“No Time to Fly"
Deborah Hay
Danspace Project
New York, NY
March 27, 2010
By Martha Sherman
Copyright © 2010 by Martha Sherman
There is no beginning or end to dance, veteran choreographer and dancer Deborah Hay reminds us. As the sellout crowd milled in the lit cavern of Danspace, she quietly entered and began to move. This almost-70 year-old icon of American dance moved with the ease and certainty of a dancer who continues to bend her body to her will. Late in the dance, from a prone position, she lifted her left leg, slightly. As we watched, it rose. And rose. And rose, to an impressive 120 degree angle. Then she rested her forearm on the floor, cheek resting on her upraised hand, and hung out in that position as the audience giggled in the wonder of a body so attuned and still so able.
Most of this dance was much more subtle, though. Trained and inspired by her early work with Merce Cunningham and the influences of Robert Rauschenberg and John Cage, she was among the founding members of the Judson Dance Movement and its experimental stretch of the dance form. She went on to choreograph, write, and teach around the country, and to stretch her own dance through the ideas of Buddhism and levels of consciousness. In “No Time to Fly,” Hay demonstrated the intensity and discipline of her practice, laced it with her own voice and breath, and invited us to visit her unified personal world. She surprised us as well, and frequently winked with a quick pass of humor, lest we get too comfortable or serious.
Jennifer Tipton’s luscious lighting caressed and flattered Hay. After the house-lit opening as prelude, a blackout preceded a formal first movement. It opened with Hay lit in a soft rose glow that also warmed the architectural niche at the back of the space, moving from pale to deeper pinks and transitioning to a soft blue, a sky to fly in. When Hay’s movement transitioned to the higher energy second half, Tipton’s lighting transition was perfectly aligned; this was a delicious pas de deux of light and motion. It was the perfect environment for soaring quietly.
Hay’s movement revolved around small steps, small gestures, and multiple subtle shifts happening at once throughout her body and in space. The sway of her hips and the slight motions of a shoulder to front or back were the roots of the gait; she crossed space with crossed steps, one weaving over the other to tilt the line of progress and create curves and circles. Her strut, slow and high, also incorporated hops and skips and framed the silent rhythms that moved the dance forward. Except for the occasional squeak of shoes on the floor or slap of thigh, the only soundtrack was Hay’s voice, and it, too, provided a rhythm and cadence. Her lightly amplified chant was deep and vaguely magical-sounding. It felt at once ancient and Eastern, and later like a Native American war chant, replete with a shocking shout that made the audience jump (and laugh.)
Mostly, though, Hay danced in silence, her breath the only accompaniment. Although individual steps were small, she used the entire grand space of the church floor. The columns became a prop for a deep bend and balance, and the end of the black dance floor was no barrier; she entered the surrounding space unmoved by the architectural boundary. She also used her arms to create countless variations of shape, from wide stretched wings in flight to a balletic balance; hands still to fluttering, elbows and opposite arms playing with each other in parallel or opposite poses. The movement was rarely linear, but instead made of soft curves created from her leaning, a physical yearning that propelled her. Much of the dance played to the front and back of this theater in the round, and may have lost a little for those who watched from the step seats along the sides of the sanctuary. It was a world, though, that was entire; and Hay’s consciousness was at its center.
copyright © 2010 by Martha Sherman
Photos: Deborah Hay in “No Time to Fly” by Rino Pizz
