Ephemeralist

Anastasia Barsukova. Photo: Igor Siggul

Around the year-end holidays, we tend to settle into traditions and habits, and dance's one uncrackable tradition is The Nutcracker. The big two, at least through this year, are Balanchine's at New York City Ballet, and Alex Ratmansky's at BAM, which moves to California next year. A number of smaller companies mount productions, and Gelsey Kirkland Ballet's has risen surprisingly quickly as an alternative to the biggies. (She established her Tribeca-based school just four years ago and in recent years has mounted three or so ambitious annual productions.)

This production, choreographed primarily by Michael Chernov after Vasali Vainonen, takes few shortcuts other than using recorded music. The steps for the group scenes are smartly kept simple, garnering the basic desired effects. The costumes (also by Chernov) look of high quality, even from the close distance afforded by the wide house at Pace's Schimmel Center. With its shallow stage, there is nowhere to hide at such a proximity; jitters, sweat, and cheap fabrics could be easily detected by viewers, and the costumes fared well in this test (as did the jitters and sweat).

Chinese Ambassadors. Photo: Igor Siggul

At the Saturday matinee, Anastasia Barsukova danced the role of Marie, in this case both as a child and an adult (and shown above as a Flute from another cast). She impressed with her strong basics—balances, extensions, pirouettes—as well as in the fine tuning of her head positions and delicate hand gestures. A radiant Anderson Souza played her Nutcracker Prince, commendable for his partnering and the athletic sweep of his grand jétés. Of the many secondary roles, of special note were Katia Raj and Shelby Chaney as the Arabian Ambassadors, both long of limb and emanating a magnetic intensity, and an energetic Galen Bolard and Souza again, as the Russian dolls.

The large group scenes felt well populated—no scrimping on the personnel—including the party scene, which the tiny Charles Klepner stole with his adorableness; the mouse/soldier battle, the snowflake dance, the angel scene, and the "Prince's Kingdom: The Theater of Life" scene with international dances. Chernov incorporated the dancers into the stage set by artfully arranging them in an upstage niche during the final scene. It's just one more indication of making the most of the company's assets, its dancers. Even the "that's theater" moments—seeing a stagehand haul the rope that moved the streetlamp, hearing the mesh-mounted Christmas tree unfold with a thud—had their charms, given the context.

With tickets ranging from $39—59, it's not the cheapest (ABT's tickets began at $20, but again, that's not an option starting next winter), but nowhere near the gulp-inducing range at the Koch Theater for NYCB's: $71—260. But it's the best production if you want your children to connect with the dancers; proximity and overcoming human vulnerability are its strengths. Kudos to Kirkland and company for making a real go at enriching ballet life in New York City. In May, the company takes on no less than a full-length Don Quixote.

Dance/performance:

Leonid Sarafanov/Mikhailovsky Ballet, The Flames of Paris
Finding new treasures in the elegant, lithe Sarafanov, who performed in much of the Mikhailovsky's rep, including the Soviet-era spectacle Flames of Paris

Melissa Toogood (Petronio, Sally Silvers, Pam Tanowitz)
This all-purpose excellent Merce alum popped up, delightfully, everywhere.

Met Museum Presents
Twinned: John Heginbotham/Alarm Will Sound and El Greco/Cappella de Ministrers
One of the world's great museum's finds strong traction and modern relevance in its performing program.

Kyle Abraham/Glenn Ligon's Watershed at NYLA
A harmonic partnership of movement and visuals.

What's It All About: Bacharach Reimagined, New York Theatre Workshop
Connecting pop music of yore to musical theater of today.

Art:

Chris Ofili, New Museum
A stunning exhibition, mounted beautifully.

Lee Krasner/Norman Lewis, Jewish Museum
Two overlooked expressionist greats given some overdue attention.

Books:

The Foundling Boy, Michel Leon

All the Birds, Singing, Evie Wyld

All the Light We Cannot See, Anthony Doerr

The Mad and the Bad, Jean-Patrick Manchette (this is old, but new to me)

Collected Short Stories, Lydia Davis

One More Thing, BJ Novak

The Miniaturist, Jessie Norton

Overhyped books:

The Book of Strange New Things, Michel Faber

The Bone Clocks, David Mitchell

Goodbyes, or at least for now:

Whitney Museum on Madison Avenue

Wendy Whelan at New York City Ballet

Looking ahead...

Sports—Signs of Life after dismal seasons:

Jacob de Grom, Mets

Odell Beckham Jr., NY Giants

Modern Dance's Future Pivots:

Paul Taylor's American Modern Dance
The repertory floodgates open to other choreographers' work. First up: Doris Humphrey's Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor danced by the Limon Company, and Shen Wei's Rite of Spring danced by his own company (seven times!). The selection of Shen Wei is, artistically, somewhat mystifying, although the two companies share deep roots at ADF.

Stephen Petronio's Bloodlines Project
A five-year project to revive modern masterpieces to which Petronio connects, just as the companies of some of modern's greats are shutting down. First up: Cunningham's RainForest. How handy that Toogood (see above) has been guesting with the company lately. The following year brings Trisha Brown's Glacial Decoy. Can't wait.

Hello again:

Whitney Museum near the Highline

Wendy Whelan doing other stuff

ODETTA. Photo: Steve Wilson

If there's one person within the Ailey company who represents its soul, it might be Matthew Rushing, who has been with the troupe for 22 years and is now rehearsal director and a guest artist. As a dancer, he is noted for his humility, speed, accuracy, and the gift of parsimonious but deeply meaningful expression. When some dancers try to go big and spin off energy, Rushing seems to focus his energy like a laser beam and direct it precisely where it counts. As a choreographer, he is just beginning; he has made three works for Ailey, and ODETTA—which premiered this season—shows he has a very promising future making dances.

This tribute to the folk singer (embodied in the dance with great strength and nobility by Akua Noni Parker) naturally uses a selection of her songs interspersed with spoken and projected quotations affirming human rights and self-respect. Each song carries a different message, which Rushing elaborates upon. Some of the sections are earnest and forthright, others—"A Hole in the Bucket," in which Jacqueline Green and Yannick Lebrun act out the silly lyrics—exaggerated to the point of slapstick. The men go to war, and put on helmets, to underscore the action. Travis George's flexible set, of a series of lightweight benches with geometric cutouts, is arranged in a number of inventive ways. But on the whole, it's Rushing's choreographic style that propels the work, at times thrillingly. He parlays what would seem right on his own body into a vocabulary for the whole group—fluid phrases with precise gestures that connect directly with what Ailey produced, particularly in Revelations.

The penultimate section that takes place downstage shows great skill. Initiated by a soldier going to war under a giant American flag, the dancers enter from the side in a line, holding hands, and shift through compact moves, pulsing and morphing; the group halves and the two parts alternate directions. It's almost as if the tightened spatial parameters were conducive to more creativity. (Earlier, we'd seen iterations of the forward-advancing line—in Hofesh Shechter's Uprising, which begins as the men stride to the apron and hit a passé, which they hold for a good long minute, and in Jacqulyn Buglisi's Suspended Women, when 15 women rustle their voluminous skirts as they advance downstage.) Rushing takes the subject matter to heart, and the song's messages resonate anew.

ODETTA. Photo: Steve Wilson

I recall Uprising (2006) differently from the company's 2008 Fall for Dance appearance, but perhaps it is simply Shechter's volatile, athletic language on Ailey's men instead of his own company. It shows how the Batsheva alum uses darkness and light to control the stage space and the level of drama. Stillness alternates with speed; gravity remains in control, as when the men motor about on all fours. The tongue-in-cheek Misérables finale—a red flag held aloft a pile of men, accompanied by a cheesy smile—put an odd exclamation point on an otherwise serious dance, as if to say, "just kidding!".

As a bookend, the company's women (and four men) danced Suspended Women (2000). The lavish, Victorian-style dresses (by Christina Giannini) evoke both hyper femininity and its flip side, entrapment. Lines of dancers ebb and flow; there is much darting, skipping, and management of flouncy skirts and hoops. The men enter late in the work to lift and lug the women, doff their jackets to reveal bare chests, and disappear again. Daniel Bernard Roumain's score, using primarily violin and piano, grates at times. And at moments, especially toward the end, Martha Graham's influence can be felt in the urgent stage crossings. Yet the company felt truly at home in Rushing's work. It was an evening without Revelations per se, but with some promising revelations of its own.

Alexander Dones in Mo(or)town/Redux. Photo: Christopher Duggan

Doug Elkins' program at the Joyce this week shows two sides of his artistic sensibility—the playful, lighthearted goofball in Hapless Bizarre, and the serious dramatist in Mo(or)Town/Redux (2012). While there are some sweet moments in the first work (a premiere), it's a tall task to ask it to stand next to the taut, compelling second work, which takes nothing less than the story of Othello and Limon's modern dance classic Moor's Pavane as influences.

Hapless Bizarre has a thin filament of a narrative thread. A nerdy, bespectacled guy (the vaudeville performer and clown Mark Gindick) chases, and is chased by, a black hat, which is replaced by a mauve hat, a harbinger of creativity and the onslaught of a gang of free spirits wearing paisley and bright colors (costumes by Oana Botez). Amanda Ringger designed the lighting, which perhaps includes the psychedelic projections. Gindick is swept along in familiar ways—first as an outsider, and eventually as a unique member of this fun-loving group. Elkins uses social dance and pedestrian movements, including basic interactions that resemble how children behave. It's a less studied vocabulary, more relatable. The music (credited as "musical supervision and original music: Justin Levine and Matt Stine") is a melange of mostly romantic songs hewing to the nouvelle chanteuse; I recognized Madeleine Peyroux, but regrettably the specific artists included are not listed.

Donnell Oakley and Kyle Marshall in Hapless Bizarre. Photo: Jamie Kraus

In any case, the songs are not as familiar as those that accompany Mo(or)Town/Redux, which are mostly Motown staples. These are also not credited specifically, but the emotional evocativeness of many of the songs by artists such as Stevie Wonder, Otis Redding, and Amy Winehouse drives the work forward inexorably, with shifting dynamics. Jose Limon created the source dance which tells the Shakespeare story with audacious simplicity—of love, deceit, misunderstanding, and tragedy as told through a single misplaced hanky. Elkins was wise enough to base his dance on the solid bones of Moor's Pavane, but he leaves his mark in his fluid, eclectic choreography, with bits of modern connecting hip-hop and court dance. It already feels like an indispensable classic, despite its recent provenance.

Kyle Marshall makes a striking first image as the Othello figure, dressed in a suit and handling a mic and stand like Steven Tyler. Donnell Oakley, as his queen, and Cori Marquis, as the friend, convey jubilation and dreamy romance. But Alexander Dones is the dark Iagoian heart and quicksilver soul of the dance, with his elastic, compact body and coiled energy. He also embodies the everyman, as Elkins can (does) when he performs. It makes the sui generis choreography even more accessible, even if that's a quixotic illusion. Perhaps the one drawback of including this dance is the difficulty in matching its artistic achievement. Call it the Revelations Syndrome.

Ida Praetorius and Andreas Kaas in Flower Festival in Genzano. Photo: Yi-Chun Wu

There is simply nothing like the choreography of August Bournonville. With so much amazing ballet in the city, it is still a rare treat to see lead dancers from the Royal Danish Ballet in a program of Bournonville excerpts at the Joyce. The repertory dates to the mid-19th century, yet feels timeless. Its breadth is represented here and includes a modern-feeling male duet of Jockey Dance to the glorious abundance of the folk-infused Napoli, Act III. The lack of sets may actually serve to let the dance emerge more clearly.

What defines this distinct style? Some thoughts:

Susanne Grinder and Ulrik Birkkjaer in Napoli.
Photo: Costin Radu

The inventive phrasing which can change directions in the blink of an eye.
The thrilling musicality, which underscores the cursive flow of the dance phrasing.
Moments of stillness in contrast to great space-eating passages.
An entire section of grand allegro in which a man's feet barely touch the floor.
Details such as landing a jump with the arms held above the head with the palms facing outward rather than inward; or turn preparation from the second position rather than fourth; or landing a pirouette gently in a closed fifth position.
There is such joy and life in the style, while it retains a consistent elegance and purity. This attitude is summed up in the signature leap, with the front leg straight, the trailing leg bent to form a split, and the arms spreading in front in a welcoming gesture.

The signature leap, shown by Alban Lendorf. Photo: Costin Radu

Ulrik Birkkjaer, a principal dancer who also organized the tour, exemplifies the company's style and aesthetic. In La Sylphide, kilt-clad, he leaps and slices across the stage like a laser beam, his ballon and precision astonishing—and effortless. All of the other 12 dancers on this ingenious bill gave charming, smart performances that deepened a love of the art form. This includes Sorella Englund, a former principal, now a character artist and ballet master, who performed the sorceress in La Sylphide and reminded us of the keen importance of gesture and acting. One single terrifying gesture of hers aimed at Birkkjaer seemed to drive him into the ground, and it certainly electrified us mortal viewers.

While the company, now led by NYCB alum Nikolai Hübbe, is uniquely prepared to perform Bournonville, even its skilled members encountered some difficulties, no doubt magnified by our close proximity to the stage. Wobbly balances, an occasional unpointed foot, indecisive finishes to pirouettes, a tendency to push a few degrees too hard to achieve more height... all reminders that very few other companies could undertake this exquisite, difficult repertory.

Read Marina Harss' New York Times piece here.

Tyler Angle and Maria Kowrowski in Symphony in C. Photo: Paul Kolnik

The last couple of months have brought to New York some of the world's great ballet companies, including the Royal Danish Ballet, the Mikhailovksy, and the Mariinsky, not to mention our native ABT. Returning to New York City Ballet this week, I felt a renewed appreciation for this cultural mainstay even after—or because of—seeing these other companies.

Even as new choreographers emerge and ascend at NYCB—Wheeldon, Ratmansky, and now Justin Peck, within the last decade—it will always be about Balanchine. Obviously the deep repertory remains the font that feeds the whole enterprise, with his teaching principles and the legacies of his tutelage and choreographic process steadily driving things.

Balanchine's invention, love of craft, and attention to detail made dances that demand a high level of technique and artistry. Because of this, the dancers of NYCB are the most broadly skilled and well-prepared in the field. But the large size of the company can also mean that dancers become specialized, only getting cast in certain types of parts, or worse, getting overlooked. Some dancers seem to be in everything, others simply disappear for seasons at a time.

Some notes on the Winter Season's first two all-Balanchine programs, and a few notable recurring partnerships:

Ashley Bouder in Donizetti Variations. Photo: Paul Kolnik

Donizetti Variations (1960) is all breakneck speed, petit allegro, tricky timing, virtuosity. It is why dancers like Ashley Bouder and Andrew Veyette exist. They were paired again in the first movement of Symphony in C on the second program. There is great joy in their dancing, but at times it feels as if efficiency and hitting the marks supersede interpretation and nuance. Bouder is often ahead of the tempo, even if she lingers extra long in a balance to compensate, and she pushes moves past known limits. Veyette is ever eager, and when he's on his leg, he can spin endlessly.

Sara Mearns and Tyler Angle, who led the cast of La Valse (1951) with Justin Peck as the macabre figure, are the opposite. They fill out the music with plushness and detail, injecting drama at every opportunity. There is risk and thrill in everything Mearns does, and Angle supports her while offering his own superb panache and peerless ballon. Mearns danced in Serenade as well, with Jared Angle, lending a dramatic depth that can sometimes be missing in this perennial favorite. Tyler partnered Maria Kowroski in the second movement of Symphony in C, lending his surehandedness to another leggy dancer whose amplitude and line are often breathtaking, despite an emotional guardedness.

Teresa Reichlen danced with Adrian Danchig-Waring in Chaconne and Agon on two programs. Both fairly independent spirits, they are tuning into one another. Danchig-Waring is seasoning as a principal, relaxing and savoring his time onstage. In ballet, one can never achieve perfection, and he seems to be accepting this in spite of his nature. Reichlen's height is no impediment to her moving quickly and with precision. She remains the cool kid who can send a message with a glance.

Notable role debuts:

Anthony Huxley in Agon. He appears to have gained strength in the upper body, as well as confidence, and is soaking up and reflecting more of the audience's energy.
Joseph Gordon and Lauren Lovette in Symphony in C's third movement. His jumps soar, to match his already high level of confidence. Her fluency and delicacy add a joy to this danciest of sections.
Lauren King in Symphony in C's fourth section. An assured performance by a relatively new soloist; we'll certainly be seeing her in more prominent roles.

Like the Royal Danish Ballet, which boasts the Bournonville repertory as the key to its legacy, NYCB will always have Balanchine's oeuvre as its source of power. The company is in fine shape to share those gifts of invention, musicality, and joie de vivre.

Rodeo. Photo: Paul Kolnik

These days, a New York City Ballet premiere by Justin Peck is big news, and Rodeo: Four Dance Episodes (sans the editor's nightmare of diacriticals) certainly adds to his rapidly growing stock of lively, thrilling ballets. Also of interest is the dance's context; it followed Ratmansky's recent Pictures at an Exhibition, and preceded Wheeldon's Mercurial Manoeuvres. There are links and degrees of influence among these guys, who are among the top ballet choreographers in demand.

This new four-section work to Copland's score contains broad themes of energy, weather, and nature. Peck breaks the fourth wall, like Ratmansky often has, most notably in Namouna. In Rodeo, which comprises 15 men and Tiler Peck, some of the men sit on the stage's edge, feet dangling over the orchestra pit, or reach toward the audience like the ham-handed effects in a 3D movie. They break poses and relax midstage as if in rehearsal, lost in thought. It's a device that invites us into their lofty realm, parlayed into a sublime heaven-on-earth by Brandon Stirling Baker's warm-hued lighting that evokes the smell of toast and hot chocolate, and shows us how spacious the Koch stage is.

The dance's sporty mood, set by athletic wear costumes by Reid Bartelme, Harriet Jung, and Peck, begins with the line of men "in the blocks" at the left, who then sprint across the stage. Daniel Ulbricht does what he does, which is spin, leap, and fly. The group of men fracture into small groups, supporting one in suspended or poses, or lifting one like a slow-motion carousel pony. Tiler Peck and Amar Ramasar, in an extended duet, move eloquently, unfurling into striking poses, including a lift in which Peck vamps like a bathing suit model, flaunting her bare legs. Ramasar bends down to pull a cord, like starting a lawn mower, as the percussionist makes a similar noise. Gonzalo Garcia—like Ulbricht, an underutilized principal—is featured in the fourth movement. The group huddles and blossoms opens to reveal a soloist, like unwrapping a present. The eye is constantly fed, and there's plenty left to see in repeated viewings.

Pictures at an Exhibition. Photo: Paul Kolnik

There's a collegiality in Peck's dances that can only be enhanced by his position as a dancer. The new film Ballet 422, by Jody Lee Lipes, focuses on Peck's creation of another NYCB commission, Paz de la Jolla. Free of talking heads, it trails Peck as a dancer—in class, putting on makeup, backstage pre-show; and as a choreographer—in the studio alone with only his iPhone to record his own movement experiments, with Tiler Peck and Ramasar, in meetings with the lighting and costume designers, working at home. It is remarkable how self-possessed and focused he is for a 25-year-old (it was largely shot three years ago). Seeing the premiere of Rodeo just after watching Ballet 422 only multiplies the amount of respect I have for this young artist, who has already contributed some major ballets to the company's rich holdings.

New to roles—Pictures: Georgina Pascoguin (Sara Mearns' role), extraordinarily dramatic and risk-taking; wonderful to see this veteran soloist in featured roles which show her full dancing potential (we already know she's a fantastic dramatic artist). Sterling Hyltin (Wendy Whelan's role) conveys a similar clarity and deftness to Whelan, but has yet to gain the depth that may simply come with experience. Mercurial—the apprentice Preston Chambliss, with endless legs and ballon, a gifted young dancer in a state of emergence. Russell Janzen, a new soloist, partnering Sara Mearns; they are wonderfully proportioned together, and his coolness complements her fire.

Shantavia Beale II, 2012. Photo: Jason Wyche

There are many levels in appreciating Kehinde Wiley's work, the subject of an overview at the Brooklyn Museum, in a show subtitled The New Republic, through May 24. On the surface, the painting is technically impressive; his palette vibrant; the compositions energized by pattern-on-pattern. He is a perfectionist, apparent from the high level of finish in his carefully constructed frames and totality of presentation. And while he calls out the old master works after which he creates his compositions, the overall balance between central figure and secondary pattern is finely tuned. He plays with foreground and background, at times weaving floral garlands around the human subjects. (In this profile, he notes that assistants handle those elements, among other things.)

On a contextual level, Wiley is sui generis. His portraits of black people, mostly in their own clothes or modern-day dress, feature them in heroic poses patterned after classical works, including sculptures. The wall labels often feature photos of the source work, which is a welcome step in a time rampant with appropriation and unacknowledged re-use (ahem, Richard Prince).

The Archangel Gabriel, 2014.
Photo: Susan Yung

More than most contemporary artists, Wiley is acutely aware of art history and its religious, societal, and political beginnings. While juxtaposing modern black youth with the European cultural tradition so prevalent in American education, he is capturing his own time's people and customs of dress. A series of compact altar portraits depicts young men in saintly poses; the elaborate steepled frames are gilded in 24K gold leaf. A series of six stained glass panels similarly combine ancient ecclesiastical forms with contemporary young men. It raises questions: have these men done things to merit such sanctification? Were people who were similarly sanctified centuries before much different than you and I and the man up the block?

Femme piquée par un serpent, 2008. Courtesy Sean Kelly Gallery

The long central gallery contains many of Wiley's heroic, large-scale portraits. Several men sit atop horses (including Michael Jackson, in his high-late period face). A number of the paintings are from his "World Stage" series, taking classic works of art from various countries such as China, Haiti, and Turkey, subjects updated. Examples of paintings derived from sculpture include Femme piquée par un serpent (2008), based on a marble by Auguste Clésinger. The young man, underwear bared modishly, twists awkwardly, as the original female model must have, albeit even more so, nude. Wiley, however, has chosen to have the man stare directly at us. He is self-conscious, and we are self-conscious staring back.

Colonel Platoff on His Charger, 2007.

Photo: Susan Yung

Recent portraits of women comprise the final gallery. Until now, he has focused on young men to whom, as a gay man, he might be attracted. The depicted women, while noble and self-assured, are not asked to pose heroically, even if the source paintings are antique—as much a comment on the historical treatment of women in art as the contemporary version.

In many of the paintings, the women simply exist amid the flora surrounding them, rather than dominate. Some wear elegant evening dresses that can be read in terms of socio-economics. Hair is sometimes done up in an elaborate beehive. A bronze sculpture, Bound (2014), features three women whose hair is braided together.

The exhibition, curated by Eugenie Tsai, finds particular resonance at the Brooklyn Museum, where ancient culture meets broad racial diversity. Wiley's work feels like a portal in which time has collapsed, and eras are conflated. It's an exhilarating ride.

Misty Copeland & Lloyd Knight, At Summer's Full. Photo: Brigid Pierce

Martha Graham Dance Company is celebrating its 89th year with a two-week run at the Joyce, with the theme Shape&Design. Misty Copeland guest starred on the opening night gala program in At Summer's Full (1940), a joyful dance that is part of Letter to the World, with new costumes (the originals were destroyed in Hurricane Sandy). While Copeland is not a native Graham dancer, her natural luminous stage presence and fully-articulated lines sang the choreography beautifully.

Michelle Dorrance's Lamentation Variation. Photo: Christopher Jones

The new Lamentations Variations show how a good idea can develop into a grand one. A film clip of Graham performing it leads off, a reminder of how fully integrated for her were form and message. Liz Gerring's displayed the drama she can squeeze out of simple stage formations. Michelle Dorrance's played on the snappy and jangly rhythms of the music, which included her own tapping. Kyle Abraham's tender duet articulated difference and harmony. Sonya Tayeh maximized the visual impact of the muscular dancers' limbs and feet, akin to So You Think You Can Dance, for which she has choreographed. This modular Lamentation series, which recruits new choreographic talent to the troupe, also demonstrates how small blocks can build a substantial edifice—much as Graham Company has done since its renascence.

Steps in the Street. Design by Frank Gehry. Photo: Brigid Pierce

Hewing to the season's theme of shape, Frank Gehry designed visual elements for Steps in the Street, Graham's classic war-time suite. The projected result is an animated illustration, a sort of volcano-shaped massing of lines that swiveled and blurred but remained secondary to the vibrant urgency of the womens' actions. Despite the mixed combined result, the attempt to enliven the repertory is admirable. Experimentation is once again a driving tenet.

Dance-theater artist Annie-B Parson was commissioned to create a premiere, The Snow Falls in the Winter. Her work is based on the Ionesco play The Lesson, and it fits surprisingly well within the Graham canon. Much of the movement is mime, or stage direction-type bursts (such phrases comprise part of the ample spoken text), but Parson puts the highly-trained dancers' skills to use in deep lunges, layouts, and extended legs held high (XiaoChuan Xie even waves a hand fan with her foot at one point). Technique aside, the company is comfortable with dramatic demands.

In a direct line to Graham's work, Tadej Brdnik repeats some of the Minotaur's steps from Errand into the Maze, which had preceded Snow Falls on the program. The short-act tempo makes for lively viewing. Various props are clues to an admittedly absurdist affair—children's furniture, mics, a mysterious package, a dropped book, the fan. The Eagles'"Hotel California" is, intriguingly, played backwards (music is credited to David Lang), lending another element both familiar and disarming.

Annie-B Parson's The Snow Falls in Winter. Photo: Brigid Pierce

Andonis Foniadakis'Echo, created last year, was performed again. The dance intrigues with the choreographer's opulent, circular movement style, enhanced with long flaring column skirts for all. PeiJu Chien-Pott was ravishing and forceful, buzzing like a live wire and swinging her long ponytail like a lasso, ready to rope anyone nearby. But the work runs too long, indulging a recurring and extended male duet (Lloyds Knight and Mayor) to the point of exhaustion.

Artistic director Janet Eilber is succeeding in honoring Graham's legacy, enlisting artists to add to the repertory, resurrecting damaged sets and costumes, and engaging audiences with her pre-performance notes, which have become a familiar element at the company's performances. It's a positive takeaway as the Graham season closes on the eve of the first Paul Taylor's American Modern Dance season, which is promoting the incipient inclusion of works by choreographers who are not Paul Taylor—this year, Doris Humphrey and Shen Wei. To be continued.

Annique Roberts in The Subtle One. Photo: Ayodele Casel

Evidence at the Joyce, Feb 24, 2015

A great distinction about Ronald Brown's 2014 dance, The Subtle One, is its jazz score by Jason Moran, played live by his trio in Tuesday's performance at the Joyce Theater. It had been awhile since I'd heard jazz played live for dance; so much of what is played live falls under the Bang on a Can style of new music, often without a melody or flowing pulse. So it was a pleasure to hear music by Moran, who scored the film Selma, plus a song by Tarus Mateen, who played bass.

The dance is, like its title, a subtle one. The smoldering star Annique Roberts begins moving at an even, moderate pace, marked by unfurling arms and a oft-repeated balance in which the she reaches forward yearningly with one arm. She is joined by the rest of the company, which breaks from briskly rhythmic ensemble sections into twos and threes, arms pumping like locomotive wheels. The work, while unspecific in story, refers to a stanza by Alan Harris about the strength of spirituality. The overall elegiac quality of the piece is enhanced by the white and peach-ombréd tunics, by Keiko Voltaire.

In a program note, Brown talks about his dance as storytelling, as well as acknowledging previous accomplishments in addition to doing new things. In that context, he revived sections from a 1995 suite, Lessons: Exotica & March. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s reverberent words accompany the first section, a bold duet (led by Roberts) and manifestation of Dr. King's controlled power. In the second section, the company wears multi-hued panné velvet separates (a bit of a time stamp), and the pace picks up speed and flowing club rhythms as music replaces Dr. King's voice, eventually changing to a hymn. Rounding out the program was Grace, Brown's best-known work that is an Ailey repertory staple. The choreographer cameoed in the piece, which featured the luminous, lush-moving Clarice Young. One change: the men kept their shirts on in a usually bare-chested section that often garners some good-natured catcalls. It diminished slightly the idea of the spiritual side of physicality, while upping the humility quotient.

Lauren Lovette as Juliet. Photo: Paul Kolnik

Romeo & Juliet, New York City Ballet, Feb 21, 2015

The good news is that Lauren Lovette and Chase Finlay made for an fresh, intriguing Juliet and Romeo last Saturday at New York City Ballet. The less fortunate news is that it was in the production by Peter Martins, with designs by Per Kirkeby. I discussed its drawbacks previously; another viewing only reinforced these points. I will add that there's far too much sword fighting, which—despite the actual clanking of metal on metal—is probably not coached and rehearsed enough to justify its prolonged length.

Back to the cast. Finlay was born to play Romeo, with his runway-ready looks and natural elegance and hauteur. He has matured artistically in the last few years, and has endured injuries and rehab while filling out his tall frame; he's no longer the young prodigy who rocketed to principal rank. But he is in the spring of his career, and well-positioned to take on this big role.

Also in bloom is Lovette, a soloist who has earned a number of big roles recently. She threw herself completely into the role of Juliet, at moments slipping in her tussle with her parents (Rebecca Krohn and Ask La Cour) and Paris (Russell Janzen), such was her ardor. She has the delicate physique to play a believable Juliet for years to come, riding the cusp between youth and adulthood. Her spine is supremely flexible to create a deep arch in the several draped-backbend lifts she endures. She has an innate sweetness that here, when fractured in moments of tragedy, evokes empathy for the fall of innocence. One drawback: her small head and face make it difficult to read her expressions at a medium distance.

In supporting roles, it surely is a coincidence that Romeo's buddies Mercutio and Benvolio were danced by Harrison _ _ll—Ball and Coll, both of the same approximate size and hair color. Ball infused his Mercutio with an athletic playfulness. Tybalt was danced by Sebastian Villarini-Velez, requisitely sharp and cutting in his acid-yellow costume. Janzen, a soloist, danced the perpetually thankless role of Paris as well as could be expected, with an oleaginous grace and indignation. One can hope that a new production of R&J transpires before too long, while this company is atwinkle with this galaxy of young stars.

Komar & Melamid, Super Objects: Super Comfort
for Super People, 1977

Eva Kotatkova, Not How People Move But What Moves Them, 2013
Photo: Susan Yung

The New Museum's triennial, entitled Surround Audience, culls art by more than 50 creators from 25 countries. It's far too dense to absorb in one visit, but even if that's all you do, you'll come away with a snapshot of what's happening around the world, and some strong impressions of work that concerns the global environment as well as political, social, and economic issues. Here are a few that stuck with me.

Antoine Catala's Distant Feel is a mesmerizing sculptural installation comprising sea creatures living on the characters "E3." The plumbing and filtration are integrated into the piece, lit by deep blue neon.

Antoine Catala, Distant Feel, 2015.
Photo: Susan Yung

Eva Kotalkova's nostalgic room-sized installation of objects and artifacts that slide between function, torture, and whimsy. Performers demonstrate some of the pieces at work. (I was unavoidably reminded of Komar & Melamid's series of Super Objects from the 1970s.)

Shreyas Karle's installation of relic-like objects, in a separate room, felt related to Kotalkova's work. This repository of small objects made of copper, plaster, and other assorted materials keyed off of both sexual and religious fetishes.

Juliana Huxtable's inkjet print series, Universal Crop Tops for All the Self Canonized Saints of Becoming, feel like surreally accurate depictions of sci-fi fiction, with their hyperreal, idealized women amid unfamiliar environments.

Eduardo Navarro, Timeless Alex. Photo: Benoit Palley

Frank Benson's Juliana is a partner piece, by intent or proximity, that occupies front and center on the second floor. It's a lustrous, life-sized sculpture that parallels Huxtable's women; its media is listed as "painted Accura ® Xtreme Plastic rapid prototype," for what it's worth.

Onejoon Che's installation depicts a series of heroic monuments in Africa, built by a North Korean company. They could be in a number of locations where propaganda has thrived, recording some kind of universal language for terrible public art.

Eduardo Navarro's Timeless Alex combines a sense of poetry in its title as well as the concept—a costume that replicates an extinct Galapagos tortoise, which performers will don and move about in.

Brian Knep, Healing #1. Photo: Feldman Gallery

Wave and Particle, a group show at Ronald Feldman Gallery through March 21, showcases work by artists funded by Creative Capital. It's a terrific survey of artists who may not be brand new names, as many in the Triennial are (to me, in any case), but their inclusion in such a show means they have earned a number of accolades.

A number incorporate video or photography, such as Brian Knep's Healing #1, an interactive floor piece that you can rearrange by walking across.

A few other highlights: Shih-Chieh Huang's Nocturne-II, a joyous mixed media mechanized sculpture whose plastic sleeve arms inflate like a comical octopus; Jason Salavon's eerie Rembrandt and Velasquez sin rostro portraits; and Ken Gonzales-Day's haunting wallpaper photograph of a tree, After the Crowd. With art fair madness about to begin, this show is well worth a visit.

Hyltin, Mearns, Melnick, Mitchell, and some viewers. Photo: Ian Douglas

The New York dance ecosystem is big. It contains several distinct groups that usually maintain a safe distance from one another; the main ones being ballet, modern, and Broadway. Lately, there's been more mixing between them than in recent memory, and it's primarily ballet stars dipping their calloused toes into other ponds. Broadway shows now star the Fairchild siblings, NYCB principals Megan and Robert, as well as his spouse, Tiler Peck. A number of ballet dancers have hatched their own small troupes to experiment with dance hybrid forms; they often employ their talented large company mates to perform (Troy Schumacher, Michele Wiles, Craig Salstein).

The most recent experiment began by Danspace Project director Judy Hussie-Taylor inviting critic/poet Claudia La Rocco to curate the space's spring platform, which is titled Dancers, Buildings and People in the Streets. A series of Dance Dialogues combine dancers from ballet and modern worlds.

starts and fits, no middles no ends: 8 unfinished dances featured NYCB stars Sara Mearns and Sterling Hyltin paired with, respectively, Cunningham alum and independent success Rashaun Mitchell and Jodi Melnick, a luminous presence who has danced with numerous descendants of the Trisha Brown tree, including Brown herself, and choreographed as well.

Sara Mearns. Photo: Ian Douglas

It was no surprise that given the venue—fertile turf for post-modern creativity—the ballerinas looked somewhat out of place at first, in warm-up type clothing (by Reid Bartelme) and sneakers. It was not until they moved in their own classical language that they seemed to relax, doing what they've trained their whole lives to do, and that includes not looking ungraceful or untrained.

Melnick and Mitchell comported themselves as distinctively as they have in their own projects. Melnick's every move is purposeful and linked to her next; she rarely inserts breaks into what read as structured improvisations, but which are probably carefully choreographed. She maintains an alert but broad focus that never reads as a specific emotion, until she is coached by Hyltin to do so in a hilarious Somnambula coaching session.

Mitchell did a masterful improv with four chairs hanging from his body. He is a rare combination of subtle and strong, at times nearly ruthless, as when he ran headlong toward one of the viewers sitting in the performance area. (Two of these viewers were a critic and choreographer who could not resist exchanging whispers during much of the early stages of the performance, and by their location became chatty set pieces.) And—huzzah—he was asked only once or twice to support his female collaborators, two of whom spend a lot of time being lifted or steadied by men.

Mearns is the moment's leading ballerina. Her utter abandon and emotional outpouring in NYCB performances are made possible by her technical prowess, without which she couldn't be free to communicate all that she does. She is fearless and emotionally giving in the many ballets in which she now stars. Stripped of distance and formality, she became even more human. She walked without grace—like a Neanderthal, as a viewer behind me put it—particularly in her first costume of sneakers and multi-colored workout tights. When she changed into a sparkly beige romper and soft ballet slippers, she took on several layers of glamour that more typify her presence. She flashed her split extensions, shapely feet, and pliable back, releasing into a deep back arch with a slowly blossoming port de bras. She had transformed from ape to angel, grinning with happiness.

Hyltin is another radiant principal, quicksilver and delicate in her ballet roles. She seemed reluctant to diverge from ballet steps during improv sections, quoting some Balanchine here and there. One of her costumes, a short leather circle skirt, felt odd. But she hit her stride while coaching Melnick as La Somnambula, a NYCB rep staple. After Melnick stole the show by responding exaggeratedly to Hyltin's spoken notes—"more pain, now bump him," evoking a moan and a hip check—the ballerina demonstrated the proper way, and why she is a highly respected and beloved dancer.

These are fun experiments, mixing and matching modern and classical stars to see what results. It humanizes the mythic ballerina, and reminds us of the numerous gifts of modern artists. It does raise a timeworn issue: is it right to give these international stars opportunities that any of a hundred under-exposed modern dancers might truly appreciate? But who can blame La Rocco for putting together these dream lineups.

Photo: Patrick Andre

Longtime Cunningham steward Robert Swinston brought his new company to perform at the Joyce this week. Compagnie CNDC d'Angers, resident company at the Angers Centre National de Danse Contemporaine, is just two years old, but in that time Swinston has developed its eight members into convincing interpreters of the Cunningham legacy.

Back to legacy. The word that so frequently pops up in dance conversations these days. Between Graham, Taylor, Brown, Ailey, and Cunningham, it's rampant. All of these troupes featured their founders' choreography exclusively, the only structure that was practical and made sense while their leaders were productive. Among these big five, only the Cunningham company completely disbanded, leaving Merce's work to be licensed to other companies and rehearsed under the auspices of a trust's repetiteur. Swinston was able to land in France, in that company's still relatively generous dance ecology. (It always boils down to the bottom line, and dance, as the poorest relative, rarely fares well, at least here.)

Photo: Patrick Andre

The CCNDCA (okay, so the national structure doesn't exactly produce snappy acronyms) danced an Event on Tuesday night. It was brave to begin with this seamless 75 minute work, which is a concatenation of excerpts from potentially 11 of Cunningham's dances. The first and most striking element is the set, comprising multi-colored banners with cut-out shapes, evoking Matisse and in fact done by his granddaughter, Jackie. I suppose if anyone has the right to further Henri's legacy in a direct manner, it would be a literal legacy. Fans blow the banners dreamily; lighting (by Augustin Sauldubois) at times glows from behind them. The combined effect is akin to wind and sun, appropriate for the nature evoked in Cunningham's oeuvre. These effects are yet furthered in the score, played live, by John King and Gelsey Bell—chirrups, tones, yelps, and sundry other sounds painted an organic sonic setting.

The movement was a familiar, welcome tonic—crisply delineated, muscular, turned out, infinitely extended, architectural. Dancers lean on or are supported by others, at times with the unconscious fraternity of children, at others with groupthink lifts. Cunningham's style combines a sense of freedom with great underlying structure. It takes tremendous training, however, to interpret it with an easeful demeanor, and these dancers largely succeed in that. At times, it felt as if some added force was required, and in some of the men, more personal interpretation than demanded. I was particularly moved by Clara Freschel, luminous and clear-sighted, and Flora Rogeboz, with polished lines and a tremendous expansiveness.

The company's existence is surely a gift, and even though we may ultimately see it perform here nearly as often as the old Cunningham troupe, it's sad that they are not based in the US. But as the world shrinks and borders melt, so does the field of dance, to our benefit. The company is dancing a second, shorter Event this week as well.

Michael Apuzzo in Sea Lark. Photo: Whitney Browne

With Paul Taylor, you never know which side of him will come through in a new work—pensive, elegiac, romantic, dark, crazy, or joyful, to name a few. Sea Lark had its New York premiere by Paul Taylor's American Modern Dance on Wednesday at the Koch Theater, and it falls into the joyful category. Taylor conspired with artist Alex Katz, who designed the set and costumes, to give us a slice of sun, water and sand during the tail end of a wicked cold snap. It's all about the setting, and less about movement invention or deep narrative.

The boat is actually seaworthy looking—capable of holding four, it has a single operating sail (and hidden wheels). The 10 dancers (mainly Francisco Graziano) push it back and forth, marking the passage of time. In the first part, a bright yellow cyc and a foot-high bright blue wavelet provide the dancers with a narrow lane in which to move. Parisa Khobdeh, in a dotted crop top and neon orange shorts, frolics in the shallow surf, doing a back walkover. She is hauled into the boat with a lifesaver, more play than survival. The men wear white sailor pants and fitted primary-colored t-shirts. Dancers pair off; one couple is flirtatious, another boyishly antic. Michael Novak and Christina Lynch Markham compete like athletes on Venice Beach; Michael Apuzzo shows off his biceps and a back handspring. Poulenc's music (Selections from Les Biches) is bright and delineated in broad strokes, suitably cartoonish for this romp.

Michael Trusnovec and Laura Halzack in Beloved Renegade. Photo: Paul B. Goode

In the season's second premiere, Death and the Damsel (admit it, his titles have always been pretty great) to music by Bohuslav Martinu, he went pitch black. Jamie Rae Walker, whose blond bob and girlish stature are shorthand for innocence and optimism, wakes up in an apartment, as seen in Santo Loquasto's Broadway-scale mural of a fractured cityscape. In her pink gingham sundress, she skips, rolls, does fouettes, makes funny bicep displays. But she falters as black-clad characters infiltrate the stage, foremost among them Michael Trusnovec in Loquasto's trim biker pleathers. The others are dressed like vampires going to a ball, with high collars, long coats, and all sorts of straps and head gear for the women. The music, until then a crisp interplay between cello and piano, starts to blur, and we've soon fallen completely into a dream sequence.

The next scene is backgrounded by a painted drop of a "Dance Club." The darklings conspire, clutching shoulders and circling ravenously, or inch-worming across the stage. Trusnovec and Laura Halzack waltz with deliberation, as if to impersonate people. He casts his spell on Walker, and she's in thrall to his powers, giving in like a rag doll. She awakens, only to be spun to the floor, her legs snapped open like a lobster cracker in a shorthand for rape. Each of the men take turns. (Once again, I found myself wondering, in fact hoping, if Mark Morris, in the house, would shout "No more rape!" He didn't.) If that weren't enough, after Walker rises, stunned, she's slapped by Halzack, evoking audible gasps from the audience, and is mock hit and kicked repeatedly.

Cut to the next scene, in front of Chrysler Building details. Halzack has now bewitched Walker, and they drift through a prolonged duet in slo-mo; the darklings lurk slowly nearby. The cello and piano lines weave tightly. Walker regains consciousness and defeats her demons abruptly, signaling victory.

If the desired effect was shock, Taylor succeeded. He has never shied from the depiction of terrible violence or madness. Is the work about dealing with dark psychological states? Or simply an expression of a dislike for nightlife? Maybe both. Like many of his narrative works, it is as much theater as dance. Its overtness and baroque sensibility, however, weigh heavily.

It didn't help that it followed Beloved Renegade (2008) on the March 13 program, perhaps the most recent truly great work in the company's rep. This tops the list of dances to benefit from live music, played this season by the Orchestra of St. Luke's (here with St. George's Choral Society and soprano Devon Guthrie). The recording that Taylor had previously used always sounded particularly canned, but played live, Poulenc's Gloria gains a needed immediacy and shimmering delicacy. You feel that Taylor was inspired, even frightened, by the idea of a poet (Trusnovec) facing his mortality, and every moment he's onstage, we're reminded of it. How he is a distant observer of playful humans, how fate (embodied by Laura Halzack) guides him unerringly and brutally, how he at last wholeheartedly embraces his peers—his life—during goodbyes.

The finale on both of these performances was Esplanade (1975), another career high point that benefits immensely from the Bach score played live. It is often remembered for its gaiety and exhilaration, but the dark sections demonstrate how Taylor has ingeniously expressed inner turmoil. The broken family whose hands only hover near one another. The human animals, on all fours, trudging in an unending circle. It's capped by the exuberant ending, following the stage equivalent of a series of pool party cannonballs, now led by Parisa Khobdeh. Michelle Fleet bidding us a warm thank you and goodnight.

The company's season, now with works by Doris Humphrey and Shen Wei, continues through March 29.

Cloven Kingdom, clockwise from left: Michaels Trusnovec, Apuzzo, and Novak, and George Smallwood. Photo: Paul B. Goode

The revolution in the inaugural season of Paul Taylor's American Modern Dance isn't just the presence of Shen Wei Dance and the Limon Company (performing Doris Humphrey)—it's the new use of live music for nearly every dance. And given that Taylor has favored classical music for many of his dances, it's a huge windfall.

The big musical surprise was Cloven Kingdom (1976). Corelli's haughty music vies for primacy with lurking drums (by Henry Cowell and Malloy Miller, combined by John Herbert McDowell). In the prologue, the percussion is usually faint in the recording; done live, it was at first too distant to glean the sense of foreboding, but they eventually balanced out. The dancers must surely savor the immediacy of the live music after so many seasons of predictability. It can only have added nuance to their renditions.

Shen Wei's Rite of Spring led off the program on Mar 17, to a recorded piano interpretation of Stravinsky's famous score. It felt very strange in the context. His style de-emphasizes emotion and human interaction, and communicates through a tightly contained expressiveness of the body and stage patternings. Drama is conjured, for example, when a cluster of dancers stands upstage at the right, and one downstage dancer faces the group, forming a line of tension. The stage floor is covered with a painted canvas of strokes and charcoal tones which resonate with the dancers' costumes; their socked feet make shushing sounds as they glide.

Shen Wei's movement has moments of beauty—when a dancer swirls and twists, following organic looping shapes. But the repetition of a rapid shuffling step, arms held immobile at the side, soon takes on an annoying affectation. The cool, reserved aesthetic is so different from Taylor's that it might enlighten some viewers, but it also may distance others. Would that it were Taylor's Le Sacre du Printemps (The Rehearsal) (1980)—among his most fascinating dances.

The rest of the Mar 17 program fell into the more intense, dramatic side of Taylor's oeuvre. The Word (1998) ranks among the choreographer's studies of indoctrination and rebellion. The 12 dancers wear Santo Loquasto's witty prep school uniforms of white shirts, ties, and knickers. Some of the men wear smeared-on lipstick. Jennifer Tipton's fluorescent tube installation lighting the upstage wall, covered in gray fabric, feels appropriately austere, institutional, and soulless. The commissioned score, by David Israel, is played live. The movement is strident and limbs are arranged in lines and angles; Parisa Khobdeh is the only errant dancer, in a nudie-painted unitard. As with many demons or rebels in Taylor's canon, she chassees with her arms slashing like scythes, hands, claws. Francisco Graciano is lifted and carried as being initiated or honored. Whether about religious, intellectual, or viral infection, its edges still cut.

Diggity: Francisco Graciano, Eran Bugge, George Smallwood, and furry friends by Alex Katz. Photo: Whitney Browne

In Promethean Fire (2002), the live performance of Bach's symphony injected a clarity and immediacy into this rep staple. And for the first time since its early years in the rep, Michael Trusnovec did not dance the lead male role, now held by the warm, lyrical James Samson. To those who follow the company, it felt like the beginning of a sea change that is inevitable, even if it is simply to spread around the choice roles. Trusnovec, the paragon of Taylor's style, has danced the lead with a simmering emotional intensity that seemed to key off of the underlying terror, and redemption, that imbues the dance, made in the wake of 9/11. Samson's rendition is yet serious, but the potential for cataclysm is more remote. And while Samson has in recent years been shifting into the role of a company lead, he still has a few steps to take in order to fully assume this power. It's almost as if he wears it like a cloak, whereas Trusnovec has long since internalized it.

The Mar 19 program, in which all three dances were designed by Alex Katz, led off with the whisper-light Sea Lark, which I discussed here. Last Look came next, with its frenetic, ping-ponging series of solos, the dancers' psychoses tuned to an altered state. Katz's lurid-hued satin dresses for the women were refracted off the freestanding panels—a house of mirrors capturing a moment of wild abandon. The pile of bodies at the end evokes the same image in Promethean Fire, spinning a mental connecting filament within Taylor's oeuvre. The effervescent Diggity, with its lovable field of dog cut-outs, closed the bill. The lead role was danced by Eran Bugge, whose generosity and charisma are cherished gifts.

The slate on the evening of Mar 21 contained a surprise—an amended version of Death and the Damsel, just a week old. The entire final act was cut, in which Jamie Rae Walker wakes up to realize she defeated the real or imaginary demons overnight, and wipes her brow in relief (also treated in a recent post). The revised version ends as she is surrounded by the dark spirits and swallowed up. It's a more fitting ending to a work that has garnered some unintentional nervous laughter from audiences unsure of what to expect.

Sunset: Aileen Roehl with Michael Trusnovec and guys. Photo: Paul B. Goode

Sunset (1983) began the evening looking splendid as always, and getting a lift from the live performance of Elgar's score. The core male duet continues to be danced by Trusnovec and Rob Kleinendorst with great sensitivity to its numerous emotional note. Aileen Roehl has distinguished herself this season, not just with her tremendous athleticism and energy (she's got the big split leap), but with her luminosity and generosity of spirit. Here she takes the role of the woman whose feet never touch the ground for an extended spell, as she's continuously lifted and then steps and rolls on the men's backs. Not just a portrayal of genteel flirtations and camaraderie, Sunset is a poetic remembrance of the toll of war.

The Orchestra of St. Luke's needed to tune its strings a bit more prior to Brandenburgs (1988) which closed out the bill. The opening minutes were filled with distractions, including the slightly off-key notes and the well-meaning opening curtain applause, which drowned out the early bars. But as the beautifully structured dance progressed, on through Trusnovec's series of duets with three women—Bugge, Michelle Fleet, and a vibrant Parisa Khobdeh—the strings seemed to blend better, building through the final sections when the nine dancers' swoops and leaps synced with the orchestral dynamics. As always, Trusnovec, in the male lead differentiated by his costume of olive tights, was the paragon of strength and vulnerability, precise and yet plush. Emerging into his own throughout the repertory is Michael Novak, who presents the pleasing Taylor lines with elegance and brio.

The fact that Taylor was able to make a major change to the latest premiere—during the season—is somewhat astonishing, but it makes some sense given the tectonic shifts in the company's structure over the past year. The announcement that Lila York, Larry Keigwin, and Doug Elkins will be choreographing works for PTAMD is heartening, after this year's logical inclusion of Humphrey (performed by Limon) and the more artistically puzzling addition of Shen Wei. The addition of live music is obviously great, but the amount of work it entails should be acknowledged—the hours of rehearsals on the part of the orchestra, and with the dancers, all add up to an enormous artistic and financial investment, from which we viewers profit immensely. The run continues through this week.

Gino Grenek, Davalois Fearon, Nicholas Sciscione in Rainforest. Photo: Yi-Chun Wu

The sea change of remaining current while preserving legacies continues full-strength in modern dance. The latest, and most intriguing iteration thus far, is being presented by Stephen Petronio Company at the Joyce this week, in the inaugural "Bloodlines" program, which combines Petronio's new work with a piece from the modern canon that influenced his work.

At the outset, it might seem brave of Petronio to juxtapose his latest work—Locomotor/Non Locomotor—with Rainforest (1968), one of Merce Cunningham's iconic dances. But the comparison shows how Merce's influence on Petronio's—the rigorous geometric architecture, the turned out positions, the supreme athleticism necessary. The premiere is also an aberration for Petronio, who often chooses visual collaborators in addition to musicians and lighting designers. L/NL is noteworthy for being a pure dance piece, without a set design, and with costumes by Narciso Rodriguez and Ken Tabachnik's lighting scheme. Clams Casino's striking, moody soundscore provides a spacious and imaginative underlayment for Petronio's propulsive and compelling movement. (I wrote about the premiere of the thrilling first part last year.)

After the curtain falls and rises again, Non Locomotor picks up where Locomotor leaves off, with dancers leaping in arcs, always with a powerful impulse. They soon deposit at center stage Davalois Fearon, now the only dancer in a royal blue leotard vs. the others' black and cream ones. She begins to unspool the movement motifs that brand this section—predominantly planted feet in contrast to the rushing first section, the torso and arms carving shapes and gestural imagery. She's joined by three men, who at times strike artificial-feeling poses, like models. The relative stasis is a reminder of how terrific Petronio is at creating great movement and trajectory with the human body. But the contrast between sections is a welcome dynamic change.

Rainforest is a bit of flash and dash within Cunningham's rep, what with its animal inspired movement and glittering set of silver mylar helium-filled pillows by Andy Warhol. Depending on how much helium they contain, they have minds of their own from show to show. At the Joyce, the pillows burst out of the proscenium and zoomed up toward the lighting and vents. (In the last performance I saw, at BAM, they were lazier and only one left the stage.) They distracted somewhat from the five dancers, in tattered, flesh-toned leotards originally conceived by Jasper Johns. Petronio's dancers brought their own personalities to the varied roles, but they didn't—nor possibly can any company, going forward—match the concision and lucidity of Cunningham's company, in its prime. That said, Cunningham alum Toogood performed in the work, reminding us of the quiet ferocity brought with each performance by Merce's dancers, similar to the intelligent focus of Petronio's. The score, by David Tudor, was performed live.

Petronio plans next to revive a work by Trisha Brown, a choreographer whose legacy is badly in need of support. As one of her ex-dancers, he is well equipped to do so. And yet commonalities are so readily identifiable with Cunningham that this year's presentation is eminently logical. The strategy is far more cogent than, say, Paul Taylor's, but the scale is far smaller. It's yet another fascinating example to watch while the history of modern dance unfolds and hard-working choreographers are forced to become archivists as well.

Robert Fairchild & Leanne Cope. Photo: Angela Sterling

Broadway has a new pair of ballet-bred stars: Robert Fairchild (Jerry) and Leanne Cope (Lise) in An American in Paris, opening today at the Palace. Both are superbly cast as the leads—one an optimistic American ex-GI roaming Paris as an artist, the other a blossoming ballet star tethered by moral debts and expectations. Ballet native Christopher Wheeldon's direction and choreography brings elegance and intelligence to this popular milieu. The book, adapted from the movie, is by Craig Lucas, and doesn't shy from acknowledging the all-consuming war, including the resistance and the persecution of Nazi sympathizers.

Those of us fortunate enough to have followed Fairchild's starry career at New York City Ballet have seen his athleticism, his jazzy approach, his irresistible enthusiasm and generosity in performances. A natural in Jerome Robbins' work—a stepping stone between ballet and musical theater—it seems perfectly logical to move to Broadway. He can sing as well, and if not his strongest suit, certainly as well as other famous dancers-with-other-skills such as Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly, his role model. Fairchild's ballet training is his secret superpower; his leaps on the relatively small stage appear even more heroic and weightless than at the Koch; his turns top-like. And as a chatty viewer behind me exclaimed every time he began a solo, he is so smooth. Smoothsmoothsmooth!

Cope, a Brit of Royal Ballet pedigree, possesses an intangible magnetism that, in the show, quite understandably makes her the object of three men's affections. A petite gamine with a million-dollar bob, she has gorgeous lines and feet. She also manages to convey humility and a secretiveness so essential to contrast with Jerry's American openness. The supporting roles are deftly cast as well, including Max von Essen (Henri), Brandon Uranowitz (Adam), and Jill Paice (Milo).

Fairchild in flight. Photo: Angela Sterling

The production should appeal to Broadway audiences seeking the Gershwins' sturdy romantic pop standards (music is overseen by Rob Fisher) sprinkled with old favorites such as "I Got Rhythm,""The Man I Love," and "'S Wonderful." But for those of us who don't care for the shrill, unsubtle performances so often seen on Broadway, the good news is that Wheeldon's production is tasteful and smart. His choreography, not surprisingly, tends toward the balletic, with jazzy angular arms and a low center of gravity. There's little of the abject need for attention so often felt in Broadway production numbers.

Bob Crowley's sets are compact mobile pieces, some with picture frames or modern art motifs onto which imagery is cast (by 59 Projections). Large-scale projections in an Impressionist style grow and shimmer on the backdrop, including some of Paris' iconic sights. Key production numbers include one set in Galeries Lafayette, in which Jerry hops from showcase to showcase, his extended leg skimming the countertop. "Stairway to Paradise" moves from a jazz speakeasy to Radio City and back, and includes the requisite kickline done by both showgirls and tux-clad guys (the natty costumes are also by Crowley).

An avant-garde, salon style ballet presentation features dancers making hilarious moves that manage to be just one notch to the left of real. And the beginning and end of the grand finale ballet cleverly situate us behind the stage, looking out past the performers (in Mondrian-esque costumes) into the "audience." Jerry and Lise are clad in sleek black outfits for the dream sequence—a snazzy, captivating duet in which the white set is reduced to simple geometric shapes, better to feature the couple. And as with the best dreams, we want them to keep dancing forever.

James Siena, Just Read the Instructions. 2013, cherry wood. @ 48 x 69 x 60". Photo: Susan Yung

Chelsea/Meatpacking is abuzz with the impending opening of the new Whitney this week, and some warmer weather. A few shows of note:

James Siena, Pace Gallery
Siena is known for his paintings and drawings, graphic OCD works that seem to diagram the imperfect, if ultimately effective logic systems that humans can create. In this group of sculptures, his exploratory, inquisitive thought process is somewhat revealed. A series of maquettes is built around grape stems. Siena takes this natural, functional structure and extrudes it with toothpicks, building a kind of exoskeleton. He has scaled up a few into wood and bronze, creating satisfying and delightful lattices. Another series explores the cube and its varying multiples; the works approach architectural explorations. Through April 25.

Charles Ray, Matthew Marks
In stark contrast to the organic lightness of Siena's show is that of Charles Ray, with two new sculptures. Baled Truck appears to be a densely crushed truck, such as one might see at a junkyard—a hunky rectangle of metal. In reality, Ray machine carved the sculpture from a solid block of stainless steel; the work weighs 13 tons. The second work, Girl on Pony, is a relief panel carved of aluminum, resembling the manner of a coin. Closed.

Robert Irwin, Blue Lou (detail). 2014—15. light + shadow + reflection + color. Photo: Phillipp Scholz Ritterman.

Janine Antoni, Luhring Augustine
Antoni has been taking inspiration from, and collaborating with, choreographers in recent seasons. These new works, of polyurethane resin, take human ribcages and bones and morphs them into delicate, eerie pieces, some with reassigned functions—rib baskets, intertwined spines, some physical manifestations of emotional connections. Through April 25.

Robert Irwin, Pace Gallery
Irwin has long used light as a medium, creating otherworldly atmospheres with the help of scrim fabric. His new series employs fluorescent tubes, combining them in rhythmic pattern and color juxtaposition. The media he gives tells it all: light + shadow + reflection + color. Intensely hued sections take on individual characters, helped in part by the often witty names, such as Blue Lou. Through May 9.

Gansevoort St. Photo: Karin Jobst

Touring the new Whitney, I thought about how Hurricane Sandy has inadvertently seeped into our collective thought processes about how to live in this city on a practical level. How since we are ultimately at the mercy of nature, perhaps we are better off going with the flow, or at least learning to live within its foreseeable dictates rather than building a fortress against it.

View to an outdoor terrace and staircase. Photo: Susan Yung

Thus the Whitney building, designed by Renzo Piano, seems at every chance to embrace the outdoors. Numerous doors lead to vast terraces with sculptures. There's an outdoor staircase, an alternative to an interior one (albeit bestowed with great river views) or a set of elevators with whimsical designs by Richard Artschwager. From nearly every point, it's possible to see daylight, and in a few steps, be outside. It's a stark contrast to the interiority of the stately Breuer building, a veritable cocoon, albeit welcoming in a different way. The new building uses reclaimed pine flooring, which goes a long way toward warming up the galleries.

A gallery, with wooden floor. Photo: Susan Yung

The fact sheet about the new building includes a substantial section on flood mitigation. And while most of the points in this section discuss enhanced waterproofing and flood gates and barriers, the main lobby could conceivably open its many glass doors and simply let the storm surge pass through without much damage to the art, while the bulk of the museum hovers safely above.

This might well apply to the hordes that will surely descend upon the museum, funneled neatly from the popular Highline. This 1.5 mile promenade—the latest, hottest city park—has pioneered the idea of re-use and has embraced urbanity while providing a place to bask in some sunshine and fresh river-borne air. Pedestrians will pass through the Whitney just as they pass through Meatpacking and Chelsea, a flow of humanity soaking up the sights. There are fewer and fewer barriers between inside and out, in a way that is perhaps unprecedented in the city. It's quite possibly the opposite result one might expect from the apocalyptic scenario of Hurricane Sandy.

A Jonathan Borofsky hangs above leather
couches on the river side of a gallery wall.
Photo: Susan Yung

A Rothko observes the conservation studio.
Photo: Susan Yung

The inaugural exhibition, America is Hard to See, is a well-organized, 23-section reason to view legacy artworks from the collection—many old friends—such as Hoppers and O'Keefes with work from recent generations, grouped chronologically. Around 400 artists are represented; it's essentially a roll call of luminaries from the last century or so. Of course, it's not without holes—Mary Heilman created an installation for a terrace primarily comprising dozens of brightly colored chairs, but as a friend pointed out, her glorious paintings are not included in the interior exhibition.

Studio for photography and documentation.
Photo: Susan Yung

Adding to the air of openness, the museum allowed access to chambers normally not closed to the public, such as the conservation studio, where a Rothko stood waiting patiently, vying for attention with the demanding vista of river, and a slate-hued documentation room with its equipment poised to work. There's an education center, a theater, special project rooms, and cafés.

A light sculpture by Felix Gonzales-Torres hangs in a lower interior stairway that leads from the ground floor up. There's a balcony on a landing from where one can observe the busy lobby, a large open space containing the shop and a restaurant. It's a human-scale iteration of the terrifying Atrium at MoMA, where looking down from the upper floors can feel like a suicidal siren call even to those of us unafraid of heights.

The Whitney is a friendlier place that embraces the city in a fresh way that might only be possible in the wake of the floods of Sandy and the repurposed Highline. It's a seismic shift to Meatpacking that was largely solidified by Chelsea becoming the center of the art world over the past decade. Welcome to a new art paradigm for New York City.

Figure Eight. Photo: Susan Yung

Standing beside an artwork comprising a stack of bricks, Jamie Scott began the signature thumb gestures that begin Trisha Brown's solo, Accumulation (1974), to the Grateful Dead's "Uncle John's Band," and instead of of 41 years falling away, they seemed to compound and well up like a mini stormcloud of emotions, dumping its sentiments all over me as I sat watching on the floor of the Judd Foundation at 101 Spring Street.

I thought of how the gesture is so emblematic of Brown, no longer performing; how she was one of the artist pioneers of the wilds of 1970s industrial Soho, where brave now means taking a pop-up store lease for more than a month. How she lived around the block on Broadway and commandeered the rooftops for her expansive site-specific performances. How the crossroads signs, Mercer+Spring, loomed through the window just behind Scott, signifying so many years spent on both streets, plying endless paths for work and life. How the jangly music was more of a time-stamp than the dance, written at a time when moonshots were realistic but rock was still in its youth.

I imagine Trisha Brown: In Plain Site, the performance collaboration between the Judd Foundation and Trisha Brown Dance Company, was meant to evoke all these things and more. But most of all, it summons the moment in time when modern art met post-modern dance, and created an artistic biome that has not been surpassed in New York. The program runs today and tomorrow (info at juddfoundation.org).

Diane Madden in M.O. Photo: Susan Yung

As we moved to the second floor, Marc Crousillat and Stuart Shugg performed an excerpt of Rogues (2011), a far more kinetic and space-eating dance to Alvin Curran's music. The space was surrounded by a wall mural of earth-hued, painted color blocks and huge windows with panes of original wavy glass. On the fourth floor, Cecily Campbell, Leah Ives, Olsi Gjeci, and Tara Lorenzen moved through the sublime Figure Eight (1974), in which their arms floated around their heads as they kept their eyes closed; they then performed Sticks IV (1973), a challenging task dance in which they formed one long pole with four segments, and rolled under it as they held it intact.

Passing through Donald Judd's house, you get the idea from a few massive dining tables and wall of liquor bottles that he liked to eat and drink, but otherwise immerse himself in his work at one of the desks. The five stacked floors of this iconic cast iron loft building could have inspired Judd's regimented geometric sculptures, many of which are on view alongside works by Oldenburg, Dan Flaivn, Ad Reinhardt, and furniture by Alvar Aalto.

Ascending the steps to the fifth floor could, hokily enough, be compared to arriving in heaven, where longtime Brown dancer and current associate artistic director Diane Madden, in a white chiffon tunic, floated through M.O. (Excerpt, 1995), to JS Bach. We viewers watched across Judd's two mattresses, with a major Flavin sculpture of red and blue neon shimmered at left. Shafts of sun speared the space, and for an hour, we were transported from the chic honky tonk of Spring Street back to an era where space, time, food, and art conspired. Trisha Brown's work happily continues on.

A Nut to Squirrel Away

Ephemeralist's 2014 List

Ailey—A Different Kind of Revelation

Elkins—Playful and Deadly Serious

Royal Danish Ballet and the Joys of Bournonville

NYCB—Drawing Strength from Balanchine

Justin Peck's Rodeo

Kehinde Wiley—A New Republic

Marth Graham Dance Company Finds a Groove

Dance Notebook—Evidence and Romeo & Juliet

New Museum's 2015 Triennial; Wave and Particle at Feldman

Finding a Common Language with Uncommon Dancers

Cunningham, Merci

Taylor, Bright and Dark

Taylor—Shifts Subtle and Tectonic

Petronio's Bloodlines, Part 1

An American in Paris, and Ballet on Broadway

Sculpture, Having a Chelsea Moment

The New Whitney Flings Open its Doors

Brown + Judd: In Plain Site