If you can control even ONE of your limbs, come to...
SUNDAY BOOGIE!
It will be glorious.
11 AM - 12 PM
900 E. 1st St.
(Los Angeles)
Studio 100
Be there or be square,
pay by donation.
(Hooray!)
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Faith and Art
A whopper: in typical 20-something fashion I've forgotten or abandoned ecstatic faith. My former Christian enthusiasm could be ignored but for this: I can still see, perhaps more vividly than lifelong non-believers, the reverent joy of religion. It makes people wave their arms in church and play their guitars (or, on the Red Line last week, the kazoo) for Christ. Tonight's Streetlamp Studio performance, the annual "When Justice and Peace Kiss" at Marlton School, brought together a slew of adults and the lucky kids they mentor to demonstrate that ecstasy through crude but endearing krumping, rapping, guitar-strumming art. I didn't come prepared for a religious event--maybe I missed something in the Facebook ad. But how peaceful and good to see kids from south LA, the risk-laden hub for the city's infamous gang culture, praising something that feels at least as empowering as the communal violence being side-stepped.
I spent most of this weekend in a eating chocolate and brie and catching up on Mad Men. (Where has it been all my life? But I digress...) After so much time in the narrow parameters of fiction, I feel refreshed by the vibrant energy of Streetlamp, by the live arts. In what but the nervous vulnerability of a teen-aged boy's song could the fear of unquestioning faith get across to a person? I feel grateful to glimpse the world the way these amazing kids see it. There's no goose egg on my forehead; I don't feel Bible-thumped, even Bible-tapped. I just feel grateful for arts and the people who help it to happen.
To get to know Streetlamp, visit their homepage. To give money, click here. For updates on my favorite culturally alternative arts organization, click here.
For a new addiction, find the pilot o' Mad Men and a few hours (days) to catch up for Season Three. Enjoy your week.
LADB
I spent most of this weekend in a eating chocolate and brie and catching up on Mad Men. (Where has it been all my life? But I digress...) After so much time in the narrow parameters of fiction, I feel refreshed by the vibrant energy of Streetlamp, by the live arts. In what but the nervous vulnerability of a teen-aged boy's song could the fear of unquestioning faith get across to a person? I feel grateful to glimpse the world the way these amazing kids see it. There's no goose egg on my forehead; I don't feel Bible-thumped, even Bible-tapped. I just feel grateful for arts and the people who help it to happen.
To get to know Streetlamp, visit their homepage. To give money, click here. For updates on my favorite culturally alternative arts organization, click here.
For a new addiction, find the pilot o' Mad Men and a few hours (days) to catch up for Season Three. Enjoy your week.
LADB
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Song Discrepancy
The title's Dixie Chicks. My morning jam was Martina. Never fear for my knowledge of country artists' repertoire.
Wide Open Spaceeeeeeeeeees!!!
Fact: I listen to country music in Los Angeles. But in praise of local heterogeny I'll say that, depending on the street and the time of day, I can feel totally local with Martina McBride oozing out the windows of the White Shark. I don't push it. But there's that.
Once you're done judging me, read on.
...
.
{I don't know if anyone in LA proper is reading this blog (pass it along to my neighbors?), but I've got three venues I'm trying to fill with dancers and movers and performance artists and yoga teachers and dance-for-camera types and pretty much anyone who needs an affordable space at a time when affordablility is high on the proverbial list.}--single sentence.
One: BOXeight. It's an art gallery situated in the fashion district of south downtown. It's of the poured-cement-floors-and-brick-walls persuasion, but the space is big (and inspiring) enough for major movers. The people are incredibly supportive artists who are interested in widening the scope of their events and collaborations. It's ideal for site-specific work (and, for me, maintaining my sanity outside of a totally anti-social day job). I love it. End of story.
Two: The 16th Street Dance Space. It's just around the corner from BOXeight, owned by the same benevolent property manager. There are two sprung marley floors of 2,000 and 5,000 square feet, respectively, state of the art sound equipment and lights, conference rooms, showers--the whole nine yards. This is more of a residency space for a company or studio (or companies or studios). It retains the flavor of south downtown but provides for all the basic needs of a traditional dance company. Also gorgeous.
Three: my home!! The glorious zoning of arts buildings in downtown LA permits the stage in my apartment and its rental. Carnegie Hall it is not, but we've got sound and mirrors and an elevated stage, two (soon another!) glorious roommates in management, and majorly open minds. Call me.
No, seriously.
Please.
LADB
Once you're done judging me, read on.
...
.
{I don't know if anyone in LA proper is reading this blog (pass it along to my neighbors?), but I've got three venues I'm trying to fill with dancers and movers and performance artists and yoga teachers and dance-for-camera types and pretty much anyone who needs an affordable space at a time when affordablility is high on the proverbial list.}--single sentence.
One: BOXeight. It's an art gallery situated in the fashion district of south downtown. It's of the poured-cement-floors-and-brick-walls persuasion, but the space is big (and inspiring) enough for major movers. The people are incredibly supportive artists who are interested in widening the scope of their events and collaborations. It's ideal for site-specific work (and, for me, maintaining my sanity outside of a totally anti-social day job). I love it. End of story.
Two: The 16th Street Dance Space. It's just around the corner from BOXeight, owned by the same benevolent property manager. There are two sprung marley floors of 2,000 and 5,000 square feet, respectively, state of the art sound equipment and lights, conference rooms, showers--the whole nine yards. This is more of a residency space for a company or studio (or companies or studios). It retains the flavor of south downtown but provides for all the basic needs of a traditional dance company. Also gorgeous.
Three: my home!! The glorious zoning of arts buildings in downtown LA permits the stage in my apartment and its rental. Carnegie Hall it is not, but we've got sound and mirrors and an elevated stage, two (soon another!) glorious roommates in management, and majorly open minds. Call me.
No, seriously.
Please.
LADB
Saturday, August 8, 2009
And why
I'm still so overwhelmed by Lauren Weedman's "Off" as to feel unfit for writing. (I think the prior capital letters were a formatting decision, not the artist's?) She portrays twenty-plus characters with conviction enough to suspend my disbelief for me. Director Jeff Weatherford, who deserves just as much awe and applause as Weedman, has her perform in everything from a tattoo parlour to a home "like an Italian villa" with his lighting, and the duo create a range of scenes tied powerfully to a theme I'd rather not spoil for you. Add to this Weedman's interstitial dancing, the animalistic lunges and shouts of an angry and agonized female creature, and "OFF" becomes a complete piece of theater.
Although the explicit second piece, "P.I.G.," made me decide against sending my friend's small-town parents to the Saturday production, it was also pretty remarkable. Zackary Drucker, Mariana Marroquin, and Wu Ingrid Tsang performed in front of Rhys Ernst's video work, engaging group and private therapy techniques and language to dizzy one's perception of gender and gender politics. The layers of media and the incredible styling work of Math Bass, Marco Prado, and Nicolau Vergueiro created a powerful environment for fresh thoughts.
Meg Wolfe's "Watch Her (Not Know It Now)" took a different direction, and perhaps the concert order can be blamed for my frustrations with it. After two piece that made me forget what I thought and where I was, Wolfe's minimalist exploration of the stage space and the body joints brought me back to the REDCAT venue and the usual dance crowd and co., the easily traced legacy of post-modern moving bodies. It wasn't bad work--not at all!--but it certainly took a back seat to "Off" and to "P.I.G." I hope to re-attempt a Wolfe experience in some other setting.
Again I say that even if I did avoid laying down a few dollars for some fresh art these past two weekends, I'm glad I bit the bullet and did so for this one. REDCAT. NOW. I love Los Angeles...
LADB
Although the explicit second piece, "P.I.G.," made me decide against sending my friend's small-town parents to the Saturday production, it was also pretty remarkable. Zackary Drucker, Mariana Marroquin, and Wu Ingrid Tsang performed in front of Rhys Ernst's video work, engaging group and private therapy techniques and language to dizzy one's perception of gender and gender politics. The layers of media and the incredible styling work of Math Bass, Marco Prado, and Nicolau Vergueiro created a powerful environment for fresh thoughts.
Meg Wolfe's "Watch Her (Not Know It Now)" took a different direction, and perhaps the concert order can be blamed for my frustrations with it. After two piece that made me forget what I thought and where I was, Wolfe's minimalist exploration of the stage space and the body joints brought me back to the REDCAT venue and the usual dance crowd and co., the easily traced legacy of post-modern moving bodies. It wasn't bad work--not at all!--but it certainly took a back seat to "Off" and to "P.I.G." I hope to re-attempt a Wolfe experience in some other setting.
Again I say that even if I did avoid laying down a few dollars for some fresh art these past two weekends, I'm glad I bit the bullet and did so for this one. REDCAT. NOW. I love Los Angeles...
LADB
Friday, August 7, 2009
REDCAT NOW
TOO MANY CAPITAL LETTERS.
Lauren Weedman's "OFF" (capitals again!) absolutely thrilled me tonight in the final set of eponymous New Original Works at that downtown theater in the posting title.
I haven't a clue whether a single Los Angeles person reads this, but if you're that, Weedman's got it going on. See her tomorrow night.
Lauren Weedman's "OFF" (capitals again!) absolutely thrilled me tonight in the final set of eponymous New Original Works at that downtown theater in the posting title.
I haven't a clue whether a single Los Angeles person reads this, but if you're that, Weedman's got it going on. See her tomorrow night.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
PS, I Love Merce
Same day, different post. I'd simply like to express my thoughts and feelings on the passing of Merce Cunningham. His name was a part of my academic and, if less directly, physical education for four years, and I had my first opportunity to watch his company perform just months before graduation. Have you ever opened the window to feel the cross-breeze it makes with the door? (This city has instilled me with a new apprecation of such things.) The theory of his influence made its live manifestation all the more effective.
The man lived to be ninety years old. His death had none of the shock of AIDS- or other (and recent) tragedy-related passings. It is the record of his life that creates the impact. A person can make a life out of dance in a world that pushes it to the furthest margin of the arts, sure. I commend that in anyone. But that Cunningham could do as much and use his major works to usher in a new perception of art itself--its formation, its collaborations--speaks volumes of his ingenuity and his commitment.
I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said. He was as well-known as any modern choreographer has become. Worse, I can't put words to the vice-grip I feel when I watch mere seconds of Biped. Suffice it to say that in a shitty economy I have settled for a job that keeps me busy and far, far from the arts for most of every day, and I feel a great deal of shame and frustration.
I'm grateful, at the very least, to have such a profound guide in a man who now belong entirely to history.
LADB
The man lived to be ninety years old. His death had none of the shock of AIDS- or other (and recent) tragedy-related passings. It is the record of his life that creates the impact. A person can make a life out of dance in a world that pushes it to the furthest margin of the arts, sure. I commend that in anyone. But that Cunningham could do as much and use his major works to usher in a new perception of art itself--its formation, its collaborations--speaks volumes of his ingenuity and his commitment.
I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said. He was as well-known as any modern choreographer has become. Worse, I can't put words to the vice-grip I feel when I watch mere seconds of Biped. Suffice it to say that in a shitty economy I have settled for a job that keeps me busy and far, far from the arts for most of every day, and I feel a great deal of shame and frustration.
I'm grateful, at the very least, to have such a profound guide in a man who now belong entirely to history.
LADB
Better Late Than Never
After an extended period of missing in action, I’m back by necessity. I’ll go mad if I don’t exercise my mind. I’ll be a danger to society! Most of this can be blamed on a few roadblocks in the LA transition--I credit my Parkour group for teaching me to metaphorically hurdle them. I moved downtown after some residential fickleness, found a venue to work with, and found a soulless part-time job to keep me on my feet. I'm cheered by two of the three.
That being said, I haven’t been totally absent from classes and performances. (Only mostly absent.) BOXeight gallery on Washington Boulevard in east downtown LA has kindly agreed to let me vend their space to movers: dancers, choreographers, yoga instructors, b.boys. Anyone. (Call me?) It’s a little hurry-up-and-wait, but it’s glorious! I can’t get enough of the creative vibe and solidly local art scene that thrives at the place. The recent encore of last year’s “I Think It’s Art, I Think It’s Fashion” came to pass the Saturday past, and went off without a hitch.
Um... not true.
But the hitches were belated art labels and a little snafu with a wine company, so apart from that the event went off quite well. Great art. Live music. A hell of a performer, Aimee Zinnoni (here's her most pertinent Google result), bringing live installation to an otherwise mostly pose-oriented scene with her performance art and body canvas.
(Now I wonder: is this making sense? My thoughts get compressed when they’re withheld, but I'm not sure they ever get from coal status to diamond.)
Less satisfyingly, but in the same weekend, I biked the two or so miles of Alameda to Farm Lab! The DANCEbank Facebook group and its stalwart manager Meg Wolfe brought a workshop to my attention, one with the pillar of PoMo that is Simone Forti. The gorgeous septuagenarian brought a classic pair of workshops to 2009 from her heyday three decades ago.
That was the good and the bad of it.
There’s a lot to be said for drawing dance material from sources (texts, improvisation, and so on) alternative to traditional codes and norms. It’s created some of the best work in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. That being said, those are $25 I can never have back again, spent on the very most basic extrapolations of texts and improvisation for movement performance. It felt like being transported to the roots of a tree I started climbing in college! I understand that I was aiming for more revolutionary a class, taught by someone I’d assumed picked up some new tricks and re-formed the practices she formed in the first place. Expectations change everything. The workshop was a classic instead—without my prior expectations, I’m sure I’d have been tickled? I think? It was a worthy experience, sure, but only because I was using the same floor as the living, breathing topic of many an academic discussion on dance history.
So that’s that! The third and final installation of new works is coming up at REDCAT this weekend. After two weekends of making excuses for my absence, I’m finally ready to lay down the dollars for a little brain-tickling. Maybe this time my response will be more punctual?
LADB
That being said, I haven’t been totally absent from classes and performances. (Only mostly absent.) BOXeight gallery on Washington Boulevard in east downtown LA has kindly agreed to let me vend their space to movers: dancers, choreographers, yoga instructors, b.boys. Anyone. (Call me?) It’s a little hurry-up-and-wait, but it’s glorious! I can’t get enough of the creative vibe and solidly local art scene that thrives at the place. The recent encore of last year’s “I Think It’s Art, I Think It’s Fashion” came to pass the Saturday past, and went off without a hitch.
Um... not true.
But the hitches were belated art labels and a little snafu with a wine company, so apart from that the event went off quite well. Great art. Live music. A hell of a performer, Aimee Zinnoni (here's her most pertinent Google result), bringing live installation to an otherwise mostly pose-oriented scene with her performance art and body canvas.
(Now I wonder: is this making sense? My thoughts get compressed when they’re withheld, but I'm not sure they ever get from coal status to diamond.)
Less satisfyingly, but in the same weekend, I biked the two or so miles of Alameda to Farm Lab! The DANCEbank Facebook group and its stalwart manager Meg Wolfe brought a workshop to my attention, one with the pillar of PoMo that is Simone Forti. The gorgeous septuagenarian brought a classic pair of workshops to 2009 from her heyday three decades ago.
That was the good and the bad of it.
There’s a lot to be said for drawing dance material from sources (texts, improvisation, and so on) alternative to traditional codes and norms. It’s created some of the best work in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. That being said, those are $25 I can never have back again, spent on the very most basic extrapolations of texts and improvisation for movement performance. It felt like being transported to the roots of a tree I started climbing in college! I understand that I was aiming for more revolutionary a class, taught by someone I’d assumed picked up some new tricks and re-formed the practices she formed in the first place. Expectations change everything. The workshop was a classic instead—without my prior expectations, I’m sure I’d have been tickled? I think? It was a worthy experience, sure, but only because I was using the same floor as the living, breathing topic of many an academic discussion on dance history.
So that’s that! The third and final installation of new works is coming up at REDCAT this weekend. After two weekends of making excuses for my absence, I’m finally ready to lay down the dollars for a little brain-tickling. Maybe this time my response will be more punctual?
LADB
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