VESSEL

In a crisp diagonal line, the seven badmarmarDANCE dancers file into the space. Their long, belted, white canvas coats rustle stiffly, spattered with black paint Jackson Pollock-style. A white Marley floor gleams pristine and sterile through low, murky lighting (by Becca Blackwell) that is a hallmark of choreographer Marlo Martin. It is so dim during the first solo by Ally Elliott that I almost can’t see her movement. It’s like trying to make out something via an ultrasound. This is not so much a brazen visual display of technique. It’s meant to be felt. It’s becoming clear that this evening’s program, Vessel, is an immersive emotional experience, more than performative. 

The dancers (Elliot, Nicole Flores, Miranda Chantelois, Hayley Keller, Sean O’Bryan, Tyra Rose, Bri Wilson) periodically flick or whip their jackets aside as if to become unhindered by their clothing, their exterior appearance. Reminds me that so much of how society conditions us to show up is for others’ view, not our own comfort. Fingers splay; dancers fall to the ground like the strings that were holding them up were cut. I think of the Greek myth of the Fates, the three sisters who weave a thread representing a person’s life. And that a person’s fate can be severed by so many things beyond our control. I notice this falling to the ground in other moments like when the dancers hinge to the ground in a wave as if bowled over by an overwhelming force.

In the soundscape, metallic-sounding pings echo like communiques from distant stars. The track by musician alva noto belongs to the “Glitch” genre, which is a form of electronic music that deliberately uses sonic artifacts–accidental material resulting from editing sound. The music becomes so loud it is buzzing my chair, almost disassociating me from my thoughts. 

The performers disappear behind a doorway in the theater’s side wall. When the dancers open the door into the dark theater, a blindingly bright light spills out, like opening a refrigerator at midnight. The dancers strain against the doorframe like they’re being sucked into outer space, sometimes breaking free into the theater only to be pulled magnetically back. 

The performers keep piling up like blocked energy. I think again of the show title, Vessel. In this case the hallway is like a blood vessel, an energy conduit, for the life force or qi in Chinese philosophy. The images of manipulating energy get stronger after the dancers break from the doorway. They concentrate their focus as they perform slow martial art style striking motions, shouting, “Ha!” With this fierce verbalization, the performers direct their energy and burst into a flurry of movement and emotions. Hands in prayer. Wiping foreheads as if sloughing off the unimportant. Faces anguished. This culminates when they perform a motion of pressing the energy down the fronts of their bodies with palms flat to the floor until they reach their hips and rock seductively back and forth. This pressing motion reminds me of a similar motion from qigong practices, and I think about the dance with this context. The area below the belly button is called the dantian. According to traditional Chinese medicine, it is where your emotions reside, including the basic fear of life, and where blockages of qi can be released.

After this storm of emotional energy, the tone and scene shifts. The dancers hang their coats on what looks like meat hooks, shedding off their outer shields. They look around, vulnerable. Donning white pants they set out long tables and chairs—all white. They start bringing in blank paper from off stage. They stare at the paper, they swipe it away in frustration. Soon they are carrying armloads like so much dirty laundry. The amount of paper onstage is becoming overwhelming. The performers sort papers fruitlessly. They look worried. I feel the stifling ennui of a conference room. The frustration of meaningless work is palatable. It is blocked creativity made manifest. This stunting atmosphere sparks greedy competition—some performers are grabbing papers that others are throwing away. They dump papers on others’ heads. Torn paper is floating everywhere like the detritus of dreams, birds molting. Shredded paper like a shredded heart—a blizzard of emotions. The music sounds like a creaking ship. Thunder crashing. Dancers are under the table like an earthquake drill grasping the table legs, pulling themselves along the floor in a desperate move to save themselves. 

Finally, this storm of sound calms and the flurry of paper settles. All dancers leave the stage except Bri Wilson. She sits at the table, hands covering her face. It’s as if the overwhelming paperwork rat race depleted her.  She barely moves for a long time. It seems rare in choreography to dedicate so much time to minimal movement. I appreciate the stillness to sit with the emotion. My body empathizes with the lethargy of depression. When she moves her arm up with fingers pinched like a single clear thought, a lifeline, or a call for help, I can see tears on her cheeks. 

The rest of the company re-enters and spins Wilson’s chair, freeing her from her isolation. She looks at her hands as if wondering what she has done and hugs herself, a reminder that we can all give ourselves love. The lights come up bright and the company push white snow shovels clearing the papers to the side—a visual metaphor for starting over. A reminder that you can rewrite your personal narrative and sometimes it’s only possible after great pain.

As if to signify embracing the transformational nature of darkness, the shadowy parts of us, the dancers emerge wearing black net-like loose jerseys and black shorts. They squint as if struggling with their newborn urgency, contracting like the music almost hurts. But then they are bouncing like boxers ready to take on the world. Now the lighting is warm sepia, the dancers feel their faces as if trying to recognize themselves. 

Their facial expressions throughout the work have felt genuine, but the last image before the lights cut is Miranda Chantelois with a huge, fake-looking smile that makes me wonder what that means. Perhaps sometimes that’s how it is, we have to fake it until we make it. 

badmarmar’s Vessel ran February 7-9 and 14-15 at NOD Theater.