The Dancemaker

Merce Cunningham knew this day would come. The towering genius of the dance world — the art world — died in his sleep Sunday night at age 90. He planned well for it, unlike most of his contemporaries.

   In April, he announced that when he died or was no longer able to work, his company would tour for two years, and then close down. His dances themselves will live on, through careful documentation that will enable other groups to license and perform them. But it’s more than likely that last week’s brilliant performance at Jacob’s Pillow will be the last time a group of dancers chosen and trained by this pioneering choreographer will be seen in our region.

   Though Cunningham’s vision was purely modern, the dancers have a strong ballet base, which he used to create shapes and patterns and combinations that were utterly original.  A foot might flex at the top of an arabesque, or a dancer might kneel, legs crossed as though he were pulled upright from a lotus position, legs still at 90 degree angles. Cunningham often gave but three pieces of information to his collaborators: title, number of dancers, and running times. The composers and  designers created independent works of art which combine with the dance to make the overall work.   

   In “CRWDSPCR,â€� performed at the Pillow this week, composer John King interpreted the title, pronounced “crowdspacer,â€� to suggest urban energy, and he created a bluesy score with Dobro guitar, but mixed and distorted, and combined with mechanical sounds that could have been grinding ceiling fans or rumbling subways.  Dressed in leotards divided into 14 equal blocks of color, the dancers moved with a stiff upright gait, arms at sharp angles or hopping with one knee sharply bent. Moments of stillness invaded the bustling and clatter. One group of dancers would slow to a halt while others sped up. Cunningham often used randomness to determine the order of steps and sequences. There is no logical beginning, middle or end.    

   As with all his pieces in the last two decades, he used a computer program called LifeForms to devise the steps and shapes. (It’s said that only recently Cunningham figured his computer could be used for word processing, too.) The result was unusual combinations of upper and lower body movements, with odd transfers of weight and emphasis. There are moments when the rigidity relaxes. In a lovely duet, a girl in yellow and a partner lean into each other, with curving arms.

   In the second piece, “eyeSpace,â€� the audience participated in creating the randomness. Each member was given an  ipod shuffle loaded with Mikel Rouse’s score, which played sections at random, differently for each listener. The musicians also played sections over the loudspeakers, so that the crashes and whooshes blended with the music on the ipods, or could be heard alone.  I tried a few different selections. One was jazzy and mellow, one almost folky with quiet guitars. Several had murmuring voices chanting a phrase that sounded like “ten minutes with you,â€� combined with squawks, bird chirps, and other natural and mechanical sounds. While I felt that the dance perfectly fit the music, regardless of which selection I was hearing, the experience of wearing earphones also felt distancing, as though I were watching the dancers from very far away, or behind a thick scrim. When I took the headphones off I felt a more direct connection with what was happening on stage.

   The evening’s thrilling climax was the earliest piece on the program, “Sounddance,â€� choreographed in 1975 (pre-computer). Robert Swinston, Cunningham's longtime assistant and lead dancer, emerged from a gorgeous bronze and golden curtain, spinning to a cacophonous electronic score by David Tudor and played live by Fast Forward. Gradually he was joined by all the dancers in a rapidly swirling and ever-changing human machine.  

   I’ve read that Cunningham was inspired by tiny creatures under a microscope. His groupings, always moving, seemed like that, as some of his dancers joined hands and undulated across the floor while others stood still on one leg like birds. They pulled each other off balance, lifted each other and then fell into a fast unison section. The music was discordant and the heavy bass vibrated in the seats with its grinding and pounding, but the movement onstage was organic and sometimes even gentle.    

   I wondered how the dancers felt knowing their days were numbered as members of the Cunningham company. If this piece was any indication, they took this opportunity to give the performance of their lives.