Yesterday, as part of the Vancouver International Dance Festival's presentation series at the new KW Studios at Woodward's, I attended an early evening performance of light breaking broken, a new duet by Karen Jamieson and Margaret Grenier, Artistic Director of Dancers of Damelahamid. A collaborative exploration of what it means to move through and occupy space (and particular emplaced spaces) trans-temporally and cross-culturally, the piece saw Jamieson and Grenier adapting their different dance histories and vocabularies to specific points of kinetic intersection and crossing. It begins with the two women walking slowly around a single projected amoeba-like image on the floor; as a drumbeat begins and Elder Betsy Lomax begins to speak in voiceover, the image starts to expand, turning into a swirling spiral (the projections are by Josh Hite). Eventually Jamieson will step into the eye of the spiral, with Grenier continuing to move about its edge, her arms outstretched towards Jamieson, whose body alternates between slow sinuous sways and rapid staccato shakes as she absorbs the energy of this particular force field.
For most of the piece the two dancers continue in a similar manner, their bodies always contiguous in space, but their pathways mostly traversing separate trajectories, at least at the beginning. This seems an apt metaphor for the "broken historical narratives and contemporary connections of hope" that the dancer-choreographers say they are channeling in their program note. On the latter front it was particularly compelling for me to register how, in the moments when the two performers did come together in a shared movement pattern, they did not try to make their execution of that pattern seamless and exactly the same. In the animal shapes the two women would make, Karen would hold her hands in a slightly different position over her face. And in their jumps to Andrew Grenier's recorded drumbeats, Karen would tend to anticipate the beat, whereas Margaret would respond to it.
At the end of the piece, having brought their respective bodies more than once to the threshold of a shaft of light that bisects the dance floor, the dancers eventually cross over to the other's side. Thereafter they come together in the centre, both now extending their arms toward the other, but not quite touching. Again, it seemed an appropriate physical representation of the work of connection that has been undertaken in this piece, but also the work that is still ongoing. And on that note it was interesting to hear from Andrew Grenier after the dancers had taken their bows and exited the stage that light breaking broken, which was created in consultation with Cree/Gitxsan Elder Margaret Harris, brought the three women full circle from their first collaboration on Gawa Gyani (1991), a piece choreographed by Karen that the younger Margaret danced in, and on which the older Margaret and her late husband, Chief Kenneth Harris, also consulted.
P
Showing posts with label Margaret Grenier. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Margaret Grenier. Show all posts
Saturday, March 25, 2017
Sunday, February 26, 2017
BJM at the Vancouver Playhouse
Les Ballets Jazz de Montréal's (BJM) return visit to Vancouver hasn't revised my opinion about the company. When DanceHouse programmed them in 2013, I found the repertoire to be mostly flash, with very little substance, and often reinforcing some very troubling gender dynamics (I wrote about that performance here). To give the venerable 44-year old company its due: it is comprised of a roster of incredibly talented and technically accomplished dancers, whom Artistic Director Louis Robitaille astutely showcases via a successful formula of fast-paced, physically demanding commissions from an array of celebrated international choreographers. But judging from last night, Robitaille also appears to give very little thought to the representational politics of the work.
Chief case in point is the first piece on the program, Rouge. Choreographed by Rodrigo Pederneiras, the director of the Brazilian company Grupo Corpo (also a DanceHouse favourite), the piece features an original score by the German electronic duo The Grand Brothers that references Inuit throat singing, among other Indigenous musical influences. Indeed, Rouge is meant, according to the program note, to be "an ode to resilience, a discreet tribute to Indigenous peoples and their musical and cultural legacy." However, that it features a mostly white company clad in buckskin costumes (complete with fringe), wearing war paint on their faces, and with several dancers' hair styled into 80s-era faux-hawks, tells you something about the completely tone-deaf aesthetic and cultural ideologies governing the piece. (Co-extensive with these ideologies is the fact that the one dancer of colour in the ensemble is cast as an unleashed force of libidinal energy, at one point bending star dancer Céline Cassone at the waist and thrusting her forward across the stage from behind.) Not only is there no discernible nod to any specific Indigenous tribal dance traditions (save for a troubling sequence in which the dancers, alternately expiring and reviving themselves on the floor, perform a kind of Ghost Dance), but arguably Pederneiras' deracinated contemporary dance vocabulary does further violence by refusing to acknowledge that Indigenous dance and song is tied to cultural property. There are specific protocols around sharing that property across different First Nations, let alone among predominantly settler-colonial performers, presenters, and audiences. Which brings me to my main question about Rouge and its programming. Instead of inviting Robitaille to present Pederneiras' take on Indigenous dance traditions, why not ask a local First Nations dance company to be part of a DanceHouse season? As Dancers of Damelahamid Artistic and Executive Director Margaret Grenier put it in an article in the Vancouver Sun yesterday relating to the start next week of the tenth edition of the Coastal First Nations Dance Festival, more dance presenters need to get on board with the fact that Indigenous dance companies are also contemporary dance companies, just ones with different and far older movement vocabularies--and with a very specific story to tell about their connection to the land and identity. Given that DanceHouse acknowledges in its program that its performances take place on the unceded territory of the Musqueam, Squamish and Tsleil-Waututh First Nations, one would have thought that greater care might have been given to how a piece like Rouge might read here.
I freely admit that my negative reaction to Rouge ended up influencing my reception of the other two pieces on last night's program. That said, Israeli choreographer Itzik Galili's Mono Lisa, set to a score of typewriter sounds, and danced by Cassone and Alexander Hille, was a largely acrobatic exercise in traditional partnering, with Cassone, now in point shoes and looking decidedly nonplussed, once again being thrust into successive poses that demonstrated her hyper-mobility and impressive extension. Kosmos, by Greek choreographer Andonis Foniadkis, was a large group piece that featured some amazing sequences. However, I felt it went on far too long and that it failed to cohere around a central choreographic idea, with the final trick of lighting appearing as a somewhat gimmicky summation of a concept of worlding and galactic interconnection that had previously failed to register.
P
Chief case in point is the first piece on the program, Rouge. Choreographed by Rodrigo Pederneiras, the director of the Brazilian company Grupo Corpo (also a DanceHouse favourite), the piece features an original score by the German electronic duo The Grand Brothers that references Inuit throat singing, among other Indigenous musical influences. Indeed, Rouge is meant, according to the program note, to be "an ode to resilience, a discreet tribute to Indigenous peoples and their musical and cultural legacy." However, that it features a mostly white company clad in buckskin costumes (complete with fringe), wearing war paint on their faces, and with several dancers' hair styled into 80s-era faux-hawks, tells you something about the completely tone-deaf aesthetic and cultural ideologies governing the piece. (Co-extensive with these ideologies is the fact that the one dancer of colour in the ensemble is cast as an unleashed force of libidinal energy, at one point bending star dancer Céline Cassone at the waist and thrusting her forward across the stage from behind.) Not only is there no discernible nod to any specific Indigenous tribal dance traditions (save for a troubling sequence in which the dancers, alternately expiring and reviving themselves on the floor, perform a kind of Ghost Dance), but arguably Pederneiras' deracinated contemporary dance vocabulary does further violence by refusing to acknowledge that Indigenous dance and song is tied to cultural property. There are specific protocols around sharing that property across different First Nations, let alone among predominantly settler-colonial performers, presenters, and audiences. Which brings me to my main question about Rouge and its programming. Instead of inviting Robitaille to present Pederneiras' take on Indigenous dance traditions, why not ask a local First Nations dance company to be part of a DanceHouse season? As Dancers of Damelahamid Artistic and Executive Director Margaret Grenier put it in an article in the Vancouver Sun yesterday relating to the start next week of the tenth edition of the Coastal First Nations Dance Festival, more dance presenters need to get on board with the fact that Indigenous dance companies are also contemporary dance companies, just ones with different and far older movement vocabularies--and with a very specific story to tell about their connection to the land and identity. Given that DanceHouse acknowledges in its program that its performances take place on the unceded territory of the Musqueam, Squamish and Tsleil-Waututh First Nations, one would have thought that greater care might have been given to how a piece like Rouge might read here.
I freely admit that my negative reaction to Rouge ended up influencing my reception of the other two pieces on last night's program. That said, Israeli choreographer Itzik Galili's Mono Lisa, set to a score of typewriter sounds, and danced by Cassone and Alexander Hille, was a largely acrobatic exercise in traditional partnering, with Cassone, now in point shoes and looking decidedly nonplussed, once again being thrust into successive poses that demonstrated her hyper-mobility and impressive extension. Kosmos, by Greek choreographer Andonis Foniadkis, was a large group piece that featured some amazing sequences. However, I felt it went on far too long and that it failed to cohere around a central choreographic idea, with the final trick of lighting appearing as a somewhat gimmicky summation of a concept of worlding and galactic interconnection that had previously failed to register.
P
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Coastal First Nations Dance Festival at MOA
Two years ago at the Dance Centre, while sitting on a panel with Alex Lazaridis Ferguson and Deborah Meyers at the World Dance Critics-Americas Conference, the subject of locally produced dance festivals came up. Dancing on the Edge, Dance in Vancouver, and the Vancouver International Dance Festival (opening this week) were all duly mentioned. Mique'l Dangeli, co-artistic director with her husband Mike of the First Nations mask-dancing troupe Git Hayetsk, was in the audience and quickly piped up that we were leaving one prominent dance festival out.
The Coastal First Nations Dance Festival, produced by West Vancouver's Dancers of Damelahamid in connection with UBC's Museum of Anthropology, celebrates the vibrancy and sustainability of the stories, songs and dances of the Indigenous peoples of the Northwest Coast of North America. Drawing inspiration from the pioneering efforts of Ken and Margaret Harris, who oversaw the Haw yah hawni nah Festival in Prince Rupert from 1967-1986, CFNDF began in 2008; it brings together dance groups from BC, the Yukon, Alaska and Washington, and also features guest artists from across Canada and other countries, thereby allowing the CFNDF, in the words of Executive Director Margaret Grenier, "to connect with a global community of Indigenous dance." Among this year's invited international artists are Urseloria and Nikollane Kanuho, Dine' sisters from Arizona who, judging from yesterday's brief display of their artistry, are amazingly accomplished Fancy dancers.
In addition to its weekday series of school performances and its ticketed evening mainstage shows, the CFNDF also features two weekend afternoon programs that are accessible to anyone who buys admission to MOA. Yesterday I arrived a bit late, just in time to see the second group on the program, Dakhká Khwáan, begin a song in the main rotunda of the museum before processing down the ramp to the great hall of totems where, against Arthur Erickson's signature wall of windows, a stage had been set up. Dakhká Khwáan is an Inland Tlingit group from the southern part of the Yukon. Their lead singer and spokesperson, who in teaching us a few phrases in Tlingit insisted we weren't speaking correctly unless the spit was flying in front of us, was incredibly adept--and funny--at contextualizing the significance of each traditional dance in contemporary terms. For instance, he noted that the mask dance in which raven tries to woo a woman from the wolf clan is essentially a lesson in how to flirt; raven eventually succeeds in his task by giving the woman a shiny new purse, which prompted our MC to crack that "Tlingit ladies love their blingit."
Next on the stage were the Dancers of Damelahamid, producers of the Festival. Representing the cultural traditions of the Gitxsan peoples, the group shared four masked dances. Grenier, who was one of the group's two main singers and drummers, explained to the audience that Coast Salish singing and dancing is an intergenerational practice, which accounts for why we see very young children alongside elders on stage. In the case of Dancers of Damelahamid, a little boy of four who had only been dancing with the group for two months very nearly stole the show, especially during a song about a dragonfly and a sleeping frog; when the buzz of the dragonfly awakens the frog, this is the cue for the little boy and his older masked partner, both of whom are sitting on their haunches, to begin leaping all over the stage.
Indeed, in terms of technique it behooves Coastal First Nations male dancers to have strong knees, for the lower they are to the ground, the more accomplished the dancing. By contrast, most of the female dancers in all of the groups were more upright and their footwork more intricate. This is just one of the commonalities I noted in the different offerings; to be sure, given their regional proximity and common connection to the land, the different Coast Salish First Nations are bound to have shared stories, similarly patterned regalia, headdresses, and masks, and complementary symbolic traditions (including the use of eagle down as a marker of peace between peoples, and which by the end of the afternoon festooned the floor). However, it would be a mistake to homogenize these groups solely based on an analogous art form comprised of singing, drumming, dancing and storytelling. For one thing, they all speak different languages and have distinct cultural and hereditary protocols--which is something that George Me'las Taylor noted in introducing a traditional Kwakwaka'wakw song danced by his Le-La-La Dancers.
Then, too, there is a history of cultural displacement and recovery that is in operation here. This was brought out by David Boxley, leader of the Tsimshian group Git Hoan. At the end of their set, which included a dramatic eagle song featuring three men who roamed the audience delighting children with the clacking beaks of their masks, Boxley noted that in the 1880s his people had followed a missionary from BC to Alaska. As part of this relocation, they had to give up their singing and dancing. It was only when Margaret and Ken Harris came up from BC nearly a hundred years later to teach the community what had been lost that they began reconnecting with the traditions of their ancestors.
What this story, and the entire afternoon of which it was a part, has taught me is that in my talk about Vancouver dance in this blog and elsewhere there is a huge gap--one that is comprised largely of these ancient and yet very much alive talking dances. I've got some serious learning to do--thank you, Mique'l, for giving me the kick in the pants I needed on this front.
P.
The Coastal First Nations Dance Festival, produced by West Vancouver's Dancers of Damelahamid in connection with UBC's Museum of Anthropology, celebrates the vibrancy and sustainability of the stories, songs and dances of the Indigenous peoples of the Northwest Coast of North America. Drawing inspiration from the pioneering efforts of Ken and Margaret Harris, who oversaw the Haw yah hawni nah Festival in Prince Rupert from 1967-1986, CFNDF began in 2008; it brings together dance groups from BC, the Yukon, Alaska and Washington, and also features guest artists from across Canada and other countries, thereby allowing the CFNDF, in the words of Executive Director Margaret Grenier, "to connect with a global community of Indigenous dance." Among this year's invited international artists are Urseloria and Nikollane Kanuho, Dine' sisters from Arizona who, judging from yesterday's brief display of their artistry, are amazingly accomplished Fancy dancers.
In addition to its weekday series of school performances and its ticketed evening mainstage shows, the CFNDF also features two weekend afternoon programs that are accessible to anyone who buys admission to MOA. Yesterday I arrived a bit late, just in time to see the second group on the program, Dakhká Khwáan, begin a song in the main rotunda of the museum before processing down the ramp to the great hall of totems where, against Arthur Erickson's signature wall of windows, a stage had been set up. Dakhká Khwáan is an Inland Tlingit group from the southern part of the Yukon. Their lead singer and spokesperson, who in teaching us a few phrases in Tlingit insisted we weren't speaking correctly unless the spit was flying in front of us, was incredibly adept--and funny--at contextualizing the significance of each traditional dance in contemporary terms. For instance, he noted that the mask dance in which raven tries to woo a woman from the wolf clan is essentially a lesson in how to flirt; raven eventually succeeds in his task by giving the woman a shiny new purse, which prompted our MC to crack that "Tlingit ladies love their blingit."
Next on the stage were the Dancers of Damelahamid, producers of the Festival. Representing the cultural traditions of the Gitxsan peoples, the group shared four masked dances. Grenier, who was one of the group's two main singers and drummers, explained to the audience that Coast Salish singing and dancing is an intergenerational practice, which accounts for why we see very young children alongside elders on stage. In the case of Dancers of Damelahamid, a little boy of four who had only been dancing with the group for two months very nearly stole the show, especially during a song about a dragonfly and a sleeping frog; when the buzz of the dragonfly awakens the frog, this is the cue for the little boy and his older masked partner, both of whom are sitting on their haunches, to begin leaping all over the stage.
Indeed, in terms of technique it behooves Coastal First Nations male dancers to have strong knees, for the lower they are to the ground, the more accomplished the dancing. By contrast, most of the female dancers in all of the groups were more upright and their footwork more intricate. This is just one of the commonalities I noted in the different offerings; to be sure, given their regional proximity and common connection to the land, the different Coast Salish First Nations are bound to have shared stories, similarly patterned regalia, headdresses, and masks, and complementary symbolic traditions (including the use of eagle down as a marker of peace between peoples, and which by the end of the afternoon festooned the floor). However, it would be a mistake to homogenize these groups solely based on an analogous art form comprised of singing, drumming, dancing and storytelling. For one thing, they all speak different languages and have distinct cultural and hereditary protocols--which is something that George Me'las Taylor noted in introducing a traditional Kwakwaka'wakw song danced by his Le-La-La Dancers.
Then, too, there is a history of cultural displacement and recovery that is in operation here. This was brought out by David Boxley, leader of the Tsimshian group Git Hoan. At the end of their set, which included a dramatic eagle song featuring three men who roamed the audience delighting children with the clacking beaks of their masks, Boxley noted that in the 1880s his people had followed a missionary from BC to Alaska. As part of this relocation, they had to give up their singing and dancing. It was only when Margaret and Ken Harris came up from BC nearly a hundred years later to teach the community what had been lost that they began reconnecting with the traditions of their ancestors.
What this story, and the entire afternoon of which it was a part, has taught me is that in my talk about Vancouver dance in this blog and elsewhere there is a huge gap--one that is comprised largely of these ancient and yet very much alive talking dances. I've got some serious learning to do--thank you, Mique'l, for giving me the kick in the pants I needed on this front.
P.
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