Review of “The beginning of something” by RoseAnne Spradlin

Posted on by

When I read Wendy Oliver’s “Dance Critique”, I started realizing there is in fact a method to approach an apparently “too interpretable” subject (dance) in an objective way. Oliver suggests that critiquing dance is pretty much like writing about art, since the same principles apply. Just like before approaching a painting one studies the painter, one should research and read about a choreographer before attending a performance. Knowing the choreographer’s style and techniques, or even simply philosophy, could help see and interpret recurrent symbolism and mood in a performance. Oliver also suggests that one should try to just be in the moment when attending a performance: just take everything in without having a polluting filter of interpretation; most of the dance’s significance resides in the energy of the “live” element. It’s also important, however, to take a few notes and remember key characteristics of the performance for later reference. I believe reading Oliver before the seeing a dance gave me the confidence that it is ok to just try to sit back and absorb the momentousness of the performance without interpreting too much.

I did not have any realistic expectation about RoseAnne Spradlin’s show before I entered the theater. I just thought it was going to be a boring hour of meaningless, weird, and awkward movement of bodies which I would have gotten nothing out of. On the contrary, Spradlin’s show resonated with me so much that I found myself in tears half-way through it. The space of the performance was a stage just a little higher than the ground, mirrors all around, a mini-orchestra on one side, and a waterfall-like set of lights behind us. The dancers were all naked, if not at the beginning, later in the piece. The few clothes that were put on and off were at first just skirts, tape, and flanels, and then in the second half fancier night dresses, as if to symbolize a change in mood. The music was extremely contrasting: at the very beginning and end of the first part of the dance, a merry tune was performed live by the orchestra, followed by a deep, almost creepy, cry of violins for the rest of the performance.

As stated previously, the choreography was divided in two halves. The first one  contrasting musically and scenically, and the second one focused on a depressing, frustrating and exasperated tone. The dancer’s movements were at times very slow and dreamy, then suddenly of an exasperating energy. Jumps and fallings, twitching and the nudity gave the dance a very raw and exposed tone.

In the dance, it seemed that deeply engraved within it were the sorrowful experiences of insecurity of women today. In particular, strengthened by the choice of nudity, it seemed that the conflict woman versus own body was central. The dancers seemed to try at first to fit the expectations of society (e.g. putting on fancy decorations that looked out of place on them), trying to convince themselves that what was obviously unnatural, looked good on them and gave them the confidence they needed. This seek for external strengthening for internal confidence is consolidated by the runway-like walks the dancers seemed to be forcing themselves to do, screaming “DO IT!”. They kept poses, walked in a certain way with certain attitudes, as if attempting to feel accepted, but they ended up driving themselves to exhaustion and exasperation, to the point where they all started twitching and falling and turning until they couldn’t move anymore. Then, suddenly, an awakening follows, they remove their clothes, the music changes. It’s “the beginning of something.” They are comfortable, accepting their bodies and themselves; the music sings “accept me the way I am, love me the way I am” as if conveying the message that before being able to be loved, one has to love themselves.

This dance extremely connected to me; throughout its unfolding at my eyes, I saw more and more meaning within my experience as a woman. It was very raw and intense piece that would definitely leave and imprint in the audience’ memory.

 

Sara Camnasio

This entry was posted in Blog A/Blog B by Sara Camnasio. Bookmark the permalink.

About Sara Camnasio

I'm Sara, yes Sara without the H. I was born in an anonymous town in the middle of nowhere, in the industrial Northern Italy. I grew up with my fingers sticky from pasta dough and my face powdered with flour, helping my grandmother to make the most loved meals in the world. I was tossed in my grandma's arms at age 4—when my parents divorced—and I lived a spoon-fed life until I was 8, when I moved with my father and his new wife to what would have become my hometown. Bosisio Parini—a name that barely appears on any map—was the place I spent most of my life in: two-thousand people, three churches, and the lake, puddle of memories. But despite its stunning beauty, that limiting environment granted no future for us. So I had to jump, take the biggest leap of my life: on the 22nd of December 2009 I moved to the Big Apple with my mother and sister, leaving my dad to Italy to support us financially. I was thrown in the illogical world of slang and French fries, but somehow—fantastically—I managed to become part of it without gaining fifty pounds. I may speak with my hands, but I swear one can barely hear my accent. I feel more American than ever, although I'll never forget my origins; that little village—to me—is that one place where you feel like you left your anchor. I mean—would have been a pretty heavy load to carry overseas, all the way to New York city.