Ranting Details

Like Father, Like Son

(This image has absolutely nothing to do with the following post.  And as much as I wish I had taken the photo, for multiple reasons, I am not a photographer for GQ.  Let's just pass this picture off as "artistic inspiration.")

The panic of creation.  This is something I learned about at a young age, when I would awake to find my father sitting in his study, two cups of coffee into the morning before I had even brushed my teeth.  He, being a painter, actor and, when most panic stricken, a director, was always in the throes of some inner conflict that could only be resolved by pacing or tying flies in the garage. 

I’m not a fisher.  But I am most certainly a pacer.  And just like my father, I don’t do my best pacing against wooden floorboards or threads of carpet, I do my best pacing within the curvature of my brain, where the audience is comprised of judges even the Supreme Court would be intimidated by.  I’ve reacquainted myself with these powdered wig-wearing intimidators this week as I’ve taken a step back into something I know well: the dance world.  But despite my familiarity with the art form, a familiarity that dates back to the days I would tour jete into the very kitchen in which my father was brewing his coffee, nothing has ever felt as unknown or terrifying as this journey into my first piece of movement in exactly two years. 

To be honest, I’m not sure how I got here to this moment, brainstorming in my bed late at night while my roommate sleeps mere feet away, just as my mother did while my father scribbled ideas on his yellow, lined notebooks.  Actually, I guess I do know.  I said yes.  I said yes to a request to perform a solo in an evening of theater put on by a friend of my sister’s.  After all of the challenges I’ve faced in the past two years, where I’ve accepted offers to do things I have no training in and have come out relatively unscathed (next up: diving horses!), accepting this offer seemed like a no brainer. 

And then my brain stepped in.  Before it went into overdrive, however, I managed to procure a beautiful, original composition from my friend Nico Muhly, who, in between writing scores for Oscar-nominated movies and sending me pictures of cats, wrote a haunting piece for piano and brass that is beautiful in its simplicity. 

If only I could say the same for the movement I’ve created so far.  Time in the studio has been limited, so my downstairs neighbor has had to deal with the thudding of limbs across the floor of my entryway both when I’m “dancing” and when I’m rolling around, whining on the phone to my parents about my lack of ability.  I should fix the damage to her ceiling.  Or at least send her some flowers. 

But I have bigger things to worry about.  Three days away from the show and I’m contemplating scrapping all I have created and standing on stage in a dance belt with two arrows pointing at my hernias while a giant neon sign flashes the words: “Performance Art,” overhead.  (Somehow, I think Nico would approve.) There have been moments where I’ve wanted to give up. (Somehow, I think Nico would not approve.)  But of all the challenges I have faced in the past two years, this is the one I am most intent on finishing.  This is a moment for myself.  A moment to tackle some of the demons that have flown over, and within, my head every night since my dance career was cut short two years ago today, and a moment to give myself permission to be okay with not living up to every expectation in my brain.  Of course, I want this to a tour-de-force solo, but given the atrophied state of my muscles, I am attempting to give myself credit for simply taking a step back on stage.

To be honest, I have no idea what is going to happen Saturday night.  Actually, I guess I do.  I am going to stand on stage again.  I am going to dance again.  And I am going to be proud, even if I am just standing there in a dance belt beneath neon lights.  It sure beats pacing.  

He's Not That Innocent

What the hell is a “hair harp?” That was the question on my mind when I sat down at Nico Muhly’s show Skin, Bone, Hair at The Kitchen Friday night.  Scanning the program with my guests Erin and Alec, we wondered what we were in for, as the set that greeted us suggested an atypical evening.  Yet it was the inclusion of “human hair harp” under the instrument list that had us especially confused. 

An email exchange earlier in the day warned me that the proceedings were going to be strange.  Nico piqued my interest with his admission that “the point of [the] whole show is to horrify people into not thinking I’m so nice.”  It’s not as if Nico (who I wrote about for Movmnt) has an Oprah like reputation, but a barrage of press throughout the past year has consistently heralded him as the young composer to watch.  If they’re going to watch, you may as well give them something to talk about. 

When we made our way into the theater we were greeted by a set that looked more like a fantasy torture den than somewhere to play music.  A collection of ropes that stretched out to create a spider-web like structure were cluttered with various skulls and bones sheltering a percussion set up.  Directly in front of that was a white horse draped with a saddle made of hair.  Centered upstage was a raised platform with three women laying down, long hair cascading off the edge.  The title began to make sense. 

(Nico (second in from left) takes a box on the bizarre set.)

The lights came down and a series of musicians made their way onto stage.  Their faces were coated with a layer of white paint, presenting them as ghostly creatures that fit perfectly into Icelandic artist Hrafnhildur Arnadottir’s upside down fantasy design. 

Last to arrive was Nico, donning maestro coattails capped off by a ghostly face and tussled hair.  To say what followed was mesmerizing is an understatement.  From the moment Nico sat down at the piano, boxed in by a set of computers and smaller keyboards on either side, every level of the evening transfixed me.      

My only previous experience with Nico’s music was the ballet he did for ABT, his CD on iTunes, and a variety of files he was kind enough to send me off of his upcoming album.  All were pleasures to listen to, but it was seeing him in action that made me fully appreciate his creations. 

Skin, Bone, Hair is a collection of four movements for four musicians.  After a brief introduction, there is an extended percussion solo (It’s About Time), a pair of viola etudes (Hair Passacaglia) and the meeting of the instruments in the 15-minute final piece (The Only Tune). 

What made the evening fascinating to me was the inability to categorize the type of music that made up the four movements.  Most mesmerizing of all was the percussion solo that had an air of surprise to the performance that seemed delightfully improvised.  The inclusion of folk singer Sam Amidon added an aura of pop relevance to The Only Tune, while other moments sounded purely classical. 

Yet even in the classical sections, there were odd moments.  At one point Nico started violently combing a fellow musician’s hair underneath a microphone, which added a scraping whisper while he plunked out keys on the piano.  Minutes before, he had knelt down beside the violist and shaken his fingers through the women’s hair at the back of the stage, essentially playing the rhythms of the music through this “human hair harp”.  The music began to get more violent and he took the women’s hair between his fingers and ratted it in time with the notes of her viola.

(Erin attacks the steed.  Typical.)

Of all the performers, Nico had the most unique physicality that was unable to be harnessed despite being seated behind a piano.   Perhaps most intriguing is that he possesses talent and a look in his eyes that reaches far beyond his 27 years, while also maintaining a childlike fascination with the proceedings.  With his hands folded on his lap, he would close his eyes and get lost in the other musicians’ performances, only to search and release a key with the determination of a typewriter letter that immediately settles back into place.   

I couldn’t ever decide where to focus throughout the 45-minute program.  Watching the musicians play was both a sonic and physical dance that overwhelmed my senses.  Nico may have to do something a little more startling (perhaps bite the head off a bat on stage) to prove he’s not quite so nice, but it was still refreshing to hear something that wasn’t quite what people have come to expect of him.  It was the type of evening that renewed my faith in the arts, and showed that there are worthwhile evenings to be had at the theater for under $100.   

(The lovely Alec and Erin pose for the blogarazzi.)