Reflections: Philadelphia Performance, Liberty Lands, 2008

7_13_08--A bit groggy to start. Spent the night with friends who have two 18-month-old boys. Never a quiet moment until bedtime! I look at 8.5-month-old Maya, who does not yet walk; who screams and cries sometimes, but is not constantly busy in the way that the boys were; who is still a roly-poly jellybean--I can't believe she will transform so much so soon!

It's hot! The sun beats against the pavement and on the tops of our heads as we set up. The weather is always a wildcard for dance in public spaces. Too much heat drives away audience; any rain disperses them completely. Nothing to do about it: just cross your fingers and put together the sets.

Liberty Lands, in Philadelphia, is a recovered lot, now a flourishing green space. It is a rectangular field with sand and a swing set up near the entrance, below a tranquil mural. Community gardens range along one side. The Northern Liberties area is revitalizing: trendy shops and galleries emerge above the cracked sidewalks. We walk in and survey the scene: grass and apple trees, kids playing, quiet Sunday.

I am indecisive about where to set the dance. There is no clearly central area where people are likely to congregate. Ultimately, we stay near the wall, where we will be more visible from the street. Our free shows are our attempt to bring concert dance to people who wouldn't necessarily seek it out: who don't go see theater regularly, who maybe don't know that modern/contemporary dance is fun to watch, who probably think that dancers are strippers. We try to make ourselves as conspicuous as possible, but, in an open field, it's hard to know where to go.

At show time, the audience is still small: a few dance friends, some folks who heard about us on the radio. We go around and talk to the people in the park. Some of them come to watch.

Our show is Rituals of the First Year, dances about my first year as a father. The first dance, "Falling Behind," is my attempt to connect to the future. I see myself becoming less connected to my daughter as she starts to assert her independence. This is depicted by a dancer, Jennifer Rivers, who draws pictures with chalk onto Alex Short, the father figure. She writes herself into his skin, as a child will. The chalk becomes a sword, however, that he then has to evade. Our audience at this point includes, appropriately, children on the jungle gym. The kids are curious, but only for awhile. This is clearly adult stuff, meant to give them character or something. They soon return to their play.

In between dances, Alex, the senior member of our group, talks to the audience, answers questions about the dances, puts everyone at their ease. It is something he does better than me. I am a teacher, which is to say that I am used to providing information in a certain way, often to a reluctant group, and in a position of some authority. Alex has none of this baggage. They chat together.

I feel wonder at the variety of ways with which we process what we see. I had included fairly extensive explanatory notes about the dances. Yet, this is not what the audience wants; they want to talk about it. I try to keep this in mind for future shows.

Our next dance, "Coming Unstuck," is about trying to comfort a kid who won't sleep. The dancers lie standing up against a temporary wall that we erect by the swing set. They awaken with tremors, thrust their heads back, slump back onto each other. They reveal, in their prone/upright bodies, the tension of new parents needing to simultaneously rest and to comfort the baby, as well as to comfort each other.

The audience seems more comfortable during this piece. There is more shade where we stand now than where we were before. The dancers, who have borne the full face of the sun, squeeze their eyes shut to clear them.

I ask the audience to remain under the trees for my solo. In "Looking Over My Shoulder," I begin tied by a rope to the rose arbor. I gradually untie myself, then attempt to escape by leaping out at the audience--only to be snapped back by the rope. I surrender, now, looping myself back. Finally, by yanking off my shirt, I am able to tear the rope off and flee.

Talking with the audience afterward, a man currently taking a dance class at a university tells me what my dance means. He says that you have to pay a price, in this case a shirt, for freedom. I am so relieved! This solo, the only dance in which I perform, is the one I am most nervous about. It is so hard to judge how a dance reads when you are inside it. It seems to work, however, or at least it made sense this once.

My daughter Maya plays with my wife Jen on a blanket during the show. Jen straps Maya on, from time to time, to take beautiful photographs of the dancing! Maya is, as always, curious, delighted to discover and explore. She rolls, giggles, gurgles, completely unaware of this production that I have created in her honor and that surrounds her.

We end the show with "Leaving Home," our oldest piece and my favorite. It depicts birth. The dancers, surrounded by a fabric egg, creep blindly through the space, running into each other, talking through touch. They proceed, in turns, to leave and experience the world outside. It is a good run, but it is too hot out. The dancers and the audience are relieved, I think, when it is over.

I am delighted with the event, talking with everyone who has stayed, eventually getting around to striking the sets. We are headed back to DC now, after a quick coffee at One Shot. I am delighted and delirious, giddy and exhausted. Maya naps at the start of the trip, a good omen.