Lauren Grossman, Not Consumed

It’s not news when a contemporary artist strives to invest their work with the glow of spirituality, attempting to wake the modern world from its materialist slumber. It’s what Dan Flavin is up to with his deceptively simple neon light shrines, or James Turrell with his sky spaces, art experiences that seeks to reveal the lurking transcendence behind the façade of the ordinary.

Once upon a time religious artifacts served much the same function for society. The objects associated with the traditional Christian church, for example, were seen not just as relics or mere depictions of saints and deities. Instead, as objects, they themselves were invested, like the communion wafer, with the aura of the sacred, a direct connection to the divine Other. When statues of the Virgin Mary wept, or crucifixions bled, it was more a confirmation of what many believers already felt than a sort of angelic bolt from the blue.

For Lauren Grossman, it is the mechanics of this system of belief, the means by which we invest images with the godly, that provides her with the subject for her art. Rather than try like Flavin or Turrell to sanctify the ordinary, she wants us to look again at objects (and texts) which many might consider the formerly sacred, and consider how their meaning and power has been constructed. Rather than religious art, her work is art about religion, a very different thing. As a result the works in the current show, though they include traditional Biblical subjects like Christ’s body, the divine lamb, and Lot’s Wife, are much more at home in art gallery than they would be in a house of worship.

The centerpiece of the exhibition is Grossman’s spectacular interpretation of the Burning Bush, appropriately titled Not Consumed. Grossman has imagined the biblical shrub as a seven-foot iron cactus on industrial rollers with a nearby propane tank powering two dozen gas flames that rise from its surface, burning brightly, but without visible effect. The dark, cast iron plant, like many of the other sculptures, is entirely composed of cut-out block letters, which we are given to understand (they would take a heroic effort to read) are taken from the Moses and the Bush episode in the book of Exodus – the text made visible, as it were.

The good news about this piece, and most of the others in this concept-heavy exhibit, is that it succeeds in engaging us as an artwork long enough for us to want to explore the various strands suggested by its construction. And many strands there are: Grossman the inventor is as much a presence here as Grossman the artist, and complicated mechanical contrivances are a natural part of her aesthetic. In the case of Not Consumed, the working apparatus includes various hoses, valves, and spigots; the latter carefully labeled and numbered with discrete buttons and stamps, the better to guide the user. Viewer interaction, in fact, is implied in many of the sculptures, which like the burning bush (turn it on, light it, wheel it into place) invite or even require our participation. Church ritual we are reminded, particularly the Catholic version, is a full-body experience, engaging us physically (touch, sight, smell) as well as emotionally and intellectually.

Grossman also employs humor as a tool in her deconstruction of the religious artifact. In the wall-mounted sculpture Shiny/Shiny, for example, two gleaming chromed-brass sheep, their bases fused, are set into spinning motion by a Rube Goldberg arrangement of belts and pulleys. Even at relatively low speeds the sculptures blur into an unrecognizable but glittering blur, a low-tech but seductive apparition that we watch ourselves create. Aside from the employment of the highly-freighted Christian symbol of the Lamb of God, Shiny/Shiny could be taken to refer to religious faith in general, where – Grossman suggests – we can be aware of the mechanism of our own belief while still totally accepting that belief as true.

A further layer of irony comes from the story of the lamb’s creation, one of a number of similar pieces in the show cast as part of an artist’s residency at the Koehler plumbing fixture factory in Wisconsin. The artist reports watching her various Lambs of God emerging from an industrial oven surrounded ranks of showerheads, faucets, and drains, a wholly appropriate metaphor for the marginal place of religion in a secular age.

My favorite work in the show also owes its existence to the world of the modern bathroom. In Radiant Lamb, the featured animal is made from cast iron rather than chrome - a rough and rusty cast iron, at that. The radiance purposely comes not from the lamb itself (as in Shiny/Shiny), but from an aureole of sturdy chromium rods radiating from its body, each terminating in a brass ball. Here is a visual pun that even a secular humanist might appreciate. One of the hoariest visual clichés in all of religious art is the aura effect created by surrounding an object – the sacred heart of Mary comes to mind – with closely-spaced, radiating lines. There is something highly amusing about seeing the same concept realized in three dimensions, with what turns out to be a set of pull rods for high-end sink stoppers instead of holy rays. Here the balancing act between the sacred and the secular, the industrial and the artful, reaches its apex.

The timing of this provocative show is most interesting, appearing as it does at the height of the furor in the Islamic World over disrespectful Danish cartoons of the Prophet Mohammed. Whereas in the West we require someone like Lauren Grossman to remind us of the nearly-lost power of the image, there are parts of the world where physical embodiments of the godly can still move millions – for better, or for worse.

Zoe Scofield and Monster Squad at On the Boards.

Over the last two seasons, On the Boards has experienced something of a renaissance, presenting significant and engaging contemporary dance and performance from around the world. Gone are the days when subscribers would have to face the likes of Karen Findlay, Bill T. Jones, and Spaulding Gray year after year. But if achieving this status were not enough, the organization has also maintained its decades-long commitment to showcasing work by local artists. The outcomes of these efforts, however, have often been mixed. Programs like Northwest New Works Festival and 12 Minutes Max have given On the Boards a strong connection to the local dance and theater communities, but have resulted in some forgettable evenings.

Given these odds, last weekend’s Split Bill – Portland’s Monster Squad and Seattle’s Zoe Scofield -- was a surprising success. Could it be the trickle-down effect of those national and global acts On the Boards has brought to town these last two years? Probably not. The Northwest has always been capable of generating contemporary art in its own ways, even during older, more isolated times.

Monster Squad choreographer Tahni Holt collaborated with visual artist Marty Schnapf to create the dizzying and dyspeptic Island Desk: my teeny tiny knowledge of nothing. It is a dramatization of the cumulative psychic effect ‘the office’ can have upon the individual and the collective group; the struggle of a diminished spirit acting upon desires in a place where they must always be kept in check.

The dancers appear between, or at times behind, a series of high walls that are repositioned throughout the performance. At the center of the stage are a water cooler and a curious internally illuminated prism. The movement begins with swinging arms and languorous swoops and falls that culminate in desperate catches or embraces. These in turn give way to an exhausted crawling or dragging. Suddenly, the serenity of the solo piano is replaced by the jazzy rhythm of a strumming acoustic guitar and the warm, ambient hum of a distant singer. As we hear the percussive sounds of a typewriter, the dancers momentarily gain their stride and coworkers coalesce into synchronized spasms. Jerking violently in unison, they shake their heads and outstretched arms.

Throughout the piece, the folly of these sequences -- with their alignments and fragmentation -- are repeated again and again. The dancers’ bodies are overcome by fatigue before falling back in line. At times the pace of the dream-like mayhem slows to a halt and the stage darkens. The surreal vision of a bird taking flight becomes visible on one of the walls: it is a stark contrast to the realities of this physical space, but a representation, no doubt, of some unrealized internal grace. Soon the dancers tremble around the water cooler, frantically clasping paper cups as if trying to replenish a spent life force.

In the end, the rectangular form of a desk is visible on the surface of the moveable walls, which have been turned on their side. Surrounded by a projection of flowing water, it is rendered a lonely island, but we see the reflected waves float above it.

However poetic, Island Desk reminds us of our buried hopes and lost expectations. In spite of this, there is a degree of humor that arises from our understanding that we are complicit in our own social degradation. As we watch the dancers we recognize a familiar physical anguish and find ourselves less horrified than amused.

Like Island Desk, Zoe Scofield’s there ain’t no easy way out was the result of her collaboration with a visual artist, Juniper Shuey, and a composer, Morgan Henderson. At first we see a hologram-like projection of a woman on a swing and hear the low, solitary tones of a bass clarinet. But soon the dancers emerge on stage, enveloped in a deep fog, and we begin to witness a much different piece unfold.

While contemporary dance tends to be heavily idea-based, Scofield is concerned more with qualities than concepts. At a time and in a venue were technique is often a well-meaning dance company’s Achilles’ heel, this is a most welcome sight. I doubt if there has been a performance at On the Boards in recent years, local or otherwise, with better dancers or a more refined vocabulary of movement.

The work is both lyrical and thought provoking, but suffers ultimately from an unclear intentions and lack of compositional unity. There ain’t no easy way out of what? This place does not look so bad, really, with its elegant costumes and elaborate, if ambiguous, stagecraft. Had Scofield’s movement been moored to an overriding thought or sentiment, as Holt’s had been, we might have experienced something considerably more powerful. But seeing dance this well executed is pleasure enough.

Boyzie Cekwana / The Floating Outfit Project, New Performance Series from South Africa. Image courtesy of On The Boards.

Bringing his dance company to On the Boards this week for its Seattle debut, South African choreographer Boyzie Cekwana demonstrated that Africa – a continent Americans associate with rich traditional and popular art forms – is also fertile ground for contemporary dance.

In two very different works, Cekwana uses modern, ballet, and jazz movement along with indigenous music and vocal stylings to explore uniquely South African subject matter, creating provocative dances loaded with social tension and cultural discord.

The first piece, Rona (“us” in Sotho), exists in mythic rather than historic time. Three dancers, a woman and two men, covered in ghostly white make-up lie motionless on the dimly lit stage. Movement generates slowly from the captivating stillness as the sporadic pluck and rattle of live percussive music gives way low vocal hums.

The woman, lifting her bent legs upward like some enormous bird, arches back and forth in a pivoting motion while the men meander out of the darkness into gloomy squares of light. At one point one of the men wanders across the stage dangling a bowl of incense that completely clouds the atmosphere, and then sits in silence watching it go out. Before long the smooth-edged African singing is accompanied by Bach and the movement becomes more rapid and gestural with shoulders swept back and elbows extended outward. These European sounds provide drama, appearing to both liberate and bear down upon the dancers.

Rona is spare, contemplative and profoundly melancholy, with the dancers remaining isolated and preoccupied throughout. Cekwana calls it a “celebration of our spiritual history and identity, both past and present,” but the dance -- with its intensity and restrained energy -- it’s extremely controlled. But what human histories are not wrought with struggle and hardship?

By contrast, Ja’nee ("yes/no") is a psychological work, unbridled and volatile. There is also an undercurrent of sexual oppression and violence. We hear the raucous singing and stomping of men off stage who soon appear in wading boots and casual clothes, swinging menacing sticks in the air.

The combined shouting, singing, and rhythmic stomping exudes joy and camaraderie one moment, then anger and strife the next. At times the men would move in unison, and then the stage would erupt into a melee. Throughout much of the piece, the men would take turns declaiming loudly to no one in particular, a practice Cekwana described in a post-performance discussion as an announcement or boast of one’s history, ancestry, and achievement intended to intimidate enemies or impress women.

In the midst of this activity, the lone woman would enter the stage precariously, moving about on her tip-toes as if to avoid detection. For brief periods the men would retire to the sidelines and she would dance across the floor with determination, and then revert to wariness upon their return.

At the end of the piece she stands motionless and uncertain, surrounded by the seven much larger men. In a concurrent video projection we see an almost identical scene unfolding with the same dancers in black and white.

As Cekwana explains in interviews about his work, he is interested in societal taboos surrounding truth-telling in his native land. If these works have a profound effect upon us (and they do) it is because such attributes are endemic to our culture as well. Strangely, they are too seldom seen in our contemporary dance.