SMARTDANCE
But when you’re living on the periphery, you live with contingencies. Not that opening night at Link’s Hall–which Smartdance rented for the Chicago stop on its ’94-’95 tour, culminating in New York in April–was disastrous. But one dancer didn’t perform, presumably unexpectedly since she was on the program, and that usually leaves holes in the choreography. A cold rain, out-of-town audience members, and poor parking meant lots of latecomers, who were ringing the Link’s Hall bell to get in as much as half an hour into the performance. You could hear people talking in the hall. It was enough to distract anyone.
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Not Janson and her dancers. And despite the occasionally weak dancing, you could see a strong intelligence in the choreography, a humorous but dark sensibility, and an odd, almost perverse approach to the body. Take the solo Raw Work #2, performed by former Minneapolitan Robert Cleary: a door slams, sharp as a gunshot, and Cleary hurtles into the performance space. He gasps out “Safe!” as if he’s just escaped some nightmare, then staggers back, somersaults forward, and is otherwise tossed around the stage. He does not look safe. At one point he slaps his own cheek, the slap coming out of nowhere like a blow from fate. Turning on one leg he hovers uncertainly, one foot wriggling to maintain his balance. His feet and body slap the floor as he stomps and flops; he attacks the rear wall by running up it again and again. The studio is filled with his grunting and heavy breathing, yet three times Cleary utters the word “safe,” each time with less certainty. This minimalist “narrative” creates sympathy–we want him to be safe–but at the same time his violent, rapid, risky movement delights us. And it’s this tension that keeps the dance afloat.
We’ve all seen laughter turn to tears onstage many times, but Janson gives her transformation a context: her dress-up clothes and those of the four dancers (Cleary, Neal Jahren, Jodi J. Riedemann, and Spaeth) facing the rear wall suggest that whatever humiliating incident is making her laugh and cry occurred at a party. Winston Damon’s score reinforces this idea with one schlocky Lawrence Welk-style section and another with a boozy, bluesy sound.
