MPA with Amapola Prada and Elizabeth Marcus-Sonenberg, Orbit, 2017. Performance view, Whitney Museum of American Art, New York, February 15, 2017. MPA, Amapola Prada, and Elizabeth Marcus-Sonenberg. Photo: Paula Court.


ON FEBRUARY 19 MPA, an artist based in Joshua Tree, California, completed (along with colleagues Amapola Prada and Elizabeth Marcus-Sonenberg) an ersatz ten-day residency at the Whitney Museum titled Orbit. For that period, the three women lived sequestered in a thirty-six-foot-long by three-foot-wide sliver of the Museum’s theater facing the Hudson River. They resided like zoological specimens in this glass-enclosed box, isolated from yet completely exposed to the public during museum open hours. Dressed in red outfits that accessorized the vermillion infrastructure of their capsule, they lived on supplies sheltered with them, while dry composing, recycling their grey water, and bottling their urine for the length of their seclusion.

Orbit was meant to emulate, in metaphoric fashion, conditions that might occur on future human-occupied colonies on Mars. On the final evening of the project, the artists, in front of an audience of about 150 spectators, premiered Assembly, an hour-and-a-half-long event that culminated their mission. As audience members entered the theater and took their seats facing each other across a central runway, the three women were seen in their crimson cage, laying about on a platform while slowly massaging one another to recorded audio of orgasmic moans. Eventually the women stood with their backs to the audience, facing the river and the lights of New Jersey, rhythmically swaying under intense red light. When the house lights came up, the women began a bucket brigade, moving grey water in five gallon jugs, dozens of mason jars of urine, sealed five gallon pails of what was later revealed to be composted feces, and other waste products along the narrow corridor of their capsule to an “offstage” storage area located behind the door of the cabin.

The women then emerged from a door on the audience’s side of the glass, thus ending their period in “orbit.” Moving in trancelike fashion down the runway, they walked to the back of the room. MPA, a tall blonde woman in her thirties, addressed the audience from the rear of the theater, intoning a few disconnected words about space, the future, and Mars. At moments, her speech was interrupted by spastic body contortions and gruntlike vocalizations, signaling that not all was right in her reintegration process.

The three women reconvened at a front stage that had been set up for a panel discussion. They seated themselves on stools before the site of their former detention. Marcus-Sonenberg secured two wooden clothespins to the front of a red crochet parejo she had donned, while adjusting the red heels and red fishnet tights she had also quickly put on. MPA threw on a dress, literally—a red sequin floor-length gown still on its hanger hung around her neck. Jay Sanders, curator of the show, grabbed a mic and began to emcee questions from previously selected members of the audience like artists Martha Wilson, Malik Gaines, and A. L. Steiner. The artists debriefed the audience about the ten-day experience, speaking on their isolation, the boredom of ten days without electronic media, the exhibitionism of the project, the pitfalls of collective living, providing explicit details about their shit-management protocols. Yet when questions were solicited from the wider audience the Q&A began to get a little bizarre, with audio distortions affecting MPA’s answers. As the other two women stood up to leave the panel, she began writhing atop the chairs with her dress hiked up around her, her red sports bra visible along with a wireless mic receiver tightly taped around her waist like a bondage device. As she stumbled away the three women returned, calmly hauling all the urine jars and waste buckets onto the stage, forming an orderly and quite substantial stack of refuse.

MPA with Amapola Prada and Elizabeth Marcus-Sonenberg, Orbit, 2017. Performance view, Whitney Museum of American Art, New York, February 13, 2017. MPA. Photo: Paula Court.


And then all hell broke loose.

As the track of sex sounds once again became audible, the women began simulating masturbation—MPA silently humping the wall stage right, Prada gyrating her hips and loudly groaning as she faced the audience, Marcus-Sonenberg back in the capsule contorting her body as though in mid-coitus. MPA’s thrusts became masochistic to the point of hysterical violence, and she began to beat her hips in a kind of frenzied self-brutalization. Marcus-Sonenberg writhed and shook her limbs like an upturned beetle. Prada bounced like a pogo stick, her onanistic grunts becoming a ferocious screeching as she moved down the runway to the theater’s rear, the rhythmic cries initially comic and then terrifying in their guttural power. Eventually, finding herself in the center of the audience, for several minutes Prada channeled what seemed to be the excruciating pain of childbirth, the orgasmic feeling of sex having pickled into a fairly accurate expression of the hideous pain of labor, and as she squatted and screamed it was hard not to feel one too was squeezing out a huge ass baby cranium. The sights and sounds of three women performing sex to the point of demented pain for ten minutes was agonizing to witness.

And indeed the audience sat in stunned silence for a minute after the “climax” as the three women silently filed out of the theater and the house lights again brightened. The exhibitionism of their ten-day fishbowl existence, a performance of the totally administered life of the astronaut who is scrutinized and monitored while completely dependent on preplanned resources and technology to breathe, eat, and shit, had erupted in an id-like expression of sexual longing, self-harm, violence, hysteria, and madness. Where Orbit gave us the mundane reality of daily life in capsule form, in Assembly MPA and company desublimated the paddock-like constraint on the body and mind inflicted by the isolation in the spaceship. They made a persuasive case for staying the fuck out of outer space.

Eva Díaz

Orbit ran February 9 through 19 at the Whitney Museum of American Art.

  • William Forsythe, Pas/Parts 2016, 2016. Performance view, January 23, 2016, San Francisco Ballet. Carlo DiLanno and Sofiane Sylve. Photo: Erik Tomasson.

  • William Forsythe, Pas/Parts 2016, 2016. Performance view, January 23, 2016, San Francisco Ballet. Photo: Erik Tomasson.

  • William Forsythe, Pas/Parts 2016, 2016. Performance view, January 23, 2016, San Francisco Ballet. Photo: Erik Tomasson.

WILLIAM FORSYTHE’S PAS/PARTS 2016 begins like an about-to-happen assignation at the bottom of an abandoned swimming pool. The air is dusky blue; the mood is at once alienated and electric. A lone woman is still, and then gloriously in motion, kinetic impulses flickering and undulating through her body with crystalline propulsion.

The woman is Sofiane Sylve, the imperiously grand San Francisco Ballet principal. She is the cold-hot center of this episodic ensemble ballet and, like Thom Willems sinuous, spectacle-courting score, she is only warming up.

Forsythe made Pas/Parts for the Paris Opera Ballet in 1999 and last year reimagined it as Pas/Parts 2016 for the San Francisco Ballet. To see it the weekend before last, on a bill with Alexei Ratmansky’s smolderingly restrained Seven Sonatas, 2009, was to be reminded that ballet can in fact be a serious art form. Never mind that the program is called “Modern Masters” and includes a premiere by Yuri Possokhov titled Optimistic Tragedy, which I sat out in favor of a glass of champagne at the bar, accompanied by the memory of Bill Berkson declaring, with an air of obviousness, that he made it his business to skip everything but the Balanchine works.

It can be stupidly difficult to remember this about ballet, that it’s made for adults, by adults. I don’t mean all the fabulously strange oldies but goodies. I mean ostensibly contemporary work. The tiaras that refuse to die, perched atop tightly smiling faces. The swanning about in lieu of actual movement sequences. The veneer of emotionalism slathered over an absence of ideas: The emptiness can seem inevitable.

What a shame, given the authority-drunk, overexposed, nationalistic ways of this present moment, and ballet’s historical ability to address these very things. Pas/Parts 2016 seethes with power grabs, and sex, and sex as a very particular power grab. Bodies wield the spotlight with cool aggression, and then casually walk away from our gaze: the ultimate power play. As the great Forsythe interpreter Rosyln Sulcas has written, the ballet is steeped in “Forsythe’s canny understanding of the culture of the Paris Opera Ballet, with its formal hierarchies of grades and its deeply rooted competitiveness.”

So too is Forsythe extending the thorny balancing act between human dependency and isolation that Balanchine brilliantly exploited; Sylve, a French-born star who used to dance with New York City Ballet and has a deep understanding of such Balanchine studies of human nature as The Four Temperaments, 1946, is ideally suited to Forysthe’s choreography, which marries formal invention and good old razzle dazzle.

Seven Sonatas is a quieter but no less forceful machine. The structural sophistication, the decorous white costumes (by Holly Hynes), and the Scarlatti piano works (performed by Mungunchimeg Buriad) conspire to cloak the increasing weirdness at play in Ratmansky’s formations. There are only three couples: Sylve again, with Carlo Di Lanno; Frances Chung and Angelo Greco; Lauren Strongin and Joseph Walsh—all superb. Here is virtuosity that never fully announces itself, and a continually shifting view of human relations. It’s the sort of stunner that yields its secrets slowly. (I saw it years ago at American Ballet Theatre and wasn’t so taken with it; who knows what was wrong with me.)

The ballet tips occasionally into a self-conscious cuteness that is the Ratmansky go-to I like least. But mostly he and the dancers are mining (through rhythm hiccups, through syncopation and interruption, through torsos that pull one way while legs cut the other) competing desires that will not be reconciled. The deep longing here is not of the romantic love kind, and while watching it performed by this company in the gilded War Memorial Opera House—in a neighborhood teeming with the homeless and, of late, protests—my mind kept returning to the phrase “dancing on the deck of the Titanic.” The time is borrowed; the hour grows late.


Claudia La Rocco

Fail Safe

01.24.17

The Psychic Readings Co., The Failures, 2016. Performance view, November 4, 2016.


FAILURE HAS ALWAYS BEEN a ripe subject for theater. The stars don’t ever align for Romeo and Juliet. The three Prozorov sisters will never live happily ever after. Godot won’t arrive.

The world’s stage is no different. The current spectacle of the forty-fifth President—his sociopathic twists of fact and fiction, stories told to seize the spotlight, to succeed—promises no happy endings either. It is part of the dispirit of our age that we must recognize that certain people seek not only to align themselves with power and money, but, barring real access to these things, they land their pride on the right to entertainment. Call it zeitgeist, or writing our own fate, but three recent productions in New York took on the subjects of failure and entertainment and how, to some degree, one might triumph over, perhaps even trump, the endless onslaught of both.

“Here I am, a successful man, with a lotta good stuff going on, full of vigor and yeah, I have that little something.” So brags Ric (Ric Royer), the jittery-slick game-show host–cum–motivational speaker at the center of The Psychic Readings Co.’s sublimely absurd comedy-of-terrors, The Failures. Written by Royer and Peter Mills Weiss, the play is as crackerjack as it is crackpot, presenting for our viewing pleasure a pair of failures, played by Mills Weiss and Sarah Lamar as pitch-perfect portraits of deflation in gold-sequined sweatshirts and blue hospital pants. “They do not like their life,” explains Ric. “They don’t like being perpetually locked in an inescapable cycle of incapacity.” Tonight, we’re told, the failures will be given mundane tasks to perform. If they fail, then all remains as it is. If they succeed, they will unleash the wrath of Zothe (Anoushe Shoja)—“a merciless and heartless administrator of cosmic consequence”—on the hapless and unsuspecting Loth (Jon Swift), freshly plucked from the front row. No matter the outcome, the audience is, of course, encouraged to enjoy the show.

Needless to say, the failures fail. (It’s their destiny as well as their duty, after all.) We watch as Zothe shanks Loth in the kidneys with a screw, forces him to drink expired Drano, cuts off his thumb and shreds it between the whirring blades of a fan, sending pieces flying everywhere. As he’s tortured, Loth howls in mortal agony, spewing some of the play’s most disarmingly astute lines: “The real horror here is that it’s not experienced as horror, but as comedy!” and “It’s fear of failure that leads one to design systems in which failure is the desired outcome.”

“The key to success is failure!” sings the cast in the play’s buoyant but sinister denouement, which involves Zothe becoming “not weird anymore,” finding a romantic partner, and opening a chain of donut shops. As it turns out, success can seem a lot like failure, depending on how you look at it. As a monster, Zothe was at least charismatic, strange, determined. Now she’s smug, well-off, and not as fun to watch. Why choose success? As Loth says in the moments before his death: “There are only three independent impulses in the human nature! And none of them are to entertain! They are to survive, survive, survive.”

Forced Entertainment, Real Magic , 2016. Performance view, La MaMa Theater, New York, January 5, 2017. Richard Lowdon, Claire Marshall, and Jerry Killick. Photo: Maria Baranova.


Survive—of course we must—but to what end? There’s no mortal threat hanging over the three characters in Forced Entertainment’s exasperating comedy Real Magic. Rather, the condition in which company members Claire Marshall, Jerry Killick, and Richard Lowdon find themselves is that of eternal return, stuck as they are in an endless, tedious game show from which they cannot seem to free themselves. The consequence of their failure is repetition: They keep going round and round for more rounds. Think of it as Sartre’s No Exit for the twenty-four-hour infotainment era: It’s never made clear if an escape from all this canned dazzle is impossible, or if in truth, is “wanted.”

The game that Claire, Jerry, and Richard play seems designed to fail: They’re asked to read one another’s minds to guess the word that one of them is thinking. Each in their turn plays one of three roles: guesser, thinker, and host. The guesser has three chances to get it right, the thinker holds up a sign for the audience with their word written on it, and the host oversees the game. Claire’s word is CARAVAN. Jerry’s is ALGEBRA. Richard’s is SAUSAGE. Yet every time, every guesser guesses the same three wrong words—money, electricity, hole. After the game is lost they swap places and start all over again. The contradiction of their condition is that, of course, they play because they lose, and they lose because they play. Even as their patience, steam, and focus wane, they remain in the game. In fact, they can’t even cheat their way out of it.

Real Magic is in part a theatrical essay on one of the most bewitching forms in contemporary culture: the loop. As distinct from, say, Dante’s infamous circles, which led to deeper realms, a loop is stagnation in motion: self-arresting, ouroboric, collapsing backward and forward momentums into the same direction. A loop produces erosion, fatigue, confusion—a devolving that certainly incites change, though not the rousing kind. Forced Entertainment never lets up on this point, refusing to buoy the pummeling experience of watching the play by granting motivation or meaning to Claire, Jerry, and Richard. “Sometimes the answer to your problem is right in front of you,” says Claire as she and Jerry try to prompt Richard into just reading the sign when it’s his turn to guess. (He doesn’t.) Perhaps we’re to understand that one possible way forward—of up and out—is to simply pay better attention.

Philippe Quesne, La Mélancolie des dragons, 2015. Performance view, Théâtre Nanterre-Amandiers, Nanterre, France, January 6, 2015. Photo: Martin Argyroglo.


A similar spirit possesses Philippe Quesne’s La Mélancolie des dragons, a languorous and enchanting production that recalibrates the scales with which to measure magic and wonder, both in the theater and out in the world. Failure too kicks off this story: A stalled Volkswagen Rabbit has stranded a merry band of metalheads and their trailer in a snowy wood. They’re soon discovered by Isabelle, a mechanic—what luck!—who assumes they’re in a band. As it turns out, the men run a touring amusement park—we are independent, one explains—a series of spectacles that they offer to put on just for her. What unfolds is at once silly, sweet, and profound, as Isabelle (and we the audience) are treated to modest yet magnificent sights.

Their first trick: “Invisible Men,” an installation of wigs suspended on fishing wire, lit by stage lights, and blown around by a fan while loud music plays. Incredible, says Isabelle, agog. They show her how the trailer doubles as a library, housing a few stacks of art books, children’s books, and a copy of Artaud’s The Theater and Its Double. One machine fills the air with bubbles, another with smoke, a third with snow, “so that we can make winter in the summertime!” they tell Isabelle. Images of warm places appear in the cold landscape via a video projector. A bucket of water and a hose become a gurgling fountain. Enormous black plastic bags are inflated to become quivering monoliths in which the people move, but the floats stay in place.

The men explain every amusement as they go along, leaving no mystery as to how it’s all made. All the while, Isabelle oohs and ahhs, her amazement growing for the strange and funny show played before her. Seams out, the metalheads’ park creates real magic simply by failing illusion—or at least by proving that the power to produce wonder, via art, literature, theater, requires the eye of the beholder too. In other words, what we see is what we beget in the world. The only failure that must be guarded against is that of the imagination.

Jennifer Krasinski

The Psychic Readings Co.’s The Failures was presented on January 13 and 14 at Vital Joint as part of The Exponential Festival; Forced Entertainment’s Real Magic was presented from January 5 to 8 at La MaMa as part of P.S. 122’s 2017 COIL Festival; Philippe Quesne’s La Mélancolie des dragons was presented from January 10 to 14 at the Kitchen as part of The Public Theater’s Under the Radar Festival.

Charlotte Moorman, Neon Cello, c. 1989, Plexiglas, neon tubing, and electrical parts, 48 1/2 x 16".


ONE TELEVISION MONITOR in “A Feast of Astonishments: Charlotte Moorman and the Avant-Garde, 1960s–1980s,” screened clips of Charlotte Moorman’s TV appearances. On the Merv Griffin Show in June 1967, Moorman performed John Cage’s 26’1.1499” for a String Player with the help of comedian Jerry Lewis. Holding a military-grade practice bomb that Moorman had converted into a cello, he asked the audiences, “Does she know I’m famous?” Gingerly, he kneeled down before her, his head bent toward her bare shoulders while she pulled a cello string taut up along his back, playing it with her bow. It’s a beguiling, confounding scene: Charlotte Moorman on Merv Griffin, interpreting a score by John Cage, treating Jerry Lewis as a human instrument—a role that, in previous renditions of 26’1.1499”, was filled by Nam June Paik, whose composition Opera Sextronique had landed Moorman in jail for indecent exposure the February prior, earning her the “topless cellist” notoriety that likely precipitated her booking on Merv Griffin in the first place.

This brief clip, funny and fraught, captures the complexities of “Charlotte’s Web.” Few figures are so exemplary of the neo-avant-garde’s sustained assault against modernist principles of medium specificity and artistic autonomy. A Juilliard-trained cellist, Moorman fused experimental composition with audio-visual theater; performed a repertoire of scores written by others; organized annual New York Avant Garde Festivals that assembled artists, musicians, and dancers from around the world in settings as varied as the Staten Island Ferry or Shea Stadium; and demonstrated a taste and talent for mobilizing technology toward spectacle and engaging audiences through mass media. From the start, she cultivated a sweetly demure and frankly sexual “Southern belle” persona, presenting herself in formal clothing or no clothing at all, which led to the catch-22 allegation that either she was a passive object deferring to the desires of her (mostly male) collaborators, or a narcissistic subject hiding behind shared authorship as an alibi for exhibitionism. (Should anyone believe we’ve moved past the era of judging women musicians for their sartorial choices, I recommend looking up Janet Malcolm’s recent New Yorker profile of virtuoso pianist Yuja Wang.) To untangle an incident like Moorman’s Merv Griffin spot, it’s helpful to look toward her personal copy of Cage’s 26’1.1499” score. In the exhibition’s catalogue, musicologist Jason Rosenholtz-Witt details how Moorman listed multiple solutions for each of the composition’s many technical challenges. This palimpsest of possibilities helped Moorman tailor her renditions to specific contexts, whether Carnegie Hall or Johnny Carson. However seemingly chaotic, her manhandling of Jerry Lewis on Merv Griffin followed fixed notations.

Nam June Paik, TV Bed, 1972–91. Performance view, Bochum Art Week, Bochum, West Germany, 1973. Charlotte Moorman. Photo: Hartmut Beifuss.


Rosenholtz-Witt’s discussion of 26’1.1499” is just one of several nuanced, informative analyses in the “Feast of Astonishments” catalogue. Musicologist Ryan Dohoney, for instance, decodes Moorman’s annotations to scores by Morton Feldman. On another register, art historian Hannah Higgins shows how Moorman planned the first Avant Garde Festival—its participants, publicity, personnel, and paraphernalia—on a single scribbled-over paper scrap. I point to these excellent contributions to raise a question: How can the sophistication of current scholarly approaches to the neo-avant-garde be better reflected in curatorial practice? That is, how does Dohoney’s expert reading of graphic scores, or Higgins’s attentiveness to hybrid forms of authorship, extend into an exhibition’s arrangement of objects in space? Organized by a team of curators at Northwestern University’s Block Museum of Art, “Feast of Astonishments” falls into many familiar traps: an overreliance on placards to provide narration; low-hanging vitrines dense with documents and inimical to close study; displays that, without further contextualization, come off as relics, memorabilia, or props.

“Feast of Astonishments” is hardly the first exhibition to confront the difficulty of curating music. (Recall—as if you could forget—the Museum of Modern Art, New York’s deeply disheartening Björk retrospective.) An alternative approach might have showcased a fuller selection of her annotated scores, or more methodically parsed her individual collaborations, such as her technological experiments with Paik, her arrangements for photo-documentation with Peter Moore, her dialogue with Carolee Schneemann, or even her competition with that other indefatigable organizer, George Maciunas. It’s only through a canny focus on Moorman the interpreter, or Moorman the impresario, that an exhibition will offer much insight into Moorman the artist.

Colby Chamberlain

“A Feast of Astonishments: Charlotte Moorman and the Avant-Garde, 1960s–1980s” ran September 8 through December 10 at the Grey Art Gallery in New York.

Richard Maxwell, Showcase, 2003. Performance view, Bern, 2004. Jim Fletcher. Photo: NYC Players.


YOU ARE MEETING A STRANGER AT THE HOTEL BAR. This is not your regular watering hole: velvet curtains, coffered ceilings, outstretched columns that hold up nothing. Everything is in the style of a ruin that doesn’t know it’s a ruin yet. You finger the thin straw plunged in a gin and tonic, unsure. Are you waiting to be found, or are you supposed to be looking?

On the eighth floor, the room is dark. Shuffling in, you glimpse the outline of a recumbent figure. When the lights come up, a man is lying naked on one of two beds, phone in hand. You wait for him to speak first.

His nakedness is not surprising (men often are when you go up to their rooms); his loneliness isn’t either. The man says he isn’t feeling well. He can’t even play with his penis. He wakes up cold, his nightgown is drafty, the dry air cracks his lips. A middle-aged businessman, there are a hundred other Willy Lomans like him down at the bar. But this man’s skin radiates unexpected softness. His name is Jim.

Jim likes to shit before showering, but can’t always. He likes to watch reruns of funny shows, but each time the credits roll, there’s another maw of emptiness. He has a shadow that follows him, matching his every move, except when it doesn’t. Atop the covers, both Jim’s and the shadow’s legs splay: Their feet overlap in a tender, impermanent alliance.

You can’t imagine anything more excruciating than having your murkier self externalized. It seems like Jim can’t either; when the shadow lopes off to the bathroom, he asks, “Should I really kill him?” The sound of a toilet flushing gives way to a chorus of nervy laughter.

Jim is at once Jim the businessman and Jim Fletcher, the stunning actor who wreaks quiet devastation. His shadow is a catsuited actor named Bob Feldman. This is both a hotel room encounter and a Richard Maxwell play called Showcase. It debuted in 2003, when it seemed like Bush II would be the worst president of your lifetime. Perhaps masculinity felt plush and laughable then, but Maxwell, the playwright and director, has always ambitiously scaled the lives of men.

His most recent work was The Evening, performed at the Kitchen in 2015. It took place on a stage that was also a dive, populated by two barflies, their waitress, and a band. Reviewers seemed displeased with the insinuation that Beatrice, played by Cammisa Buerhaus, was not only a bartender but also a prostitute. Throughout that play she longs to escape; she flatters, cajoles, and soothes the men around her. She freshens their beers and sits on their laps, but mostly, she listens. Until she grabs a gun.

Only a naïve moralist would find sex work more disconcerting than the exhausting labor of listening to men. How many Johns—or Willys or Jims—pay for time just to be heard, to be held?

Richard Maxwell, Showcase, 2003. Performance view, Bern, 2004. Jim Fletcher. Photo: NYC Players.


The Evening muscles its way into your thoughts from the moment Jim sits up, asking the crowd, “How ya’ll doing tonight?” Out of the hush that meets his direct address, you reply: “Good.” Now he is pointing, others are looking. You’re chastised for being “a troublemaker” in the tone that middle-aged businessmen reserve for younger women whose defiance entertains them.

Turning his attention away from you, Jim generously uses your humiliation as an object lesson, to pivot toward the principles of wielding dominance. This, after all, is how you make deals.

Showcase, too, was a kind of power move. It was made for the 2003 Association of Performing Arts Presenters (APAP) conference in New York, an annual networking event-cum-marketplace that takes place in drab hotel conference rooms, where artists brave the indignity of lanyard-strung nametags and vie for their work to be seen by venue representatives rushing between works in progress.

There, perhaps you object thoroughly to the selling and being sold. You also want desperately to be chosen. It is this contradiction that Jim lives three times a night.

After all, the playbook providing white men with the bluster of prerogative and unimpededness is just that, a script. Jim knows his own contrivance—Fletcher knows it too—and both character and actor allow the veneer to fissure, delicately. Jim’s monologue turns to voyeurism, to the enhanced capacities of looking outward by turning off the lights within, and to “Victor”—were they roommates or lovers? He can’t be sure.

Jim goes to the window. His thumbs press into his lower back, making a quiet arc of lightened flesh. He stoops over the desk, rallying himself in the mirror, and begins to dress.

As he puts on his underwear, then his pants—and eventually a shirt, a tie, and a plasticky lanyard—he slowly becomes the man that exists outside the room’s confines, the one who shakes hands and dominates conversations.

The scraping of a belt buckle dragging along the desk is familiar; you know what it sounds like when a man is leaving.

Stories of white-collar workers are often characterized as those of desperation. Such men are the leavers, never the left. But Maxwell’s work is always about desire, the texture of wanting.

If there’s a difference between desperation and desire, it’s hazy, and now the confession comes tumbling out: the cold tile of a bathroom corner, dinner with Victor and his boyfriend escaped, and then Victor’s hands groping where they shouldn’t.

How do you grieve the loss of something you weren’t allowed in the first place? Jim ends cradled in his shadow’s arms, tape-player in hand, singing a tune that does what pop songs do best: want ravenously, unabashedly, on a loop outside time or place.

Catherine Damman

Richard Maxwell’s Showcase ran December 10 and 11 at the Millennium Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles.

Simone Forti, Steve Paxton, and Yvonne Rainer, Tea for Three, 2016. Performance view, The Box, Los Angeles, November 19, 2016. Simone Forti, Steve Paxton, and Yvonne Rainer. Photo: Bruce Hainley.


November 21, 2016 at 8:54 PM EST

Dear Mr. B,

I’ve just come home from an event of much love at the Kitchen, part of the rollout of Douglas [Crimp]’s superb memoir [Before Pictures]. Three exemplary interlocutors from three different dance worlds: Adrian Danchig-Waring (New York City Ballet/Balanchine), Silas Riener (Merce Cunningham), and Yvonne Rainer (Yvonne Rainer). 

A little asymmetrical, I suppose, since Rainer got to play herself, though everyone did a very good job representing. 

Rainer, at the end, was trying to respond to a question from the audience, and failing a bit. She said her mind was all “constipated” because she’d just come back from an event in L.A. that she’d participated in with Steve [Paxton] and Simone [Forti].

“They’re very experienced with improvisation, whereas I haven’t danced on stage since 1972…” she said. But she also reminded us/herself that she lives to be in front of an audience. (Sudden flashback to Warren Beatty on Madonna in Truth or Dare…: “She doesn’t want to live off-camera, much less talk. There’s nothing to say off-camera.”)

Rainer asked Danchig-Waring to help demonstrate this thing she and Paxton had come up with while making dinner one night in the late-’60s, apparently something that made its way into the L.A. performance. It was very moving, and she seemed very moved. 

I remember you saying you went to this.

What happened in L.A.??

(She mentioned some picture frames…?)

yrs,
DV

Sent from my iPhone

November 21, 2016 at 6:50 PM PST

it was a roast chicken dinner they were having, if i recall that bit of proto-contact-improv—facing each other, arms bent, forearms and hands in front of their torsos, each arm and hand lightly placed on top of the other person’s. it seemed to be about both resisting and giving in to the contact and weight of the other’s forearms on top of yours, letting your arms go slack and your partner’s slide off, falling away into some always nearby oblivion; beginning again, but alternating who’s on top, whose arms fall away. it’s not a bad metaphor for the ebb and flow of friendship, or even of something more intimate.

rainer did cry during this bit of the performance with paxton—i wish i could remember precisely what forti was doing at that point. it might have been when she was crawling slowly on the floor, eventually underneath a large leather jacket, into which she slowly rose, always hidden underneath, turning herself, one arm slipped partially into a sleeve, into a sort of blind elephant. but i might be mistaken.

when i returned home after Friday’s performance, i wrote this to my friend charlie: “i just got back from seeing steve paxton, simone forti and yvonne rainer perform together, i guess, for the first time since the early 1970s. so much history. what’s curious—or it’s my first thought: rainer is the most ambitious and the least interesting performer, or, i should say, her performance is the one most concerned with and driven by ego, with needing attention, with being the star, and she’s instrumentalized this need into a place in history. her place in history has as much to do with her desire for a place in history. forti and paxton just don’t care about that, or don’t care about it in the same way. rainer’s a ham, but i’m not sure a lot of her schtick works in this moment, especially when compared to paxton and forti, who are funnier without the effort of being funny, riveting without any need to be important or fawned over. nevertheless it was wonderful to watch. forti at one point, mid-rolling around on the floor with rainer—forti was teaching her ‘zoo mantras,’ in exchange for, at the start of the perf., rainer teaching forti parts of the solo from trio a. forti: ‘see, yvonne, i told you they wouldn’t mind watching some oldsters roll around on the floor.’

rainer asked paxton if he’d like to learn it (her notorious solo), after she’d finished with forti, and he said he’d just forget it. rainer said, ‘but you already know it.’ paxton: ‘i’d just forget it again.’ ”

yes, rainer did cry, but i’m not sure what to think of this. or, rather, i want to reflect on what triggered the crying, and i’m not sure it was only memory: it was moving, but, and i don’t wish to sound harsh, but it is part of what i’m sorting through: her ambition, or her drive to be seen, however “dance is hard to see,” is tied to a certain hamminess, which encompasses slapstick and politics, but, as performed, engages “slapstick” and “politics.” rainer was the most diligent about wanting a performance to be seen—it started with her teaching, yet again, steps for her most famous work; she seemed invested in reading aloud, stressing the politics of the texts read/performed, rather than the politics put into action by their three bodies going forth. one could read a new york vs. those who leave NYC attitude being played out, if one were so inclined.

at the end of my note to charlie, i added: “i think sturtevant understood that ambition when she did her rainer [Sturtevant’s Study for Yvonne Rainer’s ‘Three Seascapes’, 1967].” and when she (sturt) wrote, in the early ’70s: “to be a Great Artist is the least interesting thing I can think of / to be a Great Artist is the most ego-binding thing I can think of.”

i felt the trunk of the tree that forti, paxton, and rainer helped plant, but now the branches have taken them very different places. 

paxton seemed the most serious and inward, and the most on his own journey. if he enters a certain scene partnered with rauschenberg, he’s had decades to mull over the exigencies of “fame” and “career” and “history”—which tea for three couldn’t help but be, in some way, “about.”

paxton had constructed simple wooden frames, in three sizes (the largest almost as tall as he is, the smallest a foot-and-a-half or so tall) that could be propped up (each had a simple “leg” attached to it), but it took some work to get them to do what they were supposed to do (a metaphor for the dancer’s body?). at times, he would pick up one of them and “frame” a scene, as if taking a picture (not a selfie, twice-over).

forti appears to be the most supple. she’s, what, like shakespeare’s puck? generously she allows those who care to see what puck is like grown old—captivating and nimble, full of wit.

i sent the one picture i took to you, and then to my friend christine, a dancer and translator and sage. her reply: “they look so punk.”

my thought: definition of.

i’ve seen forti dance many times since moving to L.A. 20 years ago, from her first performance at her first show at the box [in 2009], when it was on chung king road, downtown.

does any of this make sense? you saw paxton’s dia beacon perfs. [in 2010]; am i off the mark in my read of his movement?

November 21, 2016 at 11:58 PM EST

Lots of sense. Too much sense to make sense of. (Maybe the only time it’s worth making sense.)

We know what happens to ambitious women, even now. Especially now. But one thing I’ve always enjoyed about Rainer (one of many things), is her interest in lifting others up and giving credit, hogging the spotlight only long enough to grab it and point it at others. (Same with the camera. Become a filmmaker, vibe with the theory maestros. She gets PR.) It’s a collective lifting-up, I like to think. (What would that weird nomenclature “Judson” be without her and her hamminess, and the way it so smartly dovetailed with the sometimes understated grace of her comrades?) In this way, some kinship perhaps with Ms. S.

What a crew. All the right pieces coming together. I hate to idealize their friendship (have to leave room for other friendships down the line). But I do. I remember running into the critic Nancy Dalva at a show at Danspace involving some Judson folks. I remember her turning to me and saying, “One thing that people don’t really talk about is that… they were so hot!”

It was a roast-chicken dinner, in 1968, and apparently they were both stoned. I think this is important, the stoner-scape being a shared mental space that to some extent allows us to move diagonally through history. Paxton says: “You [Rainer] made the chicken. And I asked, ‘What’s in that chicken?’ ” and Rainer replies, “Chicken.” Deadpan-Judson-stoner-hilarity. And while they’re joking they’re making “arm-drop,” which you describe, I think, accurately, so far as I understand it. Though I should add one minor detail: that the goal is for the person whose arms are on top to catch the bottom’s arms as the bottom’s arms fall and the support slips away.

It is proto-contact-improv—this focused negotiation of two bodies supporting each other, allowing one to go slack so that the other can go slack and on and on—though it’s still only the most tentative exploration of gravity. Not the full-on falling that became foundational to contact-improv (exposed in a gymnasium at Oberlin in 1972: Magnesium, it was called). A kitchen in 1968: no physical risk; fun for all ages. Just a simple back-and-forth. This before all the illnesses, attempted suicides, flights from the city. This while they’re both still in New York, intimate, getting stoned, in the years between laying the groundwork for what came to be known as postmodern dance and what came to be known as contact-improv, two of the most moving developments in movement and movement-thinking of the past fifty years.

A little window into that kitchen. 

I’ve only seen Paxton dance a few times. He’s remarkable. Both on stage and in life. Quiet, confident, full of potential and so unconcerned with demonstrating that potential. People say he was both the most virtuosic and the least concerned with virtuosity—the most interested in what other kinds of bodies could do—of that group of punks. Rainer more or less says he was the most punk of all.

I want to know more about what Forti was doing. Always off my radar, off in L.A., not “officially” a part of the Judson crowd, since she laid the groundwork with her Dance Constructions just prior (1961) and then ran off and let Rainer and Paxton and then Lucinda Childs and Trisha Brown et al run with the discoveries. Always a mystery to me.

I wish Trisha B. could have been there.

xo

November 22, 2016 at 11:18 PM PST

oh, friendship is crucial—especially now! but let’s acknowledge that friendships can be tricky—not tricky, but that friendships, however strong, are also friable, fragile, delicate things, and must be tended to be sustained. 

is forti the magnet, really, too often, until recently, drawing things and people together, influencing? so often the shiny (live) wires moved to garner attention, instead of the force that allows them to. i’m mixing metaphors.

let’s go to the source.

paxton, about forti’s dance constructions, 1961, in which both he and rainer, with others, performed, at yoko ono’s loft, stated it all quite clearly: “all i know is that this small, radical group of works by forti was like a pebble tossed into a large, still, and complacent pond. the ripples radiated. most notably, forti’s event happened prior to the first performance at judson memorial church by the choreographers from robert dunn’s composition class, and they took courage from it.”

rainer, about the same forti work, wrote: “it seemed that a vacuum sealed that evening for over a year until her performers could get the judson dance theater up and running. simone was its inspiration and fountainhead. we all owe her.”

the stoner-scape, did it encourage free love?  

in terms of the challenge of relations—friendships, affairs, marriages, divorces, comings-together which defy rote relational systems (what is, say a “company”?)—i wonder about the shift from simone forti and robert morris as husband and wife to yvonne rainer and robert morris as partners. what new textures and moods did it bring to the dancing and the writing and the sculpture, not to mention the friendship? while so much of the biographical challenges easy labanotation, ignoring it helps nothing either, even if it’s put into shadow by her pursuit of her work, its experimentation, its vitality, the force of her spirit: all of it allowed forti to invite rainer and paxton and others to rome, when she was living there in the late 1960s, before she returned to the u.s.—eventually settling in or around L.A. in 1970.

what was put on display last weekend was the élan vital of a particular history, of friendship, friends, conspirators, together again. tea for three allowed for solo actions as well as duets and trios, as if tracing the complex kinds of coordinates—biographical, psychic, aesthetic, political—which make up art. the potential comedy of an aging body and its grace riveted, on full display. i kept thinking of the decades of work, dancing, the audience got to witness in every planned step and every improvisational bit: e.g., big red plastic buckets, almost cauldrons, which, at different points, rainer and forti used to great effect for choreographed activity and for impromptu shenanigans, sinking into them, needing help to get back out. it’s a funny but poignant metaphor for how we can’t do everything alone, or else we risk, like a turtle on its back, going nowhere. friends come to the rescue, dumping or flipping us over, so that the work, life, can proceed.   

November 22, 2016 at 9:58 PM EST

They were barrels! Maybe? 

Another favorite diagonal: Yvonne recalling her rehearsals of Trio A with David Gordon and Paxton just prior to that signal dance’s first performance, January 10, 1966: “At one session something David was doing looked strange to me. I asked him what kind of imagery he was using. He said ‘I’m thinking of myself as a faun.’ I said ‘Try thinking of yourself as a barrel.’ ”

Barrels, mattresses, airplanes—the plodding oof iconography of Judson. As opposed to the soaring (/sinking) romantic-natural ooo of dance “prior.” Fauns and swans and all that. (Not to be confused with the nature of, say, Cunningham’s Beach Birds, 1991—Swan Lake after the falls.)

Now things are so complicated, and we like (anyway I like) the oofs alongside some ooos. 

There’s friendship and then there’s Friendship. The friendship that we all have (I’m being optimistic), and the Friendship that gets picked up and picked apart and that forms history’s macadam. That gets turned into some weird word like “postmodern.” Or something.

Sorry, I’m tipsy (on Manhattans! long live Manhattan dance) and trying to think of this thing called Friendship that goes beyond (or sustains) thinking, and so maybe can’t be “thought.” The passing along of lovers, erotic constellations and accidental affinities emerging from and sometimes if you’re lucky disturbing the quandaries of class, brains, race, attractiveness, location (very important, location, which is inscribed by all these other things but which introduces the politics of performance, i.e. that you had to be there element—even if I never know where there is—or you or had for that matter. Remember FOMO?), education, gender, etc.

“O my friends, there is no friend,” Derrida quotes Montaigne quoting Aristotle quoting some archaic incog who never got credited. Probably a woman.

Foucault: “They have to invent, from A to Z, a relationship that is still formless, which is friendship.” Sounds like what we used to mean by “art.”

We’re going to need a lot of friends and lovers in the coming years. 

Do you think Tea for Three is a good example for us? 

Who or what are your friends?

DVx

November 22, 2016 at 8:08 PM PST

i flash on root beer barrels, suckable candy.

i embrace the lowercase to recall jill johnston, her importance and example in so much we’re discussing.  

but, hey, aren’t barrels tall? their red containers were squat, and forti and rainer oofed themselves into them, butt-first. it would take buster keaton, nijinsky, or one of the five moons to leap out—ooo—of a barrel, or into one, gazelle-ish. where did the schtick come from of someone naked in a landscape and finding a barrel to cover himself with?

say hello to my little friend.  

say hello to my little friends.

friend of dorothy.

friends with benefits.

dionne warwick singing “that’s what friends are for”—with elton john, gladys knight, and stevie wonder.

à l’ami qui ne m’a pas suavé la vie.

contact tipsiness from your manhattans, here in tinseltown. 

as a single man, a solo act, i value friendship—for all its formlessness, sometimes difficult sometimes not—more than coupledom, a regime that often fatigues. coupledom is not coupling, which can be a quickie or something more prolonged. i’m wary of those who have no friends, only family. why the president-elect’s (seemingly?) having no friends and only family didn’t unnerve people more dismays me.

a friend is the one you can call in your darkest hour, no matter what, but it’s difficult to maintain friendships over decades, although those that manage to continue become more and more precious, rare. in demonstrating the possibility of maintaining contact, maintaining balance, a sense of humor, and curiosity, tea for three performed an exemplariness the likes of which i’ve almost never before encountered. so many of the soft gestures, quick antics, and quietudes, even quasi-longueurs, shimmered with the possibility and indulgence, simultaneously metaphorical as well as point-blank and actual, that only friendship, as opposed to other forms of relationality, allows. the possibility, the potential, of a cohort that can survive any night, however long. 

Bruce Hainley is a contributing editor of Artforum. David Velasco is editor of artforum.com.

Tea for Three ran Friday, November 18 and Saturday, November 19 at The Box in Los Angeles.