Platform 2016: “A Body in Places”
Eiko
Danspace Project
New York, NY
February 17 – March 23, 2016
by Martha Sherman
copyright © 2016 by Martha Sherman
Eiko Otake, half of the long-admired duo, Eiko and Koma, is dancing by herself this month, all over the East Village, at the center of Danspace Project’s Platform 2016: “A Body in Places.” Eiko began this work in Japan, with the creation of a portfolio of photos of her body in the devastated site of the 2011 Fukushima disaster (also to be honored, on the fifth anniversary, during the Danspace Platform). Last year, she created a next generation of the work, as “Body in a Station,” both in Philadelphia’s historic 30th St. Station, and for River-to-River Festival at the newly opened Fulton Station in New York City, in the shadow of Ground Zero. Those performances were placed in noteworthy places where attention needed to be paid. Eiko used her body explorations, at least in part, to shine a light and pay homage.
Photo: Eiko in "A Body in Places." Photo © Ian Douglas.
In the Danspace Platform, many diverse spots are being explored and investigated in the East Village, and the character of the neighborhood is in her lens, but make no mistake: this series is about a body in places-- Eiko’s mysterious, evocative, deliberate body. Eiko’s presence is mesmerizing; she is a human meditation.
Sixteen solos form the core of this Platform. During the first of five weeks highlighting her work, Eiko’s places included a basement bookstore on Bond Street, an East Village church, and a bar on E. 7th Street -- and the streets and sidewalks surrounding them. At mixed times of day and for intimate audiences, Eiko, in ragged, layered kimonos, glided, folded, stretched, paused, shuddered, as her sad eyes shifted heavenward or peered at the spectators, or stared out into infinity.
At Dashwood Books, 33 Bond Street, a dozen audience members stood outside on a cold Monday morning, leaning over a railing to look down the stairs where Eiko lay, curled and still on the floor, visible through the plate glass window. Her feet moved first, in tiny shifts that set the pace: the rhythm of deep slow breath. Her long white fingers, and long straggly black-grey hair were parallel tangles, and her body folded like a turtle’s, as the group finally stepped inside the small anteroom of the bookstore. We huddled for long minutes just watching her unfold herself, taking a red square of cloth from her sleeve, like a small bloody treasure. Her intensity made everything seem momentous, no matter how small.
From the floor, Eiko migrated to a counter, where a wide bowl of water awaited. She lifted it slowly, as if with great effort, taking a small sip; we wondered whether it would drop. Then she wafted like a scent past us, pausing at the top of a hidden staircase, and on to the back room. The silence surrounding her was visceral and enveloping.
Eiko’s body is endlessly fluid. When curled up, she was like a snail or a nautilus, unfolding its many chambers. When she leaned against a wall, or stretched her arm as if to climb a wall or a tree out on the street, she seemed to choose her own relationship with gravity, at first sunken under her body’s heaviness, and then entirely weightless.
She moved around the bookstore’s back room as if she would climb into the shelves, or into the books, then she pulled a Japanese magazine toward herself, and crumpled and crammed pages of it into her mouth. She looked trapped, like the “Woman in the Dunes,” and then by ingesting what was on the shelves, she was sated. Embracing each quiet contradiction, Eiko was never predictable.
That unpredictability was all the more striking because into each place, she brought familiar movements, themes, objects and, always, the gentle pace, painful and wondering. A large red silk cloth was a frequent companion, festooning the floor like her personal blood river; she gathered the cloth in, sometimes opening her mouth in a soft wide “O” to stuff the silk into herself. That same “O” was her silent cry, and sometimes she pulled the long-petals off of white chrysanthemums with her mouth, then offered them to a baffled viewer, by spitting them gently from that soft “O” mouth into a hesitantly proffered hand.
Laid somewhere in each of her places was a bundle either of the chrysanthemums, or of a bunch of sweet lavender twigs. Eiko carried them like a mourning bouquet, sagging gently in her arms, and tentatively offered a flower, or a twig to one of the crowd. Being chosen for the honor felt special, but uncertain. Her eyes were mournful, yearning as she made her offer, but they seemed to seek things of greater moment than just an accepting hand.
As familiar as her objects and the tenor of her movement became, she continued to surprise. A soft wail or whisper caught us by surprise – why did she moan just now? Sometimes the sound was a loud, unexpected cry that shattered the quiet.
Being outside was as important as being inside. Eiko was on the street for some part of every solo. As pedestrians passed by, some were completely unmoved, tapping on their smart phones or in too much of a hurry to pause for this remarkable sight. Some did pause: one passing family had a toddler who was hypnotized and still; two delivery men waved and honked outside of the E. 7th St. bar. Eiko greeted them with a small, formal bow of greeting, then continued on her own journey. The places, and the people inhabiting and passing, brought the streets and sidewalks of the East Village into her art.
As a small audience waited, sitting around a bar on E. 7th St., we watched through a large plate glass window to see the artist across the street (a reversal of Dashwood Books, where we were on the outside looking in.) Eiko slid up the steps of the mosaic-decorated Greek Orthodox Church across the street, a ragged and graceful presence, just as likely to be one of the city’s indigents as a globally honored artist. She slowly moved across the street, stopping in the middle, as if daring car traffic to approach. The sun, the air, and the street were her set.
All of the pieces ended outdoors. She moved toward a doorway, slipped on her geta (boxy wooden Japanese sandals,) and clattered gently out the door into the cold. She seemed so fragile in her light silk kimono layers, even when she sometimes dragged a purple silk quilt with her. As we followed her out (in our coats and bags and all of our protections against the urban elements,) she seemed entirely vulnerable, and at the same time, immune. She moved in her hesitating steps, curling into a doorway or against a trash can. On E. 7th, she leaned on a hearse awaiting a coffin – memento mori. Then she bowed in farewell, a small formal tilt from the waist. She waved and backed up down the street or around a corner, disappearing from view, but leaving so much behind.
Sixteen solos form the core of this Platform. During the first of five weeks highlighting her work, Eiko’s places included a basement bookstore on Bond Street, an East Village church, and a bar on E. 7th Street -- and the streets and sidewalks surrounding them. At mixed times of day and for intimate audiences, Eiko, in ragged, layered kimonos, glided, folded, stretched, paused, shuddered, as her sad eyes shifted heavenward or peered at the spectators, or stared out into infinity.
From the floor, Eiko migrated to a counter, where a wide bowl of water awaited. She lifted it slowly, as if with great effort, taking a small sip; we wondered whether it would drop. Then she wafted like a scent past us, pausing at the top of a hidden staircase, and on to the back room. The silence surrounding her was visceral and enveloping.
Eiko’s body is endlessly fluid. When curled up, she was like a snail or a nautilus, unfolding its many chambers. When she leaned against a wall, or stretched her arm as if to climb a wall or a tree out on the street, she seemed to choose her own relationship with gravity, at first sunken under her body’s heaviness, and then entirely weightless.
She moved around the bookstore’s back room as if she would climb into the shelves, or into the books, then she pulled a Japanese magazine toward herself, and crumpled and crammed pages of it into her mouth. She looked trapped, like the “Woman in the Dunes,” and then by ingesting what was on the shelves, she was sated. Embracing each quiet contradiction, Eiko was never predictable.
That unpredictability was all the more striking because into each place, she brought familiar movements, themes, objects and, always, the gentle pace, painful and wondering. A large red silk cloth was a frequent companion, festooning the floor like her personal blood river; she gathered the cloth in, sometimes opening her mouth in a soft wide “O” to stuff the silk into herself. That same “O” was her silent cry, and sometimes she pulled the long-petals off of white chrysanthemums with her mouth, then offered them to a baffled viewer, by spitting them gently from that soft “O” mouth into a hesitantly proffered hand.
Laid somewhere in each of her places was a bundle either of the chrysanthemums, or of a bunch of sweet lavender twigs. Eiko carried them like a mourning bouquet, sagging gently in her arms, and tentatively offered a flower, or a twig to one of the crowd. Being chosen for the honor felt special, but uncertain. Her eyes were mournful, yearning as she made her offer, but they seemed to seek things of greater moment than just an accepting hand.
As familiar as her objects and the tenor of her movement became, she continued to surprise. A soft wail or whisper caught us by surprise – why did she moan just now? Sometimes the sound was a loud, unexpected cry that shattered the quiet.
As a small audience waited, sitting around a bar on E. 7th St., we watched through a large plate glass window to see the artist across the street (a reversal of Dashwood Books, where we were on the outside looking in.) Eiko slid up the steps of the mosaic-decorated Greek Orthodox Church across the street, a ragged and graceful presence, just as likely to be one of the city’s indigents as a globally honored artist. She slowly moved across the street, stopping in the middle, as if daring car traffic to approach. The sun, the air, and the street were her set.
All of the pieces ended outdoors. She moved toward a doorway, slipped on her geta (boxy wooden Japanese sandals,) and clattered gently out the door into the cold. She seemed so fragile in her light silk kimono layers, even when she sometimes dragged a purple silk quilt with her. As we followed her out (in our coats and bags and all of our protections against the urban elements,) she seemed entirely vulnerable, and at the same time, immune. She moved in her hesitating steps, curling into a doorway or against a trash can. On E. 7th, she leaned on a hearse awaiting a coffin – memento mori. Then she bowed in farewell, a small formal tilt from the waist. She waved and backed up down the street or around a corner, disappearing from view, but leaving so much behind.
Top photo: Eiko in "A Body in Places." Photo © Lily Cohen.
Bottom photo: Eiko in "A Body in Places." Photo © Martha Sherman.
copyright © 2016 by Martha Sherman