In the sixth century b.c, Parmenides proposed that the world was divided into pairs of opposites: light and darkness, warmth and cold, being and non-being. One half of the opposition he called positive (light, warmth, being), the other negative. Centuries later Milan Kundera asked a multifarious question based on Parmenides classification: is heaviness truly deplorable and lightness splendid?
These two men came to mind as I watched Helen Simoneau’s work presented at Joyce SoHo. As though reading a dense philosophy text, I found moments of clarity and convolution in her work.
Flight Distance got me thinking about buoyancy and weight. The movement was choreographed as divided opposites: fast and slow, smooth and angular, heavy and weightless. Dancers floated around the floor only to crash into one another as though being woken from a deep sleep. Philip Montana and HeJin Jang danced with a feeling of lightness, mimicking the motion of children playing hopscotch on a playground only to segue into floor work that evoked a feeling of being chased by a monster. When they stopped for a moment their eyes moved wildly back and forth as though they were unsure of where to run. The weight and urgency of the movement crushed, sank and pinned them to the ground. The heavier they got, the closer their bodies were to the floor; the more real and truthful they became. But in an instant they returned to lightness—they soared into heights, their movements were as free as they were insignificant; a recurring sequence of a dream followed a nightmare.
If Flight Distance was the presentation of both weight and wispiness, then The gentleness was in her hands, performed by Simoneau, was warmth and brightness. During her solo she appeared illuminated solely by soft paper lanterns lined around the floor. Dressed in a sheer white top and flesh-colored briefs, her auburn hair pulled back into a pretty French twist, skin luminous and clean, Simoneau was fresh and radiant. Her movement, like a child holding in a secret, was an impish-delight. When she kneeled down on the ground, eyes closed, and began to touch the air, delicately as though caressing the hair of a former playmate, she began to reach into the vacant space; eventually her eyes opened to the emptiness around her. She looked startled to find that nothing was there. This was a moment of simplicity that held more honesty than any step previously performed; something had eluded her and I remembered all the moments when I had ever felt let down by something or someone.
With his question Kundera also brought up Nietzsche’s idea of eternal return (where everything recurs as we once experienced it, and that the recurrence itself recurs ad infinitum) which he called the heaviest of burdens. A life which disappears once and for all, which does not return, is like a shadow, without consequence. Flight Distance seemed nailed to this eternity while Simoneau’s solo challenges it. Standing out against the heaviest of burdens, she is splendid lightness.
The final piece, Adventures in a Foreign Land was dim in comparison. Coming off of two emotionally engaging works, watching dancers suction to walls and pile on top of one another while they made slurping noises was light in its comedic presentation and heavy in execution. As though Simoneau was urging me to side with Parmenides, the choreography seemed to shout, “It’s silly. Laugh!” But I didn’t want to. I wanted more time with Simoneau on her own; vulnerable, ingenuous and exquisite.
