Hearing the word carnival brings to mind only one image for me: I’m six years old, pink scarf in my hand, twirling and jumping across the oak wood floor, occasionally stopping to grab the ballet barre or to look at my purple tutu in the mirror. I look just like the princess version of Patricia McBride and I know it. Playing from Camille Saint-Saëns Le Carnaval, is “L’Èléphant” (The Elephant). Hearing the piano play that waltz-like triplet figure while the bass hummed beneath it sent my little body whirling around the entire dance studio.
Now much older (but still dancing across studio floors), when I first received the invitation to Carey Ysais’s Carnival: The Choreographer’s Ball in New York I wanted nothing more than to see those glorious animals listed on the bill come together and perform their varied compositions.
Jazz choreographer Debbie Wilson brought the slapdash movement you’d see in an unstructured dance class to the stage. Confident in her Rockette-like, leggy- blondes and voluptuous-brunettes sheer beauty, dancers moved from one end of the stage to the other as though they were in a Miss America pageant. A pretty picture, with no substance; I expected more from this Alvin Ailey graduate. Dancers prepped their turns as though they were doing center work and partnering consisted of a bump and grind that mimicked the awkwardness of your first sexual experience. Saint-Saëns, after composing Le Carnaval, suppressed its performances because he thought it was too frivolous and likely to harm his reputation. He may have thought the same thing about Wilson’s piece: with such a reputation for stunning and authentic work, was this really the best she could come up with?
Angel Feliciano’s piece was one of the more musically rich. When the choreographer is also the composer, the possibilities are boundless. Under the umbrella of hip-hop Feliciano pushes movement forward with his piece; and, unlike Wilson, showed that his dancers can actually dance. This was not the booty-shaking of the nineties or the krumping style made popular in 2005; even locking steps inspired by the late Skeeter Rabbit were twisted into something fresh. Dancers swished, hit, and glided to every inch of the music creating a symphony of movement and sound. I’m wary to use such a cliché as “innovative”, but that’s exactly what comes to mind when viewing Feliciano’s work amongst his contemporaries. His dancers create pictures and seem to stop time; then reverse it, back it up, and move it forward. As though we’re watching the Nicholas brothers perform with Michael Jackson and Desmond Richardson, it combines dance in a way that people might imagine, but can never figure out how to do. His latest piece evokes that same sense of indescribable force. Like a lion in a room full of kittens, Feliciano dominates.
In La Carnaval “Le Cygne” (The Swan) is the most famous movement of the suite, often used to showcase the interpretive skills of the cellist. At Carnival, Rhapsody James is our swan. Her all female troupe moved like Amazonian-terminators (all of her dancers are 5’9” or taller) in this fun and fierce presentation. Costumed with dark sunglasses and leather jackets the dancers move androgynously; each movement simultaneously smooth and heavy. Joanna Numata, known for her sinuous blend of motion, keeps a severe gaze throughout the work, breaking it only momentarily as if to tease the audience when making a transition. The commitment to the choreography is what makes this piece so thrilling. A series of simple and complex steps are combined seamlessly as if to impart some wisdom on her peers. That is: you don’t have to over do it. Just be cool.
After the last piece of the night, when the lights begin to rise and the audience starts to dance to music played by a DJ, I’m still thinking of “L’Èléphant”. I want to rush home to my bedroom, eager to swirl and twirl, or more likely pop and lock in front of my tiny mirror. Inspired by the music and creative movement of the night, I’m not so far off from my days as a wanna-be McBride. Momentarily posing towards the mirror, I’m sure (aren’t we all?) I’m more James than Wilson.
