Reprint: Taking Responsibility For Time

Opening

In the beginning, there are words, and there is movement.

Walking, a woman, dressed plainly in white t-shirt, shorts, and shoes. Her path describes a circle through the space, then another, then she pivots to march in a straight line to cross the

room, ending in the opposite corner from where she entered. She rises to her toes, peers intently into the corner for a time, then turns to lunge toward us, knees bent deeply toward her sides, torso curved and hands stretched forward fingers splayed.

Speaking, a voice tells of the first day—of creation, of Man, of waking and experiencing the newly formed world. This voice describes the sensations of the new creature, his awareness of his environment and of his self: the sun, rain, hair, plants, animals.

The entire room is infused with a sense of creation. This is not a depiction or re-enactment of a story from long ago: it is a first enactment, ferociously present. The work takes on epic matters within the first minutes, though it by no means feels heavy- handed—this is no superficial treatment of grandiose subjects. Avoiding any sense of kitsch or cliché, story and movement invite provocative associations, which flow freely from the text

and movement. The creation story is partly one of time, accounting for the development of this world as we know it. Time runs through many aspects of Sarah Michelson’s Devotion (2011), a work that acts on many levels as a love letter dedicated to dance and dancers.

To admit my position as author: writing in relation to this work, I feel somewhat daunted—this work looms large. Without the lens of temporal distance, the place of this work and its effects on me, let alone on dance as a broader conversation, are not yet clear. Yet writing from this place—from a still immediate relation with the work—is also important. During a conversation discussing her work, at one point Michelson said she felt she needed to “take responsibility for time.” This phrase has stayed with me and has a strong resonance with what Devotion does for me. In this articleI will discuss the dance and its relationship with various themes of time, to try and get at some idea of what it could mean to be responsible for time. It is a big responsibility, no doubt, but the act of “devotion” necessarily involves a commitment of time. As I am writing partly about and partly in response to Devotion, I likewise will try to take responsibility for my relationship to the work in this moment, and thus engage in my own way with the idea of responsibility for time.

Synchronous

The text read in the opening of the dance is by playwright and theater director Richard Maxwell of the New York City Players. Recited live by Michelson (seated in the audience) each performance, it presents a narrative: broadly speaking, a version of the biblical creation, and later the birth of Jesus, eventually sliding to conclude on a present-day American theater director (possibly autobiographical?).

Though it exists in the same time and space as the Narrator’s (Rebecca Warner) opening solo, occurring simultaneously and for roughly the same duration, the two elements—dance and text— are not timed to each other. Each follows its own internal timing and rhythm. Yet the juxtaposed story and dance can’t avoid overlapping and permeating one another. The narrative becomes spatial and weighted, felt and not just heard. Likewise, the Narrator’s dance, exceedingly formal and abstract, takes on tones of the biblical creation. There is no affect to the presentation. It is there, plainly and clearly displayed, as though simply saying:

Here I am. This is what I’m doing.

Hands drive from the center of the body to the limit of the arms’ reach. Arms make shape after shape after shape, always passing through the center, always pushing toward the outer limit. Torso flips from one facing to the next as the arms recoil and extend, feet firmly claiming each new stance just before the arms define theirs, everything holding only long enough to be recognized.

Never rushed, always determined. The lines of motion traced between each position are by turns severe and elegant; all of the strength created in each arrangement of limbs is maintained and redeployed along the pathway leading to the next.

The Narrator’s level of intensity never wavered during her performance. From the moment she stepped into the space, the flow of energy remained constant and steady. Her energy

resonated with the brightly lit room—neutral yellow-white light, like sunlight, fully illuminating both the stage space and the audience. The Narrator conducted a constant display, showing, revealing her movement and herself. As one would expect from a narrator, the presentation was neutral and unaffected; however, her unrelenting presence shifted the engagement required to a higher intensity, and “neutral” became redefined as this height- ened awareness. Over twenty-five minutes, the simultaneity of the dance and text effected a quality that felt heavy, firm, like a fact that was unavoidable.

Recollection

Michelson’s commitment to form in dance-making reveals a conscious and active conversation with dances past as well as present. Dance icons and styles are recognized and made present in this work, yet not simply as signs. Merce Cunningham is a strong presence in the Narrator’s opening solo, and to a lesser degree much of Mary’s (Non Griffiths) material. Cunningham technique is a clear undercurrent, and certain compositional elements—the difficult transitions, chance relationship between sound and movement—also trigger the choreographer’s ghost. Yet the Cunningham-esque movement and composition style is not simply a reference, something pointing to Cunningham. It is active material, historically weighted but revealing something in its present incarnation. Present and past are more than linked, and participate in something other than a dialogue (a simple exchange). They end up pervading one another.

There are sections of repetitive choreography which recall the “minimalist” dance compositions of Lucinda Childs and Anna Teresa De Keersmaker. The most specific recollection in this vein comes from Twyla Tharp’s In the Upper Room. The costumes of Tharp’s work—track suits, blue and white striped, red leotards and white bottoms—are referenced by many of the costumes in Devotion, and brief citations of steps appear in the Adam and Eve duet (Jim Fletcher and Eleanor Hullihan). A section of music from that dance, Dance IX, also features prominently in Devotion, first appearing near the end of the middle section with Mary and Jesus (James Tyson). It is a quintessential Glass composition, employing recognizable minimalist tropes (not the least

of which is extensive repetition), and like so much else in this dance, the music comes back—two more times. The second time the track comes on, it is unexpected, surprising enough to refocus attention. The third time, it is almost shocking, simultaneously dreadful and exhilarating in a way only Glass’ music can be. The implications of repeating the music of the icon of repetitive music are simply confounding.

Devotion also contains references to Michelson’s previous works. During the middle section of the dance (Mary and Jesus), the doors of the theater swing open, recalling the opening moment of Shadowmann. Here, instead of light shining across the street, a wall of floodlights shine in on the theater. The color—cool, ultrawhite—suggests moonlight. If the Narrator’s solo was the first day, this might be the first night. Portraits of the authors, Michelson and Maxwell, painted in a classical style by TM Davy hang on the walls of the theater, similar to the Claude Wampler

portraits of Michelson and her collaborators in Daylight. In work- ing with references to work by other choreographers as well as her own, Michelson effectively places her history alongside that of other choreographers. How could it not be? Using history—her own and others’—simply acknowledges the connection between past and present.

Ripe

Offstage, in the traditional concept of a theatrical space, is a different world from that of the performance—what happens offstage is outside the performance, not part of the world created by the work. For the performance at The Kitchen, the lobby

of the theater is also the only offstage entrance to the performance space, and all entrances and exits happen only from this space. Devotion has several moments where dancing takes place “offstage”–that is, in the lobby of the theater. Interestingly, the dancers enter the space from the same place that the audience does. The dancing that happens offstage is dancing in a time and place that is not strictly of the dance, and moreover somehow related to the world that the audience came from, and will return to. Whereas theatrical performance traditionally aims to create a space clearly distinct from the real world (particularly in the proscenium theater with its “fourth wall”), Devotion has the audience (the “real world”) and the dancers enter from the same place.

Michelson’s works often creatively reconfigure the spaces in which the works are performed, and likewise Devotion utilizes unique aspects of the performance space. The audience seating, shifted 90 degrees from The Kitchen’s standard arrangement, is against one of the long walls, creating a space significantly wider than it is deep, diminishing the distance between the audience and the stage as well as setting up the lobby of the theater as the performer entrance. This approach seems akin to site specific art and performance, which generally aims for a conscious statement on or interaction with the space and its particular history, with that action making up the content of the work. Yet there is an additional element: the result seems not only a comment on the space, but also a responsible act, accounting for all the various elements involved in the presentation of the work (of course the entryway of the theater is part of the performance!). When the work is presented, the space does not in any way hinder the movement that was created somewhere else, but works with it. The dance doesn’t have to change or adapt to its performance space, but instead becomes fully ripe upon arriving to it.

And Devotion felt ripe not just for the space, but for the mo- ment. It seemed to take account of the time during which it was performed in a similar way to which it did the space in which

it was performed. This is not to suggest an intentional dialogue with contemporary events, but an unavoidable awareness of them seemed to deeply penetrate the work. Consider a few events occurring in the dance scene around this time: Ishmael Houston- Jones revives his work Them (1984) in October of 2010; the Merce Cunningham Dance Company is halfway through their Legacy Tour, calling attention to over 50 years of postmodern dance; Dance Theater Workshop will in a few months time disap- pear and reconfigure as New York Live Arts. Legacy, revival, and demise were present in several different ways in the conscious- ness and performance of dance in this moment. While time was not an explicit theme of performance, it was an inescapable reality in several facets of the dance field. Devotion was one more event populating this conversation in January 2011.

Rhythm

There are moments throughout the dance when the performers hold a position for an extended period—a tilt with high leg-ex- tension; a fourth-position lunge; lying on the floor. The otherwise constant motion of the dance becomes more apparent when the performer stops moving entirely. Each pose is an active engage- ment that radiates in the space, serving as an anchor, defining distances and relationships among the various elements of the room. Each establishes the space in stillness as time continues to move, recalling all the motion that has passed so far, allowing the density of what has passed to accumulate.

These poses call attention to many of the same traits as do repetitions of an action or phrase: duration, endurance, sustained engagement. Like the held pose, repetition calls attention to time. Whether in a pose, or in a movement phrase or motif, repetition is a pervasive structural element throughout the work. Both the Nar- rator’s and Mary’s solos have elements of repetition, and the final duet, with Adam and Eve, features extensive repetition. Eve’s first several minutes involve her simply running, marathon-style, on and off stage, traversing the length of the space to meet Adam in the corner each time.

Repetition—the idea that an event can repeat, identifying one event to be another instance of something that occurred at a dis- tinct time—insists that a past event can be linked to a present one. Tying together past and present, repetition also suggests a futurity by implying a further repeated instance. Yet repetition is more than simple reiteration—it is fundamentally productive as well. French sociologist and philosopher Henri Lefebvre argues the ba- sis of this productivity lies in the relationship between repetition and rhythm, “No rhythm without repetition in time and in space, without reprises, without returns, in short without measure. But there is no identical absolute repetition, indefinitely. Whence the relation between repetition and difference.” (Lefebvre, 6; emphasis in original). Rhythm in this sense does not mean something like a regular tempo or clearly defined pattern, but the various interactions of space, time, and action; or as Lefebvre writes, “Everywhere where there is interaction between a place, a time and an expenditure of energy, there is a rhythm.” (15)

In Lefebvre’s thinking, rhythm is a science that provides a meth- od to consider various uses of time, with different approaches to time constituting different modes of being in the world. Rhythm marks one mode of time, which Lefebvre contrasts with linear time. Rhythmic time is cyclical, falling back on itself, reappearing where it has already been, and necessarily invoking repetition. Linear time—time that moves only in one direction—also repeats, but with repetitions like that of a clock, “mechanical”, “exhausting and tedious,” and even “brutal.” In contrast, cyclical or rhythmic repetition “has the appearance of an event and an advent. Its beginning, which after all is only a recommencement, always has the freshness of a discovery and an invention.” (73) Rhythm is never only a signifying force (pointing to what came before), but always a productive one. Rhythmic time “preserves

both the measure that initiates the process and the recommencement of this process with modifications, therefore with its multiplicity and plurality.” (79) It assimilates what has come before to construct what will become, connecting past, future and present into what can be understood as presence.

Rhythmic time makes space for past and present to build on each other, not just a one-way relationship. Devotion plays with this use of rhythmic time, and repetition within the structure of the dance, as well as the recollections of dance history, creates layers of rhythm, felt on multiple levels, experienced in various moments.

Endurance

Time weaves throughout the work in various ways, but perhaps most noticeably simply in its duration. The work—almost exactly 100 minutes—called for incredible endurance from each of the performers. This was particularly prominent in the final duet, a love story between the characters Adam and Eve.

Adam enters the space, running upstage and down, crossing the room, exiting again. He reenters, this time hopping backwards the entire length of the space, peering intently into the entrance through which he just came. As he hops, Eve is carried in by the Apostles and placed down on her toes, poised ready to run. The chandelier-like light hanging stage left now begins to swing, like a pendulum, or perhaps like the sun passing across the sky.

Running, marathon-like, dominates this section. Yet there are also tender moments, where Eve runs a hand across Adam’s chest,

or Adam supports Eve as she falls into a backwards arch, or when the two briefly hold hands as they run together. These two make time palpable by tying it to the space, identifying a certain amount of time with a particular distance traveled. As the duet continues, they allow the intense exertion required to achieve this feat to become evident, marking the passage of time with their states of exhaustion. But this is not a dance about failure, which exhaustion more often evokes. These performers endure their trials unfailingly, their exhaustion marking the difficulty of their feats, thus highlighting the performers’ strength, not their weak- ness. As time is tied to space, both are in turn tied to energy, and displayed in the effects of endurance.

Epilogue

The second night I attended Devotion, I arrived closer to how I wanted to experience the dance. Though attending a dance multiple times is a rare occurrence—for myself and, I’m sure, most dancegoers—sometimes it is warranted. For Devotion, it

felt necessary. The dance required huge efforts from its perform- ers, enough to exhaust each night of performance. Returning to experience the work again, I sensed that in order to fully take in the work, I ought to have been there every night, right along with the performers.

Though complete, the work did not feel concluded after a single run. The work, or at least my experience of it, really only came into itself through fully repeating itself. This wasn’t about “study- ing” the work or noticing something I hadn’t the first time. Using Lefebvre’s rhythmic terminology, I would say that experiencing the work began a cycle, and that cycle called for another. The work, long and exhausting, also seemed to ask its audience to experience the work for a long time, to exhaust themselves in viewing. Devotion seemed to offer new avenues of spectator- ship, in which repeated viewings of a single work are part of the unified experience of the work; not deepening the experience, but bringing forth the full experience.

In the closing minutes of the dance, the Narrator returns, and Michelson reads the epilogue of the text. A few sentences from the text stuck with me, engraved into my memory of the final moments of the dance:

“Say one thing and that’s true: we are here. Don’t worry, you’ll have everything: the body, the words, and the room. We are per- fect. I don’t see how it could have happened differently, perform- ing in a black box space. We will be there, we will share there. We won’t need to please. We will be ourselves, plain and true.”

These words feel like a letter from Maxwell to Michelson, reas- suring them both of what they have been working towards with this performance.

The Narrator rehearses some phrases similar to her opening solo, but they feel very different. Her walking, though still clear and determined, now has an air of reflection, her backwards jog- ging, a sense of cooling down.

With torso tilted to the right, arms extended from shoulders making a vertical line, she turns her head to look at the floor as if noticing something in her peripheral vision. Arms reach back, rotating, as torso curves forward. Her right hand comes forward palm turned upward, she looks at it, and we see its contents: it is empty. What it contained has already been given. She is satisfied.

Finally, she walks backwards from the far corner of the room and makes two circles, reversing the pathway she used when the dance first began. At the exit, however, she pauses: reaching down, she touches the floor for just a moment, then backs out, and the doors close.

Shortly after, the text concludes. The story is over, the mes- sage delivered. The lights fade out, then come back on, but the performers never re-enter. There is no bow, and only scattered

and somewhat confused applause. We are given this final gift: we don’t have to acknowledge the dance has finished.

 Bibliography

LeFebvre, Henri. Rhythmanalysis: Space, Time and Everyday Life. New York, London: Continuum Press, 2004.