White Man Sleeps
Choreography
Siobhan Davies
Music
Kevin Volans
Set & costume
design
David Buckland
Lighting design
Peter Mumford
Realised by
Jonathan Samuels
Dancers
Tammy Arjona
Laurent Cavanna
Pari Naderi
Mariusz Raczynski
Sasha Roubicek
Bird Song
Choreography
Siobhan Davies
Sound score
and design
Andy Pink
Contributing artist
David Ward
Production design
Sam Collins
Lighting design
Adrian Plaut
Costume design
Genevieve Bennett
Dancers
Tammy Arjona
Laurent Cavanna
Henry Montes
Pari Naderi
Mariusz Raczynski
Sasah Roubicek
Deborah Saxon
Sarah Warsop
|
Siobhan Davies
Dance Company
Sadler's Wells
26 - 28 September 2005
The coupling of 'White Man Sleeps' with 'Bird Song' in this programme at Sadler's Wells is interesting in that the two works book-end Siobhan Davies' choreographic output thus far. 'White Man Sleeps' was the inaugural work choreographed for the newly-formed Siobhan Davies Dance Company (SDDC) in 1988 and has been remounted here, while 2004's 'Bird Song' concludes the transition into the company's swanky new headquarters at Elephant and Castle. With their differing styles and approaches - 'White Man Sleeps' is expansive and fluid, 'Bird Song' is tight and rhythmical - the two works act as suitable counterpoints to each other. Moreover, the evolution and development of Siobhan Davies' choreographic imagination can be witnessed in this double bill; at 45 minutes, 'Bird Song' is long, but it is also a stronger, more complex and more dynamic piece.
'White Man Sleeps' is set to a stringy score for harpsichord, viola de gamba and percussion by Kevin Volans, with whom Davies collaborated a number of times early in her career. As with much of Davies' work, it is a heavily textured piece, layering atmospheric sound and elaborate lighting with motifs or chains of movement which are either staggered in their timing or revisited throughout the work. Together with the blue, black and grey costumes, the lighting and sound components are deftly interwoven with the dancer's movements, indicating a rich dialogue between the choreographer and her creative team. There's no eisteddfod-like stageyness, plain spot lighting or singular piece of music; instead, it's a well-integrated and absorbing piece of theatre with movement - of body, of light, of music - at its core.
Over a floor pattern which moves from resembling an almost Malevich-like geometric grid to a homespun African textile, the dancers embody the sinewy, often serpentine movements, clearly well-versed in Davies' calligraphic vocabulary. Although on first inspection the individual steps do not look particularly challenging, Davies' choreographic style demands an isolation of different parts of the body, attention to different impulses and an integration of the whole which is not easily taught. Her choreography is characterised by its relentless enquiry into the what, where, how and why of physical movement. She is far less interested in the who. As if instructed, the dancers play down their egos and personalities, even their enjoyment of what they are doing, to the point where they are a largely uniform, unemoting, self-contained ensemble.
This is typical of much contemporary dance and isn't necessarily intended as a criticism. Although often it means that you are often led to admire or appreciate the choreography from a critical distance rather than to emotionally engage with the material, good conceptual dance can be as stimulating and visually arresting as good conceptual art. And this is good conceptual dance. A singular criticism of 'White Man Sleeps' might be that the abstract steps and forms were almost too subtly nuanced and, although sensitively embodied by the company, lacked a certain virtuosity or dynamism in performance.
The second work, 'Bird Song', was even more of a feast for a kinaesthetist; it is here that Siobhan Davies' style of choreography finds its most sophisticated and successful fulfilment. With its dazzlingly eclectic sound score - composed by Andy Pink but featuring everything from Bach to cranking electronica and all held together by the recurring motif of the song of the Australian Pied Butcher bird - it is again a densely textured piece, but with a gritty industrial feel. In fitting with the clunks and drones of the scone, Davies' architectonic choreography vividly evokes a modern society of detached automatons. Against the formalist austerity and harsh interrogatory light of David Ward's stunning digitised graphics, the dancers cross the stage; a sort of urban posse in sweatclothes with neon markings, their sharp, mechanised movements recalling the efficient operation of cogs and pistons.
Rather than rippling like an eddy through the body as it did in 'White Man Sleeps', the choreography in 'Bird Song' requires a more conscientious and thorough digestion by the dancers and, as a result, the steps have greater emphasis, impetus and impact in execution. Founder member of SDDC Gill Clarke expresses this eloquently in the programme when she says: 'Whilst in both pieces the movement is passing through the body to find form, in 'Bird Song' it filters deeper into the body, or resonates out from a more complex, detailed perception and understanding of it.' This fundamentally kinaesthetic approach is plainly evident in the rawness of the dancers' physicality, in the visceral way in which they inhabit each movement, carrying it along an arm, through the torso and down into the legs.
In addition to this, there is an interesting tension in 'Bird Song' that was lacking in 'White Man Sleeps' and which really makes Davies' choreography sing. It is encapsulated by the juxtaposition of the sounds and visions of industry with Henry Montes' captivating solo towards the end; set to the pure song of the eponymous butcher bird, he twitches and trembles as a calming yellow background conquerors the edgy urban blue of before. In terms of the choreography, this tension is further explored in the relative importance of absence, stasis and shadows when placed against presence, movement and light. Put simply, Davies is as interested in the gaps, as in the action, and ultimately, in the serenity and harmony that can be found by listening to white noise or watching a static television.
Nina Miall
|
