Response to Windfarm # 2 performance

February 21, 2007
By Linda Shapiro

I walked into the Rogue Buddha Gallery, and it was instant nostalgia. So reminiscent of the 1960's and 70's: intimate and low tech, street front theater, a mostly young audience in knit caps. Feeling like theoldest person in the room, I walked carefully around Emily, who was hanging over in a blond wig at the edge of the performing area. It seemed so natural to have her there. I found the bathroom in the back, clean, cheerful, and plenty of toilet paper. When I returned, she was still hanging there and I did not even think to wonder why. Just like back then, when I took harrowing journeys down into New York Subways, up onto ominously deserted streets, then up some more, several flights of rickety steps, into someone's warm and dimly lighted loft space where anything could happen, even as I caught my breath.

In Minneapolis, circa 1980, I went to a performance in a studio space housed in the bowels of Sex World, in the Warehouse District, before gentrification (although Sex World is still there, going strong). A man I knew (he was married to one of the dancers performing that night) stood outside selling tickets. As I approached, I noticed him hanging over a dumpster, as if retrieving something from the garbage. But no, he told me, he was periodically hiding the ticket proceeds, in case he got mugged.

So you never know why people might be hanging over.

Back to Rogue Buddha, where the sinister and the absurd were strictly limited to what was going on onstage. What I recall: Emily moving -- fierce, nervy, with a touch of floozy -- with and then without wig. She littered, she held a small CD player from which a man's voice issued, talking about ecology, issuing dire warnings (I think. At some point I stopped really listening and just watched Emily). I was not reviewing, I had had a glass of wine or two. I had the luxury of just relaxing headlong into Emily's world.

Then I got to relax into Hijack's world. Like Emily, they seemed to be trying to figure something out about being friendly aliens in a baffling world, and that's enough for me. What did they do? Well, they (Kristin and Arwen ) came onstage in glittery green outfits, looking like a cross between Disney undersea creatures and leprechauns. They had a long pole that suggested at various times a ballet barre, a penis, a prodder, a pointer. At one point they pulled down a map, and pointed some things out. As usual, they infused everything they did with droll gravitas.

FROM: Theresa Madaus
One For Resolve/Emily Post-Review:

Images Remembered Like A Dream

(which is to say, nothing is quite clear and I make up the bits I can't remember, with many question marks)

I remember: a figure standing over, hanging down, (the posture of exhaustion, the posture of anticipatory stretching), head on railing, face obscured by blond wig. Slowly dripping down the wall to the point where head is by feet and underwear - really pink double pink tights - are peeking out the bottom of the white dress. Heels, lipstick, a little blazer, she stands up. We are treated to a pleasantly faked "welcome ladies and gentlemen" smile. A number of facial expressions talk to us. Welcome welcome welcome. Eyebrow.

The wig comes off, but the lipstick is reapplied. Gone is the blazer. Goodbye heels, goodbye top layer of tights. A box of objects appears. Concentration as she arranges and rearranges the objects on top of the shelf where the desk lamp sits: a photo, a candle, two beer cans, an ashtray, a cigarette (half-smoked?), a mug, a bottle of liquor. The liquor is poured into the mug, the cigarette claims some interaction. Is there lipstick on the mug? On the cigarette? Did she drink or smoke either? Here the lipstick is reapplied? (In this character there is a conflict, a contradiction? Something in it belongs to the blond wig, something to the framed photo. Is there really a divide? It's the same person.)

From the back of the space, she jumps - the kind of jump you use in gym class during track for the triple jump, or the long jump. Facing the sides of the room, she leaps forward, and with every jump, a word: I. Want. To. Live. (I want to cry. The effort of the jumps is the effort of the words is the effort of living is something that resonates in something in me.)

She brought a duck out from the back room earlier, or maybe out of the box/crate of objects, and she put it in the alcove, the nook in the wall right up front by the audience. Blazer over her face, she lifts to duck to the foreground, the tape recorder reeling a narrative which the duck bobbles its talking head. "I used to live in Florida…"

We hear about the asshole nephew, the woman who gardened, the junk shop where he'd be now if a compassionate daughter/cousin grand-daughter hadn't rescued him, sentiment trumping asshole nephew. The little apartment without a stove, where you go when your mind is not deemed functional anymore. The little apartment with no stove where the woman who gardened now must live. (At what moment did I realize that the voice on the tape recorder was that of the duck, and not that of Emily Johnson? I don't know. It was a while. A surprising while. But that moment, that "Oh!" was a delightful one. I had listened, I had cared, but now I cared with focus. This duck is telling me his life story and I'd better listen.)

The duck ends up on the blazer in the middle of the floor. Emily is now carrying dirt with one hand from the hanging wall to the duck. (A garden, a shrine.) Objects from the desk-lamp-shelf migrate to the garden to surround the duck. (A shrine.) The tape recorder is still playing, clutched in Emily's other hand?

But first, before any of this happens, (because it happened across an empty floor, so it must have been first?) she comes from the back of the room again. A phrase: hopping, the leg circling around (I know this phrase: "This dance is for you") and more. We have a series of movements relentlessly coming towards us, again and again, as the sentence is relentlessly repeated like a singsong nursery rhyme: I don't want to live in the U.S.A. I don't want to live in the U.S.A.

The objects in the shrine disappear back into the crate. The duck must disappear too. Maybe it did come before the relentless sentence. I'm missing a phrase. The repetition of 15 movements (more or less): inverted elbows, wiggles, then classic-emily-moves: sweeping legs, a lunge?, some strange and beautiful autonomy of the lower half of the body.

The items are back in the crate. Is the wig back on the head? The heels return, it must be. The CD player that has been resting under the nook, playing music at various intervals, is picked up and disappears with Emily, into the audience and out onto the street.

Colin Rusch Post-Review Part I:
An Inevitable Comparison To The Last Incarnation:

What was, in 9x22, a rigorous, strict and stringent (silent) exploration of … "nothing?" is now playful and concise, hilariously paced and completed with an inherent crinkly sound score and fabulous green costumes. (I saw Peter Pan and a turban where my friends saw frogs.)

[We want to know where the title came from. Colin Rusch moved to New York before I could understand the reference.]

Colin Rusch Post-Review Part II:
Images Remembered Like A Repeated Dream, A Variation On A Theme

(which is to say, some things appear, some things fade, some are in my head, some are on the stage) (I still make up the bits I can't remember and sentence fragments abound.)

The beginning: the map, the battements. I didn't count the kicks this time. (Last time there were 17. This may be a lie.) I was too enraptured by the shades of green. I missed the slight arm gestures, but I was enveloped by the sparkle, both visual and auditory, of the packing tape.

The pole, the chair, the penis joke. Am I a thirteen-year-old boy? Possibly. Do I love the penis joke? Yes. Deadpan does it for me every time.

A nod to the rolling sequence? (Kristin or Arwen standing rolling down the other's arm,, rolling back up, repeated on the floor) But mostly it disappeared. A replacement with rolling across the stage? I can't remember. (The leap that followed that sequence was still there, yippee! A new "dancey" section appeared.)

Arwen hopping across the stage, holding the places on the map she's been with her fingers, toes, limbs; she documents with dedication. (As Arwen points out our location with the pole at some other point, I am documented as well.) I love the giant map, with the red and green population density scores, its Communist connotations, its massive presence, its impassive confident air. Indifference and indoctrination all in one handy pull-down prop.

A sudden spinning hug, tightly clutching each other they whipped around the space. (It was faster this time, clearer?) It gained intensity and centripetal interest. It appeared at the right times, spinning me with an insistence demanding engagement.

The floppy rearrangement of Kristin by Arwen (on and off the chair) made only a fleeting appearance. (I was slightly disappointed by the decrease.) Surely her diaper needed to be changed more frequently? (Surely you were changing her diaper.)

Just as periodically I am whipped around the stage in this lock-tight embrace, periodically we return to the map, one standing on each side, lifting up the edges in a moment of solemn ability. Then a flurry of activity.

The countdown was still there, Arwen's butt floating inches above the chair, arrested in time and space while Kristin slouched forward, 1 through 15, hunching her steps forward shoulder-by-shoulder until her thumb extended, ready on the remote, a small unfurled penis. (Honestly, once you introduce a penis, there's no getting rid of it.) Arwen's butt, still hovering over the chair while she counts back down: "14, 13, 12 (I am counting down with her. I am never quite sure she will remember the 12. It's the hardest part of counting backwards.) 11, (Or maybe 11 is) 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1."

Repeat!

But first, let us return to the beginning, with 17 (or 19, or 15, or the right number) front kicks, arms out, a duo of mechanical Rockettes, framed by the map. A smattering of repeated sections. New things that have disappeared in deference to the remnants of the original piece. (Damn seniority. I want to remember.)

(The tightrope-walking section is gone, not only not repeated, but not even there at all. I remember being impressed with the exchange: Kristin balancing on the pole, Arwen crouching on the pole, Kristin crossing up and somehow passing over.)

The pole, the chair, the joke. Once again, Arwen maneuvers the pole, pointing upwards, like the drill team with their batons. Once again, Kristin has the pole, Arwen has the chair. Once again, the pole approaches the chair, only to avoid penetration bringing disappointed relief.

Mumble mumble mumble mumble? (How do I make my penis one foot long?) Mumble mumble. (I don't know.) Mumble mumble mumble. (Fold it in half.) The intonations were intact, though the words were gone. (Am I still a 13-year-old boy? Yes! No, now I'm 23.)

Does it end with the pole clattering to the floor? I don't know, but we know it is the ending.

FROM: Susan Scalf

Ok, I'll try off the top of my head. Pamela first caught my attention by the careful visual choice of the performers: the well coiffed heads the all black berlinesque cabaret singer outfits and the obvious choice to confront the audience with the cultivated stalking linear strides. The silliness(gum chewing, glove or mitten exchanging, provocative poses) began as funny and then took on a shape of their own. They created their own story. I'm not quite sure where the dance phrase came in except I loved it and it may have provided physical relief. I definitely was impressed by the commitment to the rather rigid and considered movement. I would like to see more. Oh
yeah, and rehearsal direct. ha ha ha . seriously.

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FROM: Joanna Furnans
Windfarm Series #2, Part 2, Rogue Buddha Gallery

"Cover Your Head and Kiss Your Ass Goodbye"- Mad King Thomas (Theresa Madaus, Tara King, and Monica Thomas)

A well frosted pink cake sat in the corner of the space and was (thankfully) cut and served to willing audience members. "Let them eat cake!" I assume Mad King Thomas was making an insightful comparison to our modern day administration's disregard for the country's needs (as determined by popular vote) to dear old Marie Antoinette's fateful mistake. The piece, "Cover your Head and Kiss your Ass Goodbye," was political. How do I know? Well, there were the heads of controversial political figures on stage (in a row actually…ready to line dance), there were classic plastic toy army figurines arranged atop playground sand (I'm thinking desert, I'm thinking Middle East), there was talk of Cowboys, there was an interrogation/torture scene, and last but not least Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire."

There was also a Super Hero section in which Tara King (the Cowboy) coached the audience through a series of comic strip stills by asking us to close our eyes while Theresa Madaus and Monica Thomas re-arranged themselves, and then open our eyes to reveal a new "scene." King narrated for us, something having to do with a superhero wannabe who ultimately dies trying. Are we to believe they are really Super Heroes? Does it matter? How does this theme of super-human melodrama fit into the already established political climate? Let your imaginations run wild…if you dare/care.

The performances from Mad King Thomas were commanding, vulnerable, and generous respectively. The piece was a little rough around the edges which I can only assume is intentional given the messy sand, the trampled on army, and the backed into political heads. Was the deliberate set destruction a demonstration of power or control? How about an "I won't take this anymore" attitude? The piece ended with this notion of physical and psychological endurance. Each performer took her turn timing how long she could withstand the numbing pain of her fist resting in a bucket of ice water (while on leave from the on going Billy Joel line dance). This physical act made me squirm as I watched in awe. All cleverness aside, I was really moved by this test of will. I was entranced with Monica, in particular, as I watched her for signs of struggle, pain, surrender, strength and perseverance. Given the political context this was a wonderfully serious choice.

Great job Mad King Thomas. Can't wait to see what you generate next.

DATE: 4/9/07
FROM: Megan Mayer

I caught the Windfarm performance on March 27, 2007 at Rogue Buddha Gallery. Since I wrote this nearly two weeks after the event, what follows are some thoughts on what stuck with me and how they made a lasting impression.

Mad King Thomas (Theresa Madaus, Tara King, Monica Thomas)

I must admit I'd already seen a version of Mad King Thomas' "Cover Your Head and Kiss Your Ass Goodbye" once before at Bryant-Lake Bowl's 9x22, so I have more information floating around in my brain about this piece because of the double exposure. The Windfarm adaptation was significantly longer with extended sections, a new ending, more text and a video monitor with a blinking eye off to one side of the space. When did that blinking eye change from blue to brown or vice-versa?

This piece has a youthful playfulness to it but also suggests darker, broader themes of torture and imperialism. I like how they mix the two with a healthy sense of irony and would like to see them pinpoint and push those extremes.

I giggled and audibly snorted at the earnest, childlike voice Theresa Madaus chose to deliver her line "Do cowboys wear socks?". Pelting Tara King's gruff cowboy character with overeager questions about cowboys is one of the most successful sections to me and I was happy that it made the cut for this rendition. She manages to nail the perfect innocent tone which contrasts nicely with the more dangerous interrogation section later in the piece.

There's a moment when Tara King's cowboy bends down and rubs sand on her face from the floor. It's obviously not a pleasant experience, and I was drawn to the desperation in it, but I couldn't see the sand on Tara's face because it blended with her sand-colored leather jacket and hair so the effect was lost a bit. I'd like to find a solution to this, perhaps by somehow lighting the dust around her face as the sand hits her skin? It feels like a defining moment for her character and I think it deserves the exposure.

I felt a kinship with the robot/astronaut character. This was partly due to the sentimental tug of Bowie; Space Oddity was a formative song for me as a child when I first grasped the concept of the expanse of the universe outside my little bedroom. But the tentative slow-motion astronaut/fumbling robot walk as well as the superheroes in costume also reminded me of sleepovers and highly detailed games I played with my cousin and how much more we took ourselves seriously when wearing costumes. So these sections conjured up all sorts of childhood associations for me. That said, I appreciated their incorporation of imagination and play with more mature concepts.

Monica Thomas had a captivating and vulnerable instant upstage where she was fumbling with her satin jacket zipper. Initially it appeared there was to be a dramatic unzipping and slick removal of an outer costume layer. But it got stuck. I could tell it wasn't going as planned as she gave it a couple of insistent tugs, her jaw steeled, and finally she turned away from the audience to face upstage. There was a lovely "I need help" sink of her shoulders as she turned around to face Tara King. Eventually she wriggled out of it by pulling it over her head and turned around with a relieved and defiant look on her face. I thought "Keep it"; I felt alive and engaged watching them solve that problem in front of my eyes and I liked that it became something other than what was intended.

I'd like to see the interrogation section where Theresa Madaus poses the same cowboy questions as earlier in the piece but with a more threatening tone be taken to more of an extreme. The section seemed longer to me than the first time I'd seen it and I didn't think it needed to be longer to be effective. Perhaps some footlights on Tara King's face from below could do the trick. When Monica Thomas' sprayed water in her face the first time (maybe it only needs to happen once?) it was unexpected and added some levity to the gravity. The burst of water was also a nice contrast to the sand on Tara King's face from earlier.

Billy Joel. First let me say that I hate this song. I'm of the opinion (and generation) that considers anything he wrote after"The Stranger" to be fluff and makes me roll my eyes. So when I first saw this piece at Bryant-Lake Bowl I assumed they chose this song because of its awfulness. But afterwards I realized that they might not necessarily feel the same way nor can I expect everyone to have the same associations with it. I'm still not sure why they chose this song, but it provides an annoyingly ridiculous backdrop as they line dance endlessly amidst a mess of sand, pill bottles, and cutout heads of various world leaders on metal spindles. To the entire song. Whew. Their heels thudded hard against the ground, pounding the earth (or rather, moon) in what seemed to be an intentionally careless fashion. Again I was reminded of my cousin and I in her basement furiously making up dances and of the grade school disco contests I forced my babysitter to judge in my livingroom. There is definitely something to this section that triggers your patience and ultimately I like where they're going with it. I would suggest they take it even further. I'd like to see a version where they stared directly at us the entire time and never down at the ground. I'd also like to see some light on that sand mess so (or a mirror on the ceiling) so we can really see exactly what all that stuff is they're demolishing as they dance.

Did I mention I was standing up in the back for this entire show? Portions of this piece took place on the ground, close to the front. Unfortunately I could see none of that. The end was quiet, with Monica Thomas kneeling on the floor stage left. I found myself thinking that the Rogue Buddha is not a terribly conducive setting for seeing dance, at least not with the current seating situation. At times I found myself feeling resentful, wishing I'd arrived an hour
beforehand to nab one of those front seats, and also distracted by the cigarette smoke outside the gallery.

Pamela (Emily Johnson, Hannah Kramer, and Jessica Cressey)

In a chance encounter with one of the Pamela creators in the downtown library a week before the Windfarm performance I learned that the title was rather disdainful to the performers. So I already had that notion in my head, and it actually made me want to see what they were up to even more.

Upon seeing these three women in their black dresses who I've seen perform countless times before, I was distracted by their elegance and gorgeousness. I found myself taking in their outfits, and I was so drawn to the details of their careful hair waves, lipstick, high waisted belts, seamed stockings and period shoes that I almost forgot to look at what was happening rather than what they were wearing. They all had a cool detached quality in their movement but primarily in their facial expressions. I instantly thought of the book Arsenic and Old Lace. Were they supposed to be sisters? Not sure. Would I have been scared to ring their doorbell at Halloween as a child? Most definitely.

The next thing I remember is Hannah Kramer's leg up in the air as she laid back on the couch. She had a captivating expression on her face, daring you to look up her skirt and yet stoic and unflappable in meeting your gaze. There seemed to be a great deal of tension in the air; something sinister seemed to be lurking around the corner. I liked that she repeated this leg raise several times; it was odd and inappropriate and jarring.

Emily Johnson headed upstage and spent much of her time on the floor almost against the back wall. I was curious what she was doing but her departure upstage and far away as possible suggested some reluctance to share what she knew. At one point I remember her jumping backwards in a series of spasms. The height and extension of her leg always surprises and impresses me; they're almost like wings and I wanted to see more of that.

The first time Jessica Cressey disappeared into the back room and closed the glass door was intriguing. The sound of a power drill coming from that back room lent a particularly creepy edge to the scene and for me recalled Tom Waits' song "What's he building in there?" Once Jessica Cressey came out wearing fabulous pants it was a great surprise but then I expected the others to follow suit so it was something of a letdown when this did occur.

I became less interested once the wall was rolled forward, probably because I was standing in the back on tiptoe and couldn't see much of anything downstage and on the floor. I also couldn't read the cue cards from my vantage point so wasn't sure what clues they provided. I also found the moving of the zillion chairs predictable; I wanted to see them move rather than furniture.

I was unclear what they were trying to accomplish towards the end where Hannah Kramer dons a head scarf and dark glasses and tells us how sad she is today. It seemed like part of a different piece and felt out of place. I wanted her character to either get intensely sad or angry, but the detached delivery left me feeling a bit empty and I felt myself pull back out of the experience.

Parts that brought me back and engaged me? One instance was Jessica Cressey crossing the stage grinning with wild eyes, looking slightly unhinged. When she rolled backwards on paint cans with that same grin, I half expected her to start slinging paint all over the audience and gallery. I liked that feeling where the moment had the potential to go in a violent direction (at least I liked it from the back of the room where I was safe).

Another instance was the ending where Emily Johnson removes the top half of her dress and sits in the row of chairs with a scarf over her head. We cannot see her face. The side view of her bare shoulders suggested an almost doctor's appointment-room vulnerability and she disappeared into anonymity. It was a small, lonely and successful image.

There were some exciting movement phrases executed (I say executed because there was an exactness and clarity to them which seemed fitting to the characters based on their attention to detail in dress) both upstage and down. I remember angles and long lines on the diagonal and some air time. They performed these phrases with the same cool and calm exterior that permeated the majority of the piece.

Lastly, Jessica Cressey's first time sticking her head into the wall cavity (which I'd never knew existed before that night) was brilliant and unexpected. It reminded me of a dumbwaiter chamber and echoed the initial impression I had of these mysterious women as somehow related, living in a giant antique house. When her head disappeared into the wall I imagined her looking down into the basement. That must be where they keep the bodies.

DATE: Mon, 7 May 2007 17:05:24 -0500
FROM: Hannah Kramer

Windfarm

Sarah twice removed but still in her baby skeleton predicting the now as her grandmother.

In a paper trail of age old stories laced with pesticides and lofty promises for perfect improvement, there is a younger generation picking up the pieces. And on older generation with time out of their hands.

The nostalgia of the family farm. Dancing under grandmas magical weeping willow. On an unfertilized lawn.

They felt a panic to make improvements on a good idea that never needed it?

Sarah is every age she'll ever be and every age her grandmother ever wasand doning glittery headbands to keep her windblown hair out of her face. Even that breeze was wasted. While cabbages gag out poison.

Go ahead and be exhausted from holding yourself up in the gusts. Or let it flush some color into your cheeks and it'll send you to a place where falling down is just your way of mocking the windmill in friendly play.

FROM: Emily Johnson
Re: Windfarm Series #2, part 3, Rogue Buddha Gallery

One for Resolve/Sarah
performed by Sarah Baumert

I watched Sarah Baumert perform One for Resolve/Sarah at the Rogue Buddha on 4.24.07. I also choreographed it. I also made cabbage rolls for the audience the night before the show with Sarah, at her apartment.

I remember sitting in bed with mono with my computer on my lap, emailing back and forth with Sarah about this solo, about windmills, and about a broken windmill at her grandmother's farm, specifically. Sarah told me a heartbreaking story about life, love, work, commitment, natural forces, adversity, fields, and death. Then Sarah called her grandma. Sarah's grandma told Sarah a heartbreaking story about life, love, work, commitment, natural forces, adversity, fields, and death. We recorded this story. We decided we wanted to fix the windmill. We asked if we could come to Nebraska, to the farm. Not just Sarah and I, but Sarah and I and Susan, Natasha, Andrea, Melissa, and Jessica. We planned to dance. To listen to Sarah's grandma's stories. We planned to cook good meals. We planned to perform for her family. We planned on fixing the windmill.

In Nebraska, Sarah showed us the farm and we danced all over that farm. There is a clearing just behind the house and when I saw it I wrote: The last time I was here, I saw two people - clearing brush, stacking wood, pulling weeds. Making piles and wearing flannel shirts, they worked quietly. Stopping, hands on hips and looking toward the road when a car drives by, they lift just one hand in a wave. Or, taking the same stance only looking up, the one hand now shielding their eyes, they take audible and deep breaths in whenever a hawk flies overhead. I stand, just a bit outside the clearing. My hands are on my hips. My feet are a little wet because it rained all morning. The wood is still stacked, but the weeds have made their way back. A truck drives down the road, but there's no sense in waving, I've no idea who it is. There's only so much work you can do in a lifetime.

I was thinking of life, love, work, commitment, natural forces, adversity, fields, and death.

There is a photograph inside of the house on the farm that also makes me think of life, love, work, commitment, natural forces, adversity, fields, and death. Sarah told me her grandfather had once cupped a near-death bird in his hands, massaging and rubbing the bird until it came back to life. When I saw the photograph I cried.

Sarah's grandma doesn't farm anymore, but she lives and works like a farmer. She is up at dawn, working, very often outside. There is a truck on the farm. When we were there the trucks' bed was filled with large branches and tree limbs that had fallen in a recent storm. A few years ago I gave Sarah a truck for her birthday. A miniature one, of course. I can't remember if it was white or yellow, but at the time it made me think of this truck on her grandma's farm she kept telling me about. This is what I wrote after Sarah danced in the truck: Sarah slides into the truck. The door, when it opens, falls an inch off its hinge, jarring her hand on the handle. She's barefoot and her left hand holds the wheel (it's cold). Her right hand reaches to turn on the radio and she starts to sing. She always sings when she drives these dirt roads. Moving into reverse, her grandma's truck is loud, but it's a sound Sarah likes. It rattles a little and vibrates and the gravel, once she's made it out the driveway and onto the dirt road, increases the hum, increases the vibration until it adds something to the sound of her voice...as the truck makes it way to the hill, just past the neighboring farm and line of trees, Sarah's voice and the truck ring; they drown out the radio - drown out any other noise, and for a while, it's just Sarah and the truck and the road. All three simultaneously going nowhere in particular.

When Sarah performed this solo for her family she used a fischer-price car ramp that her and her cousins had always played with while at the farm. And she wore a cowboy hat.

When Sarah performed this solo at the Rogue Buddha she wore some of her old, sequined costumes from the studio dance days. And she walked on stilts.

Once, Randy Kramer tried to show Jessica Cressey and I how to do a break-dance move that I am sure has a name, but I don't know it. It's a spin on the back, landing still and solid with your head resting on one hand. It's difficult to do (though not for a seasoned break dancer, I'm sure), especially difficult to do without hurting the skin or vertebrae on your back. Sarah does alot of them in this solo and, as a sign of her frustration with not getting it right and the difficulty of the move and as a sign of adversity and death, she says, and then screams "no!" as she does it.

Sarah "plucks cabbage" in this dance with as much ferociousness and tenderness as a seasoned gardener. She conjures images from the farm. She stands with her arms over her head like she were holding branches, she dips her fingers into a well... and these are not on the farm anymore....they are in her mind and they are transferred to us as images of Sarah dancing in the Rogue Buddha. But as she cups her hands, as she repeats and varies a phrase because she is striving to control her momentum as she is also striving to angle the phrase in a new direction, as she crab walks, as she puts on a sequined outfit behind a see-through piece of burlap, as she walks on stilts in the dark, and plays with a toy car I think of Sarah now and I think of Sarah as a child and I think of Sarah old and this makes me think of all of us and all of our lifetimes.

Sarah told me she had never danced a solo before. A soloist role, yes, but an entire solo, no. I couldn't believe it. Sarah dances solo roles well. She does a solo in another of my dances and though I've seen it about 1,000 times, she amazes me each time. The regular words like: commitment, command, vulnerability....apply, but with Sarah, those words have added meaning. I don't know why. Is it because she surprises us? Sarah was embedded in this dance, of course. It came from her real life stories and my fantasies. She danced this solo with a familiarity. That's what I have to call it. She was familiar with the story and it gave her room to expound upon what she is good at, and I think it also gave her confidence. The confidence led her to play within the structure, and the ease with which she traveled in a nonlinear frame of time (one moment 5yrs old, another 24, another 65...) pulled me out of my linear sense. It made me want to move through worlds like Sarah was doing.

Life, love, work, commitment, natural forces, adversity, fields, and death. That's alot to dance about, but it's what we live, right?

Sarah and I made a dance out of stories and then we made cabbage rolls out of cabbage, mushrooms, sauce, and spices. I got to watch Sarah take the dance and the cabbage rolls and be a hostess and be a star. The real and the imagined and the real made into the imagined and the imagined made real again.

We didn't fix the windmill when we went to Nebraska. It had lain in the field for almost 20 years, but as we prepared and embarked on our trip to the farm, Sarah's family was pouring concrete, reattaching parts...and the windmill was fixed by the time we got there.

post-re-view #2, in response to the 35th Annual Choreographers' Evening at the Walker Art Center.

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