-->
Merce
Cunningham is arguably America’s most consistently innovative choreographer. As
the New York Times has written, “Mr
Cunningham has given us the permanent experiment in dance.” His works bear
little, if any, resemblance to classical ballet nor to the innovations of the “First
Lady” of modern dance, Martha Graham, in whose company Cunningham danced as a
soloist for five years.
His
dances are not programmatic; he has escaped the chains of romanticism and
sentimentality. They are not about anything but, he would insist, movement and
activity. To paraphrase Marshall MacLuhan’s famous maxim: “The movement is the
message.”
The
basis of his work, he says in a recent interview, is “the strictness of somebody
doing a movement properly and the freedom with which it is done.” He gives the
example of walking; the mechanism of what is done in walking is strict, but the
different ways in which people walk, the
how, is the free expression. Even when trained dancers do their movements
fully, clearly, and correctly, they will still do them differently from one
another. “That’s what interests me,” he declares.
A
major innovation of Cunningham’s is actually an application of one of John Cage’s:
the use of chance operations. Chance should not be confused with improvisation.
Instead of consciously deciding which movement shall follow another, Cunningham
uses the chance methods of the I Ching
and coin tossing to choose from among a predetermined
“set” of movements, and then find ways to get from one to the other.
Another
of his innovations stems from his belief that dance should exist independently
of music and décor. Painters such as Robert Raushenberg, Jasper Johns, and Andy
Warhol and composers such as John Cage, Earle Brown, David Tudor and others work
independently on designs and music for dances that they may or may not have
ever seen. When then combined with the choreography of Cunningham the effect is
startling, as much for the disjointedness that often results as for the
occasional chance synchronizations.
On
Saturday, March 1st, the matinee program consisted of a new work, “Duets,”
and two revivals, “Landrover” and “Changing Steps Et Cetera.” “Landrover” is a
55-minute long work in four sections. The first explores an asymmetrical use of
space. A cluster of five dancers stand in the back, stage right, while another
walks swiftly in a zig-zag pattern out from behind them to the front, stage
left, where he whips his arms about him like a hydra. After this motion is
repeated several times, he zig-zags back off-stage behind the clustered group,
which then erupts into a cyclone of movement.
This
high state of energy continues until the second selection which begins very
slowly and stately. This is in contrast to the music of John Cage, Martin Kalve
and David Tudor which consists of distorted pops, scrapings, electronic
sounding waterdrops and other indistinguishable sounds. The third section
features a fragmentary voiceover from Cage.
This
and the fourth section are highly charged with tension and ever-mounting
excitement. At one point, a male and female dancer run toward each other along
the diagnonal of the stage. She then leaps up as he lowers himself just a bit
to catch her just above her ankles, which she falls head-first over his back
and slowly slides down the length of his body. He too, lowers himself until she
softly slides completely off his legs and they are lying flat on the ground
with the soles of their feet touching. This is a truly breath-taking move, which
in the performance I witnessed, is by chance accompanied by a sudden high-pitched
tone which seems to “stretch out” as the dancers stretch and slide along the
line of their bodies. The dance ends with
the initial asymmetrical pattern emerging out of the whirlwind of
movement with an unexpected suddenness and resolution.
In
“Duets,” one couple at a time enters onto the stage and dances to the
accompaniment of Irish percussionists Peadar and Mel Mercier’s bodhran and
bones. The first two duets seem almost traditional, containing elements of folk
dance. Just before the second couple dance off the stage, a third couple enters
slowly, a female dancing, orbiting around the slow motion walk of Cunningham
himself. After the sixth couple has completed their duet, the other five
couples enter and each perform their respective duets, so that there is now six
independent duets danced in different floor spaces, with occasional
overlapping, while Cunningham and his partner wind their way through the constantly
changing floor space.
This
fragmentary “collage-like” effect is what dominates in “Changing Steps Et
Cetera,” The dance is made up of a number of solos, duets, trios, quartets, and
quintets, part or all of which may be given at any particular performance. To
this may be added sequences of “Loops,” a solo work or Cunningham and sections
from “Exercise Piece 3” as space and personnel permit. The dances are
independent and may be arranged in any order, therefore, it is never quite the
same thing.
In
this performance, clusters of dancers converged, broke apart, and moved around
each other in a myriad of patterns. Everyday movements such as walking,
running, skipping, and simply standing still are all utilized. Occasionally,
individuals or groups freeze into sculpture-like postures which other dancers
use them as props, weaving their way around, under, over, and through them,
even sometimes picking them up, moving them to other areas of the stage, and
placing them into different postures.
While
a soloist performs at the front of stage left, and groups of three and four
form circles, a trio makes its way across the stage left to right; a woman
kneels on her left knee, keeping her right foot flat on the ground while a man,
lying perpendicular between the space created by her legs rolls from her back
leg to her front leg and another pulls the woman along, thus continually
creating more space for the man to roll between. It is a humorous scene and
looks fun and joyful. And that is another point of Cunningham’s dances: many of
the moves reminded me of the kinesthetic pleasures of movement, the sheer joy
of forming shapes with your body, bounding, twisting, writhing, jumping, and
touching. Indeed, there were some movements, especially in the duets and trios,
that were very sensual, almost erotic in nature.
During
the dance, Cunningham makes his way to the center of the stage, passing a
wooden folding chair around his body. At the center, he sits as the other dancers
radiate in a spoke-like pattern. Cunningham then stands on the chair and it
seems like some mock ceremony of adulation. I am reminded of photos I’ve seen
of both Isadora Duncan and Martha Graham in similar poses, and wonder if this
is gentle satire. At any rate, it feels light-hearted, and after Cunningham
raises his arms, fluttering his hands, he lets them drop to his sides as he
lets his head drop abruptly and the dance ends as the audience, which had been
chuckling, erupts into roars of laughter and applause. It was a wonderful and
joyous performance, and a perfect conclusion.
