!” he screams, neglecting the history of violence in some urban schools where gangs walk the aisles. School shootings hit the suburbs and America took notice. People examined the exit strategies for schools under siege, whether windows could open as exits, and rechecked police response times. A detective observing the scene of the crime dryly says that of course he sends his children to private school.

Many characters in the play distance themselves from the killer. The interrogators depict him as a lunatic sociopath. Fellow students act like he was not one of them, even the ones who knew him well. The parent of the killer complains that he feels like a criminal and has to change his name; that he does not get sympathy though his son died too; that he is a monster; and that he wishes his son would have killed him before the rampage. He is a selfish father who grieves for his loss of status more than for the loss of his son. Another character distancing himself from the shooter, a student and former childhood friend, claims that the killer replaced Guitar Magazine with Guns & Ammo, that they were supposed to “make ‘em deaf, not dead.” These characters do not want to take responsibility for the child killer, further highlighting the alienation he felt during his life and extending it into his death.

One of the poetry workshop teachers, who tried to make a connection with the student, confesses to the police that he told the killer, “Suicide is a temporary solution to a permanent problem.” The interrogators blame him for enabling the mass murder by talking about suicide as a solution at all. I was reminded of the controversy over Ozzy Osbourne’s “Suicide Solution” and the lawsuit that claimed Ozzy caused a boy to kill himself. Anyone who tries to connect with the killer becomes tainted, becomes a suspect too. It is a good thing we have people still trying to connect with these kids, who ignore social disapproval and try to make a difference.

At points during the play, I was reminded of Taylor Mali’s poem “What Teachers Make,” which ends with the line, “I make a goddamn difference! What about you?” [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hw1MFobWD_o]. Mali, another spoken word artist, works in schools as well, and highlights the desperations and exultations of life in American public schools. One of the themes running through the play is whether wayward youths can reform themselves and help young people, especially using poetry as a medium for safe self-expression, maybe even a way to give these kids a feeling of accomplishment and belonging. Rupert has a wonderful scene where he talks about returning to his old high school a decade after his senior-year arrest, now a lauded poet and artist, only to be viewed with suspicion and turned away. What’s the point in trying to do good if people don’t give you a chance to reform?

The direction, by Marc Bamuthi Joseph, seemed largely understated: the actors seemed comfortable in their roles and easily traversed through multiple characters, from the bully to the victim, the teacher to the student, the parent to the janitor, and the newsman to the policeman. Several of the vignettes played on stereotypes: the interrogation sequences looked like typical scenes you’d find in a police thriller, and the newsroom pieces stocked cardboard cut-outs of on-screen personalities. Perhaps these elements of caricature were necessary to show us the gloss of contemporary news media or the aggression of police detectives, but they ran counter to show’s message: that there are real and deeper issues at stake than surface-level abstractions. Overall, the direction was effective and at times enthralling, perhaps no more so than during Jamie’s solo scene on his knees, talking about the first time he was forced to take a man’s penis into his mouth. Jamie whispered quietly and the house remained silent, listening forward to hear every syllable of that tortured confession.

Sam Bass’s cello served the production well, enlivening tension and drama, cueing scene breaks, and setting the scene for the nightly news and other sections. The set design was simple, using a few chairs while the actors pantomimed chalkboards, brooms, and microphones.

One father in the play claims that “parents are prologues,” our lives are under revision, and that our children should write their own stories. The Suicide Kings are writing their own stories and empowering others to do the same.

Posted by Dusty Hoesly

T:BA:07 Day Three – Saturday, 08 September 2007

Typically I would start my Saturday morning with Iyengar Yoga with Sharon Hanson, but this is T:BA week; so I don’t think so…
;P

Sure, I only got about 4-1/2 hours of sleep, but, once again, this is T:BA week…
Much like on the Playa, I highly recommend that people take care of themselves if they are on a similarly festive path through the events. Eat well, take moments of pause in the sun or gazing upon the Visual Arts collections, and get at least some sleep here and there!

Well, with that bit of sleep, I got up, showered and bee-lined it down to Conduit for Marc Bamuthi Joseph’s flow of form and word workshop.

The workshop was open to all, and there was a pretty good turn-out of people of all experience levels and interests in the arts.

At the core of Marc’s understanding of his explorations through media and movement, is the idea of “Media - - > reMix - - > Community - - > reMix …” So, he started us off with the words:
“For colored girls whom have considered suicide when the rainbow is not enough.”
The underlined words were to be replaced by others of our choosing.
Some of the folks had some great ones, but just for discussion, I’ll give you mine:
[btw, I hope that you will ‘comment’ with yours, or just contact me outside of this bLog, as I would love to learn about your poetic vision too!]
“For lost + found souls whom have considered jumping, leaping, twirling, bellowing, yelping, sitting peaceful as grass in the wind when the flow is not enough.” – f.zal
From these words that were reMixed by the people that courageously shared them, we were then to compose a thirteen word poem following in it’s vein.
“Dreaming peaceful wind skeletons;
We gasp as fire;
Burning actors’ faith into restoration.”
This became our ‘title’ for the dance piece that was to follow.
We were also asked to compose four words that spoke to an ugly time in our lives: “sad, lonely, unfelt heart” and one of a beauteous moment: “Helping, Striving, Creating … smile …”
Next became time to move.
Marc led us through a series of about twenty explorations where our bodies popped through space, resonating with not our bones, skin or image; but rather with our word, our narrative, our selves!
It is hard for me, who is not a trained dancer, to describe the series of movements that we quickly ingested and performed with zing; but I will try to atleast describe one portion that I really loved, as it was also in-line with what I loved about Marc’s piece at the Gerding Armory…
Standing, drawing up rear leg in-line with center, hopping forward and aside, toes in, horse stance, toes out, criss-cross hop-scotch, back lunge, sweeping to the ground, left leg out, crossing infront and back over the right, flexed momentum, kicking back out, gravity lost, flip, spin, flying through the air, whomp, dual hands and toes to the ground, spread eagle platform!
Man, I LOVED IT!
Thank you Marc!
There was one lady that came to the workshop, she is a poet, but certainly had never considered movement, or ‘dance’. She left enamoured! Gushing with a new-found love and appreciation for the collaboration of synchronous arts.

A few minute later, the crowd parted, mostly, and Donna Uchizono entered the space.
This second workshop at Conduit was intended to be a ‘Masters’ class; and I am far from a ‘Master’ of anything with the word dance associated with it. But, T:BA [and PICA for that matter] is not about doing what you know, gazing safely from your comfort zone, it is [for me] about pushing yourself, exploring new things, meeting inspirational people, learning from a perspective that you did not even know existed until the moment that it envelops you.
So, take a deep breath, find your center, stand-up tall, and walk over to ask the prestigious Donna Uchizono for permission to attend…
“Ummm, excuse me, Hi. I know that this is intended to be a ‘Masters’ class, and I want to be respectful of your space and vision…. I love to dance, but I am not a professional, and do not have any formal training… May I participate?”
There was a bit of back and forth between her and Levi as to the appropriateness of the request, but, in the end, they were kind enough to let me stay and join in the fun.

As an added bonus, as I was feeling a bit guilty about not attending yoga this morning, we started off with a yogic warm-up. Then, we were divided up boy / girl, well, ok; so that did not work, as there were only two or three boys there and about thirty more girls. So, it was a division of larger frames / petite frames to assist with some of the carries and drops we were about to do.

I was then quite fortunate to be paired up with a wonderful MFA dance student from the U.Oregon. Not only was she open to the idea that I was far from a professional dancer, but we seemed to move well together. If you went to see Donna’s “State of Heads”, then you saw what we were taught. In the performance, it was about ten to twenty seconds of a duet; but it took us about a half hour to get the basics down. Head supported heavy, cast up, other’s head drops, caught, lifted back up again, shoulder fall to chest, and up, head to right, shimmy back, drop, cascade forward, legs arcing back, plant to the ground, arm back to head, cantilever and running fall back, push up, head drop back, catch, up, torso drop back, against chest and leg, up, rest to ground, catch head with foot, up, crawl under leg, nudge, drop arm and head, push arm back, swing around, catch neck, swivel up, forward and around head, bodies standing, arm out, fall in and under, arm cradles body, lift, pivot, step, lunge, leg lift and toss…. Yep that sounds like about ten to twenty seconds… To watch the entire piece tonight [see below] knowing the amount of work that goes into just a few seconds, was amazing! Thank you Donna and Company.

Leaving the workshop, I was chatting with a friend, and went off to get a bite to eat at Elephants. Baguette with mozzerela, tomato and basil, an almond protein drink and some squash soup. After four hours of dance, I figured that my body needed a bit to refresh. Yum!

Over to PNCA for a moment to check out the Visual Arts Reception. Make sure that you go to see the works, especially Regina Silveira [see earlier post for description].

Back home to walk the pup, relax for a bit, and shower off the sweat from dancing. To my delight, I had a postcard from Ryan Wilson Paulson. I hope to send him a response at: P.O. Box 5221, Portland, Oregon 97206.

Tonight was a sumptuous dinner at Higgins before the shows. Nice glass of wine, figs [always a good thing when they are in season], gazpacho, and a delicious hazelnut pesto over pasta.

Then, over to the PCPA [Portland Center for the Performing Arts] for two shows.

The first one of the evening was the Suicide Kings in the Winningstad. I always get excited when I am going to be seeing a show in the Winningstad. It has this wonderful Noh theatre sensibility, in a coked up 80’s way. It remains my favorite space in town.

Marc Bamuthi Joseph directed the show, which brings the power of a poetry slam into a theatrical narrative. I enjoyed the show, a collection of spoken word, biography and social commentary. The phrase that stuck with me the most was when a ‘janitor’ commented after the Columbine-esque shooting, that when the cops come, “they take away the bullets, but they do not fill the holes.” This is the problem. Our society is working to take away the evidence of pain, disenfranchisement, loneliness; but we are not doing what it takes to fill the holes in our souls, to prevent disaster before it takes seed, gives root, takes fruit, fruitless. I was also struck by audience reactions. Of course, it makes sense that when words were cast about injustice and making change, everyone cheered. But, when sullen words, deep-heart words, blood-soakes phrases were uttered, silence. Is it from sorrow, or a desire to disavow and disregard the painful moment, push them under the carpet, fain their non-existence? We cannot, we must not, we have to acknowledge pain as much, if not more then the critical. We need to fill the holes before more of them are shot up in arms, minds and/or school walls!

Perhaps a way we can begin, is to engage some of our “visual acquaintances”. “Visual Acquaintances” is a term that Jim McGinn tossed at me this morning while we were at Donna’s workshop. Jim is an amazingly talented dancer, and will be in tEEth next Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday at the Winningstad. I have ‘known’ him for years, through friends, through PICA, through the Portland arts community; but we are simply visual acquaintances. We do not really know each other, we have barely ever had much of a conversation until this morning. But, we feel that we know each other, as we have seen each other so many times, amongst familiar backdrops. Hopefully, we will actually converse with each other sometime soon, maybe even grab a cup of tea. But, if not, then we will find each other at another friend’s dinner party, or a PICA, etc. Don’t become satiated with just being visual acquaintances with many of the people you have come to ‘know’ through T:BA. Engage each other, discuss what you are experiencing, risk creating a friendship…

Over at the Newmark, the crowd was lined up, winding up the stair all the way to the balcony doors. I have been hyping up the Donna Uchizono Company’s performances, as have many others. Both because Donna’s vision has always been spectacular; and the fact that Mikhail Baryshnikov was in the second performance, that did not hurt any.

The first piece “State of Heads” was flooded with amazing lighting, and series of fun costume layers. To have spent the morning working with Donna, Levi Gonzalez, Carla Rudiger and Rebecca Serrell; I felt a special connection to them. Plus, I was awaiting that moment when I could feel “Ha, I know what they are about to do next… “shimmy back, drop, cascade forward, legs arcing back” [above]. The three of them moved about as automatomical marionettes, asynchronous, playful, and technically strong. Towards the end, there was a part where the music amped up, as something tribal or perhaps Malayan. It was my favorite aspect of the performance.

Then, after a short intermission, was the piece I have been waiting for forever. Baryshnikov, live, here, in my town, just a dozen feet before me…
OK, so I need to give you a bit of my internal narrative here.
Baryshnikov to me, to my family is a G-d; no a Demig-d. He has always represented the pinnacle of heritage in my family. On my Father’s side, my Grandfather came to the states as barely a teenager from what is now Latvia. My Grandfather had left some twenty years before Baryshnikov even entered the world in 1948, but my family’s appreciation of the arts and culture came from here. While my Grandfather was a Commissioner in Philadelphia, he did much to enhance the fine and applied arts across the City. My Great-Aunt, one of the two remaining children that came through Ellis Island, still sits on the board of a conservatoire of ballet and classical music in Florida where she has retired.
Complimentary to this, my Mother was an aspiring ballerina and figure-skater, until an ice fall and broken hip. Dance was never an option, it is in my blood. I have no training, but dance is my home, my peace, my love. They might as well have set up an alter for Baryshnikov right there next to my crib with Vladimir Vysotsky droning away "Koni Priveredlivye".
I faintly remember seeing him once as a child, but I was a child, so what did I know. Ghost images in my mind. Since then, I have seen him perform only through video, as I had unfortunately missed any live performance, until tonight!
Donna was nervous about the show, and whispered to me that no matter what, even if I hate the show, that “Misha” deserves to have me cheer, to have me stand. What she did not know, is all he had to do was be in the room, and I would gladly jump with enthusiasm, cheer, bow-down in a Myersian “I’m not worthy” moment. [OK, so I also got a bit giddy with the very knowledge of having someone whom knows him well, to be talking with me and calling him “Misha”. I’ll have to stick with Mister, Sir, or atleast Mikhail Baryshnikov in the formal; as I do not want to disrespect him in any manner.]

House lights dimmed, curtain pulled back, there he stood. His presence filled the room. OK, so he does not do insane aerials any longer, or throw his body to the ground or walls like an offering to the form; but he’s still got it! And big time!
I do not know how to describe it.
I’m here trying to bLog the bLog that I ‘officially’ signed-up to do, for the performance that I have been looking forward to for decades, Mikhail Baryshnikov live, and I do not know what to say.
I love to use metaphor, to paint a picture, to allow you the reader to experience things again from my heart, through my eyes, tingling with my fingers. But, here, words fail me.
Taylor Mac abhors the use of comparison, but it is hard to not fall back to such easy ways.
Let me start with the other two dancers that shared the stage with Baryshnikov…
Hristoula Harakas and Jodi Melnick were amazing! They sense of space, acuity of form and movement was delightful, beautiful, enchanting. On a stage of their own, they would be mavens, ravished by critics with gold. But, in the presence of Baryshnikov, they became mortal. At the top of their art, but mortal just like the rest of us in the audience, in the audience watching a G-d upon the stage. Every word that I try to use, that bubbles up in my mind has this connotation about age, which I do not want to reference. Baryshnikov’s movement, presence and form have nothing to do with chronology, they exude from him as a gift, a given, a prodigal child. You first notice it when he simply clapped his hand against his body. The sound rings of Baryshnikov. I never thought that such a banal gesture, a simple sound could have signature. But, I recognized it. With closed eyes, I could hear this being as much of his as each pivot, glide, and stance.
There was one moment, one movement in the performance, even ever so simple, but awe inspiring. Baryshnikov was to leave the stage, to allow the other dancers the space to perform solo. He glanced over to her, slightly back to the crowd, and then, still in lunge, back leg out stretched, toes bent under and flexed, he successively pushed back with his front leg to glide fluidly backwards and into the wings.
Perhaps by the lecture tomorrow I will be able to gain some composure. To not be so drunk on his mythology. But, for now, this is all I can explain. There will be more!

The last hurrah for the night was “Awesome” at the Wonder Ballroom.
They are cute, sassy, irreverent, and fun.
Last year, I would have mocked them, said that they were lowering the state of the art in the Festival. But, this year, I have a new-found appreciation. They were entertaining. They were a smooth dessert, gliding down my throat after a long and delicious meal. I did not need complexity, or challenge, they were just what was needed. Well, maybe,… I suppose that I could have gone downstairs and chilled-out with some more Guido van der Werve. Maybe tomorrow evening.

For now, signing off, time for some sleep to prepare myself for yet another AMAZING T:BA day!

Ciao,
Fredrick H. Zal
Architect | Sculptor | Advocate

Atelier Z
an.architecture and industrial design studio
advocating dialogue in the fine + applied arts
http://www.fhzal.com