Empty Vessels: Complacency Abounds in Forsythe’s “Quiet Evening of Dance"
I’ve avoided the Shed since it opened, but caved last week to attend William Forsythe’s “Quiet Evening of Dance.” Situated in the heart of Hudson Yards (deemed “the ultra capitalist forbidden city”), the Shed identifies as an accessible, interdisciplinary arts center, a claim at odds with the suburbia-sized Neiman Marcus that shares its detached corner of the city. Forsythe began the evening by asking the audience to hold up their phones, and (on three, “because we do so few things together these days”), switch them to airplane mode. He stumbled through Apple Watch “Theater Mode” instructions and nodded thanks to the audience for coming to “see them work,” then ran up the theater’s stairs, perching by the tech booth as the lights went down.
Johnson and Rodemund, “A Quiet Evening of Dance” © Mohamed Sadek.
As the title suggests, silence dominates the first act, punctuated by snippets of birdsong. Parvaneh Scharafaldi and Ander Zabala, donning opera gloves and fabric foot coverings, partner with elegant rigor, intense elongation and distorted hyperextension exaggerating their movement. Breath and clicks give way to silence, revealing Jill Johnson and Brit Rodemund in their place. Their hands meet, and the second section, “Catalogue,” begins. They pat their torsos, trace their arms, and occasionally reach over their partner’s frame, studiously unveiling layers of movement. Their bodies become manifestos to the laws of physics governing ballet technique—torque, thrust, stretch, release, counterpoint, extreme transfers of weight—and, through breath, claps, and contact, manifestations of an invisible score, forms at once seen and heard. The quiet seduction of their bodies, warped by decades of ballet training, holds the audience in their poetry.
A piano piece by Morton Feldman interrupts the silence, and the original two dancers (now in brighter gloves and socks) emerge with jazzy energy. More join, including Rauf ‘RubberLegz’ Yasit, contorting himself in a modern sideshow. But Forsythe’s own Apple Watch interrupted this Agon-infused circus, pulling my attention with a quick series of buzzes. Without the introductory directive, I would have dismissed it, but the hypocrisy of situation irked me. Nonetheless, “Dialogue (Duo 2015)” revived “Catalogue’s” allure. Two men compete, playfully exchanging steps. Taking turns overtaking the other, it’s clear they share a goal: to push their limits, and those of the choreography. Their faces expose the work behind the repetitions, but also reveal its fun.
The isolated concepts illustrated in the first act return post-intermission, sometimes ad nauseum: set to Jean-Phillipe Rameau’s “Hippolyte et Aricine: Ritournelle,” Act II’s dancing matched the grandiose score. Exaggerated musicality, corporal humor, and visible reactions to occurrences on stage contribute to its over-the-top scale, complemented by costumes now a hodge-podge of bold color. Various permutations of dancers—various duets, a pas de trois, corps work—adhere to ballet’s traditional structures. Two men with a jester-like rapport present each other with virtuosic exuberance, meeting every challenge they attempt, until Yasit emerges, leaving them taken aback. Though at times used as a crutch, Forsythe more effectively incorporates Yasit’s skills in a section for two men, emerging from a cavernous darkness at the back of the stage. They twist into a single form, yet are punctured by each other: arms or legs flow through the bodies, dispelling belief in the solidity of human flesh. But even this abstract pas de deux returns to ballet tradition: angles of the head elicit changes in their relationship, much like the exaggerated épaument in “Catalogue” did before. As the choreography regressed to balletic tropes—Balanchine claws and exaggerated developpés—I found myself wishing for its end. Thankfully, it came quickly: after a brief section of quasi-corps dancing, the cast appears as a whole for a moment, then steps forward alongside Forsythe for a bow.
Security ushered regular patrons past a crowd of VIPs gathered for a post-performance event and I was reminded of my skepticism towards the Shed, a sentiment I quickly transferred to the performance. I enjoyed piecing together divergent fragments of Forsythe’s thought processes, but struggled to make sense of their residual message, stuck on the evening’s repetitions, its lack of apex. Looking for answers, I wondered if perhaps the Shed’s audience is content with moments of beauty without deeper resonance, following rules only when they suit, diversity as a quota to fill. The trajectory of Forsythe’s career—the extremes of “In the Middle, Somewhat Elevated,” the theory behind his choreographic objects—is visible throughout the evening, but the performance felt stagnant. Both the Shed and Forsythe’s “Evening” are enticing echo chambers: alluring receptacles for a certain audience’s curiosity that lack the substance to reach beyond.
