Leigh Donlan reported from San Francisco’s Dance Mission Theatre:
Three intriguing works stood out on the second night of the Black Choreographers Festival at Dance Mission Theater last weekend.
Frankie Lee Peterson III and William Fowler in dawsondancesf’s d quadrato (Photo: Alan Kimara Dixon)
Now in its 12th year, the BCF (spearheaded by directors Kendra Kimbrough Barnes and Laura Elaine Ellis) showcased Next Wave, a mix of well-established artists and virtual unknowns, who presented nine works over the two-day festival.
Justin Sharlman’s soul-bearing solo in Precious Lord, choreographed by Erik Lee – and “dedicated to every black life that has been taken in violence” – had many in the audience in tears. He danced a man who seemed in constant danger from unseen forces, roaming the city to the sound of traffic, dogs barking, the mechanized voice at a crosswalk signal. He moves fearfully, dramatically, as if flooded with agony. He pounds his chest, pounds the ground, he talks to himself, and drags his legs as if shackled. Eventually, he makes it to center stage, straightens his back and arms, and looks up into the light, tears streaming down his face as we hear Mahalia Jackson singing:
When my way grows dreary / Precious Lord, lead me near / When my life is almost gone / Hear my cry, hear my call/ Hold my hand, lest I fall / Take my hand, precious Lord / Lead me home
As she sings, Sharlman begins mumbling a distraught confessional of sins – though his face expresses uncertainty and confusion as to whether he’s sinned at all. Jackson’s voice conquers his, a reminder perhaps of a force more powerful than the individual man. An incredibly strong performance from Sharlman in an agonizing, brutally honest work that I hope to see staged again.
Choreographer Dazaun Soleyn debuted …the journey…part 3, another lyrical solo danced by Giordan Cruz and set to Frank Ocean’s Pink Matter. In this simple yet discerning piece, subdued lighting revealed a barefoot and shirtless Cruz as he danced a poetic lament of love lost and other life trials. Ocean sings:
What do you think my brain is made for? / Is it, just a container for the mind? / This great, grey matter… / Sensei replied, “What is your woman? / Is she, just a container for the child?” / That soft pink matter…
With intricate gestures and magnificent full body tremors, the lyrical Cruz professes the struggles of love.
The evening closed with the tremendously moving d quadrato from Gregory Dawson. The cast incorporated eight volunteers from the audience. A leader appears – the gorgeous, statuesque Isaiah Bindel – and after reading each volunteer carefully by a knowing gaze, he slowly guides them to places around the perimeter of the floor. He begins a shamanistic, capoeira-like dance, propelling his long arms circularly through the air, summoning unknown spirits. William Fowler and Frankie Lee Peterson perform an intoxicating duet. Fowler lifts Peterson up towards the light as if in offering, and the two begin an intimate, erotic exchange of movement, a fusion of martial arts, capoeira and improv. There’s no music, only the sound of their breath and of their bodies colliding with each other and the floor. A bell rings and the men move toward the audience members as two women enter (Jordan Drew and Ilaria Guerra), and the ominous sounds of plainchant (Gorecki’s Miserere) infuse the air. Eventually one dancer stands before one volunteer and performs a healing – writhing sensually, often violently, seeming to absorb that person’s ailments and cast them off. Reserves exhausted, the dancers depart. In the aftermath of this gripping performance, even those in the audience who had not volunteered to come onstage felt a shift in their being.
Other pieces yielded a mixed harvest. Cherie Hill and Joslynn Mathis Reed demonstrated inventive choreographic skills, but their pieces lacked a coherent architecture. Roadhouse by Jamie Ray Wright featured talented individual dancers, yet a deficiency in chemistry left them continuously out of step with each other. The adorable, high-spirited Swing, sing, stompin’, featuring dancers from 8-15 years old, brought the house down.
