QUEER REVOLUTION

Last summer Makisig Akin and Anya Cloud, co-directors of The Love Makers Company, came to the Seattle Festival of Dance + Improvisation and presented the duet We Are (nothing) Everything. This year Akin (a queer, trans Filipino choreographer and activist) and Cloud (a queer white artist committed to radical aliveness), return to work with a Seattle cast at King street station (July 19 at 6pm). Since they’ll be back to present something new, it seems like a good time to share some thoughts on their work from last summer and what to expect from their upcoming show.

Let’s begin where all good queer things begin: the club. Not the metaphorical one — I mean the real, bass-thumping, no-words-just-vibes kind. That’s the first soundscape we’re dropped into in We Are (nothing) Everything, a duet by Makisig Akin and Anya Cloud that crashes through categories like a sweaty body on a slippery dancefloor… except this isn’t an ensemble. This is two people. Just two. Dancing. Together. In a room full of everything. And nothing.

Makisig and Anya are already dancing in the space when I enter to take my seat. They are both simply dressed in jeans and tank tops, barefoot and real. No costumes, no distractions. Their hands are clasped — literally. Not metaphorically. In a unique grip that reminds me of thumb wrestling but the thumbs are down, the rest of the fingers locked together. A commitment. A task. A promise. They hold on for so long as they dance-moving in and out of the floor, with and on each other-it becomes a kind of sacred absurdity. They dance with the walls. They dance with exhaustion and affection.

This duet is beautifully, deliberately tiring. They sweat. They flap. They fling themselves into movement. At one point, I tune out — my brain goes “wow this is nice” and floats off — and then I tune back in and someone is balancing on one leg while the other is curled up on the floor and suddenly springs to life, kicking. It’s playful. It’s physical. It’s love. But not in a hallmark card way. In a “I’ll follow you, or you follow me — just don’t let go” kind of way.

Then, a shift.

The handhold breaks. They crouch and sit together on the floor in a sweaty tangle of denim. They caress each other’s feet with their faces (yes, really). Then — like some sexy queer Cirque du Soleil — they strip each other’s tank tops off with their feet. 

Now shirtless, jeans still on, they begin to balance, carry, and climb one another. Akin lounges on Cloud’s back like a chaise lounge. Cloud foot-presses Akin into the air. They form a literal pillar when Makisig climbs Anya’s shoulders and stands ten feet tall, surveying the room like a glistening, denim-clad lighthouse. Somewhere along the way, the music fades into a distant thump. The queer club is now in another room. Or inside us.

Welcome to the full-spectrum queer contact zone — where intimacy becomes a sport, choreography a dare, and vulnerability a superpower. There’s a long moment of wrestling, of grappling…this is contact improvisation that owes as much to the lineage of Nancy Stark Smith (who I first saw Cloud perform with at a Velocity contact improvisation moment in 2016) as it does to high school gym class. There is a repeated phrase on the diagonal, a moment of simple and exhaustive set unison, crawling shoulder to shoulder running and a leap, then crawling in reverse all the way back across the diagonal just to do it … 10 more times? !? Contact not for spectacle but for sensing, for sweating, for enduring. They lean into each other, bodies wrapped like vines, and then — the most radical moment of all — they just… stop.

Makisig spoons Anya.

Nothing happens. Except everything.

They breathe. We watch. No dramatics, just their breath slowing down from the very physical first half of the performance. You can hear their post-exertion panting settle into a deep rest. It’s the most radical moment of the night. A dance of recovery. Of parasympathetic nervous system regulation. Of being, not performing. Of nothing. Could’ve been five minutes. Could’ve been twenty. Honestly, I would’ve stayed until sunrise.

Then — just when you’ve fully unclenched — they’re wrestling again. The vibe is now hot, raw, and definitely bringing big butch energy. Akin gets Cloud in a chokehold. Cloud pins Akin. It’s sweaty, it’s real, it’s bordering on sex. Or sport. Or both. Is this struggle about dominance? Desire? Communication? Consent? Yes.

It’s also where the uncomfortable joy kicks in — watching the audience squirm as two queer people show what it looks like to really want each other, to touch with purpose and pleasure. I’m giddy. We don’t see this enough — not in dance, not in public, not with such generosity and clarity from such skillful moving and thinking humans as these.

Then they transition into a kind of absurd boy band fantasy. Akin begins to ham it up with muscle man-like poses, glistening, while Cloud tenderly caresses them. She’s singing — or maybe just mumbling and Akin joins — but then their humming resolves into what sounds like a 90s boy band track. A wink to the fact that, for a generation of queer and trans kids, those were the closest thing to genderqueer icons we had. It’s playful, it’s nostalgic, and it’s another layer in this ever-expanding portrait of queer embodiment.

They return to earth to rearrange the gym mats that have made up the dance floor for the entire performance preceding this moment into sculptural chaos: building, toppling, rebuilding. A soft architecture. The kind you make with someone you trust enough to knock down your walls and still want to hold your hand after. 

Eventually, they climb a final stack of mats.They witness each other. The lights pulse. The DJ drops the beat. They take turns dancing solo as the other perches high on a mat mountain witnessing. The club beat grows stronger and faster (shout out to DJ Stevie Gunter for an amazing set that complements all aspects of the performance). Now they’re dancing apart but together — connected without touching. A showing off that yes they can touch but yes they can also stay in sync and in relation when not touching at all.

And then — they start kissing. A lot. Like, making out kissing. And dancing. And climbing through the audience. Still kissing. They scale the rows, they climb up two ladders going up the back wall into the lighting grid above until they disappear. Still. Kissing. The entire theater, transformed into a queer utopia where affection is endurance and kissing is choreography.

That’s how We Are (nothing) Everything ends: mid-kiss, mid-flight, mid-beat. A giant, unapologetic, full-body YES to queer love, to tender risk, to sexy mess, to the audacity of resting on stage and sweating on someone you trust.

It’s a vision of what performance can be when it doesn’t ask for permission. It’s not for everyone — but honestly, it’s not trying to be. It’s for the queer, the trans, the passionate, the curious, the brave. For anyone who’s ever wondered if maybe, just maybe, holding someone’s hand could change the whole world.

This wasn’t just a duet. It was a relationship. A revolution. A sweaty and sweet reminder that we — queer, trans, wild-hearted we — are (nothing) everything. So thank you, Makisig Akin and Anya Coud, for showing us that a dance of connection, vulnerability and shifting power dynamics is a wonder to watch and that maybe — just maybe — everyone should be allowed to take their shirt off without it being a big deal, not just cis dudes.

Like We Are (nothing) Everything, I expect their upcoming performance SWITCH: Post-Failure Potentials to challenge us by witnessing the radical revolutions possible in relationships with other people. I’m excited to see how they expand their ideas to include a large group. They tease that they will deliver the thrills you’d find watching the Olympics or a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu match. They’ll be playing with the energies of winning and losing, drawing from martial arts, dance and improvisation. SWITCH also promises to include the audience as active spectators! I’m excited to witness this collective reimagining inspired by the radical vulnerability and strength found in queer communities. They’ll challenge us by asking the question: What if failure wasn’t the end — but the beginning of creating a better world together?

We Are (nothing) Everything by Makisig Akin + Anya Cloud was presented at SFD+I August 2024 on the Mainstage at 12th Ave Arts. More information about that show at https://velocitydancecenter.org/events/di-anya-makisig/

Makisig Akin + Anya Cloud’s SWITCH: Post-Failure Potentials will premiere JUL 19  at 6 PM at  King Street Station (303 S Jackson St Top floor, Seattle, WA) as part of Seattle Festival of Dance + Improvisation | Velocity Dance Center in partnership with ARTS at King Street Station. Tickets available here: velocitydancecenter.org/events/switch-post-failure-potentials