Taylor 2 Dazzles in Exceptional Start to Fall Season
Warmth from the pit of my stomach spread through my veins as I approached the Myrtle Woldson Performing Arts Center on a brisk autumn evening. Orange hues and the glow of lights from the lobby seemed to beckon passerby, curious smiles playing at their lips as they entered. Inside, the auditorium buzzed with excitement at the first performance of the building’s inaugural fall season. Matching jackets donned and ballet buns still intact, tweens fresh out of dance class chattered from the first row. Their wide brace-face grins conjured memories of my first time seeing a live ballet. In my mind’s eye, ten-year-old me flashed that same metallic smile in front of San Diego’s Balboa Theater. I too wore a slicked-back bun with a colorful scrunchie to pay homage to the art I was about to witness. The only difference was that I happened to be dressed to the nines in a glittery, cream-colored ensemble carefully selected from the size 10-12 racks at Ross. Somewhat unfamiliar with proper audience etiquette, I munched M&Ms loudly as I stared wide-eyed at the action unfolding onstage. Luckily, I was still young enough to be considered cute despite any disruption I may have caused. [insert pic in front of the balboa]
The youthful energy of the tweens was balanced out by retired couples who sat with their hands placed on each other’s knees, surveying the scene. Colleagues from the dance program embraced and chatted about department going-ons. Non-dancer university students scuttled in minutes before curtain and settled in the back rows. Though small, the audience was ready to experience an amazing start to the season. The rustling of program pages slowed as the house lights faded and the first piece, Airs, began. A hush fell over the audience as the dancers entered, flawlessly made up in costumes the color of the wind. From the second row, they appeared elevated and otherworldly. Paradoxically, one could also hear their human gasps for breath and see the sweat beginning to glisten on their brows. This was a privilege that I did not experience when watching the tech rehearsal inconspicuously from the back of the theater.
The dancers’ bodies spoke the native tongue of Paul Taylor, and they inhabited the stage as their homeland. A casual tone emerged from pedestrian walks, hops, runs, and rolls. I later learned that Taylor gleaned these deliciously imperfect movement phrases while people-watching on his way to the studio. Arm swings reminiscent of Taylor’s time as a swimmer formed the accent of the motion expressions.
Recognizing movements and combinations from the master class was like picking out a few words of an otherwise foreign language. I felt the same sense of pride that I did when I ordered a sandwich in French and understood the response of the vendeuse while visiting Paris. The culture formed onstage seemed to be a traditional one that did not tend toward abstract movement and music or floor work. However, it seemed to value teamwork as unusual lifts punctuated the choreography. One female dancer stepped on her male partner’s bent knees as if they were stairs. Tension surged through their clasped left arms, while their extended right arms completed the image. In another satisfying moment, a male dancer hung a female dancer on each arm as though balancing a milkmaid’s yoke. Some time later, two dancers were moving upright together, then suddenly rolled on top of each other on the floor. Somehow, their arms managed to remain situated in a ballroom dancing position the entire time. Their entanglement of limbs suggested the process of rolling a ball of yarn back up. During all these moments, contented sighs and incredulous laughs arose from the retirees behind me. Watching the dance was like having a conversation of sorts with the performers: they seemed to derive even more energy from audience reactions.
The second piece, Piazolla Caldera, transported us to Argentina with sassy, individualized costumes, hip sways, stylized arms, and a sultry and strong feel. The male dancers’ wide stances oozed machismo, a masculine air of superiority and self-confidence. At one point in her solo, a female dancer is so fed up with loss and yearning after being rejected by her male counterparts that she stomps twice, causing an angsty sound to reverberate throughout the auditorium. As the noise bit my ear canal, I could not help but feel her infectious anguish bubble and cause my brows to contort like grieving caterpillars.
The third piece, Esplanade, was quite satisfying in its entirety. The dancers became leaves through the rich autumnal hues of the costumes. Their runs and skips brought me back to my childhood days, when I would play outside after school until sundown. Each used a joyful facial expression to entice one another to join the adventure unfolding onstage. Perhaps the dancers portrayed a group of friends or maybe even lovers running through a meadow in autumn. Who knew mere running and crawling could be made so compelling simply by adding intricate patterns, formations, and pathways? And how could the human body be so nimble while doing exceptionally fast and complicated floor work?
Taylor’s movement language tells stories, which is evident in Esplanade. The alternation of youthful scenes and mature sections portraying loving partnerships suggested that this was a coming-of-age story. Hunched dancers’ bodies told a story of disaster, perhaps famine or illness. At other moments, the dancers did not appear to see or recognize each other, suggesting disillusionment. All things considered, I could see why the program said that this is Taylor’s most famous work.
Emerging from the auditorium dazed by the emotion and artistry I had experienced, I could not help but gaze back at the auditorium before heading to the studio just across the street. Standing in the doorway, I sighed contentedly and began to create.
