V is for Vixen

Those three words.

Symbolic tokens.

Displays of affection.



Grand gestures.



Tasty delights.

Dark desires.

Move over Saint Valentine...February 14th brings out the Vixen in everyone!  So it seems, as I view the unnatural activity on the streets of Sydney.  Boomingly over priced red roses, men desperatly running around with bouquets, women boasting about this years conquest, or moaning about the lack thereof, and cafes and restaurants filled with couples ordering luxurious desserts they usually wouldn't fathom digesting.  But who cares..."gimme gimme gimme!" they all seem to yell.  This February the 14th I notice the oddity of such compulsive behaviour.  Yet noone stops and stares.

I much prefer to be noticed carrying a lone Lily on January 7th, or March 15th, or June 21st...in fact any date that isn't Valentines Day.  Because today all I see are Vixens grabbing whatever they can get!

But I say let it be.  Perhaps unleashing some inner Vixen is what each of us need. 

And I am not ready to let go of the belief that there is still romance, thought and love to be found amongst this chaotic purchasing.  I do so as I nibble contently on the hand-made heart shapped Anzac biscuits delivered to me this morning. 

Maybe V is for Valentine after all.

xox

Only time will tell

Tick, tock, tick, tock... This is the all too familiar sound of time passing.  At least it used to be, before technology replaced analogue with digital.  I myself measure time by the numbers seen on a screen in front of me; a lap top, dash board, or the phone in my hand.  Admittedly I own a watch (...or 5), but merely for the purpose of accessorising.  Although this is not entirely true.  There is some sort of classic nostalgia associated with the ticking of a second hand, or the swinging of a pendulum in an old grandfather clock.  Growing up I dreamed of owning one of those, spurred on by the countless movies reminiscing times long gone.  Slower times, calmer times.  Now, I don't think I could stand the ticking.  Especially lying in bed...it would disrupt the noise of back firing cars and occasional traffic.  Some things are best left in the past.

I think this reflects the 'time' we live in. 

Which brings me back to my initial pondering...time.  It was spurred by the above images I took whilst having an evening picnic at Blackwattle Bay. 

I asked myself, why are we so scared of time?  Even the poor mouse who ran up the clock was terrified when the clock struck one.  It is an unjust world we live in.

We endlessly hear phrases, mutterings, conversations and even screams about "not wasting time".  But I find it hard to comprehend and hence adhere to, since I am still not convinced that any of us knows what that means.

Perhaps it means doing something...wait for it...'Productive' (shudder).  Again, define it please.  Does it mean working towards a due date? Or sometimes maybe it simply means doing something in general. Yes, we live in a fast paced, technology driven, global community where we need to check emails on the run, update social networks regularly to keep up with goings-on, write in shorthand and with emoticons, and set alarms and reminders for every occurrence...dare we be late!  But if this is what it means to 'not waste time' then I rebel!

What happened to quiet time?  Alone time?  (Dare I say self-discovery.)  These are the moments where magic happens.  Where inspiration and creativity come alive.  Where we can smile because we actually have a moment to enjoy.  This to me is definitely not wasting time.

I realised this whilst I was sitting by the water, literally watching time go past.  In fact this is one of the strongest and most meaningful memories from my last couple of months. 

So perhaps we should all consider for a moment (if you can spare that), what it is we are so afraid of.  Take a minute, or an hour, or a day, or however long you need, to stop and let time be your friend...

I prefer to look at it this way:

"We say we waste time, but that is impossible.  We waste ourselves." -Alice Bloch

Let us not waste ourselves.  And hopefully I have not wasted your time. xox

Variant.

DANCE.
Another 2010 oldie. Sue Healey's Variant @ Carriageworks.

Sue Healey presented her performed conversation Variant as part of ‘Liveworks’ festival presented by Performance Space at Carriageworks.  Promoted as a “fast and furious festival of new ideas” the four-day event consisted of a barrage of challenging performances, installations, screenings and many other formats, filling the entire venue.  Innovation and interpretation was vivid in the 2010 program, Healey’s ‘work in development’ was a highlight, being presented as part of her Curiosities series.

Variant was very clear in exposing Healey’s innate ability to use dance and art as research.  An evolving collaboration between herself, the 6 dancers and music director Pat Wilson the work showed the power of the human body in channeling thoughtful concepts whilst also being aesthetically creative.  Presenting the dancers, each with different variations the work explores diversity within the human form.  Challenging audience perceptions, this artwork demanded laughter and contemplation in a means of questioning norm and difference. 

Perhaps the most obvious visual variance was between the versatile Kiruna Stamell who at midget height danced alongside the tall James Berlyn.  His height was exaggerated at times by a pair of platform heels that even the most experienced of catwalk models may find challenging!  They spoke into microphones about the very real social implications of their heights and being treated like ‘freaks’, when here in front of the audience stood two beautiful performers.  Joking about bone stretching and cutting inches off ones feet, they equated these modifications to plastic surgeries we encounter in our everyday worlds.  Highlighting the severity of difference hits the audience directly where it hurts.  After all, we are all victims of judgment at both ends. 

Even so, the dancing was far more powerful than the words.  A playful pas de deux was featured where waltzing, lifting, spinning and swinging highlighted Kiruna and James’ variance yet united their commonality.  The relationship and compatibility between them spoke for itself, as did the stilts Kiruna danced a top for a cleverly amusing dance sequence.  It was easy to get lost in the ease and joy of their dancing.  Perhaps this was a victory in itself, for the essence of the human body was found among the differences.

Aside from this featured strong variance, the experimentation in the piece was clever as the other dancers joined in.  The spectrum of height difference between Kiruna and James was filled and the word ‘relative’ became suddenly obvious.  Observation or judgment is only relative to what it is compared to.  Kiruna no longer appeared as short, nor James as tall.  What remained were people, bodies, dancers and artists.  Ultimately individuals.

Narelle Benjamin and James Berlyn both sensuously swirled and cleverly isolated their bodies around the stage, their immense strength and flexibility displayed with her in track pants and him with a nearly bare body.  They performed intricate discoveries of the body, spines rolling and bending, muscles isolating and their bodies intertwining.  They led each other seamlessly in call and response sequences and evoked a sense of sadness in all their skill and virtuosity.  They were isolated in all their skill, separated from an imagined normalized identity that is incapable of what they lay out in front of us.

In a build up of solos and partner work, the audience experienced transitions through variants.  With disjointed sequences, humorous moments and clever choreographic isolations each dancer became obscure in their selves but familiar in their struggle. 

In a bittersweet conclusion beautiful moments of unison incorporated the remaining two dancers Rachelle Hickson and Nalina Wait, as all the dancers effected and affected each other.  They were united in all their differences and perhaps oddities, testing the audience with mixed emotions in exaggerated gestures of the face.  Confronting and curious the piece took us down a whirlwind of our own pasts and presents.

Are we able to laugh at and judge others?  After all, they judge us.  That seems to be the reality of society and humanity, and what a sad cycle that is.  Thankfully the performers were liberated and free at the end, evoking joy and hope.  It will be interesting to see where this work progresses and how this experimentation and research evolves. 

xox

Glow.

DANCE.
A 2010 oldie.  Gideon Orbarzanek's Glow @ The Seymour Centre.

A phenomenal chemical reaction fused technology and human body as one in Gideon Obarzanek’s re-staged work, Glow. We saw dancer Sara Black engaging with a digital landscape generated in response to her movement - morphing through creature-like beings, bathing in light and ever changing patterns of lines.

An intimate space. An intimate square space. An intimate square space geometrically divided generated this extremely heightened sensory experience.

Literally glowing, Black mapped out the confines of the space. Crawling, squirming and extending her beautifully toned limbs, she was at one with the silhouettes, shadows and outlines that followed and mimicked her. Playfully ever-changing, the space was carved up by linear light and movement, simultaneously shifting through the stages of the performance and moods created. An arithmetical drawing emerged in front of us, with moments of paint splashed around in highlighted movement. In seamless transition the sensuous body demanded the technology’s reaction then opposed the technology’s imposition on the body - an eerie play of power.

                       

The body formed rounded shapes, wrapping up the limbs within it, before lengthening out and arching in isolated motions. A cocoon, then a butterfly. The movements were fleeting, fading with the light, transforming to become a new thing. Thing. For she was technology. Technology was she. Erratic and desperate noises escaped her lips as they burst from the seams of her internal creatures. Quivering limbs gave way to strong, straight and rhythmic kicking, a shape shifter before our eyes. The music, an elaborate soundscape, formulated a clever pathway for these organisms to travel.

A powerful section emerged from silence as the body squirmed, seemingly possessed by demon-like shadows entering Black’s body. In discomfort we experienced a monster growling, reaching and desperate, banishing the shadows from within. Here horror was at play, aided solely by the miraculous use of technology. In a frantic and pulsating state we felt the swirling, melting and contracting. The performance offered an eerie connection to what was happening in that intimate square space.

Breath - leaving the contracting and arching body. She stepped aside, leaving her white shadow, a mirroring ghost of herself that slowly flooded the square environment - drowning her – then melted to a miniscule dot. A flash. And darkness.

Credit must be given to all involved, a true act of collaboration between Gideon Obarzanek (concept and choreography), Frieder Weiss (Interactive System Design), Luke Smiles (Music and Sound Design), Paula Levis (Costume Design), Kristy Ayre (Rehearsal Director), and Nick Roux (Multimedia Operator), along with dancers Sara Black and Harriet Ritchie in alternating performances.

xox

Dancing with a pen

Yes, there have been many great thinkers throughout history.  (Note: I feel liberated to make such general statements outside academic context) Some of who, I admit, one gets sick of hearing about when attending University.  Having said this, I genuinely enjoy some good Nietzsche.  This following quote is prime turf for me:

"Dancing in all its forms cannot be excluded from the curriculum of all noble education; dancing with the feet, with ideas, with words, and, need I add that one must also be able to dance with the pen?"

My passions for dance and writing have been in existence for as long as I can remember; which photos of myself at age 2 sitting with turned-out, pointed feet and arms poised show, as do the scraps of poems and stories written from the age I learnt to write.  I have discovered, not so easily, that art can be harnessed in every form of life, and one can create art not only physically with the body, but also with words...which ultimately emerge from the body.

The prospect of combining writing and dance has etched at my soul and become a passion.  An almost ephemeral moment being captured on paper.

So be prepared...
CAUTION: This blog will contain dance reviews written by yours truly. 

If you progress beyond this warning, please feel free to comment, leave feedback, give advice, agree, disagree...you know the drill.

There will be other non-dance-related musings, for those who fear the unknown.  Stay tuned.

Thanking you in advance.

xox

An Owl's Tale

Why an owl you ask? 

If you saw my token owl collection (or rather plethora!) you may grasp a slight understanding of where my inspiration came from.  It represents a current obsession that is (I think) quirky and interesting, but in all honesty may one day result in men running in the other direction. 

However it represents far more.  This large eyed bird is a deeply embedded scar imposed upon by my loving parents, who called me an 'owl'.  Do no panic.  They did not NAME me 'owl'.  (Instead I was branded 'Sara' which in fact means 'princess'.  I think perhaps an owl would have been better suited.) But they did insist on imposing this nickname...with good intentions. 

To them the owl, with its monumental eyes, did not represent a solitary, nocturnal predator, but rather a symbol of wisdom.  (They had high hopes for me.)  Understandably, this is a common belief held in Western culture, apparently sparked by Athena, goddess of wisdom, who had an owl as her symbol.  But they failed to contemplate that in Africa owls are viewed as harbingers of bad luck, ill health and death.  Or that in the America's they are associated with sorcery and other evils, also a symbol of death and destruction.  And in the Middle East they are also seen as bad omens. 

So you can see that from the above, that odds were never on my side.  Despite this, the nickname stuck.  And along with it came the snowballing collection of owl mementos.  I don't mind so much.  I always admired the character 'Owl' from my beloved 'Winnie The Pooh' tales as a child.  And I do adore the task of hunting down replica's of these hunters.  Plus they look fabulous on my mantle. 

Of course one may notice that owls have become 'trendy' around the place.  This: a) infuriates me, because the large eyed subject of my ONE quirky collection now exists in almost all shop windows, the homes of those simply following trend, and not to mention tattooed on those desperate to fill yet another empty patch of skin with ink (and I am a fan of ink!); and b) gives me silent joy that I can expand my owl caboodle to the next cabinet or shelf in my room. 

With this come amazing pieces of owl art, which I will eagerly collect, cute owl cards which put a rewarding smile on the recipients face, not to mention amazing canvas bags, of which no one can ever have enough.

And well, I do have big eyes.

So although not by choice, I have delightfully claimed the title of an owl, and this blog will represent that which the owl's eyes see.  And owls see everything.

Enjoy xox