THE BODY KEEPS ITS OWN TIME

Midway through my fast from external media, I realize that filling my time with art is my activity of choice. 12 Minutes Max, in its third edition of the season, brings together five artists’ works in progress that span the vastness of the human experience in a time-constrained format. Curated by Rasheena Fountain and Miss Texas 1988, this edition sparks questions for me around what is seen and not seen, and the power an article of clothing has to transport and transcend time. I settle into my seat at Base remembering a previous edition I attended. I wonder what lies ahead of me.

Un (Becoming) begins as a dimly illuminated stage revealing Leah Russell atop the shoulders of Maisy Neil. They process across the stage with slow, methodical steps and a hunter-like focus in their eyes. Their bare bodies come together as Neil melts off the shoulder of Russell into controlled, elongated floorwork. Their synchronously timed arm isolations and leg extensions, initiated by exhaled breaths, fill the space. Both dancers stand squarely towards the audience, filling the silence with their commanding presences. They shift between poses in a bodybuilder-like fashion, giving us a view from all angles. With hands splayed and heads tilted, their bodies say to me, are you not entertained? Is this what you want to see? Their choreographic choices are anchored in the female gaze. The energy quickly shifts, and a heavy downbeat pulses through their spines. The rave-like track intensifies, and their repetitive head bangs and individual explorations become staccato and bound as they meld together into a puddle center stage. In their debut performance collaboration, GLITTER & GRIME challenges societal norms around women’s bodies and lays claim to how their bodies are used and seen.

Lou Chow lies in darkness before a series of photos projected on the back wall. Birthdays, trips, and family moments come alive through this enlarged photo album. All of the pictures feature Chow, alone or with a woman. As the photos roll, I wonder if this is someone who’s passed, a relationship cherished or filled with complexity. The airy vocals of Japanese Breakfast blend with the montage and create a tender moment filled with love, which leads me to believe the woman is Chow’s mother. That suspicion is confirmed as Chow’s voice pours through the speakers, telling us that she’s a lesbian raised by a lesbian. And that this piece is about her experience growing up without a dad. Rock n’ roll music blasts through the speakers, and I feel like I’m in the room of an angsty teenager. Guttural screams come out of nowhere, reminding me of the uncontrollable emotions and changes that happen during that phase of life. Chow rips into pieces of fruit, which to me says I do what I want, when I want. Chow transports us again through time with disco melodies and a vest made of mini CD’s. Swooping across the stage with leg extensions and arm swings, the moment is light and joyful. Chow’s Fatherless Behavior takes us on a journey that reconstructs personal memories and builds a world through performance for them to exist together and apart.

Vérité n.1, a Tangible Absence begins with a splat. Marissa Rae Niederhauser’s body crashes onto the floor as a spotlight reveals her broken doll body shape and a shirt lying over the chair behind her. The sudden nature of the act leaves a moment of silence to take in every element of the scene. Niderhauser’s voice pours from the speakers. Live. Live. You can do it. You’re almost there, she repeats. The voice motivates her body to move. Jerking, twisting, and bending back to life. Niederhauser navigates the concept of legacy as she carefully folds the shirt and tells us it belonged to her dad who died. She shares her decision not to have children, and that her dances must live now. Her stirring kicks and swirling torso give birth to a pull and push effect across the stage. Molding her skittering footwork back and forth repeatedly against projected landscapes, she contemplates her relationships of the past. Niderhauser’s approach to dance making feels like a metaphorical building of legacy. A process filled with trials and tribulations in the pursuit of something that lives on beyond her.

Alexandra Romanyshyn begins Mask with words we’ve all thought before, “I’d like to leave now.” Unhappy with how the words come out, she walks around the stage trying to get her inflection right. Repeating the phrase several times with articulation drills mixed in, still unsatisfied. Warped big band music oozes in, and as the music intensifies, so does Romanyshyn. Her Charleston step becomes larger than life with wide eyes and a big smile to match. Exhaustion sets in as she looks at her wrist, ready for this song and dance to be over. I wonder if she doesn’t feel in control. The shift to darting eyes and a half smile read as a clue that the idea of getting it just right may be pushing her to continue on even when she doesn’t want to. Starting with her socks, Romanyshyn removes her clothing piece by piece. I immediately notice there is black tape on her lower legs and assume it’s for muscle support. Extending leg lifts and elongated back arches reveal tape circled around the thighs, up the hips, and along her torso and arms. The shedding of her costume skin reveals the physical toll on her body. And that one’s outward appearance doesn’t always show the full picture.

(un) common, choreographed by Niecey Chong, begins as seven dancers depart from the walls of the space. Initially, they walk in their own lanes, focused on where they’re headed. After a few passes, the dancers meet up in different pairings, grooving to the house music’s constant beat. Their undulating spines and intricate footwork loft them in and out of the main focus. The circular pathways the dancers move through mimic the repetitious upbeat music of Kyle Hall & Steven Julien. Claps, cheers, and verbal affirmations physicalize call and response. Organically, they move between participant and spectator as the dancers have their moment to shine while being supported by others. As the dancers see a move, they try it for themselves. It feels like they aren’t worried about performing for the audience. Their laughs and joy are for each other. Their costumes express their individual style and enhance the rounded flow of their movement.  Chong’s piece brings the club atmosphere to the stage, giving us a look into a moment in time rooted in rhythm, joy, and community. 

12 Minutes Max premiered June 21-22nd, 2026 at Base. Full program information can be accessed HERE. Featured image of Lou Chow by Jim Coleman.