by Leigh Witchel
Kyle Marshall’s work set itself apart quickly. He’s been around: he worked with Doug Elkins and currently dances for Trisha Brown. People know he’s good; he’s a 2018 Juried Bessie Award winner. But the double bill he showed didn’t look quite like anyone else’s dances.
The evening began with a shorter new work commissioned for BAM, “A.D.” The Fishman Space of BAM Fisher is a configurable black box with a wraparound balcony. Bria Bacon and Miriam Gabriel entered the balcony to voices saying “And they knew nothing about what would happen until the flood came and took them all away.” That’s Matthew 24:39 in the New International Version of the Bible, comparing the second coming of Jesus to Noah’s flood: no one will know when it will occur. Different voices said the verse with different intonations: a fugue as the dancers entered the space in bare feet wearing loose red tops.
Another phrase recited as church bells rang in Cal Fish’s recorded score: Revelations 11:7 talking of the death and resurrection of the Two Witnesses. “Now when they have finished their testimony, the beast that comes up from the Abyss will attack them, and overpower and kill them.” The Biblical references weren’t just quotes, but worked into the dance and the space itself: There are exposed vertical beams in the theater, Marshall stood pinioned in front of one on the back wall. The work underwent meiosis into a central trio. Marshall, Myssi Robinson and Oluwadamilare Ayorinde jogged loosely and paused. Transitioning into a duet, Marshall and Robinson revolved around one another; Bacon and Gabriel moved more slowly at the sides.
“A.D.” was a short piece that seemed to end before it came to an ending. Perhaps because it was newer and less fully developed, “A.D.” felt more inchoate than its companion on the program; it relied more on atmosphere than dance. If it used similar sources material to Alvin Ailey’s ubiquitous “Revelations” you wouldn’t think of the two in the same breath. “A.D.” was not a showpiece, but an interior journey. And in the post-modern dance world, it’s rare to see a work that references faith without irony.
During intermission the stage crew created the square lattice of plastic tubing hung with clip lights, which formed a chandelier that illuminated “Colored.” Made two years previously, it was a meatier work.
The chandelier glittered gold as the lights dimmed. (It was designed by Matt Clegg, who in a surprising pairing also composed the music). Ayorinde, Marshall, and Robinson began in a circle, clasping hands. They were dressed in simple white pieces of rough cloth designed by Arielle Davidoff.
To a collage of soul music, the trio did the same moves slightly differently. They faced us moving independently, fast then slow, until their movements began to align: the right hand waving horizontally in front, the left shaking, in a move from the discotheque that deconstructed social dance. That was a difference between ballet or post-modern performance and a link to Ailey: a broader range of interpretation and personalization in a step. It was the first of several things that added up to a recognizable yet different landscape.
Ayorinde and Marshall did The Bump, then the score cut down to isolated notes. The trio continued in vigorous unison that fractured into a solo with backup dancers when music resumed. After the others left, Marshall coursed round the stage at top speed using his hands and feet.
Robinson began a long monologue about the history of her hair care. She used to relax and straighten it at the place her mother always took her. Meanwhile the men were flipping and carrying one another slowly. When she moved to New York, “I would go to the Dominicans and they would get my hair right.” Of course this idea has been staged before. Still, you couldn’t pick a more quotidian yet specific topic. Going to the front row and sitting down, Robinson was out of the sight line of some of the audience, but when we saw her again, her hair was in braids.
The men danced together; loose, improvisatory partnering. Marshall carried Ayorinde horizontally with his arms to the sides as if crucified. If you’ve seen either of Marshall’s employers, Brown or Elkins, the vocabulary was familiar. What was new was the transposition to his own experience, and what was refreshing was the clarity with which Marshall did what he set out to.
Marshall also made contact with someone unseen in the front row, reaching for their hand. Robinson stopped her monologue abruptly just as the men started moving, and Marshall dropped Ayorinde. The drumming in the score became insistent. The two men became more disassociated, pushing and rebounding off one another. Robinson rejoined them, jumping into Marshall; all three ended up on the floor. She got up quickly, and walked to the side, turning on a hazer. Ayorinde sang mournfully, notes that turned into a spiritual as he walked to Marshall.
If you’re not black and looking at this from the outside in, chances are you’ll miss some of the references. I’m certain I did. Like any other close-knit group though – Jews, Mormons, ballet dancers, police officers – knowing those references, and their language, is what marks you as part of the tribe.
Ayorinde crawled while Robinson and Marshall began snapping and clapping. That escalated into dancing as they stamped and gathered speed. The three crossed the stage and back as the lights shone diagonally down on the haze. They moved slowly to distorted gospel, moving to and fro almost punch drunk.
The three gathered and made a short pose. They did it once before, but so briefly it might not have registered. This time it was longer and more purposeful. They cocked their fingers in the shape of a gun.
The stop-and-go construction wound to a close. Each man left to one side in darkness, leaving Robinson in the center. She had been grooving in silence, but that turned into an uncontrolled twitching motion in her fingers. She hugged herself and suddenly turned back and reached with one arm. We couldn’t see her expression, but the tension in her body said it wasn’t good. Blackout.
Without any polemic, Marshall landed his points over and over. His cultural commentary in the midst of a coolly post-modern work was as calm but trenchant as Rudy Perez’ “Coverage.”
Being singular isn’t the equivalent of being flawless. You can’t know if someone sounds unique simply because you haven’t heard something like them before. Yet there is a point of view, a singularity of expression, in choreographers as diverse as Christopher Williams, Sarah Michelson and Alexei Ratmansky. Something next to impossible to pin down, so we call it a voice. You can sense Marshall’s antecedents in his work. But like those others, his voice comes out all his own. He doesn’t sound like anyone except himself.
copyright © 2019 by Leigh Witchel
“A.D.,” “Colored” – Kyle Marshall Choreography
BAM Fisher Theater, Brooklyn, NY
December 6, 2019
Cover: Kyle Marshall and Myssi Robinson in “A. D.” Photo © Ian Douglas.
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