The name Rudolf Nureyev is undoubtedly familiar to many- his charming looks, brilliant technical skill, and exemplary artistry have served as fixtures in the balletic Zeitgeist since his rise to stardom in the late 1950s. What many may not know is that part of his lasting presence ascends beyond individual star power and rests in the realm of the Paris Opera Ballet. The esteemed institution is the oldest national ballet company to exist and boasts some of the best classical ballet dancers in history. Romantic ballet classics such as La Sylphide and Giselle had their premiere at the Paris Opera; the appearance of legends such as Romantic ballerina Marie Taglioni (famous for pioneering pointe work/technique) and late twentieth-century ballerina Sylvie Guillem on the Paris Opera stage led to profound changes in the aesthetic demands made of female dancers.

Nureyev was appointed Artistic Director of the Paris Opera Ballet in 1983. His directorship altered the ethos of the company both internally and externally as he renovated the very architecture of the Paris Opera Ballet’s studios to improve conditions for the dancers. Committed to diversifying the Opera’s repertoire, he pushed the French style in new directions, welcoming choreographers like Paul Taylor and Bill Forsythe to encourage the dancers to embrace other styles of dance, leading the company to new heights. Nureyev had always swum against the tide, and he continued to do so in Paris.

Ballet’s beloved boy was born on March 17th, 1938 on the Trans-Siberian Railway near Lake Baikal in Siberia; he would later see his birth on a train as a metaphor for his life in exile. Nureyev’s family came from peasant stock and faced great financial hardship. His father made a career as a political instructor in the Red Army and strongly opposed his son’s desire to become a dancer. Nureyev was a late starter. He initially took classes in folk dance, highly popular in the Soviet Union at the time. At 17, against all odds, he realised his dream and entered into Leningrad Ballet School, now known as the Vaganova Ballet Academy, where he trained under and lived with Alexander Pushkin and his wife.

After graduating in 1958, he joined the Kirov Ballet, now known as the Mariinsky Ballet, where he immediately danced soloist and principal roles, partnering Natalia Dudinskaya, a seasoned prima ballerina who was twenty-six years his senior. Despite his rebellious attitude, he was allowed to tour with the company to the West, a coveted privilege for Soviet artists that was usually only granted to the “politically reliable.” This took place during the Cold War, and the authorities hoped that Nureyev’s electrifying stage presence could serve as a powerful weapon in the Soviet Union’s struggle over cultural superiority with the West; they soon regretted their decision. Intoxicated by everything Paris had to offer, Nureyev refused to follow the strict rules enforced by the Soviet secret police during international tours. He was ordered home to avoid a scandal. Nureyev, fearful that he would never be allowed to travel and be forced to dance in the Soviet provinces only, defected on June 16th, 1961.

He began dancing with Grand Ballet du Marquis de Cuevas and soon became a permanent guest of The Royal Ballet as a principal dancer, embarking on a long stage partnership with Britain’s prima ballerina Margot Fonteyn, at 42, almost twenty years older than him. The pair has remained one of ballet history's most treasured duos. In this interview, Fonteyn and Nureyev tell us how they met, and candidly discuss their dynamic both in the realm of movement and regarding their relationship on and off stage (there’s also a beautiful excerpt of them performing Giselle Act II Pas De Deux).

Nureyev guested internationally, and in 1983, he was appointed as the Artistic Director of Paris Opera Ballet by the Minister of Culture, Jack Lang. There, he began to choreograph his own ballets and restage Petipa’s works. He premiered Manfred (1979), a one-act ballet based on Lord Byron’s poem, Cinderella (1987) set in Hollywood in the 1930s, created on and for Sylvie Guillem, and revamped classical ballets such as Swan Lake and La Bayadère. He specifically altered them to include more robust male parts, while remaining true to Petipa’s original choreographic structure. According to Julie Kavanagh’s book Nureyev: The Life, these classical works were, “hardly known at the Palais Garnier. The reason for this was the French public’s preference for short, innovative pieces rather than revivals spanning a whole evening.” (Kavanagh, 565). His work remains at the center of Paris Opera Ballet’s repertoire, successfully expanding its range.

His directorship was rather unconventional as Nureyev opted to continue to dance alongside the company while acting as its Artistic Director until 1990. He was emphatic that the POB dancers train in Bournonville and Balanchine technique, and aimed for a 50/50 split in the company's repertoire between classical ballet and contemporary style. At the time, this was unheard of. Kavanagh tells us he wanted his “company [POB]...to dance the works of Lucinda Childs or Karole Armitage.” (Kavanagh, 563). He also mentored many of today's French ballet legends, such as Isabelle Guérin, Manuel Legris, Élisabeth Platel, and, of course, Sylvie Guillem. Here, Elizabeth Platel talks candidly about her time dancing with and under his direction, telling us, “He was far more often in the studio than in the office,” complicating yet leveling the power dynamic between the dancers and their boss.

He attempted, though never succeeded, in ending the Concours de Promotion, a Parisian system created in 1860 for company promotion whereby dancers must prepare and perform two rounds of variations before a jury comprised of POB ballet masters and directors. This process was and remains the only means of promotion within the company. Nureyev despised it and managed to circumvent it by inviting promising young dancers to tour with him and make their debuts at The State Opera Ballet of Vienna. His creativity in circumventing such an important French tradition stemmed from Nureyev’s understanding and commitment to respecting the limited time dancers have to dance. Florence Clerc expresses this when she says, “If you were good, there was no question of waiting. With Rudolf you were given your chance.”, Sylvie Guillem adds, “He knew the importance of time, because dancers don’t have the time.”

Despite his complex character and tumultuous relationships with his company as a whole, his devotion and attention to the dances he created were and remain mesmerizing. Elizabeth Platel says, “He will use all the notes, the notes of the melody but also the notes underneath. And it brought us a new way of listening to music scores.”(3:28).

Despite his attempts at diversifying the company’s repertoire, I find Nureyev’s iterations of Petipa’s choreography entirely harmonious and homogenous with the French ballet style/method. The technique boasts exact, refined footwork, seen here in a clip of 14-year-old Aurelie Dupont. She executes a technically complex pointe work combination with a balance of speed and refinement as her teacher Christian Vaussard cheers her on with gusto. The French epaulement is noticeably understated, even in this video of the 16-year-old future étoile, Dorothée Gilbert. Despite her energetic ballon, her legs remain clean and exact, and her upper body exudes a calm and collected quality. This balance of technical intricacies and a serene and controlled stage presence breathes life to Nureyev’s restaging of Petipa’s ballets. Here Dorothée Gilbert, now older and dancing with Paris Opera, shines in Nureyev’s Raymonda variation (1:17:57). Despite the languid, ornate accompaniment, her capacity to halt time with skilful pirouettes and musical balances musters excitement; she doesn’t just conquer Nureyev’s technical challenges but shows them off as if their intricacies accessorize her innate beauty. Last but not least, this iconic video of Sylvie Guillem in Nureyev’s Raymonda speaks for itself. Her feet pierce the floor while her ankles flutter about as her upper body sways and collects itself into taught poses. This choreographic dichotomy of tension and release catapults the dancer into a realm of dreamy yet regal command- a perfect symbiosis of ballerina and choreographer. Nureyev’s dancing exuded similar qualities, one’s impossible to be forgotten; his movement referred to by Joan Acocella in the London Review of Books as, “an unleashed force, something undiscussable in the language of reason or morals.”

Her lips utter silent words, held by cheeks both sturdy and expansive. Marjani Forté-Saunders’s face contorts, ballooning outward, briefly forming familiar expressions—smiles, frowns—before receding into a collage of mangled emotions. Brian Eno’s steady synth plays as she sits atop a wooden chair bathed in a warm, sunny spotlight. Clad in crisp white pants, a long-sleeve shirt, and an apron, she rocks her torso back and forth as she maps out maternity through mime—cradling a baby, braiding hair, and methodically sewing a garment mid-air. An expression of glee emerges, lasting only a few seconds, but held long enough to leave an imprint on the ether. This technique, merging slow-motion movement with snapshots of stillness, is what Blondell Cummings called “moving pictures,” a choreographic signature she pioneered in her acclaimed solo Chicken Soup. The original version from 1981 was inspired by Cummings’s “childhood memories of her grandmother in the kitchen,” as the Danspace Project program notes. By reimagining the solo nearly forty-five years later, Forté-Saunders expands upon Cummings’s rendering of familial histories, breathing a new life into the work—one brimming with grief, unity, and unadorned radiance.

The program “Danspace @ 50: The Work Is Never Done. Sanctuary Always Needed,” co-curated by Judy Hussie-Taylor and Seta Morton, celebrates the fiftieth anniversary of Danspace Project by reviving historic choreographies such as Donna Uchizono: Dedications / State of Heads (1999), OO-GA-LA Reimagined (The Fred Holland and Ishmael Houston-Jones 1983 Duet Danced into the 21st Century), and Bebe Miller Company: Vespers, Reimagined (2025). The organization has fostered New York’s dance community since 1974, and rather than insisting on the conservation of dance history through tradition alone, Danspace Project embraces and encourages reconfigurations of the past. In keeping with this ethos, Forté-Saunders graciously integrates her choreographic voice with Cummings’s, preserving the structural integrity of Chicken Soup through costuming, props, and gestural movement. At age twenty-three, Forté-Saunders was one of three dancers to ever learn the solo directly from Cummings, and the only dancer, other than Cummings, to perform the original iteration of the work. Her return to it at age forty proves the power of sourcing movement from personal experience. As we learn from the Q&A with Ishmael Houston-Jones, she’s included her own movement vocabulary: snapping peas, which her father taught her as a child in Prescott, Arkansas, and braiding hair, which harkens back to her mother’s days as a hairdresser.

Dried lavender skirts the perimeter of the hardwood floor, welcoming us into a fragrant, earthen realm. Sounds of rain and projections of streams, mountains, and greenery on the back wall engulf us in a world far removed from the city and its concrete confines, transforming St. Mark’s Church into a hologram of forestry. As Forté-Saunders vigorously scrubs the floor with a boar hairbrush on all fours, Meredith Monk’s voice rings out, telling us, “The kitchen was the same … it was easy to clean.” Her sterile candor contrasts with the enormous effort exerted. Forté-Saunders caresses the floor in figure eights, scouring the wooden stage with insistent strokes. She picks up a green iridescent cloth, circling it above her head in squiggly patterns to the somber and hypnotic hum of “Cow Song” by Meredith Monk & Collin Walcott melded with echoes of Erykah Badu’s isolated voice in “Master Teacher.” In a weary, trance-like state, Forté-Saunders walks upstage and ascends the stairs at the back of the church. She stands facing the audience, her neck outstretched and jaw unhinged. As she wails void of sound, a twelve-foot silhouette of a woman casts upon the back of the wall and walks toward her. Literally looming large, the figure registers as older and wiser—perhaps Cummings’s apparition. The projection extends her giant arms, opening them to Forté-Saunders, and they hug, generating a wave of relief.

Intermingling with the audience, Forté-Saunders waltzes through a row of chairs, stopping before a seated viewer to feed her from a cast iron pan—a prop integral to Cummings’s original choreography. The tenderness between them is palpable as Forté-Saunders places her fingers near the spectators’ mouth—a mother feeding a daughter. Soon after, a dancer in a linen outfit reminiscent of Forté-Saunders’s saunters through the crowd to part the lavender downstage. She joins Forté-Saunders in her kinetic fervor, their feet percussive and torsos pitched forward. Slowly, more women of varied ages enter the stage. They make warm eye contact with one another, meandering about as they too stir pots, cradle babies, and snap peas to prepare for dinner. The sound of bubbling water plays as they graze each other, their arms collectively moving to form one big family, undulating into the darkness.

On the humid street in front of Harlem Stage, a group of people gather together, their chatter quieting to a soft hum as a willowy woman makes her way towards them. The herd approaches slowly, bridging the distance and edging closer to the figure as she treks up the sloped sidewalk in their direction, her ankle-length white dress billowing in the wind. Waif-like and wavering, she shuffles forward, carrying branches in her hands, her torso dipping sideways to counterbalance their weight. In the vacant lot her Geta sandals clack against the pavement as she approaches a tin bucket brimming with water perched atop a rock. She tips the bucket over and the water sloshes before her, hitting the rock with a loud clap.

This force of elemental nature is none other than Eiko Otake, the seventy-three-year-old interdisciplinary artist and dancer. The evening-length work, SOAK, created with collaborator DonChristian Jones, a thirty-five-year-old multimedia artist, musician, and director, functions as a meditation on memory and explores water as a site of “shared origin.” SOAK is part of Otake’s ongoing work that began in 2017, titled The Duet Project: Distance is Malleable. The project functions as “a mutable and evolving series of experiments in collaboration. Negotiating differences of race, time, culture, ethnicity, religion and gender the artists seek to maximize the potentials of their encounters.”

Otake trails up the slanted parking lot, meandering through the crowd toward a staircase. Touching audience members' hands with water and handing her branches to them, she peers through their faces and into their souls. Her eyes, focused yet adrift, point to a complex inner world made increasingly accessible through her expressive visage. This dreamlike sequence leads her to lean against the wall supporting the stairs. Jones appears from above and pours a tin bucket filled with water down the facade, momentarily transforming the beige stone into a waterfall. Otake crouches beneath the spillage, looking upward at its source in quiet awe. She leads us indoors, gripping the banisters and scurrying onward, silently urging us to follow. Her presence is so intense it creates a certain pressure, teetering between meditative and anxious, forcing one to exist within her timeless, hypnotic movement.

The interior of Harlem Stage functions like a darkened cavern, lights dimmed and air slick with heat. Atop the black marley lies a shallow pool of water two or three inches deep, edged in black fabric. The audience sits in a U shape, our chairs hugging the perimeter of the room. In the upstage corner, a water pail sits under a warm spotlight; the object radiates with a familiar feeling of comfort in an otherwise ominous environment. The building's arched walls frame a rectangular projection of an image that appears to be the Harlem Stage prior to restoration. The construction scaffolding and harsh lights signifying an alternate occupation of the space, one reliant on productivity and progress.

Otake enters the stage without a sound; she sits curled into herself, compact in the corner, next to the water pail. The sounds of city trucks blare through the open stage door as she wriggles on the floor and slowly rises to her feet, leaning against the wall for support. The projections switch from images of the restoration to a collage of videos showing Jones in abandoned buildings filled with overgrown shrubbery and dripping ceilings. His solitude and slow-moving limbs enmesh his body with his surroundings. Otake and Jones, though separate in physical space, are alone together, moving in tandem through isolated timelines.

A video appears: Jones’s feet flicker momentarily before the shaky handheld camcorder focuses in on Otake in a pool, submerged in her white dress, floating in a fetal position, at once barely born and deceased. Perhaps this is the “shared origin” the duo are after—a record of buoyant formlessness. Otake maneuvers simultaneously around the stage, toying with the water, cupping her hands to her face and dipping fabric into the pool, wringing it out and placing it along its edge. She clothes the space, draping a piece of fabric over an empty chair, claiming it as her home.

Jones enters through the light, shutting the stage door behind him. The sounds from the street are drowned out, engulfing us in a new world: womb-like, silent, and damp. He wears his father’s bulletproof police vest, embroidered in silk, and baggy white linen pants. Grabbing a hose and entangling himself within its knots—much like an umbilical cord—he confides in us about his father, who once loved water and grew to fear it during his battle against cancer. We witness a man taking form as we listen to his journey from child to adult son to caretaker. Jones’ metamorphosis is further embodied by Otake as she crawls forward, collapsing into her heap of wet cloth, rising only to pull at the pieces again, the black mass spreading further and further from its center. As soon as she has escaped the mass of damp darkness, Jones places the hose around Otake, gingerly ensnaring her in his web.

Their physical linkage quickly dissipates as Otake flees to the back of the stage, moving freely in front of a projected white background. Her curled, misshapen silhouette resembles a scribbled spirograph as her torso contracts inwards. Jones stands near the pool, recalling how his father would panic at the sound of a shower but soon would remember himself and ask his son to stay and soak. “Water is always trying to get back to where it was,” Jones says, his voice resonant and steely.

Jones peels off his vest, dangling it like a molted snakeskin as the sound of pounding water plays alongside a projection of his father’s back beneath a steady shower stream. He cloaks himself in a white sheet and sits in the pool, giving himself over to the water and its will. His form mutates from one of pumping blood and propulsion to wrinkles and intermediate stillness. Trapped inside the cocoon of sheer wetness, the moisture reveals a skeletal self; this iteration of Jones teeters between being and becoming. As the lights dim, Otake crawls forward, and, finding Jones motionless in the pool just as she had been, shoves him urgently. Her torso ricochets before relinquishing Jones to the water. Staggering off into the darkness, she disappears, leaving behind his still frame—a souvenir of a life once lived.

It’s nearly impossible to think about ballet without the imagery of Swan Lake, The Nutcracker, and Sleeping Beauty emerging in the mind's eye. These ballets often showcase sparkling grace through luscious scores; their contents and fantasy worlds have inspired enduring admiration of the art form and will probably do so for centuries to come. The credit goes to classical ballet’s formative choreographic voice: Marius Petipa. Responsible for the majority of Russia’s classical ballet canon, Petipa’s choreography has shaped the Mariinsky Theatre and the ballet world at large’s repertoire, making him the most influential choreographer in ballet’s history. Petipa produced more than 60 full-length ballets and is considered one of the primary sources for Agrippina Vaganova’s codified method for professional ballet training. Marius Petipa’s choreography has served as the foundation for Russian balletic style since its development throughout the late 19th century. His choreography utilizes symmetrical aesthetics through methodical geometric patterns, such as diagonals, manegés (a circle of pirouettes or jumps at the end of a variation), and formulaic sequences of ballet steps. Despite their repetition, these sequences prove thoroughly engaging due to their synchronicity with classical scores. When watching his choreography, a character’s innate sensibility rises to the surface, creating a visual collage of harmony between body and soul– it is thanks to such seamlessness that his works have withstood the test of time.

Nearly two centuries ago, on March 11, 1818, Marius Petipa was born in Marseille, France. His mother, Victorine Grasseau, was an actress and drama teacher, and his father, Jean Petipa, was a famed dancer, choreographer, and ballet master. Marius and his older brother, Lucien, began their dance careers by training under Jean at the age of seven in Brussels. Marius attended Grand College as well as the Brussels Conservatory, where he studied violin. Despite a less-than-enthusiastic beginning in ballet, he eventually embraced it, performing for the first time at age nine in La Dansomanie at Théâtre de la Monnaie in 1827. After relocating to Bordeaux in 1834 due to the Belgian Revolution, Marius trained under Auguste Vestris while his father attained “Premier maître de ballet” status at the Grand Théâtre de Bordeaux, essentially dubbing him the primary ballet master for the company. Eventually, the family moved to Nantes, and Marius earned the rank of Premier Danseur at Ballet de Nantes in 1838, where he began choreographing his own work at twenty years old. After dancing in principal roles in France with the Paris Opera and in Madrid with Teatro del Circo, he eventually fled from Spain to St. Petersburg in 1847 at twenty-nine to dance with the Imperial Ballet (now known as the Mariinsky Theatre). He staged ballets and danced in them until retiring from the stage in his early forties to take on the position of First Ballet Master, which is equivalent to today’s resident choreographer position. This was a title he held from 1871 until 1903. Petipa was incredibly industrious, creating ballets like Don Quixote (1869) and The Pharaoh’s Daughter (1862), while also reviving works like Le Corsaire (1868), La Bayadere (1877), and Giselle (1899), among many others. He officially retired at eighty-five before passing at ninety-two in 1910. Many of Petipa’s ballets are still performed across the globe, and although they vary in style, whether romantic or upbeat, Petipa’s works continue to remind us how powerful love, heartbreak, and death can be when expressed through classical ballet.

If you wish to see some of Petipa’s choreography, click here to check out Don Quixote Act II starring Olesya Novikova as Kitri, Alina Somova as Queen of the Dryads, and Evgenia Obraztsova as Cupid, circa 2007 with the Mariinsky Theatre.

Extra fun: below is a photo of Anna Pavlova in Petipa’s The Awakening of Flora, mainly because the picture is too beautiful not to include :)

I was introduced to Rosalind Tallmadge and her installation work at CARVALHO gallery’s second performance series back in March. Shards of mica glimmered in a dimly lit backroom, suspended in a thin layer of flesh-toned organza. The piece hung down, dangling from the high ceilings, almost as if it had been foraged and replanted within the impenetrable concrete walls of the building, its spirit alive and iridescent. Tallmadge’s work sang with a deliberate, delicate strength, not dissimilar to what I know best: ballet. When I was told Ingrid Silva, classical ballet dancer and choreographer with Dance Theater of Harlem, would be creating a new work, Echoes on the Wall, to accompany Tallmadge’s instillation, Pareidolia (2025), for the third performance series, I knew I had to speak to both artists about their collaboration.

Hannah Lipman

I’m interested in what your individual processes have looked like. How do you begin? What are the guiding forces? When did you start conceptualizing your pieces, and how did this collaboration come about?

Rosalind Tallmadge

Jennifer Carvalho, the director of CARVALHO, comes from a ballet background; part of the gallery’s programming involves this performance series where she brings together artists from the gallery and pairs them with renowned dancers, generally in ballet. Jennifer and I have been working together for a long time and have been talking about this idea for years. After my solo show, Aether (2024), where I created my first installation-based piece, we said that now is the moment to push this body of work further. Ingrid was the dance artist we wanted to work with, as she’s such an important contemporary dancer in New York. This has been over a year in the making. The installation will be comprised of ten hanging, monumentally scaled tapestries in the gallery that are made from silk fabric and mica, mirrored with a silver mirroring process. They’re very experiential and interactive: the viewer and the dancers can see themselves integrated into the artwork. It lends itself to the performative, and as an artist, I want to create work that is very rooted in the physical and spatial. I think that comes from a desire to essentially reconnect with ourselves in our bodies and nature, living in a contemporary society that is so displaced from that because of social media and Artificial Intelligence.

Ingrid Silva

My work started a few years ago as a choreographer. I’ve been dancing with Dance Theater of Harlem, which is a classical company in New York. I am a classical ballet dancer, and I’ve been very interested in collaborating with visual artists. I was speaking with Jennifer at the end of last year and the beginning of this year, looking for an opportunity to expand my choreographic exploration. The work that I’m creating is a twenty-minute piece with three dancers—myself, Elias Re, and Vinícius Freir—entitled Echoes on the Wall. It’s a contemporary ballet that weaves together the language of movement and silent stories held in spaces around us. Because Rosalind’s work involves tapestries, I envisioned the walls in our lives, and I wanted to create a world around that. The music is an original score by a friend, Leandro Albuquerque. My inspiration comes from our movement exploration in the studio and Rosalind’s installation. Now, I’m searching for what our costume is going to be. Usually, that’s how I do my work: I see the art, I envision what I would like to see, and then the last part is what we will be wearing.

HL

Have you had a chance to rehearse your piece with Rosalind’s work yet? Or have you mostly been in the studio using photographs as a reference?

IS

We’ve mostly been in the studio for the last month, the three of us. We recently had our first meeting at the gallery, which was wonderful. We got to meet each other in person and really connect.

“Dance is a time-based medium. That is also the way I view my work although it’s a physical object.”

— Rosalind Tallmadge

HL

I’m interested in the aspect of reflection in your work, Rosalind; I’m curious to see how Ingrid’s movement vocabulary will play off of the installation. What does it feel like to manipulate naturally occurring materials like mica, silk, organza, and selenite crystal? As a dancer manipulating a naturally occurring vessel of expression, the body, is that an empowering experience? Throughout your processes, have you considered how the other person’s natural materials will be integrated into the environment of both of your works?

RT

Dancers are these incredible athletes. I think of artists as athletes, but in a different way: when you’re making very large-scale projects as an artist, it’s an incredibly physically labor-intensive process. My process in particular involves this very repetitive action of cutting stone and adhering it to fabric to create an alchemical process of mirroring, so it is a very, very physical practice. I’m really thrilled that there will be dancers engaging in the work. There definitely is a collaborative quality present. The piece has not been installed yet, so we still don’t really know what it’s going to be in its final iteration. Initially, I had been planning a floor element which we then omitted because the dance performance is going to have the dancers close to the floor in a lot of moments. So we were like, Okay, that’s not going to work with the materials, and the fabric pieces will be like a container for the bodies. There’s a term called luminarium in architecture, which essentially means an architectural container for light; that was a conceptual element that I was thinking a lot about when making this work. The reflectivity of the surface will mirror both the light of the gallery’s environment and the dancer’s bodies. You will see them in the work, and as a viewer, you will be inside this luminarium.

IS

It’s my first time working and creating with another artist. Collaboration is really important to me. I had an idea of what I wanted to do before seeing the work, and now I have a whole new idea of what I want to do. As a dancer and choreographer, everything changes until you go on stage. I’m very excited about that, and I’m excited to see how we will integrate ourselves in a gallery space with her artwork and our audience.

RT

This performance series offers such a unique opportunity to bring contemporary dance and art outside of a traditional stage, whether it be a dance stage or a traditional gallery environment, which can feel exclusive or serve as a cold container. Ingrid and I are on the same page about bringing this collaboration into a sphere that will engage with people in a way that’s not breaking through just a stage barrier, but also through this white cube gallery space.

HL

Having been to other performance series at CARVALHO before, I felt like the dance taking place within the gallery space integrates and implicates the audience member in the performance itself. That seems to tie into your work’s questioning of identity, the spaces it creates, and the reflections that are cast back. When you think about your work, are there ways you describe it viscerally?

RT

I come from a painting background, and when I was in grad school at Cranbrook, I really broke out of that system of thinking and into utilizing these materials that are from the Earth. There is an element of alchemy that happens where the stone becomes a mirror, or it becomes like glass. It’s like there’s a material slippage that happens where the thing is not itself. Even the use of this very translucent silk material relates to the body in the sense that it’s not a neutral surface or a neutral material. This fabric is deliberately made to be worn on the body, but it’s being recontextualized in an art environment that relates to the history of abstraction, light and space art, and particularly land-art minimalism. All of the uses of these natural materials relate both to the body and phenomena in nature. I’ve been thinking of this term, cloud totems. They will look like this environment of mirrored clouds, but at the same time, they’re formed from a very solid substance. That’s an interesting ambiguity to exist within as an art object because it’s not a static thing. It’s not just an image on the wall. There obviously is this idea of the image in the sense that you see yourself as a reflection in the work, but it’s very non-static and mutable. It moves. It changes throughout the time of day. While these pieces are very physical, they’re also elusive in that sense.

HL

It’s interesting to think about your work as beginning as something solid and then transforming through movement and manipulation, turning the materials into an alternate form. That ties into choreographic process, which begins with a certain set of movement vocabulary that transforms into a completely different iteration. Choreography tends to have a similarly rock-like foundation, which could be referred to as classical technique, innate movement vocabulary, or dynamics. What do you hope to leave the viewers with after witnessing the work?

RT

This is such a unique opportunity to bridge the two disciplines. The performances are free and open to the public, so it’s not an exclusive space. Only in New York can you do something like this. Dance is a time-based medium. That is also the way I view my work although it’s a physical object: it has a time-based component in the sense that you can return to it at different times of day or different angles, and it will look completely different. In that sense, there’s an interesting overlap with the ephemerality of dance.

Echoes on the Wall will be performed at CARVALHO in New York City on June 12 and 18 and July 20, 2025.

The representatives of ballet’s future radiate with earnest and eager attitudes, each dancer set on charming us through their individually-crafted excellence. At certain points, this unwavering individualism causes some stilted moments, particularly in repertoire that requires cohesive corps work, but all in all the group displays a deluge of talent.

The program consisted of ten pieces varying in length and style — a curation more concerned with spectacle than concision. The array of repertoire outlines the twelve dancers’ versatility, ranging from excerpts from classical ballets like Swan Lake and neoclassical dances like Interplay to contemporary works by principal dancers and ABT Studio Company choreographers.

Among this selection, three solos offer a glimpse into two dancers’ artistic instincts and sensibilities. The opportunity to occupy the stage alone is daunting, but these fearless performers assuage such worry, proving that we are in capable hands.

Kayla Mak astounds in two solo works, Crimson Flame by Madison Brown (ABT Studio Company member from 2022-2023, now a member of the ABT corps) and Human by Yannick Lebrun (lead dancer of Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater). Despite the pieces being only two to three minutes in length, Mak manages to stretch time like taffy. Her appendages swing and resist on their own accord, nearly independent from her core. Molding the air around her, she is an elemental architect, contorting and arching through negative space.

Ptolemy Gidney appears in the minute-long GOPAK variation by Rostislav Zakharov, his legs scissoring as he floats through the air. The boisterous solo seems to end all too soon, with Gidney’s showmanship and skillful technical feats left in its wake.

The pas de deux are especially polished and provide the chance to witness a connection bloom between partners and elicit predictions pertaining to the dancers’ future repertoire. Explorations of various relational dynamics unfold through penetrating gazes, unveiling the intricacies of romance. I wondered how the dancer’s inclinations toward musicality and character development will sharpen and solidify, hoping they will have the opportunity to perform such high-caliber roles over the course of their careers. When Sooha Park and Maximilian Catazaro appear in Gerald Arpino’s Birthday Variations Pas De Deux, their artistic maturity emanates in abundance. Mesmerizing, understated partnering transpires between the pair as Verdi’s classical accompaniment, arranged by Jonathan McPhee, coats the theater with a cool, serene air. Park’s legs flutter into a blur as she bourrées backwards, skittering into Catazaro’s unwavering arms. Her lines are light and endless as she développés, looking back at Catazaro with a placid yet sweet expression. The duo dances as if encapsulated in a snow globe, their gauzy elegance enveloping the stage.

Park makes a second appearance with Max Barker in the infamous Swan Lake Act III Black Swan pas de deux, which showcases their stamina and dynamism. Barker appears as if he was born on stage, toying with the music by adding extra pirouettes and tastefully extending each step to fit the contours of Tchaikovsky’s score. Park's épaulement is ceaselessly gracious even as she completes 32 fouettes, throwing double and triple pirouettes into the mix. Despite the pair’s impressive control, the tension required between their characters proves dimly lit. Park appears to be set on charming her prince through feats of technical precision rather than opting for the refined, seductive physicality that comprises Odile’s character–a facet of interpretation that remains ripe for further exploration.

When Gottschalk’s bright signature accompaniment to Balanchine’s Tarantella begins, Paloma Livellara and Elijah Goelina enter, projecting a mix of tentative and explosive energies. As the piece elapses, they shed their nerves and muster springy, daring jumps. Their crisp entrechat six and charming smiles give way to an increasingly confident bravura. Livellara’s solo steps beam with cheerful, coy flirtation; her grand pliés in second en pointe are sustained and picture perfect.

Pensive and brooding, ABT Studio Company member Brady Farrar’s BEYOND THE SILENCE, featuring YeonSeo Choi and Kayke Carvalho, could have been plucked from a fraught wintery Russian novel. Choi leans her hips forward and releases her head back with the dramatism of Cranko’s Onegin or Neumeier’s Lady of the Camellias; her frantic steps conjure a feverish woman, her silken black slip dress points to a torrid love affair. The push-pull dynamics appear elevated and fraught as Carvalho deftly catches Choi in his arms, her abandonment of self accentuated by a forlorn expression and dramatic penchés. Complex whip turns unfolding into expansive lifts accentuate the crescendo in the music. Cultivating breathtaking harmony, Farrar’s intricate steps are a feverish jouissance.

The ensemble works each function through bursts of solos and a smattering of duets. Whiteside’s More Than Nothing, a feel-good trio set to Matthew Whitaker’s arrangement of Jorge Ben Jor’s “Más Que Nada” features Daniel Guzmán, Livellara, and Natalie Steele, who give it all they’ve got. They complete exigent pirouette combinations with easy smiles and airy, sky-high développés. The trio's quest to elicit joy miraculously succeeds despite the choreography’s steady emotional plateau. Thomas’ U Don’t Know Me, set to Avro Pärt’s persistent and frenetic violin accompaniment, invites an endless exploration of darting and sliding across the stage. The six dancers clad in dark blue unitards traverse space like eels, their undulating upper bodies electric and stealthy.

Jerome Robbins’ Interplay, the last and longest piece of the night, engages with the group’s underlying, undeniable dynamic: competition. Throughout the playful ballet, the dancers pick teammates and create medleys of steps akin to a dance-off. Morton Gould’s “American Concertette” rings out with jazzy humor while the group scrambles to nail the punchlines so imperative to Robbins’ choreographic payoff. With each dancer vying for our attention, the moments of unison, which I can only imagine are meant to gesture towards camaraderie, appear haphazard, even lost. These final moments of the show demonstrate what gets edited out of social media content — the endearing imperfections of live performance.

Although the Studio Company seems to thrive most when isolated either through solos — similar to the videos in their Instagram grid — or duets, their capacity to breathe life and zest into their work is invaluable. The skills necessary to dance in a corps de ballet can be learned quickly, but the manipulation of movement beyond pure technical skill requires an innate physical imagination, often referred to as “artistry” — a quality freely flowing from these dancers. Despite the show’s fatigued culmination, it's difficult not to applaud with abandon as I anxiously await these dancers' next moves.

Contrary to popular belief, classical ballet isn’t just one style of dance that functions the same way across the globe. The art form is instead comprised of many schools of technique that vary in style, choreographic emphasis, and pedagogical frameworks. From Vaganova to Cecchetti and Balanchine, each methodology strives to maintain its distinctive flair. Rounded port de bras, delicate footwork, and crisp allegro comprise the signature style of the Danish ballet, also referred to as the Bournonville method. The technique began in Copenhagen in the 1830s and was created by Danish ballet master August Bournonville.

Born in Copenhagen in 1805, Bournonville studied ballet under French and Italian traditions. His teachers included his father, Antoine Bournonville—a French ballet dancer and choreographer—as well as Vincenzo Galeotti, an Italian ballet master of Copenhagen’s Royal Danish Ballet from 1775 to 1816. Bournonville continued his training under the French ballet masters Auguste Vestris and Pierre Gardel before dancing with the Paris Opera Ballet. Eventually, he returned to Copenhagen to join the Royal Danish Ballet as a soloist, bringing the elegance and refinement of the French style with him. Bournonville soon began choreographing for the company, premiering his version of Filippo Taglioni’s La Sylphide in 1836, featuring his 17-year-old student Lucile Grahn in the principal role. He continued to create ballets, many of which are still staged today, like Napoli (1842), Flower Festival in Genzano (1858), and Le Conservatoire (1849).

You can find certain noteworthy characteristics in all his works: a lowered eyeline, controlled legs, and an emphasis on harmony between the body and the soul. In this video, we see Johann Kobborg, former principal with both the Royal Danish and the Royal Ballet, coaching current Royal Ballet principal dancer Marcelino Sambé in Flower Festival in Genzano. It is clear how important the dancer's use of épaulement (use of the upper body) is when expressing a serene, humble affect. The dancer must be unadorned and understated through inclined heads and low arm positions while the legs execute exuberant jumps complete with soft landings. This contrast between the upper and lower body sets the Danish style apart from other ballet techniques, giving it the impression of a sweet spontaneity.

In this video clip from BBC’s Darcey’s Ballet Heroes, we hear dance critic Judith Mackrell stating, “It’s not all about the big leap that seems to hang for three seconds in the air. It’s very quick, sharp, very musical, tiny tiny steps. And even when they do big jumps, there’s a kind of elasticity that makes it look like it’s almost an unconscious thing.”When watching the dancers of the company demonstrate contrasting ballet styles in the studio with Darcey Bussell and Nikolaj Hubbe, the Royal Danish Ballet’s Artistic Director from 2008-2024, we can see how angularity and intimacy are cultivated through the body’s positioning. One dancer remarks after positioning herself in Bournonville’s preferred fashion, “It’s more human,” (3:42-4:31).

In the fashion world, pointe shoes have been having a moment. From brands like Sandy Liang to Maison Margiela, the centuries-old shoe has found its way into everyday life through signature details like pink satin ribbons and box-shaped toes. But pointe shoes are anything but a recent phenomenon; despite their current aesthetic popularity, their origins date back as early as the 1730s.

Before pointe shoes existed, heeled ballet slippers were the norm for ballet dancers. This changed in the 1730s when Marie Camargo, a dancer with the Paris Opera Ballet, removed the heels from her shoes, leaving only the slippers. This alteration allowed for increased mobility and nimble footwork. Camargo is widely considered a turning point in the evolution of the pointe shoe, as she was the inventor of the ballet slipper we know and use today. Soon after her innovation, ballet technique improved rapidly, including more leaps and quicker allegro. With these advancements came the desire for dance to go above and beyond– literally!

In 1796, Charles Didelot’s “flying machine” used wire rigging to lift dancers into the air on stage, transforming them into ethereal apparitions. This spurred new feats in balletic movement, namely the focus on increasing physical elevation through dance. In 1823, Amalia Bruglioni introduced pointe work by using her arms and foot strength to raise herself up onto her toes in Armand Vestris’s ballet La Fée et le Chevalier. Her shoes had ribbons to support her ankles and were slightly reinforced with stitching around the toe but this offered little support in achieving sustained elevation. But, Bruglioni did inspire an Italian ballerina, Marie Taglioni, to follow in her footsteps nearly ten years later.

In 1832, Taglioni was the first ballerina to dance a full-length ballet en pointe. She premiered in La Sylphide, choreographed by her father Fillipo Taglioni, and played a sylph who floats about the stage on the tips of her toes. La Sylphide, a hallmark of the Romantic Ballet period, remains a fixture in the classical repertory today. Although there was still no hardened toe i.e. “box” as we refer to it today, Taglioni’s shoes were slightly sturdier than her predecessors as they consisted of a leather sole with cotton wool padding for her toes. This model was continually improved upon well into the late 19th century as shoe makers and dancers added things like flour paste, newspaper, glue, and stitching/darning to the tips of their shoes. All of these methods are still used in order to support the foot when en pointe, to extend the lifespan of the shoes, and to aid the overall health of dancers’ feet.

In the 1900’s Anna Pavlova, Prima Ballerina with Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes, added more leather to the sole of her shoes (also referred to as the “shank”) to support her weak feet and altered the tips of the shoe to be flatter which provided a larger platform to stand on. When Pavlova came to the United States in 1910, she worked with the Metropolitan Opera’s pointe shoe maker Salvatore Capezio to create the first pointe shoe brand. Capezio pointe shoes are still sold today and were my first brand of pointe shoe when I began dancing en pointe (so wholesome!). As time progressed throughout the 20th century, so did the technology of pointe shoe construction. Shoes were refined to accommodate more demanding technical requirements in ballet repertoire and were made increasingly suitable through wider boxes and harder shanks.

Today, dancers can choose from a wide variety of brands and customize every facet of their shoes to maximize comfort, stability, and performance. Modern pointe shoes, such as Gaynor Minden’s and Actble, incorporate synthetic polymers to improve shock absorption, reduce noise, and increase durability—meeting the ever-evolving needs of the ballet dancer. Brands like Freed, Grishko and Bloch meld new with traditional by using hessian and paper, water-based glue, and satin to create their shoes. Whether dancers choose to utilize newer brands and materials or stick to more traditional, organic shoes is entirely their choice and makes every pair of feet dancing upon stage unique. If you wish to learn even more about pointe shoes, take a look at the process of pointe shoe making at the Freed factory in London here.

I know not everyone grew up with a gaggle of friends who put on performances in the living room between the ages of 5 and 10, but I definitely did. As my friends and I wiggled our hips and lip-synched to garish music in costumes foraged from the depths of our parents’ closets, we dared our meager audiences to applaud. The operation of juvenile showmanship didn’t just guarantee attention, it fostered a mysterious realm of creative anarchy.

Lisa Fagan and Lena Engelstein’s Friday Night Rat Catchers functions with a kindred spirit; its youthful irreverence and penchant for comedic chaos a pleasure to behold. The work interrogates and unearths the confusing truths of adulthood through their satiric dance lens, its bubbling acuity demanding total attention.

The wacky, nuanced performance unfolds as a game show gone awry. Our host, Marianne Rendón, serves us a charismatic Johnny Carson-esque caricature as she tap dances and croons Patsy Cline’s Crazy in a powder blue suit. Rendón guzzles sky-high coffee cups, adding each new cup to her stack, and recites the tagline for Snickers while shoving them into her teeth as the underbelly of her dissatisfaction with the fictional commercial TV network surfaces. She straddles the line between relishing her duties and loathing them; the incremental debasement of her amiability ignites a slurry of questions about hierarchical frameworks. Will her leadership prevail? Rendón’s swaggering stride meets a hunger for recognition as she finger guns the audience, surveying us and proudly mistranslating our answers into her microphone, exposing the flimsy facade to her fun and games.

Fagan explores this charade deftly, prancing across the tightrope of earnestness and black comedy with acute sensitivity. Dressed in a yellow babydoll dress and a diaper, she elicits raucous laughter as she dances to Lee Hazelwood’s Fool Loves a Fool (1966). Échappé-ing, relevé-ing, swimming through the air, and twerking, Fagan melds ballet and boogie with signifiers of maturity, her body emitting an exuberant fusion of drama and solemnity. As the music fades, she marches side to side, saluting the audience in silence as her percussive footsteps grow increasingly aggressive. She seems to beg us to salute in response, summoning a sentiment of silent, lonesome entrapment within her topsy-turvy world.

As Fagan swings and flings her doll, sits down on a tiny pink sticker-covered chair, and opens up her kid's backpack to shove Fruit Loops into her mouth, the portrayal of childhood through the conduit of an adult becomes exceedingly complex. As she attempts to garner our attention and applause, the universal desperation for validation emerges. She confides in us, saying, “Maybe we could go for a lil bite… I don’t have a wallet, there’s gotta be a wallet here,” gesticulating toward us with the nonchalance of an experienced hustler. Her portrayal of infancy is so convincing, while disarmingly tongue-in-cheek, that it dismantles the distinctions between childhood and adulthood. The masquerade incites contemplation of the inner child, actual kids, and the tumult of growing up. Twirling her plastic baby keys around her finger, she bites them, her eyes glinting as she tactfully toys with her masquerade of immaturity.

When Engelstein enters in a trenchcoat under ominous dark blue lighting, the hilarity and obscurity of the show reach new heights. With each step and shuffle, rocks tumble from her statuesque form. Her face, stoic and blank, showcases her commitment to the slapstick shtick. The thudding beat of the onslaught of rocks cultivates an uncanny stream of music. Her lightened load proves to be a relief as she crumples to the ground, curling in on herself to mimic her fallen innards. As the vignette concludes, Engelstein’s makeshift rock garden surrounds her, the contents of her outfit scattered around the stage. A phone rings through the theatre and she takes the call from one of the rocks, exiting stage left. Upon return, she walks a giant pet rock, dragging it around on a leash as she chats on her iPhone. When she bends down with a doggy bag and picks up one of the rocks from earlier, now transformed into her pet rock’s poop, it’s impossible not to laugh. Again and again, Engelstein and Fagan prove themselves masters of physical comedy, their vignettes chock full of imaginative punchlines and propwork.

Their humorous techniques carry over into explorations of collective technological dependency. Engelstein launches into an exhaustive dance break centered around a frantic search for her AirPods, screaming, “Where are my pods?! My pods, where are they?!” Her harried energy is a magnified iteration of everyday inconvenience as she lateral T’s, swings her arms, and dramatically penchés to 80’s electro-pop instrumentation. The sequence concludes with Engelstein discovering her “pods” in, of all places, her pants pockets. Soon after, the duo rush to the back of the stage to flatten themselves along the wall, suckling from large canisters akin to hamster water bottles. As they push each other away, furiously gasping for hydration, we witness a magnification of their hunger and the unshakable primal instinct to consume.

Their insatiability appears front and center in the final disco dance scene in which the pair dress in fabulous gogo dancing outfits. They shimmy and shake under disco balls while imbibing and chowing down — a hedonist’s dreamscape. As they nosh on shrimp cocktail and pulverize Fruit Loops and champagne in a blender, I am reminded of Daisies, the 1966 Czechoslovakian movie famous for the similarly chaotic, gluttonous, and brilliantly feminist antics of its two beautiful girls. As Rendón re-enters to bid us adieu, she puts on a brown wig as big as her whole body, transforming into a blue-suited Chewbacca. As she feeds her hairy head a hamburger, I can only hope her hunger can be satisfied, though I suspect it never will be.

Stanley’s co-choreographer and partner, New York City Ballet soloist Alec Knight, enters the fluorescent CARVALHO PARK gallery space with his arms outstretched and palms downward. Knight’s cream-colored blouse, structured earth-toned shorts, and brown socks evoke notions of man vs. nature as he looks at his surroundings with an amalgam of hope and veiled tranquility. He ambles forward through envelopés and passé balances, tilting his torso side to side with an angularity that destabilizes the conventionally upright balletic steps. Knight’s feet caress the cement floor as he explores the perimeter, searching for Stanley among the fantastical figures that comprise Turner’s installation, Fabric of Undoing. Tendu-ing back, Knight’s arms arc behind him through fifth position, his wrists slightly broken, harkening to the physicality of Swan Lake’s Odette—predator melds with prey.

The dancers are the only living beings in the environment, aside from the audience surrounding them, and their otherworldly gazes enliven the uncanny, coal-colored protuberances. As soon as Stanley’s head rises from this minimalist forest, the structures they lie upon seem to invite their movement. The sculptures’ metallic legs, fashioned from discarded hospital trolleys, jut out from their bases, foreshadowing their potential for mobility. Some pieces sprout spidery umber-colored appendages attached to their wheels, while other sculptures’ legs extend directly from their core. At the center of each wheel lies a coating of mid-century mustard paint; the industrial letters and numbers around the inner hub of the wheel protrude, evading the pigment. A mass of braided wool and horsehair emanates from the ceiling corner, the essence of nature’s resilience blooming like a sprout in the sidewalk.

When the dancers finally discover one another, an obscure tension arises, with a sparse piano and synth accompaniment saturating the gallery space. The soundscape is discordant and serene while Stanley and Knight’s fingers link together behind their released heads—a desperate struggle for conjoined existence. As they sit nuzzling quietly with their hands rested upon one another, the fleeting moment of still tenderness prompts consideration of relational longevity. Is the potential of their union to vanish just as quickly as it began?

These rickety reveries aside, the pair’s ardor is impossible to misconstrue and acts as a trusted anchor in Ephemeral solace (in passing). The dancers toy with counterbalance, leaning away and subsequently linking together to carve architectural contours with their elongated extremities. Despite the absence of seclusion that a dark proscenium theater provides, Stanley and Knight miraculously cultivate a similarly private intimacy through their collaborative choreography. The duo’s impenetrable eye contact and seamless partnering materialize as Stanley promenades barefoot in attitude, while Knight’s support is barely perceptible—just as it should be. The duo ronds de jambe in unison and skitter through Turner’s tunnel like children on a playground. It is their awe, relief, and subsequent synchronized movement that fills the gallery space with both gratitude and yearning.

As Knight moves the sculptures closer to Stanley, they sous-sus, twirling under themself, evoking a spitting image of a ballerina in a jewelry box. The enclosure tightens around Stanley, the space inside diminishing incrementally until Stanley slowly crumbles. They descend to the floor and compulsively trace shapes upon its surface. After Stanley escapes confinement and resets their habitat, Knight gingerly carries them back to their dune, laying Stanley atop it and exiting how he entered: alone.

Ten polished, pseudo-suited dancers graced New York City Center with playful panache in Twyla Tharp’s Diabelli (1998)– one of two pieces in the Diamond Jubilee program, running from March 12-16th. Their polite yet zingy attitudes, melding with Anton Diabelli and Ludwig van Beethoven's Opus 120, imbued the theater with an upscale air. With gleeful faces and arms bent in front and behind their torsos, it was as if we had been dropped amidst a dinner party and handed flutes of champagne, the clinking of class reverberating through the theater. Accompanied by pianist Vladimir Rumyant, the group lunged, flicked, and twirled in Tharp’s signature jazz-ballet-pedestrian style for fifty-five minutes straight. The work is a marathon of dance, one unseen by New York audiences until now, as it premiered first in Palermo, Italy in October of 1998. Due to its 26 years of age, the piece doesn’t exactly resonate as current per se, but this doesn’t strip it of its inherent Tharpian dynamism.

Nicole Ashley Morris showcases quick ear grazing developés and leaps that bound across the stage, electrifying Beethoven’s score. Her erratic energy is harnessed and siphoned through intricate acrobatic partnering. Morris catapults herself atop Renan Cerdeiro, and dangles upside down initiating a canon of movement among her fellow dancers. These chain reactions of repeated steps recur throughout Diabelli, providing a sense of familiarity alongside a twinge of predictability. Sprinklings of slapstick, vaudevillian comedy entered the mix as Oliver Greene-Cramer and Cerdeiro compete for the spotlight, evoking a Tom and Jerry vignette. While, Marzia Memoli mesmerizes with grounded swiveling hips and a carefree epaulement, her vessel a tornado of carefully controlled, ebullient pirouettes.

As the work continues onwards, varied duets take the stage, however the partnership's relevance or connection to one another appears rather void. Daisy Jacobson gazes out past her partner Alexander Peters, donning a forlorn expression as her arabesques extend beyond the parameters of the stage. Her feet, while articulate and purposeful, provide little help in identifying the duo’s ties. As Diabelli comes to a close with a bubbly bang, complete with buoyant grand jetés and zippy pirouettes in plié, a sense of satisfaction pervades. The triumphant completion of the nearly hour long piece is a feat easily shared, bridging the chasm between dancers and viewers.

The second piece in the program, SLACKTIDE, choreographed by Tharp in 2025, also earned its New York premiere, showcasing Tharp’s indomitable capacity for currency. The work highlights the company of dancers in updated costumery, their unitard-suits and slick back buns swapped for an easily recognizable dance uniform of today: black shorts and pants, baggy shirts, calf length socks, and black ballet shoes. Philip Glass’s Aguas da Amazonia accompanies the dancers, the score rearranged and performed by Third Coast Percussion. An electronic hum melds with keyboard, as hands appear amidst a striking spotlight, by Justin Townsend. The skrim slowly alights from black to bright yellow as the dancers promenade in attitude, their upper bodies curling and contracting before executing wide lunges harkening back to Diabelli.

The work, a mere thirty five minutes, flew by as Memoli returned to the stage– a bolt of lightning. Her feet expertly tapping and toying with the rhythms while the dancers surrounding her run backwards and clap sporadically. As the men slap their thighs and leapfrog over one another the girls figure eight their hips– reveling in their grounded release. While the girls huddle to peer at the boys, the gendered divide and subsequent interplay exudes a youthful fear of the unknown. Brief moments of partnering appear and quickly evaporate before the duos return back to their designated groups. While various duos mingle around one another like an electron ping-pong, Molly Rumble’s hips jut forward as she hinges centerstage. Her form taking on an angular metamorphosis, exhibiting steely strength and malleability.

SLACKTIDE energetically infuses Tharp’s grounded yet ecstatic movement vocabulary, connecting the old with the new with such seamlessness that it becomes difficult to identify what exactly makes it so effective and fresh. By the culmination of the program, elation hung in the air; Twyla Tharp Dance had graciously bestowed us with artistic zest thanks to its boundless vitality.

I found myself smiling and bashful, nearly giddy, when discussing Who Cares About Pal Frenak, a dance documentary directed by Glória Halász featured in 2025’s Dance on Camera Festival. As I relayed the film to a friend, I yearned to impart the same charming, brazen nature Frenák so readily radiates, while secretly wishing to keep him and his work all to myself. It seems witnessing and learning about the Hungarian-French choreographer, through Halász’s elegant lens, stirred up a creative energy one might call inspiration. Discussing the film was like sharing the last bite: initial reluctance that gave way to collective pleasure.

The film takes on the sprawling lifespan of Frenák’s personal and artistic evolution, from his challenging childhood to his subsequent success as a dancer and choreographer. As three dancers sit topless with their heads bowed and backs toward the camera, their musculature undulating under warm lighting, it becomes evident that Frenák’s choreography is not just nuanced but inventive. The dancer’s hands embrace their own torsos so they appear to be kissing someone we cannot see—Frenák transforms the childish optical illusion into a locus of maturity, melding sensuality and play with precision. Snippets like these showcase Frenák’s oeuvre as he narrates his personal history in his native language, Hungarian. Halász entwines these performances and interviews with clips of the spry, lanky leading man jaunting about sunny Paris and Budapest. He visits landmarks of his past, unites with his mother, and stretches at home and on vacation. All the while, we see his dancers in the studio and on-stage writhing with acrobatic animalism and theatrical panache. They raise their legs to their ears in Twins (2009) and traverse metal jungle gyms in Birdie (2015) with serpentine mobility, their limbs vibrating to synth scores. These moments of movement mirror the confinement and subsequent freedom inherent to Frenák’s life story.

Born in 1957, Frenák’s life began during a bleak period of Hungarian history, the year after the Hungarian Revolution, in which the nation lost in their attempted uprising against Soviet power. He was the eighth hearing child born to deaf and speech-impaired parents who struggled to make ends meet. His father suffered greatly due to mental illness and, despite his attempts, couldn’t manage to support the family sufficiently. Frenák tells us he often went to bed hungry and wasn’t very outspoken as a child due to his semi-silent upbringing. After his father’s sudden passing, his mother dropped him off at a state institution, akin to a boarding house/orphanage, at a mere six years old. It was there Frenák discovered his movement language. He would often find himself standing alone before a mirror, twisting himself into varied contortions and haphazardly engaging in intuitive movement therapy. It is this wriggling and disjunct usage of appendages that comes to life as we watch dancer Milán Újvári in Mil An (2006) act as both mover and puppeteer. Dividing the dancer in half to engage with the puppet falls within Frenák’s repertoire of impactful symbolic shortcuts. He interrogates concepts like identity, gender, companionship, and sex through clever techniques that range from strategic lighting decisions to intricate prop work. Frenák draws inspiration from butoh, a Japanese dance form originating in the late 1950s created by Tatsumi Hijikata and Kazuo Ohno, which embraces chaos and resists definition. The darkness and characteristic absurdism of butoh emerges in many of Frenák’s pieces by way of fractured storytelling. Philosophy and architecture also influence Frenák, as he investigates notions of sensitivity and action à la Gilles Deleuze and incorporates set design through angular structures in works such as CAGE (2019), Un (faUN) (2016), and Birdie.

“He just wants to see honesty,” says one of Compagnie Pál Frenák’s veteran dancers. This much is made clear through grueling yet promising rehearsals in which Frenák refuses an easy way out, coaxing spontaneity from his determined yet sensitive dancers. As the movers fling themselves at an inflatable boxing ring rehearsing To_R (POMANĂ) (2018), their bodies slowly transform into conduits of Frenák’s will, repeating the sequence over and over with varying levels of subtlety. Frenák can be temperamental in the pursuit of his vision—a quality I contend with dismissing due to the visual splendor of his pieces, but cannot go without acknowledging.

Like anyone, Frenák has shortcomings—however, none he seems unwilling to admit. He details the complex relationship dynamics he’s engaged in with his wife and daughter, fessing up to his absence and subsequent presence in their lives. They, too, candidly confide in the camera, sharing their feelings toward him and his work. Despite Frenák’s prioritization of travel and career, the pair make their love for him clear with respect for his work that seems to shield the three from any serious resentment. The family reads as impenetrable. As does Frenák; we learn he survived serious bouts of depression and suicidal ideation creating the solo titled ​​MenNonNo (2000). Clips of Frenák preparing for the solo play throughout the film as he twirls around himself in a lengthy blue gown, engulfed by a turquoise whirlpool of fabric.

In the dance world, it’s uncommon to gain access to the intimate details that comprise a choreographer’s inner world. Choreographers frequently resort to elusive, stoic projections of self due to their positioning as powerful forces that form and shape dance. Since embodied language often speaks for choreographers, it is refreshing to witness a story told through both movement and verbiage. To witness Frenák’s openness concerning his personal history provides valuable perspective into the life of an artist whose work has literally saved him. For dance to be depicted as a means of not only self-expression but also of psychic survival reignites my belief in it. The aesthetic wonder of Frenák’s work, his and his dancer’s candid eloquence, and Halász’s skillful cinematographic eye, simply serve as a plus.

When I first witnessed Jean-Christophe Maillot’s work I was with my mom. We sat at New York City Center and shed awestruck tears watching Les Ballets De Monte Carlo perform Maillot’s Cendrillon (Cinderella). Though nearly a decade has passed, I can recall our hushed and huddled conversation during intermission involving the conviction that this was the pinnacle of dance. Holding hands, we savored the rest of the ballet cloaked in a blanket of gratitude. Watching Maillot’s choreography triggered a sense of exhilaration that soon gave way to a revelation; dance has the power to portray humanity and desire if carefully crafted by the right storyteller.

A little bit of background about said storyteller: Born in 1960 in Tours, France, Maillot began his dance career at the Conservatoire National de Région de Tours. He went on to train at Rosella Hightower’s International School of Dance in Cannes. Maillot won the Prix de Lausanne in 1977 and was then hired by John Neumeier to join the Hamburg Ballet. After five years with the company, his career came to an end due to injury. In 1983, he was made choreographer and director of Ballet du Grand Théâtre de Tours, which later became a National Centre of Choreography. There he choreographed around twenty ballets and founded choreographic festivals. In 1993, he was appointed director of Les Ballets de Monte-Carlo by the H.R.H. the Princess of Hannover. Maillot has been choreographing for the company since and has created upwards of 45 ballets, many of which are now set on companies across the globe.

Maillot articulates movement as a vessel for yearning and love through a contemporary ballet language that is entirely his own. His choreography enables his dancers to embody qualities greater than beauty alone, imparting their characters with a complexity that can sometimes fail to appear in more classical ballet repertoire. In this video, Prima ballerina Olga Smirnova tells us, “He [Maillot] always tells us action first, then reaction.” (1:04) showcasing his dedication to intertwining acting and dance. We can see in this rehearsal clip of La Belle, Olga Smirnova and Semyon Chudin spurred on by Maillot’s questioning and narration. He shouts, “What’s happening to you?” as Smirnova gazes at Chudin, inciting further exploration—not just of movement, but of its emotional foundation and narrative significance (3:42). In this clip from The Taming of The Shrew, the fleeting glances from Smirnova to Chudin cause a chain reaction of elation melded with timidity. Maillot nurtures emotional entanglement choreographically as their character's feelings for one another unfurl before us. The floodgates have opened– illustrated by way of arms extended outwards and heads released back throughout their pas de deux (0:29, 1:23, 2:06).

Emotional complexity isn’t only showcased in instances of ardor, but in times of inner and outer turmoil. In this clip of The Taming of the Shrew, we are privy to narration by the Bolshoi’s ballerina, Ekaterina Krysanova. We learn Katherine and Petruchio, danced by Ekaterina Krysanova and Vladislav Lantratov respectively, have a fight scene that gives way to a moment of reflection for Katherine. Krysanova tells us her character Katherine, “is a woman in love…she can’t even forgive herself for feeling this way.” The rest of the stage freezes accordingly, leaving Katherine to explore her admiration for Petruchio alone. This storytelling, through trembling hands (4:11) and a pocket of privacy, demonstrates a knack for unveiling the innermost world of the characters at play. It’s evident Maillot respects and aims to excavate the inner workings of those he brings to life on stage through dance. Often his choreography appears so naturalistic on his dancers, it seems to flow from the soul onto the stage…it’s tough to think of anything better than that.

Renowned for his energetic footwork and playful musicality, Justin Peck has forged an incredibly prolific career as New York City Ballet’s Resident Choreographer. Despite his prominence and popularity, his work continues to feel inventive while maintaining its stylistically recognizable flair. Peck began his choreographic journey in 2005 as a student at the School of American Ballet, NYCB’s affiliated ballet school, and now twenty years later, he has produced over 50 ballets.

After joining New York City Ballet in 2006 as an apprentice he was promoted to the corps de ballet in 2007 and then to soloist in 2013. While dancing in the company, Peck was appointed as Resident Choreographer in 2014 at age 26. Since then he has continued to create work within the balletic sphere and outside it, branching into mediums like film and musical theater. His choreography is featured in Steven Spielberg’s adaptation of West Side Story (2021) as well as Bradly Cooper’s Bernstein biopic, Maestro (2023). He debuted his work on Broadway, choreographing for the musical Carousel in 2018, winning him a Tony. More recently, he created the dance musical Illinois set to Sufjan Stevens’s music that ran on Broadway from April to August of 2024. Illinois went on to win Peck a Tony for “Best Choreography” and was nominated for “Best Musical” in 2024.

Peck manages to weave sentiments of unity and ardor through structure and motif, lending even his most abstract works a cohesive uplifting quality. His movement language bursts with an effervescent zip. There is often a triumphant energy that emanates throughout his pieces, whether en pointe or in sneakers, his dancers appear secure and purposeful as they contour lasting shapes in their wake. In this clip of Everywhere We Go (premiered 2014), Emily Kikta’s long limbs attack the stage, her jumps not only explode into the air but collect back downwards so quickly that the next step melds into the last. Speed is not merely a challenge for Peck, but a quality to be harnessed and explored. The agility conjured in this small snippet highlights the brightness of the horns and cymbals through Kikta’s concise execution of the steps. She pirouettes in between the crescendos, weaving Peck’s accents together to create a tapestry of intricate musicality.

If you’d like to see footage of the choreographer at work, check out the documentary Ballet 422 (2014). This film features Peck at age 25, choreographing for the company's 2013 Winter Season. His work was the only new ballet of the season and he had “less than two months to create the Company's 422nd new ballet.” We come to learn he was the only company dancer choreographing at the time and witness him toggle his responsibilities as a performer and movement maker. His process is showcased fully from start to finish as we peek at him recording steps on his phone in the studio alone, writing down formations in his notebook, and orchestrating rehearsals at the front of the room. His eye for detail is on full display as he tweaks and creates steps on fellow company dancers, highlighting their strengths without sacrificing his vision. If you have yet to witness what it takes to create a ballet, I highly recommend watching. Peck’s 25th work for the company will be premiering in the program “New Combinations” for NYCB’s winter season on January 29-31st and February 2nd, 2025 and I look forward to seeing his newest creation.

It’s often a challenge to translate experiences of dance performance into words. Their ecstatic explosions can be difficult to identify during and even after the event culminates. In other words, movement transcends verbiage and Milka Djordjevich’s Bob, showcased at New York Live Arts, was no exception. This one-woman show trapped me in a subconscious realm that was at once striking and meditative, disruptive and intelligent.

Bob consisted of two parts: a bright aerobic showcase and a mystical metamorphosis. The first half could be considered a workout, both for Djordjevich and the viewer. Set to a head-nodding techno score composed by Djordjevich, “Bob” (Djordjevich’s alter-ego) enters the mirror-framed studio space wearing bright green leggings, purple knee protectors, a baby-blue short-sleeved crop top, and white dance sneakers. Her hair is tied up in a French twist with brunette bangs framing a face void of expression. At times “Bob” dons an accusatory stare, as her lips remain taught, bright red and prominent.

She bounces across the studio, mapping varied diagonal lines, hopping forward with her feet stuck together in parallel or grapevining from one side of the Marley to the other. Her hands cradle her butt, her breasts, her head, and back again. The triangular shapes created by her elbows jutting sideways add layers of angularity to the geometrically spaced sequences. As the musical tempo increased, the movement follows suit, its plodding predictability devolving slowly into frantic, thoughtless repetition. In these instances, I was reminded of Pina Bausch, a Bop It Toy, and the saying, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” a la Einstein.

A meticulous mathematical quality appears with “Bob” as the conduit, her appendages moving with measured pauses. The monotony of movement and music leads to momentary comfort and groundedness. Gradual almost unidentifiable changes blur the familiar with the new. The process encourages us to lose ourselves within the confines of the work. “Bob” induces a nearly trance-like state.

Through this systematic choreography, Djordjevich morphs from one notion of femininity to another, embodying womanhood as an analogous representation of sex. Instead of a self-motivated liberatory act, her sexy mission of self-improvement seems devoid of any deep-seated desire, interest, or intention.

Though she opens herself up, literally spreading her legs and thrusting the air, she remains inscrutable. Even after folding the top half of her leggings down to serve as a resistance band, and exposing herself, in a g-string, to perform lateral walking squats, her near nudity doesn’t register as vulnerable or sensuous. Rather, her body conveys itself as a vessel for rectification, a trophy of aesthetic value, stemming from the utilitarian duty to perfect her/itself. I wished to know more of “Bob”- to be offered an intimacy to her inner world that I did not deserve or perhaps wasn’t existent.

As she kicked back into arabesques, evoking an across-the-floor jazz exercise, she looked out into the cavernous audience – our anonymity instantly made fragile. Her gaze fearless, yet glassy and guarded, enabled her being to encompass whatever I projected.

Her vacuous orbs were nowhere near revealing, and yet I felt vulnerable as I cast myself upon her blank sweating form. All of a sudden she was not just me, or her, but everyone; mindlessly and mindfully working out their bodies and brains in hopes of better attunement to the world. Notions like results, youth, love, and time came to mind as I watched her exhaust herself until she disappeared behind the mirrors, concluding the first section. Having realized I was tracing an idea of myself onto her, I felt I was both an aggressor and a victim. This befuddling opposition gave way to a dark heady entrapment.

In the second half, Bob reentered the space as an apparition of kink through moss-colored fog. Ghoulish and wayward, the Bob we acclimated to as a Jazzercise queen, was now hidden underneath layers of black latex and mesh. The costume served as a hodgepodge of heuristics, transforming Djordjevich into a vivid collage of BDSM. With her hair down, and body upright in impossibly high black platform heels, she shuffled forwards, her latex gloves and pants squeaking softly.

Molting to the floor and assuming all fours, the doll-like figure’s back leg extends and trembles, similar to the earlier workout exercises only this time, layers are removed. She shakes off her shoes and army-crawls forward, discarding her pants and gloves in the process, leaving her a wriggling, writhing fish on the floor, her mesh casing glimmering in the cool-toned lights. She is a wavering flag of libido, a shed item surrounded by the latex that confined and defined her. She slides around in front of the mirror, hunching over the remnants of costumery, and perhaps a former self. She lies down, staring up at the ceiling, exhausted. After sitting in front of the mirror, breathing and gazing at herself, she gets up and disappears behind her reflection.

Djordjevich tracks the mindless and mindful assumption of grueling femininity, encapsulating the paradox of appearance and desirability. With her psychic landscape locked away, it seems “Bob” can only be freed by abandoning attire, as if nudity is the closest one can come to some emblem of truth.

Pina directed by film legend Wim Wenders is a stunning tribute to the modern dancer and choreographer Pina Bausch. Tanztheater Wuppertal, Bausch’s company, dances in various settings ranging from the stage to urban and wilderness environments. Their bodies exude a perennial sentiment one dancer dubs, “To be old and a child at the same time.” It's truly captivating. Interviews of the company members play as they execute four of her forty works: Rite of Spring (1975), Café Müller (1978), Kontaktof (1978), and Vollmond (2006). These fond memories frame the film with a certain tenderness that sprouts from the loss of Bausch who passed away in 2009, coinciding with the start of the film’s production. Archival clips of Bausch rehearsing with her company seamlessly flow between the performance excerpts, imbuing her presence with an endearing yet ghost-like effect. Wenders portrays dance on screen with delicate sensitivity and an aptitude for movement that visually astounds.

Ballerina has a very special place in my heart. This film not only served as my introduction to Russian ballet and Vaganova technique but also allowed me to recognize and fall in love with the work ethic and grit required to be a ballet dancer. The film follows five ballerinas at the Mariinsky Theater: Svetlana Zakharova, Diana Vishneva, Evgenia Obraztsova, Ulyana Lopatkina, and Alina Somova. These dancers have all garnered the rank of prima ballerina since the film’s premiere in 2006. The documentary collages together private coaching at the Vaganova Ballet Academy, Mariinsky Ballet company rehearsals, and interview clips from teachers, company leaders, balletomanes, and of course the featured dancers as they reflect on their journeys and performance experiences. Director Bertrand Norman provides an intimate look at the daily life of a ballet dancer showcasing the audition process and training at the Academy, to company life as a prima ballerina. Ballet history is delved into, providing historical context to much of the commentary about the ballet world and its inner workings. The clips of performances and in-studio rehearsals are gorgeous snapshots of the artists at work.

Becoming Giulia follows Giulia Tonelli, a principal dancer at the Zurich Opera House, from 2019-2021. Directed by Laura Kaehr, the film captures Tonelli as she returns to company life from maternity leave onwards. We witness her confront the demands of her repertoire in the studio, backstage, and in performance with grace and endless determination. She earnestly navigates company politics while balancing childcare at home. We are granted candid snippets of her coworker’s conversations with her and witness an artistic collaboration bloom between Tonelli and the now director of Zurich Opera House, Cathy Marston. The physical toll ballet takes on a dancer's body is showcased without any sort of aestheticization which is refreshing to see. Discussions about the realities of female leadership and power within the ballet world have an honest and candid quality to them which I find uplifiting.

Mr. Gaga features Ohad Naharin, the choreographer and former artistic director (now house choreographer) of Batsheva Dance Company. Old home videotapes and interviews with Naharin and his family lead us through his youth into his professional life as a dancer and choreographer. Excerpts of his work are showcased on stage and in the studio, with clips of Naharin coaching his dancers, providing us a peekpeak into how his technique Gaga, is honed. The movement quality displayed by the dancers in this film is breathtaking. The dancers of Batsheva contort themselves into unthinkable shapes and embody repetitive, trembling dynamics that border the impossible. The intensity of the rehearsal scenes is intoxicating and the dedication to the untethered power of movement is beyond gratifying to witness.

Dance is a practice that relies on the mind-body connection, and there’s no better way to nurture that connection than by reading! While we featured three new dance books—Swans of Harlem, Sleeping Beauties, and Passionate Work—earlier this year, here are six other published works from 2024 worth checking out. These books spotlight various sectors of the dance world spanning dance history and romance to choreographic insights.

Five Ballets from Paris and St. Petersburg, by Doug Fullington and Marian Smith

In Five Ballets from Paris and St. Petersburg (Oxford University Press), dance historians Doug Fullington and Marian Smith delve into the rich history of the classical ballet canon, focusing on the earliest versions of Giselle, Paquita, Le Corsaire, La Bayadère, and Raymonda. The pair’s intensive research stems from a plethora of ballet manuscripts, uncovering over 50 images, original choreographic documentation, and musical translations. This book seeks to revive forgotten historic details and invite newfound curiosity surrounding some of these classical works we know and love.

Dancers: Choreographers in Dialogue, by Ingo Schaefer

For those who aspire to choreographic greatness, look no further than Dancers: Choreographers in Dialogue (independently published). Photographer and author Ingo Schaefer captures in images and words seven renowned contemporary ballet choreographers, including Bryan Arias, Hélène Blackburn, and Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui. Through thoughtful questioning and extensive conversation, Schaefer draws out each choreographer’s creative processes, from the studio to the stage. This comprehensive anthology focuses on 10 ballets, features inquiry into the choreographic mind at play, and interrogates how the upheaval of social and political landscapes interacted with these ballets’ creation.

Pointe of Pride, by Chloe Angyal

Chloe Angyal’s newest novel, Pointe of Pride (Amberjack Publishing), following last year’s Pas de Don’t, explores the sultry crossover between romance and ballet. Professional ballet dancer Carly Montgomery travels to Sydney to be the maid of honor at her best friend’s wedding and meets best man Nick Jacobs, an attractive but uptight former-dancer-turned-photographer. When Carly learns company promotions are approaching faster than she anticipated, she hatches a plan to impress her new artistic director—but needs Nick’s help to pull it off. This love-loathe tale is sure to keep you at the edge of your seat as the duo’s tension and tenderness bubble over into a steamy romance.

Brown Girls Do Ballet: Celebrating Diverse Girls Taking Center Stage, by TaKiyah Wallace-McMillian

Dancers of all ages will adore TaKiyah Wallace-McMillian’s Brown Girls Do Ballet (Black Dog & Leventhal). Stemming from Wallace-McMillian’s Brown Girls Do Ballet project on Instagram, this stunning book features photographs of young BIPOC ballet dancers, alongside JaNay Brown-Wood’s poetic text. Together, they create a work that empowers balletic youth and will surely inspire and encourage them on their ongoing dance journeys.

Crafting the Ballets Russes: Music, Dance, Design, by Robinson McClellan

In Crafting the Ballets Russes: Music, Dance, Design—The Robert Owen Lehman Collection (D Giles Limited), Robinson McClellan compiles sketches, drafts, and choreographic histories to paint a detailed account of the Ballets Russes in all its glory. Originating from the private collection held on deposit at the Morgan Library & Museum in New York City, Crafting the Ballets Russes is an endlessly informative visual wonderland. It features stage and costume designs, choreographic notations, and photographs of performers such as Michel Fokine, Vaslav Nijinsky, and Bronislava Nijinska. Art by frequent Ballets Russes collaborators Léon Bakst, Alexandre Benois, and Natalia Goncharova is woven throughout the book, alongside contributions from dance historian Lynn Garafola.

Errand into the Maze, by Deborah Jowitt

Modern dance’s Martha Graham takes center stage in Deborah Jowitt’s Errand into the Maze (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux). This biography leads us through Graham’s lifetime as a dancer and choreographer, detailing her acclaimed and deeply influential career. Jowitt’s extensively researched work, spanning over a decade, is considered “piercingly insightful” by New York Times dance critic Alastair Macaulay and has been dubbed a “rigorous, authoritative biography” by Publishers Weekly.

Wavering graphics of kaleidoscopic greenery paint the Park Avenue Armory, transforming the space into a trippy, mystifying woodland. Kyle Abraham, choreographer, and dancer in Dear Lord, Make Me Beautiful, runs around the stage's perimeter in an expansive circle. His energetic speed embodies that of a child who has escaped the clutches of school and faces a long summer of boundless freedom. His eyes gleam as he peers outwards at the audience, inviting us to soak up his sprightly spirit, but it doesn’t last long as his fast pace gives way to a plodding jog, and he no longer looks at us but straight ahead. Before I knew it, he was not a young boy but an older man, his pace slow and heavy as he circled his lifespan. Abraham has somehow magically encapsulated a life lived through one laborious everchanging track.

The work surges forward and Abraham’s signature style unfurls itself as his dancers seamlessly blend movement vocabularies from balletic plié arabesques to vibrating upper bodies, their polished contemporary/hip-hop isolations glinting in the greenery. Amari Fraizer and Gianna Theodore occupy the stage and float around like important specks of dust; tip-toeing, and rondejambing with buoyant aimlessness. Pulling apart from one another only to reunite like magnets drawn together through everlasting force.

The work often resonates like unleashed baby laughter, an effervescent light buzz not dissimilar to a gin cocktail. The floral and naturalistic thematics, thanks to breathtaking shifting projections and muddied white linen costumery, synthesize into pleasant visual cues that intimate a post-apocalyptic paradise. As dancers jog across the stage like nymphs with their arms flailing behind them and hair streaming in the wind, I start to question where the conflict lies in the work. Is my desire for tension indicative of a lack within the work or myself? Meditative, introspective moments like these arise repeatedly, spurred by serene naturalistic music/sound design by Sam Crawford. With dancers hugging or touching each other's shoulders consolingly after nearly every group piece or duet I grew impatient with the physical portrayals of unity appearing with such frequency and ease.

Despite the thematic lack of tension, all of the movers in Abraham’s company A.I.M. elicited lengthy reveries of awe due to their movement qualities that radiate with skillful resistance. William Okajima maneuvered himself like a regal snake, sweeping the floor in expansive lunges downstage, his limbs moving independently and away from his center. Donovan Reed penchéd with dramatic angularity, halting time with his extreme control and exceptional ability to toy with the music. These crystalline moments of sheer beauty were spectacles I felt lucky to have witnessed as soon as the dancers exited the stage. The piece's culmination may have been one of the most miraculous occurrences over the course of the hour-long work, as Abraham vibrated under a spotlight, staring outwards as he slowly evaporated into the ether.

Nimble and percussive feet, wild windmill arms, and bright brilliant smiles are abundant and infectious when watching A Very Sw!ng Out Holiday at The Joyce. Running from December 3-15th, the dance company showcases an amalgamation of lindy hop and tap dance to create a boisterous, jovial night. Accompanied by a Big Band at the back of the stage, the twelve dancers of the collective evoke carefree, festive cheer with faces and bodies exuding an endearingly cheeky self-satisfaction.

Caleb Teicher (director, choreographer, and dancer in Sw!ng Out) weaves improv and choreography together, creating solos, duets, and group pieces that mingle with the music in dynamic and expressive ways. That being said, Teicher and his fellow dancers are not afraid to abandon the need for music altogether and indulge in various means of physical musical accompaniment. By tapping, clapping, stomping, and sliding, the dancers' bodies become more than just instruments for movement. Teicher completes an impressive and elaborate tap solo, trotting on stage with his arms bent as if he is himself a reindeer. Traversing the whole stage, he transforms into a human drum, and it is delightful.

The comradery in the show is palpable as dancers cheer each other on in large circles and interact with the band behind them tenderly. Breanna Jorden toys with Eyal Vilner, the band leader and sax player, matching his tonality with her fast jumpy legs. Like cat and mouse, the duo creates a feedback loop between music and movement; it no longer matters which came first or who wins- they end their chase in an embrace.

The Big Band is remarkable and entirely deserves the thunderous applause they are given. The jazzy Christmas tunes sung by the radiant Imani Rousselle paired with dizzying sultry trumpets gave me goosebumps and I wished I could listen to them play forever. The band had transported me to a smokey underground jazz bar, and I felt all that was missing was my drink.

The night continued with breakneck speed as the jittery ecstatic Samantha Siegel stormed the stage with various partners to boot. Jubilation exploded from her twists and turns, her center rock solid, as her lengthy limbs kicked up and out like bursts of confetti. In group sections, Latasha Barnes and Jennifer Jones flew over their partner's heads, each lift as light and thrilling as the next.

Sitting in my chair I was not once worried about the dancers’ safety or felt they hadn’t been prepared for what lay before me. Their self-assured and relaxed professionalism permitted me to do what I always wish to do in the theater: sit back and enjoy what lies before me. If you want to get tipsy on dance, attend Sw!ng Out, they are sure to leave you giddy, dizzy, and eager for more.

As four spry dancers emerged through the hazy illumination, I longed to believe their forms could transport me into their dusty hollow desert. Howling winds paired with the sparse plucking of guitar strings by Chief Adujah surged through The Joyce, cultivating an eerie, haunting atmosphere. For a moment, I was far from the city I was seated in and wished for this escape, even if intermittent, to sustain and inspire me. Blood Calls Blood choreographed by Dwight Rhoden premiered in 2023 and opened Complexions Contemporary Ballet’s Program B at The Joyce. The ballet was followed by three of Rhoden’s works: a solo titled Deeply (which I had the opportunity to see on November 20th), a world premiere of Bolero, and an excerpt from his ballet For Crying Out Loud. Although there were brief encounters with escapism, the feeling was often blunted by the harsh reality of Rhoden’s choreographic limitations; more specifically his flimsy, veering on vapid, thematic articulations.

In Blood Calls Blood the dancers execute a series of partnering sections side by side that appear under-rehearsed and rushed, complete with erratic promenades in a la secondé that finish abruptly in parallel positions. Rhoden highlights Christian Burse and Lucy Stewart’s flexible backs by choreographing dramatic partnered penchés. The men’s elastic upper bodies shiver and undulate as soon as they are without their partners. Joe Gonźalez emulates this freedom when he tosses his head back, his face either growling or purring at us while his arms circle around him, creating a transcendent halo. Christine Burse shows off her boundless power and control as she fearlessly throws herself around the stage with trembling hands and a gaze that bores past the threshold of the piece. These dancers bring out the best in Rhoden’s work, however as the choreography nearly runs itself in circles, they are left with little escape from its boundaries. Having to commit themselves fully to brief snippets of attempted alternate movement vocabulary, their bodies transform into awkward vehicles for tentative change, leaving me with unsettled feelings as the lights dim and the curtain draws down.

Deeply, a solo danced by Vincenzo Di Primo is not any better or worse than what I witnessed a week prior. Di Primo cradles his head repeatedly as he waltzes to Lucio Dalla‘s Caruso and propels himself in the air, landing so softly that the jump itself is soon forgotten. His body appeared like an ice skater gliding atop the stage, with his neck released and head lolling back, as he peers up at the sky with a static pained expression painted on his face. As he skitters and flings himself from one endless pirouette to the next, I find myself asking “Why?”. It seems I was bearing witness to Rhoden’s facile harmless infatuation with physical beauty, while Di Primo bounced and soared like a pained little prince.

Bathed in red light, the company writhes and rises from the floor in Rhoden’s Bolero. Maurice Ravel’s iconic score emits such pleasing sounds that the dancers can’t seem to help revelling in it, clapping to the beat and clasping their hands together to form a united body. Rhoden nods to Maurice Béjart’s rendition of Bolero by weaving in similar circular formations and having his dancers bob up and down hypnotically. Percussive stomping and gyrating hips garnish the stage as April Watson is spun around and dipped to the floor. Her pointé work is concise and articulate, its clean simplicity dazzling amidst what turns out to be an increasingly messy landscape of bodies. The piece unfolds into an aerobic exhibition as jazz hands and haphazard lifts occur one after the other. A surge of innocent wonder instantly brightened the tedium of the work as the company placed goggle-shaped hands on their faces staring out into the dark unknown, reminding us of their recent genesis several minutes prior. This glimpse into whimsy was the golden nugget I wished to place in my pocket and put atop my shelf.

The final piece titled For Crying Out Loud featured six segments, all danced to varied U2 songs as an homage to the band. The dancers dressed in varied burgundy costumes demonstrated much of the same movement dynamics witnessed in the other three pieces prior: developés of unsurmountable height, partnered pirouettes that built into explosive lifts where legs split open like crackling popcorn kernels, and a smattering of tricks like balances en pointé in second position grande plié that rendered the women spider-like for an instant. Although U2’s music is a joy to listen to, the work appeared to be operating void of its cries and crooning, almost insisting on an upbeat rendering. This asynchronicity, between music and movement, wore away at my attention span, and as the piece progressed it became impossible to reconcile. As the work came to a close, I found myself grappling with questions like: What is choreography if not a portrayal of music? What purpose does the movement have if not to entwine itself with sound? How could hearing this music result in those particular steps? These questions eventually synthesized themselves into a bigger panic, mainly: What can be made of this medley?

Having had the opportunity to witness Complexions, not once, but twice in the last week, I can say with utmost confidence their dancers are skilled technicians with seemingly endless energy to boot. I wish to see them in a more varied repertoire, as most classical ballet companies provide, rather than Rhoden’s work being the only choreography showcased. Their movement quality is expansive, liquid, and ready to be harnessed. It’s a shame they’ve been delegated to one creative vision when they clearly have so much more to be shared and explored.