I have written very little but I feel so much.
As I write this I should be studying some Bourdieu.
How much of this is actually important?
I write in fragmented poetics because I cannot write full sentences.
One day I will write about my life. It will be a semi-fictional account of the girl wanderer. There will be a dance-film accompaniment. A branding. Is this how I will crack into capitalism? I fear not. There will be a moment when I truly believe that I am doing what I do for no other reason than it makes me feel nice.
I play music
and also write.
The dancing is inherent,
it always has been.
I try to make sense of my talents
creativities
and wonder
where the lines transgress
for the small girl wanderer.
September 29, 2013
March 3, 2013
Movement @ The Curiosity Project
The winter earth is finally thawing and I am hopeful that this spring will feature some amazing programming within the Staten Island artistic community. In December of 2012, I wrangled a group of seven members of the Staten Island creative and cultural community to discuss initiatives, to dissect the contemporary landscape of S.I. politics, and to figure out how to begin to get stuff done. Several weeks later, I was afforded a wonderful opportunity to curate a month-long program of events at the Curiosity Project, a pop-up gallery space managed by the Council on the Arts and Humanities for Staten Island, on Beach Street near what I call the Van Duzer-Beach Street creative corner.
This small but lovely group of activists I have wrangled (comprised of a film scholar, a dancer, two musicians, a poet, a photographer, and an environmental/cultural/Staten Island activist) will be joining me in co-curating TRY: Movement @ The Curiosity Project. The Curiosity Team, as I will unofficially call us, includes Andrew Blancero, Phoebe Blue, Tom Bones, Michael C. Bongiorno, Jon Fox, Laura Neese, Monica Valenzuela, and myself. I am stoked to be working with them and we have had a lot of really great project ideas for this venture.
While the calendar is still being finalized, Staten Island get ready! We plan on hosting the following in relation to the word movement. What makes a local, social, political movement? How to do mobilize into action? And what are some historical movements that occurred on Staten Island:
This small but lovely group of activists I have wrangled (comprised of a film scholar, a dancer, two musicians, a poet, a photographer, and an environmental/cultural/Staten Island activist) will be joining me in co-curating TRY: Movement @ The Curiosity Project. The Curiosity Team, as I will unofficially call us, includes Andrew Blancero, Phoebe Blue, Tom Bones, Michael C. Bongiorno, Jon Fox, Laura Neese, Monica Valenzuela, and myself. I am stoked to be working with them and we have had a lot of really great project ideas for this venture.
While the calendar is still being finalized, Staten Island get ready! We plan on hosting the following in relation to the word movement. What makes a local, social, political movement? How to do mobilize into action? And what are some historical movements that occurred on Staten Island:
- A community exquisite corpse movement poem
-Open level dance classes including yoga/somatic work
-The Staten Island Dance Jam will be housed here during April (Saturdays 2-4pm)
-Curiosity Book Swap and Wine Tasting Party
-Poetry workshops and discussions
-Afternoon Dance video showings
-Film screenings, lectures, and special movie showings
-Second Saturday choreographer's showing
-Photography and art openings
-Open Mic performance and Music shows
-Letter writing campaign for Pouch Camp preservation efforts
-Open Studio time for local artists and community members
and more!
I am so excited, I just cannot even contain myself. Second Saturdays Staten Island is in full swing, with the art walk picking up steam as the springtime slowly settles in. We have a new website up and running and are hoping to gain more audiences for this quaint art walk as more venues join aboard.
Additionally, I will resume writing about events that I go to this spring. This winter has been a little rough with Hurricane Sandy and an extreme cold/flu/bug that pestered everyone I know. As we plan more for the Curiosity Project, I will be sure to post updates here and use The Independent Mover as the home-base for the events calendar.
Happy doings,
m
January 6, 2013
i hear birds
This morning I awoke to the sounds of birds and the sun piercing through my window. It was eleven in the morning. I hardly ever get to wake up this late anymore and for the first time in a long time, I have almost nothing to do today (save for the average Sunday things: laundry, groceries, the dread of work the next morning)...
I am not a fan of the New Years Resolution crowd. I think we should try to be our best selves everyday. Striving for that is important. I did not make a resolution although the symbolic closing of one year and beginning of another always lends to feeling like one has a clean slate. I do feel like I have a clean slate. As though somehow everything from last year, which ended only a week ago, is far away and no longer counts for this year.
I have not made a resolution but I find myself doing things someone who makes a resolution would. I have been going out more, attempting to be more social. I have had positive conversations about the local arts movement and I am hopeful that this year will yield some progress in the Staten Island Arts community and within my own development as an artist. My friendships are changing and moving, which is like fresh air streaming through the window. These last few weeks have led me back to my poetry; reading old poems with friends (new and old), writing new ones, reading... I think poetry will be revisited in 2013.
In the spirit of all of this I wish to print a poem here, on the Independent Mover, for those who come across it. This poem was written in 2007 under the guidance of Tina Chang, my poetry seminar professor at the time. We were doing a writing assignment that closely follows another poem, line by line, though develops into an entirely new poem. This poem is entitled, me and you in plato's cave. I would love to know what you, dear readers, think!
Happiest of years,
m
-----
me and you in plato’s cave
by: melissa west
stone walls contain our exoskeletons
me and you beneath the red dark light
we swing heavily the clanging hammer
beats loudly, the wind up on our window
as each truck pushes its gravitational pull
up hills in the distance, flocking sheep—
our fingers make animal figures on the wall
you are a dog, i’m a t-rex.
Outside the milkman rings his bell,
the foghorn blows, trying to wake us,
the smoke from your cigarette burns my eyes,
the street beneath us is bony
it ebbs and twists like the beanstalk
buildings, our sheets cover it all
you pull me near you and we watch
the rain beating down on the gutters
while news from the countryside does not reach us
it’s far away, hidden across fields and poppies—
my head beneath the pillow hides the street sounds,
the car doors and winds and ferries and birds
from within, the smell of toast and black coffee,
the glass filled just a little more than half
the lines on the wall meet the lines in the floor post,
the twittering of birds near our window
and the wet blue grass that creeps up to meet us—
the long walk from the bed to the kitchen
is the end of the beginning is the end of the
pre-socratic bedsleep me and you.
I am not a fan of the New Years Resolution crowd. I think we should try to be our best selves everyday. Striving for that is important. I did not make a resolution although the symbolic closing of one year and beginning of another always lends to feeling like one has a clean slate. I do feel like I have a clean slate. As though somehow everything from last year, which ended only a week ago, is far away and no longer counts for this year.
I have not made a resolution but I find myself doing things someone who makes a resolution would. I have been going out more, attempting to be more social. I have had positive conversations about the local arts movement and I am hopeful that this year will yield some progress in the Staten Island Arts community and within my own development as an artist. My friendships are changing and moving, which is like fresh air streaming through the window. These last few weeks have led me back to my poetry; reading old poems with friends (new and old), writing new ones, reading... I think poetry will be revisited in 2013.
In the spirit of all of this I wish to print a poem here, on the Independent Mover, for those who come across it. This poem was written in 2007 under the guidance of Tina Chang, my poetry seminar professor at the time. We were doing a writing assignment that closely follows another poem, line by line, though develops into an entirely new poem. This poem is entitled, me and you in plato's cave. I would love to know what you, dear readers, think!
Happiest of years,
m
-----
me and you in plato’s cave
by: melissa west
stone walls contain our exoskeletons
me and you beneath the red dark light
we swing heavily the clanging hammer
beats loudly, the wind up on our window
as each truck pushes its gravitational pull
up hills in the distance, flocking sheep—
our fingers make animal figures on the wall
you are a dog, i’m a t-rex.
Outside the milkman rings his bell,
the foghorn blows, trying to wake us,
the smoke from your cigarette burns my eyes,
the street beneath us is bony
it ebbs and twists like the beanstalk
buildings, our sheets cover it all
you pull me near you and we watch
the rain beating down on the gutters
while news from the countryside does not reach us
it’s far away, hidden across fields and poppies—
my head beneath the pillow hides the street sounds,
the car doors and winds and ferries and birds
from within, the smell of toast and black coffee,
the glass filled just a little more than half
the lines on the wall meet the lines in the floor post,
the twittering of birds near our window
and the wet blue grass that creeps up to meet us—
the long walk from the bed to the kitchen
is the end of the beginning is the end of the
pre-socratic bedsleep me and you.
November 24, 2012
Improvisations
The Staten Island Dance Jam met today from 2-4pm at the Forest Haven Center for Dance and Music. In the spirit of Thanksgiving as well as the recent storm that caused much devastation, I felt it apt to reflect and think about the feelings tied to autumn passing.
Before we opened the floor, I mentioned these images/words/ideas which were leading my thoughts this morning:
We began the improvisation with warming the body, slowly moving through the floor and letting it develop into an hour long trio score between Erin, Rosita and myself. After guiding the score, I presented a writing prompt. For ten minutes we did a stream-of-consciousness writing exercise where we were to think of an autumn memory and write about it without stopping.
Here is what I wrote:
The street is filled with darkness. I have memories of lamplights, cold but bright, and bone chill, air passing through the cable knit sweater and stir-up pants. Yes, that is what I wore. Yes, that is what you wore. The wreaths hung on doorways and leaves crackling beneath our feet. Yes, those are the sounds.
There are wood-chips placed into the fire pit, on late Saturdays when the neighborhood would pour into your backyard and my mother would tell stories of Brooklyn. Yes, the ghosts came later.
**
I felt the water from the faucet warming my hands, turning the color of rose. My dad's thick framed glasses. The smell of cigarettes in the kitchen, the windows sealed shut to keep out the cold, the darkness at an early hour bringing our street into the night. Yes, that was the windsong.
The traveling path was slow, the main street alight in coats and scarves and gloves. The steady song a beat from drum cracking pipes, burning wood seasons. Yes, they move.
There was a large blue van riding the streets, crouching in the front seat while he smokes a cigarette standing on the sidewalk. The lamplights dulling but brightening the way. I fear things, things I do not know, things changing all of the time, stories that no longer include you in them.
There are always the wreaths hanging, placed pines, the fir trees carried past the front porches. The smell of earth in the living room, the darkness stringed with light. Primary colors coarsing through dark. This is hours. This is the moment. Stepping out of cars, aligned near the water. There are houses out by the water dressed in small lights. We go to see them. It is cold. I hold your hand. Those houses are gone now. Marking this season. Singing the big song. Drowning the old creeks, passing beneath.
On the old lane, we used to sing carols. We used to sing heart songs. They all had no meaning. They all carried nothing. When she was a little baby, her fingers so small, they clung to her mother's. I wanted to hold them.
Traces of pine cones, the grass crunching slowly beneath the big boots. We went to the old church. The white church on the hilltop. We climbed in the night chill. Our cheeks, red and swollen. Our mittens of wool.
We went running down the hill.
m
Before we opened the floor, I mentioned these images/words/ideas which were leading my thoughts this morning:
memory
reflection
travelled paths/pathways
water
blood
autumnal passing- what does it mean to move through time? how does that feel?
We began the improvisation with warming the body, slowly moving through the floor and letting it develop into an hour long trio score between Erin, Rosita and myself. After guiding the score, I presented a writing prompt. For ten minutes we did a stream-of-consciousness writing exercise where we were to think of an autumn memory and write about it without stopping.
Here is what I wrote:
The street is filled with darkness. I have memories of lamplights, cold but bright, and bone chill, air passing through the cable knit sweater and stir-up pants. Yes, that is what I wore. Yes, that is what you wore. The wreaths hung on doorways and leaves crackling beneath our feet. Yes, those are the sounds.
There are wood-chips placed into the fire pit, on late Saturdays when the neighborhood would pour into your backyard and my mother would tell stories of Brooklyn. Yes, the ghosts came later.
**
I felt the water from the faucet warming my hands, turning the color of rose. My dad's thick framed glasses. The smell of cigarettes in the kitchen, the windows sealed shut to keep out the cold, the darkness at an early hour bringing our street into the night. Yes, that was the windsong.
The traveling path was slow, the main street alight in coats and scarves and gloves. The steady song a beat from drum cracking pipes, burning wood seasons. Yes, they move.
There was a large blue van riding the streets, crouching in the front seat while he smokes a cigarette standing on the sidewalk. The lamplights dulling but brightening the way. I fear things, things I do not know, things changing all of the time, stories that no longer include you in them.
There are always the wreaths hanging, placed pines, the fir trees carried past the front porches. The smell of earth in the living room, the darkness stringed with light. Primary colors coarsing through dark. This is hours. This is the moment. Stepping out of cars, aligned near the water. There are houses out by the water dressed in small lights. We go to see them. It is cold. I hold your hand. Those houses are gone now. Marking this season. Singing the big song. Drowning the old creeks, passing beneath.
On the old lane, we used to sing carols. We used to sing heart songs. They all had no meaning. They all carried nothing. When she was a little baby, her fingers so small, they clung to her mother's. I wanted to hold them.
Traces of pine cones, the grass crunching slowly beneath the big boots. We went to the old church. The white church on the hilltop. We climbed in the night chill. Our cheeks, red and swollen. Our mittens of wool.
We went running down the hill.
m
November 11, 2012
the moon at five a.m.
As I walked alone,
the crescent moon suspended,
fully I caught the morning dew
and the crispness
of air in late autumn
The five o'clock twilight
The weight lifted,
though carried with me
The gate in front of the courtyard
wet with mist
I saw a moment of the sun
though it was not yet clear
a vision of a star
hugged closely to the moon
I felt myself
alone
but not lonesome.
(Melissa West)
It has been very hard for me to write poetry consistently since 2009, when I graduated college and went down a path of wandering. I am not sure poetry comes as easily to me as it once did. Last night I wrote a poem. Staten Island is still hurting. The hurricane that passed through left my hometown, New Dorp, in a state of disrepair. Homes are gone, or largely broken down, as are families that I knew from my childhood.
The last few weeks have been the heaviest I have felt in a long while. The Dance Jam goes on, the galleries have and will reopen. I have listened to a lot of Simon and Garfunkel. The stars have danced for me.
The outpouring of community seems to be the most positive outcome of this whole thing. I see the streets filled with people walking, something that was less apparent prior to the storm. Two weeks later, people are still out in the streets helping their neighbors.
This year has been an amazing experience of losing, growing, learning... I could not have asked for a more rich twenty-fifth year. As I turn twenty-six in several weeks, I feel deeply introspective but not in a way that feels confining. In fact, it feels freeing.
This year has been an amazing experience of losing, growing, learning... I could not have asked for a more rich twenty-fifth year. As I turn twenty-six in several weeks, I feel deeply introspective but not in a way that feels confining. In fact, it feels freeing.
Elton John sings Tiny Dancer. The sun pours through the windows. Though the sun has consistently appeared, I had not felt the sun in a long time. Things within me slowly struggle to return to a safe place. I am feeling positive about the future and feel a sense of elation about moving forward.
October 2, 2012
DanceWorks
DanceWorks
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
October 2 2012
October 2 2012
Staten Island’s Growing Modern Dance Scene
Presents the work of an Emerging Local
Choreographer
STATEN ISLAND, NY,
October 1 2012—Melissa West, in collaboration with the Staten Island Dance Jam,
will present DanceWorks, a concert
presentation of original choreography on October 13, 2012 at 6pm at Open Spaces
Studio, Stapleton, as part of the Second Saturday Staten Island, the local art
walk.
The program will
feature several dance pieces choreographed by Melissa West, a twenty-five year
old choreographer based in New Dorp. Her work is filled with emotional poetry
and finely balances subtle and contemporary theatricality within classical
form. Among the work to be shown is A
Dance on Yeats but not to, a dance meditation, which was performed earlier
this year at the College of Staten Island and at a dance festival on Martha’s
Vineyard. The dance is a visceral display of mourning set to the words of W.H.
Auden and the music of Roy Orbison.
Ms. West will
share the bill with the Staten Island Dance Jam, a six-month old project
co-founded by West and Diana Domoracki-Kisto, a longtime dance educator and
choreographer who also lives on Staten Island. The S.I. Dance Jam is a weekly
open movement project for people of all ages and levels of experience that love
the expressivity of modern dance. Ms. Domoracki-Kisto will share a short new
dance created in collaboration with the members of the dance jam.
Melissa West’s
company, MWest and Company, was founded in 2010 and has been presented locally
and throughout the NYC area. Ms. West is a 2012 Excellence in the Arts Grant
recipient and this project is funded, in part, by a Premier grant from the
Council on the Arts and Humanities for Staten Island (funded through the
Department of Cultural Affairs).
Tickets are
$8.00 in advance or $10.00 at the door. You can purchase tickets by going to http://mwestandcompany.com. For more
information check out the website or email mwestcompany@gmail.com.
DanceWorks
October 13 2012, 6pm at Open Spaces Studio
30 Beach Street, Floor 2 Staten Island NY 10304
$8.00/Advance or $10.00 at the Door
September 23, 2012
Reconciling Freshkills
I have vivid memories of riding through Staten Island's West Shore as a child. Coming over the small hills on Travis Avenue, approaching the strip malls and convenience stores, fields of cattails grew tall on both sides. I remember feeling uneasy whenever traveling to that part of the island. As children, we had known about the landfill yet knew not what to make of it. I did not know or have a sense then of just how much garbage was transported into the landfill each and every day from 1947 until right after September 11 2001 (the debris from lower Manhattan was transported to Freshkills).
My grandparents lived not too far from the landfill and I recall summer evenings, sitting in their backyard where the plentiful tomato plants ripened and the smell from Freshkills loomed over us like a thick blanket. I remember one summer's day while I was in high school, a few friends had decided to visit the Staten Island mall. The weather was overcast and humid but we were stubborn and rode the bus across Staten Island to get there. As we came across the fields of Freshkills, you could see the storm clouds growing more ominously. The image in my mind read like nuclear disaster. I was a paranoid child and the Staten Island landfill, or the Dump as it was aptly called, always reminded me of a post-apocalyptic wasteland that sat silently yet poisonously at the western tip of our island.
They closed it down over ten years ago. I avoid that part of the island mostly because there is nothing much to see over there. My father talks about his childhood and the farmlands and creeks. I always wished to see them.
Several years ago there were talks of a park. Freshkills was to be designated parkland and restoration to the depleted lands would take place over a long stretch of time (thirty years). When I heard about that, I did not understand how anyone would ever go there or why anyone would ever step foot onto those grounds. The history, the carcinogens, the smell were all reasons enough for no one who lived on Staten Island to ever go there.
After hearing about a park-preview event recently through word of mouth, I decided to visit Freshkills this afternoon. I had my reservations; the last few paragraphs weigh heavy on my mind. I have read about those who grew up during the Cold War, who feared the shelter drills and television programming depicting the end of the world. My mother was a child during the 1960's and still talks about how terrified she was to crawl beneath the desk in preparation for nuclear war.
Today's weather was exquisitely autumnal. There was just the right amount of sunshine piercing through the green canopy trees that line the courtyard outside my bedroom window. The breeze was cool and lazy. This was a most perfect fall day. I drove with the windows open, listening to the White Stripes (did I tell mention how awesome their song, Hotel Yorba, is?) Driving through the winding roads near the Greenbelt reminded me of my time up north in Massachusetts. Green rushing through on both sides.
Freshkills Park Sneak Preview featured a variety of family friendly exhibits and events. There were kayaking trips and bike tours; local artisans featuring information about quilting and upcycled jewelry. Also featured were demonstration tables for the abundant local and city-wide organizations promoting sustainable living through means of recycling, composting, and swapping (clothing swaps are a great way to give away things you no longer need/want in exchange for things that can be of use to you now).
I am so happy to see families taking advantage of the wealth of information these organizations provide. I am a firm believer that if we present this information to our communities, they will use it. People want to take better care of their surroundings. If they realize how dire things actually are, if they are presented not only with facts and statistics but simple solutions (ie, taking your garbage bags and weaving them together to make jump ropes and fashionable reusable bags out of them, as one local artisan does), they will make the effort.
PARK
In addition to all of the festivities, there was a dance performance by Kathy Westwater as part of an artistic residency she has maintained since 2010. Her performance piece, PARK, was presented at the bridge which sits just north of the East Mound. The piece ran for about one hour, featuring eight dancers, Westwater, and a lone saxophonist. PARK began with the dancers warming up through communal acts of hugging and partnered somatic work moving into an improvisation. Warming up the body. The dance begins rather quietly, with the warm up stemming into a circular pattern of walking and running. There are moments of intersection, of dancers making decisions to go one way or the other. The wind was blowing. The sun was pounding onto us.
As the dance progressed, I could not help but see the East Mound in the distance, with a lone birds-nest standing tall. The dance shape-shifted through moments of a large foil tarp being held down to moments where dancers walk solemnly yet emphatically on stilts made out tree stumps.
I felt both frustrated by this dance and connected to the ritual of it. It frustrated me because it moved mostly within its own bubbled world. It felt hard to attach it to the landscape at times. The dancers seemed so entranced with their own mythology that I felt almost alienated from it.
There were moments of beauty. In fact, the whole thing was beautiful. The dancers moved fluidly and Westwater danced powerfully. It was a powerful statement to ground art as a means to rehabilitate not only the land, but our memories of the land. The sections with the tarp and tree-stump stilts seem to signify that the most for me.
Below are pictures from today, mostly from the performance. I also took some footage of the tarp solo and the stilt-walking. The latter section, for me, is the most affecting and quite beautiful to watch. The dancers walking across the bridge, standing on tree stumps made into shoes seemed to carry the weighted history of the location.
The audience, which comprised of many Islanders but also those who made the trek from New Jersey, Manhattan, and the regional New York area, was completely perplexed and entranced by the performance. I want to emphasize how rare it is to see professional modern dance (or post-modern dance, if we must even categorize it) on Staten Island. While I am working to make this less rare, this was an important step for movement based arts appearing on the island.
Overall, this was a positive trip. I left feeling amazed by the massiveness of the Freshkills grounds. While I am not sure I will visit again anytime soon, I would rather see this place a wildlife reserve than a commercial strip; or a housing development; or another landfill.
Photography of PARK by Kathy Westwater:
My grandparents lived not too far from the landfill and I recall summer evenings, sitting in their backyard where the plentiful tomato plants ripened and the smell from Freshkills loomed over us like a thick blanket. I remember one summer's day while I was in high school, a few friends had decided to visit the Staten Island mall. The weather was overcast and humid but we were stubborn and rode the bus across Staten Island to get there. As we came across the fields of Freshkills, you could see the storm clouds growing more ominously. The image in my mind read like nuclear disaster. I was a paranoid child and the Staten Island landfill, or the Dump as it was aptly called, always reminded me of a post-apocalyptic wasteland that sat silently yet poisonously at the western tip of our island.
They closed it down over ten years ago. I avoid that part of the island mostly because there is nothing much to see over there. My father talks about his childhood and the farmlands and creeks. I always wished to see them.
Several years ago there were talks of a park. Freshkills was to be designated parkland and restoration to the depleted lands would take place over a long stretch of time (thirty years). When I heard about that, I did not understand how anyone would ever go there or why anyone would ever step foot onto those grounds. The history, the carcinogens, the smell were all reasons enough for no one who lived on Staten Island to ever go there.
After hearing about a park-preview event recently through word of mouth, I decided to visit Freshkills this afternoon. I had my reservations; the last few paragraphs weigh heavy on my mind. I have read about those who grew up during the Cold War, who feared the shelter drills and television programming depicting the end of the world. My mother was a child during the 1960's and still talks about how terrified she was to crawl beneath the desk in preparation for nuclear war.
Today's weather was exquisitely autumnal. There was just the right amount of sunshine piercing through the green canopy trees that line the courtyard outside my bedroom window. The breeze was cool and lazy. This was a most perfect fall day. I drove with the windows open, listening to the White Stripes (did I tell mention how awesome their song, Hotel Yorba, is?) Driving through the winding roads near the Greenbelt reminded me of my time up north in Massachusetts. Green rushing through on both sides.
Freshkills Park Sneak Preview featured a variety of family friendly exhibits and events. There were kayaking trips and bike tours; local artisans featuring information about quilting and upcycled jewelry. Also featured were demonstration tables for the abundant local and city-wide organizations promoting sustainable living through means of recycling, composting, and swapping (clothing swaps are a great way to give away things you no longer need/want in exchange for things that can be of use to you now).
I am so happy to see families taking advantage of the wealth of information these organizations provide. I am a firm believer that if we present this information to our communities, they will use it. People want to take better care of their surroundings. If they realize how dire things actually are, if they are presented not only with facts and statistics but simple solutions (ie, taking your garbage bags and weaving them together to make jump ropes and fashionable reusable bags out of them, as one local artisan does), they will make the effort.
PARK
In addition to all of the festivities, there was a dance performance by Kathy Westwater as part of an artistic residency she has maintained since 2010. Her performance piece, PARK, was presented at the bridge which sits just north of the East Mound. The piece ran for about one hour, featuring eight dancers, Westwater, and a lone saxophonist. PARK began with the dancers warming up through communal acts of hugging and partnered somatic work moving into an improvisation. Warming up the body. The dance begins rather quietly, with the warm up stemming into a circular pattern of walking and running. There are moments of intersection, of dancers making decisions to go one way or the other. The wind was blowing. The sun was pounding onto us.
As the dance progressed, I could not help but see the East Mound in the distance, with a lone birds-nest standing tall. The dance shape-shifted through moments of a large foil tarp being held down to moments where dancers walk solemnly yet emphatically on stilts made out tree stumps.
I felt both frustrated by this dance and connected to the ritual of it. It frustrated me because it moved mostly within its own bubbled world. It felt hard to attach it to the landscape at times. The dancers seemed so entranced with their own mythology that I felt almost alienated from it.
There were moments of beauty. In fact, the whole thing was beautiful. The dancers moved fluidly and Westwater danced powerfully. It was a powerful statement to ground art as a means to rehabilitate not only the land, but our memories of the land. The sections with the tarp and tree-stump stilts seem to signify that the most for me.
Below are pictures from today, mostly from the performance. I also took some footage of the tarp solo and the stilt-walking. The latter section, for me, is the most affecting and quite beautiful to watch. The dancers walking across the bridge, standing on tree stumps made into shoes seemed to carry the weighted history of the location.
The audience, which comprised of many Islanders but also those who made the trek from New Jersey, Manhattan, and the regional New York area, was completely perplexed and entranced by the performance. I want to emphasize how rare it is to see professional modern dance (or post-modern dance, if we must even categorize it) on Staten Island. While I am working to make this less rare, this was an important step for movement based arts appearing on the island.
Overall, this was a positive trip. I left feeling amazed by the massiveness of the Freshkills grounds. While I am not sure I will visit again anytime soon, I would rather see this place a wildlife reserve than a commercial strip; or a housing development; or another landfill.
Photography of PARK by Kathy Westwater:
 |
| Overlooking the mound stands a birds-nest. |
September 1, 2012
On Voting, Sex, and that Staten Island Summer
Dear Reader,
As I type this the summer is coming to a traditionally marked close: Labor Day Weekend. What started as an American holiday to celebrate the hard working contributions of the American workforce has grown to mean barbecues and that last, official "summer" swim. If you are living on the island of
Staten, there are several things you can do this weekend to ring in the autumn, which is still a few weeks away but always unofficially starts with the beginning of the school year.
The first thing you can do is visit the Richmond County Fair! Having spent many years visiting the county fair in all different social contexts, I think this year is going to be a good one. There will be the traditional contests: hula hooping, potato sacking, and pie eating; you'll see the adorable farm animals and zoo animals sure to intrigue children and adults alike; there will be staples from the Decker's farmers market; and many demonstrations and workshops from the Historic Richmond Town staff and volunteers--- workshops in tin-making and other staples of early American life are dispersed throughout the museum grounds. There's also a lovely bookshop tucked away inside the old borough hall building that features naturalist and historical literature about and by Staten Islanders.
Isn't it fascinating to ponder how several hundred years ago, Richmond Town-- nestled in the middle of Staten Island, used to be the social/economical/and legal capital of Staten Island. Trading boats used to creep up the streams to do business there. Super cool, in my opinion!
Anyway, get that pumpkin cider and come on down to the Richmond County Fair! This year there will be no pig races, they've been replaced with little Dachshunds, aptly called "wiener dogs". They will be racing. Let the best dog win?
In other news, tonight is a grand event at the Coyle Cavern, a gallery space in St. George founded and curated by Brendan Coyle. Tonight's event is an end-of-summer party that will feature visual art installations by several Staten Island and NYC-based artists and live music by local bands. Coyle Cavern is located at 194 Bay Street, so that is super convenient for you ferry goers and those taking the SIR. The doors open at 7pm and music begins closer to 730/8pm.
There's a lot of activity from the band/bar circuit as well. I think you would be hard-pressed not to find something that appeals to your tastes this weekend. Go out and find something to do and, as always, support your local small-business owners!
On Sex
I have been reading a recently published book, Sex at Dawn (2010) by Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jethá. Mostly a book that attempts to debunk the "mainstream" narrative that humans are inherently monogamous primates that participate in longterm pair-bonding mating systems, the authors take us through an abbreviated history of 20th century primatology, evolutionary psychology, and the many platforms of anthropology. Mostly, so far, this book has piqued my interest in the history of sexual (and societal) suppression of females. There are a lot of counter-arguments for the "humans are naturally promiscuous" theory, but I think many of them are rooted in antiquated theories. I will be exploring more of this and giving more fleshed out thoughts when I have had time to digest what I am reading about.
To put it simply, I do not believe we are naturally monogamous creatures. We are a species that loves sex (albeit, we attempt to put conditional stigmas upon this love). We are a species that, after the advent of the agricultural and later industrial "revolutions", shifted into much different socio-cultural atmospheres than our hunter-gathering, foraging ancestors who (in my opinion) really loved good sex-- using it as a way to distill any brewing social incongruence as well as to support competition in male sperm.
If you are interested (and I know you are), in why we mate with whom we mate, why we feel the pious martyrdom to commit solely to one person and deny the carnal urges to be with more than one person, if you are confused or curious about some of the alternate socio-sexual lifestyles that persist in different cultures around the globe, I would recommend reading this book. Also, Michel Foucault's History of Sexuality, which I have not read yet but it has been highly recommended by a dear colleague.
Go read this book: Sex at Dawn.
There's an election this year?
Are you stressed out from watching the Republican National Convention? Are you perplexed by the simple and greedy mindlessness of the current day politician? Are you finding feelings of apathy and existential loneliness unfurling with this impending election?
Me too.
This is why, dear reader, I implore you to watch every debate, every speech; read about every issue and perspective you possibly can to formulate your own educated opinions and thoughts. You will know what you're talking about because you will have looked at the many angles. You will understand why you are casting a vote for one candidate over the other. And trust me, considering the issues floating around in this election (the health and control over women's bodies; health-care repeals, reforms and other r's; the still downtrodden economy; the hysterical fear that we can shift into apocalyptic doom at any given moment), you are going to want to make an informed, educated vote.
It is hard, with the over saturation of media, to stay focused. However, you will feel the rush of empowerment that crisp, autumn day this November when you go to your local voting center and step into that enclosed booth. Also, don't just think of politics on the national level. It starts in your community. Who are your local constituents? What are the issues surrounding your home-base and what are the candidates claiming they will do? Get to know your community and how you can make a difference through volunteering your time and efforts at local town-hall meetings, community watch-groups, and advocating for your local small-businesses.
And whatever you do:
As I type this the summer is coming to a traditionally marked close: Labor Day Weekend. What started as an American holiday to celebrate the hard working contributions of the American workforce has grown to mean barbecues and that last, official "summer" swim. If you are living on the island of
Staten, there are several things you can do this weekend to ring in the autumn, which is still a few weeks away but always unofficially starts with the beginning of the school year.
The first thing you can do is visit the Richmond County Fair! Having spent many years visiting the county fair in all different social contexts, I think this year is going to be a good one. There will be the traditional contests: hula hooping, potato sacking, and pie eating; you'll see the adorable farm animals and zoo animals sure to intrigue children and adults alike; there will be staples from the Decker's farmers market; and many demonstrations and workshops from the Historic Richmond Town staff and volunteers--- workshops in tin-making and other staples of early American life are dispersed throughout the museum grounds. There's also a lovely bookshop tucked away inside the old borough hall building that features naturalist and historical literature about and by Staten Islanders.
Isn't it fascinating to ponder how several hundred years ago, Richmond Town-- nestled in the middle of Staten Island, used to be the social/economical/and legal capital of Staten Island. Trading boats used to creep up the streams to do business there. Super cool, in my opinion!
Anyway, get that pumpkin cider and come on down to the Richmond County Fair! This year there will be no pig races, they've been replaced with little Dachshunds, aptly called "wiener dogs". They will be racing. Let the best dog win?
In other news, tonight is a grand event at the Coyle Cavern, a gallery space in St. George founded and curated by Brendan Coyle. Tonight's event is an end-of-summer party that will feature visual art installations by several Staten Island and NYC-based artists and live music by local bands. Coyle Cavern is located at 194 Bay Street, so that is super convenient for you ferry goers and those taking the SIR. The doors open at 7pm and music begins closer to 730/8pm.
There's a lot of activity from the band/bar circuit as well. I think you would be hard-pressed not to find something that appeals to your tastes this weekend. Go out and find something to do and, as always, support your local small-business owners!
On Sex
I have been reading a recently published book, Sex at Dawn (2010) by Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jethá. Mostly a book that attempts to debunk the "mainstream" narrative that humans are inherently monogamous primates that participate in longterm pair-bonding mating systems, the authors take us through an abbreviated history of 20th century primatology, evolutionary psychology, and the many platforms of anthropology. Mostly, so far, this book has piqued my interest in the history of sexual (and societal) suppression of females. There are a lot of counter-arguments for the "humans are naturally promiscuous" theory, but I think many of them are rooted in antiquated theories. I will be exploring more of this and giving more fleshed out thoughts when I have had time to digest what I am reading about.
To put it simply, I do not believe we are naturally monogamous creatures. We are a species that loves sex (albeit, we attempt to put conditional stigmas upon this love). We are a species that, after the advent of the agricultural and later industrial "revolutions", shifted into much different socio-cultural atmospheres than our hunter-gathering, foraging ancestors who (in my opinion) really loved good sex-- using it as a way to distill any brewing social incongruence as well as to support competition in male sperm.
If you are interested (and I know you are), in why we mate with whom we mate, why we feel the pious martyrdom to commit solely to one person and deny the carnal urges to be with more than one person, if you are confused or curious about some of the alternate socio-sexual lifestyles that persist in different cultures around the globe, I would recommend reading this book. Also, Michel Foucault's History of Sexuality, which I have not read yet but it has been highly recommended by a dear colleague.
Go read this book: Sex at Dawn.
There's an election this year?
Are you stressed out from watching the Republican National Convention? Are you perplexed by the simple and greedy mindlessness of the current day politician? Are you finding feelings of apathy and existential loneliness unfurling with this impending election?
Me too.
This is why, dear reader, I implore you to watch every debate, every speech; read about every issue and perspective you possibly can to formulate your own educated opinions and thoughts. You will know what you're talking about because you will have looked at the many angles. You will understand why you are casting a vote for one candidate over the other. And trust me, considering the issues floating around in this election (the health and control over women's bodies; health-care repeals, reforms and other r's; the still downtrodden economy; the hysterical fear that we can shift into apocalyptic doom at any given moment), you are going to want to make an informed, educated vote.
It is hard, with the over saturation of media, to stay focused. However, you will feel the rush of empowerment that crisp, autumn day this November when you go to your local voting center and step into that enclosed booth. Also, don't just think of politics on the national level. It starts in your community. Who are your local constituents? What are the issues surrounding your home-base and what are the candidates claiming they will do? Get to know your community and how you can make a difference through volunteering your time and efforts at local town-hall meetings, community watch-groups, and advocating for your local small-businesses.
And whatever you do:
vote! and vote ny!
Voter registration deadline in New York City is October 12!! That is a little over a month from today so make sure you're registered!!
Voter registration deadline in New York City is October 12!! That is a little over a month from today so make sure you're registered!!
Have a great, safe, and happy weekend with friends. Enjoy the winding down of summer. I cannot wait for autumn!
mw
Disclaimer: I realize this blog seems very pushy (Read this book! Vote in this election! Go to this fair!.... but if you think about it, you're smart and you will want to do these things because they will make you better informed. :)
Disclaimer: I realize this blog seems very pushy (Read this book! Vote in this election! Go to this fair!.... but if you think about it, you're smart and you will want to do these things because they will make you better informed. :)
August 18, 2012
When Football Defined the American Dream
Thoughts on Lombardi, presented by the Harbor Lights Theater Company
Last night I attended the premiere of Lombardi, performed by the Harbor Lights Theater Company. The venue was the Veteran's Memorial Hall Playhouse, located on the grounds of Snug Harbor, and offered an intimate portrayal into the life of Vince Lombardi, the legendary coach of the Greenbay Packers during the early 1960's. I was a bit skeptical as I took my seat, as I would much rather a Greek tragedy to a play about sports. I have little to no interest in football but decided to throw myself out of my comfort zone to see what all the talk was about.
The set design by Marija Plavsic offers a modest but realistic portrayal of the interior of the Lombardi home and office. On the stage-left side, we see the infamous chalk board with strategic game outlines. To the stage-right side, we see the Lombardi living room with a cocktail bar at the center of the stage. The set remains the same throughout the play, leaving minimal changes in scenery. A projection screen hangs overhead, showing the games as they were happening, which adds a nice effect to the show. It feels as though we are watching the game from the bleachers.
The play's premise is thoughtfully simple. A young writer, Michael McCormick, travels from New York City to Greenbay, Wisconsin to write about the obnoxious, loud football coach that has captured plenty of media attention during his tenure. After being the subject of several scathing articles, Lombardi tries to turn over a new public image by giving McCormick (portrayed by the lively Benjamin Katz) scarce details on his life. The most important thing is to win; to keep trying until one wins. Losing is not an option.
This sentiment is at the heart of the play. Vince Lombardi's outspoken abrasiveness is rooted in the philosophy of perseverance. Beneath his hotheaded exterior, Lombardi preaches some radical ideas within the game of football. Most notably, in 1965 Greenbay, Wisconsin he makes sure that all of his team members are treated equally. Dave Robinson, the only black-American character in the play, states that the coach does not allow them to stay at hotels or frequent bars that do not allow all of the players inside. This was definitely an important, albeit radical, stance during the height of segregation.
While I found the dialogue dry at times, the actors really embodied their characters. Susan Cella, portraying Marie Lombardi, was comical as the wife. Underneath the rough, New Jersey accent was a woman who reveled in her role as the wife. Yet, there was also a sadness to her character as she lived under the iron fist of her husband and his career. She was suffocated beneath his overbearing persona and temper. I had wished that Vito D'Ambrosio would have delved deeper into the character of Vince Lombardi. At times, his portrayal seemed one-dimensional. He certainly commanded a large presence on stage, I just wish he would have let the subtle insecurities of Mr. Lombardi surface in a realistic way. I think this could have been achieved had the script been a little stronger.
The most engaging scenes are those that feature the narrator and the football team. They are the most animated group and the dialogue flowed naturally between them. The football players moonlight as masochists, as most athletes are, in that they take a beating daily (verbally and physically) but love the game so much they want nothing more than to please the coach. I thought Erik Gullberg, Israel McKinney Scott, and Bruch Reed added some comedic relief to their characters while shedding light onto what it means to be an athlete: the daily suffering, the injuries, the harsh physicality, the training. They are the highlight of the show.
Benjamin Katz as Michael McCormick, the aspiring journalist from New York, sank his teeth into his role. He really afforded his character the struggle to stay convicted to his beliefs in the face of the monstrous Vince Lombardi. He added a bit of drama to the play, as he did not wish to write an unrealistic story that glorified the coach. He had always loved football and seemed torn between reality and his love of the game. His deceased father was also a sports journalist, and McCormick aptly wants to distinguish himself from his father's legacy. This narrative arch held my attention throughout the play, as I wanted to see McCormick grow into his own as a writer and man. At the end of the play he accomplishes just this because he remained true to his beliefs.
Overall, I was impressed with the play's set design and the actor's character portrayals. The play itself was a little slow and the characters could have been more fully explored. At the end of the evening, I was most impressed with how many seats were filled in the audience. The Harbor Lights Theater Company is gaining much esteem on Staten Island and I applaud this season's programming which features something for everyone. Even as the least likely football fan in the room (okay, I have actually never sat through an entire game), I was completely invested in the play's action.
What Lombardi does is take the audience to a time when football was America's most romantic sport. The early sixties was the time when football defined the American Dream, that mythological impetus toward upward mobility within the middle class. Lombardi captures the historical turning point of that time, the 1960's, when the sports industry was headed from a romanticized pastime into something more commercially branded by the media. Vince Lombardi goes down into sports history as one of the most prolific coaches. As I sat within the audience, I felt transported back to 1965, gathered around the television or huddled in the bleachers.
Lombardi runs this weekend and next weekend. The Harbor Lights Theater Company has some impressive shows coming up including Rodgers and Hammerstein's The King and I. I am excited by the company's professionalism and look forward to seeing more versatile programming this fall.
Last night I attended the premiere of Lombardi, performed by the Harbor Lights Theater Company. The venue was the Veteran's Memorial Hall Playhouse, located on the grounds of Snug Harbor, and offered an intimate portrayal into the life of Vince Lombardi, the legendary coach of the Greenbay Packers during the early 1960's. I was a bit skeptical as I took my seat, as I would much rather a Greek tragedy to a play about sports. I have little to no interest in football but decided to throw myself out of my comfort zone to see what all the talk was about.
The set design by Marija Plavsic offers a modest but realistic portrayal of the interior of the Lombardi home and office. On the stage-left side, we see the infamous chalk board with strategic game outlines. To the stage-right side, we see the Lombardi living room with a cocktail bar at the center of the stage. The set remains the same throughout the play, leaving minimal changes in scenery. A projection screen hangs overhead, showing the games as they were happening, which adds a nice effect to the show. It feels as though we are watching the game from the bleachers.
The play's premise is thoughtfully simple. A young writer, Michael McCormick, travels from New York City to Greenbay, Wisconsin to write about the obnoxious, loud football coach that has captured plenty of media attention during his tenure. After being the subject of several scathing articles, Lombardi tries to turn over a new public image by giving McCormick (portrayed by the lively Benjamin Katz) scarce details on his life. The most important thing is to win; to keep trying until one wins. Losing is not an option.
This sentiment is at the heart of the play. Vince Lombardi's outspoken abrasiveness is rooted in the philosophy of perseverance. Beneath his hotheaded exterior, Lombardi preaches some radical ideas within the game of football. Most notably, in 1965 Greenbay, Wisconsin he makes sure that all of his team members are treated equally. Dave Robinson, the only black-American character in the play, states that the coach does not allow them to stay at hotels or frequent bars that do not allow all of the players inside. This was definitely an important, albeit radical, stance during the height of segregation.
While I found the dialogue dry at times, the actors really embodied their characters. Susan Cella, portraying Marie Lombardi, was comical as the wife. Underneath the rough, New Jersey accent was a woman who reveled in her role as the wife. Yet, there was also a sadness to her character as she lived under the iron fist of her husband and his career. She was suffocated beneath his overbearing persona and temper. I had wished that Vito D'Ambrosio would have delved deeper into the character of Vince Lombardi. At times, his portrayal seemed one-dimensional. He certainly commanded a large presence on stage, I just wish he would have let the subtle insecurities of Mr. Lombardi surface in a realistic way. I think this could have been achieved had the script been a little stronger.
The most engaging scenes are those that feature the narrator and the football team. They are the most animated group and the dialogue flowed naturally between them. The football players moonlight as masochists, as most athletes are, in that they take a beating daily (verbally and physically) but love the game so much they want nothing more than to please the coach. I thought Erik Gullberg, Israel McKinney Scott, and Bruch Reed added some comedic relief to their characters while shedding light onto what it means to be an athlete: the daily suffering, the injuries, the harsh physicality, the training. They are the highlight of the show.
Benjamin Katz as Michael McCormick, the aspiring journalist from New York, sank his teeth into his role. He really afforded his character the struggle to stay convicted to his beliefs in the face of the monstrous Vince Lombardi. He added a bit of drama to the play, as he did not wish to write an unrealistic story that glorified the coach. He had always loved football and seemed torn between reality and his love of the game. His deceased father was also a sports journalist, and McCormick aptly wants to distinguish himself from his father's legacy. This narrative arch held my attention throughout the play, as I wanted to see McCormick grow into his own as a writer and man. At the end of the play he accomplishes just this because he remained true to his beliefs.
Overall, I was impressed with the play's set design and the actor's character portrayals. The play itself was a little slow and the characters could have been more fully explored. At the end of the evening, I was most impressed with how many seats were filled in the audience. The Harbor Lights Theater Company is gaining much esteem on Staten Island and I applaud this season's programming which features something for everyone. Even as the least likely football fan in the room (okay, I have actually never sat through an entire game), I was completely invested in the play's action.
What Lombardi does is take the audience to a time when football was America's most romantic sport. The early sixties was the time when football defined the American Dream, that mythological impetus toward upward mobility within the middle class. Lombardi captures the historical turning point of that time, the 1960's, when the sports industry was headed from a romanticized pastime into something more commercially branded by the media. Vince Lombardi goes down into sports history as one of the most prolific coaches. As I sat within the audience, I felt transported back to 1965, gathered around the television or huddled in the bleachers.
Lombardi runs this weekend and next weekend. The Harbor Lights Theater Company has some impressive shows coming up including Rodgers and Hammerstein's The King and I. I am excited by the company's professionalism and look forward to seeing more versatile programming this fall.
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