Untitled Project with Jenny Holzer but I’m not allowed to give it a name yet

On entering with the rest of the audience, we found the opening piece, by design, already in progress: a window, seemingly, on a dance class, with the ten men and women, apparently leaderless, in various forms of workout or gym clothes. The attire, from shorts to khakis, seemed utterly individuated, to the extent that I found myself questioning why one dancer had chosen such brief red gym shorts--i.e., the same sort of idle commentary one might indulge in as a participant in a real dance exercise class) The dancers were exuberant, moving sometimes in concert, sometimes individually or in pairs. There was little sense of this being a rehearsed performance: it was as though this was simply how people freed their body on a dance floor, until the workings of the group began to reveal itself. At times, the dancers moved like a school of fish, turning in one direction or another with a ingle thought. In the second part of this first piece, the dancers returned, initially one by one, reading text singly but in synchronicity as the soundtrack thrummed in rhythm, allowing the audience to let themselves be enveloped in a chanting experience almost religious in effect. When the final pair of dancers came out, they initiated a coupling that was not so much sexual as animal, like cows or cats rubbing against one another, and this half-serious, half playful coupling spread like a virus to the other dancers, who emulated the two man in their own ways, finding one partner and then another without ever presenting a clear break from one partner to the next. Still, there was no leader, no central focus: it was only when the music stopped, then started up again for a moment before stopping again, when Miguel Gutierrez (as it turns out) said, “That’s the end of the first piece”, that the entire audience realized that here was the choreographer, the leader, the ringmaster.

And now he makes us rearrange the seating for the next pice, turning passive engagement into a more active complicity.

HEAVENS WHAT HAVE I DONE

The second piece was much more challenging: very challenging to perform, I imagine, and nearly as challenging to watch: possibly horrifyingly incomprehensible to some, or just annoyingly gating. To me, it was a remarkable blend of stand-up (or sit-down) comedy in Gutierrez’s steam-of-consciousness rant, and spontaneous (or so it was meant to seem, and succeeded well) set design, which gradually evolved into something obviously purposeful and specific. The piece was at all times unpredictable (except for one moment, when, after Gutierrez began writing on phrase on the papers he’d torn form a large pad and arrayed sequentially on the back wall, I knew how the next clause would read, without really knowing why). There were moments, well into this piece, when I inwardly cringed at the treatment of the dance floor, so pristine and polished, and in respect of which we had all removed our shoes: stomping heels, luggage strewn about, equipment cases dragged across the floor. Once Gutierrez was in full costume--unique, ferociously colorful, completely ridiculous, and, together with white pancake makeup, rouge, and a Marie Antoinette wig, like nothing anyone has ever seen--and began careening around the lovingly, carelessly (hah!) strewn and cluttered stage area, one had to think that this piece was either remarkably well-practiced or an irresponsible flirt with disaster: when Gutierrez, teeter-marches his booted heels into the two halves of an open suitcase, I inwardly gasped, half expecting a headlong sprawl into the audience, but no: this guy’s good. His use of the recorded aria that has been playing, beautifully if unsubtly, in the background, to invite the audience into a dialogue, confirms that people do want to engage: he encourages them. When he finally attains his center in full costume and stills himself, he marries his voice to the recording in such a way as to allow the audience to make an even deeper connection with the music. His repeated endearments manipulate the audience’s in a different, more personal way--yes, I guess maybe it IS so nice that we came, I guess we really must BE important to him -- and his use of the microphone stand as a continuous connection to his slowly collapsing stance creates a form of shadow theater on the wall. Suddenly, he is up and behind the audience, dancing with power, authority, and high drama, with an effect on the audience that results in wide eyes and open mouths. And then it’s over.

Pretty astonishing stuff. Unexpected, sometimes uncomfortable, often fascinating, in many ways subversive and, overall, approaching brilliance.

Jeff Moran used to dance, some, and perform, some. Being supervisor of my town involves performance, though the only character I play is myself, or a version tailored for public consumption. I met my wife while acting in a Woodstock revival of Andre Gregory's Alice in Wonderland, nearly twenty years ago. Long before that, I chaired, for a few years, the Board of Directors of MoMing, a neighborhood center for dance training and avant-garde performance that in its 16-year run introduced Chicago to such postmodern choreographers as Trisha Brown, Meredith Monk, Bill T. Jones, Eiko + Komo, David Gordon, Robert Wilson.

I'm delighted to know that Mount Tremper Arts is keeping the torches lit.

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