Excerpts From A Petition for Passion

Hi! It has been a long time since we've spoken, I know. The summer was a whirlwind and now I am back in the throes of work and of finally writing my portfolio to finish my Masters Degree in Interdisciplinary Arts at Goddard College. So, while in process of writing this document, I thought it would be fun to share parts of the portfolio in process. That way, I can get feedback from a broader audience. The portfolio is tentatively called, "A Petition for Passion," and will explore passion as a philosophical basis for my art practice. Here is my first snippet, called, "The Nature of Our Play." Thoughts and comments are welcome!


The Nature of Our Play

Passion, though a constant undercurrent in the consciousness, does not make its way to the surface each and everyday. It is sometimes hidden under the monotonous oppression of a gloomy day, the drudgery of sickness, the hopelessness of tragedy, or the simple complacency of the usual routine. Of course, passion has a way of resurfacing during difficult or uninspired periods in our lives, if we are open to receiving its messages.

As a professional artist with professional responsibilities, it can be easy to slip into an artistic slump, devoid of spontaneity and fun. I often get bogged down by my artistic obligations and don’t feel as if I have room to explore my playful side for play’s sake. I recognize that I make my best work when I approach it with an attitude of playfulness, and the willingness to laugh at myself, and my ideas. I make my best work when I allow new ideas to arrive as gifts through joyful exploration and unassuming discovery. I am reminded of this every time my sister and I work together on new artistic material.

My sister Mackenzie and I have been making material since before we were born. We did for a time occupy the same space inside our mother, at the same time, creating both excitement and discomfort with our constant motion. Since coming into the world, our collaboration has not ceased. Our roles in our experiments have become defined over the course of our lives and by now, we work as a well-oiled machine. I love creating. I love seeing my ideas take shape and become new ideas as we progress through a process. Mackenzie loves to interpret, and she lives to perform. Though always considered the quieter one of the two of us, when presented with a stage, she becomes a force of nature, hardly contained by the confines of the proscenium, speaking volumes. She is also organized, a sharp contrast to the constant mess of ideas bouncing off the walls of my skull. In her version of a perfect world, order would be the norm, and not knowing would never be a worry. That being said, she is always a willing and gracious participant in my experiments in exchange for my participation in her organization and compulsive cleaning of our material. It is because of these differences that we work so well together. As opposites, we don’t step on each other’s toes when in process, unless it is by mistake when practicing a new partnering sequence. Each feels fulfilled artistically most of the time, and if there is ever a discrepancy, it is usually solved over ice cream or cup cakes.

It has long been our habit, to take time over the summer to work intensely on new repertoire for both stage and film, as well as to continue sharing already existing work with our community and communities elsewhere. During this time, we work very hard, rehearsing, performing, shooting, planning our next season, but most of all having fun! Anyone who would walk into a rehearsal of ours would wonder if we are even serious about our work. We are often laughing and innocently mocking each other. We do slapstick spoof dances and speak in various voices that are not our own. But I tell you; this play is an integral part of our time together and integral to the creation and growth of our work. Through play, we strengthen our relationship, create a pleasurable atmosphere for working, and best of all, we make happy mistakes.

A rehearsal generally begins like this: One of us will turn on an iPod to some danceable beats, usually hip-hop or R & B. We then commence, for about twenty minutes, to jam. But this is not any jam. We play off of each other, make each other laugh; try to out do each other. We share our favorite moves, like our latest rendition of “old people dancing,” or “the white girl shuffle,” “the body wash,” and “chicken dancing.” We see who can pop their booty better than the other one. Who can “go low” the lowest? And there is usually commentary and exaggerated lip-synching. This is how we anoint our space. The tone for our rehearsal is set.

Once we get into our phrase work, voices usually come with it. As I set material, we find an accent or character that helps us to get into the movement. Of course, we never think, “We should use a funny voice to get into character for this movement!” It just happens. For instance, we are working on a phrase for our dance film, Kitchen Table. The film is about two 1950’s homemakers and their adventures as friends in and out of the home. I give Mackenzie a set of movements on ten counts for each fragment of the phrase. This particular dance, the third section of the piece, is about being “out and about,” shopping and ogling over men and the like. Mackenzie begins to count her phrase in the voice of Edith Beales, from the documentary film, Grey Gardens. The accent is an eccentric New England accent that works well with the movement. Mackenzie is going in. She is creating a kinetic persona through her voice, her body is absorbing the essence of the movement and she is making decisions, during the learning process, about the performance of the material. Later, I decide that I would like to make a phrase for a waltz in the first section of the piece, where the characters in the film have a bit of a kinetic cat fight and try to one-up each other through exaggerated movements. I begin to make sharp, pointed movements that have an air of Flamenco about them. I begin speaking with a Spanish accent. The movement begins to take shape. It is exactly as I imagined it. It has flare, precision and a flirtiness about it that I enjoy very much.

When we work this way, we are efficient. Time becomes irrelevant, and moves quickly when we’re having fun, and so does creation. Mackenzie always says to me, “You’re always so worried about not having enough time to make stuff, but when we get to the studio, you pump it out!”

Mackenzie is funny. No, really. She comes off as the quiet one, but she is actually a wonderful amalgamation of goofiness, sarcasm and mischief, and she brings our comedic work to life. And what’s even funnier is that she always tells me that she hates it when I have us improvise to cultivate seed material. However, she improvises all the time. We are working on our “spoon dance” for the film, a part of the first section, where the characters in the film dance in harmony with the spoons, but find ways to continue their dispute, too. As soon as we are done rehearsing the section, a random piece of music comes on, and Mackenzie, on the spot begins to create a beautiful spoon dance of her own. She doesn’t even realize what she’s done! Or maybe she is well aware. I sit back, and watch with delight as she creates this sophisticated, elaborate dance. She goes on for almost five minutes. When she finally stops, I say to her, “I thought you said you couldn’t improvise.” She says, “Well, I was just playin’ around.”

It is easy to fall into passion when it makes itself so readily available. When we play at work, we feel productive, we learn things we never would have dreamed we could learn, and I am constantly in awe of the results of our efforts. There is beauty. There are poignant moments. Passion dynamically presents itself, and I am hopelessly vulnerable to it.