Baryshnikov and Green
Two things on this Sunday:
First, a link -- a fascinating review by Deborah Jowitt in The Village Voice of an evening of contemporary dance with Mikhail Baryshnikov. (Also, a picture of Mr Baryshnikov in a white shirt.)
The thing of cool: beyond the Benjamin Millepied piece (which I once linked to at t'other place), the Susan Marshall piece sounds amazing. Money quote: One by one, he draws three spectators from the front row and does a little snatch of dancing for each. To emphasize the privacy of it, the first guest starts out seated close to the wings, facing offstage, and Baryshnikov dances out of our sight for several seconds. He’s very gentle with these people-charming-and pretty soon, he’s dancing for all three, filling the space they surround. (Who in the audience didn’t half wish to be up there too?) In the end, Tipton frames each of them in a spotlight, and they take a bow with the star. The message is subtle; he is dancing for each of us, all of us, and without us, it’d be no fun.
Second...on Friday I had a little Fun with Words, in which I wrote about Ms Alice Stonewood and her husband Morgan. I've been thinking about them a little more...
Principal Morgan Stonewood goes out the doors of the high school cafeteria, and, released, the student body collapses over their wrappers and trays and cellphones.
It's not that they don't like him. Principal Stonewood's famous for his smiles: an oddly merry one when he's honestly amused, a kind one when he's trying to help some dumbass sophomore get through a tough patch in Honors History, a proud one when somebody does something cool. He's got an open door if a student needs him.
Of course, he's also famous for this trick he has, this kind of looming thing, where he goes tall and still and cold-eyed and dark-voiced at any hint of trouble. Even the toughest kids, the ones who in another school would be the bullies shoving weaklings into lockers or flicking out knives, back down when he looms.
Stupid Jack Elliot pulled some stupid shit in the courtyard this morning, and there was major looming, and even after Elliot went all hangdog to class, Principal Stonewood still had the eyes and the voice working. He spent the morning stalking the halls, checking on everyone.
The more imaginative students thought they heard a rumble and a rustling as he passed, like storm working through a forest, dark overhead, dark underneath, like heavy branches would fall if the wind twisted the wrong way.
It's hard to enjoy your lunch when Principal Stonewood's in that kind of mood.
But now, tray in hand (on which are bread and butter, salad, and a slice of key lime pie with two forks), Principal Stonewood is walking a little easier. He's headed outside, to the green.
When he took over as principal a decade ago, the first thing he did was plant a circle of ash trees around the school. The school board members protested a bit until he did some modified looming, and then they decided green was perfectly acceptable. They even have a page about the trees on the school-system website. Environmental responsibility, that's what they call it.
Morgan lets them call it what they want. That's not why the trees are there.
He steps lightly into cloud-filtered sunlight, and looks over to the smaller circle of trees within the circle, and smiles his merriest smile.
Thick trunks, heavy leaves even in spring, a hidden place -- but he sees. She's waiting, tall and straight, severe-suited and hands-folded, for him on the stone bench.
"Ms Stonewood," he says, "darling," and in a leap or two enters the circle.
"Morgan, my heart," she says. "Bad morning, was it?"
"You could say that."
"Or I could say worse?"
"No. Just bad." He smiles, crooked and warm.
When he sits next to her, however, he leans just a bit toward her, and she meets him. Her hands unfold so that she can rumple his hair (which will be combed before he goes back in) and undo his tie (which will be knotted, ditto).
He takes off his shoes and socks himself, while she holds the tray.
As they eat lunch, there in the hidden place, he hides his bare feet in the cool fallen leaves. The light is green, green, green all around them, and storms are far away.
.........................
Oh, I wish I had a proper story for them. Alas.
But for today, I send you thoughts of cool and of green. May you have a lovely start to your week!
First, a link -- a fascinating review by Deborah Jowitt in The Village Voice of an evening of contemporary dance with Mikhail Baryshnikov. (Also, a picture of Mr Baryshnikov in a white shirt.)
The thing of cool: beyond the Benjamin Millepied piece (which I once linked to at t'other place), the Susan Marshall piece sounds amazing. Money quote: One by one, he draws three spectators from the front row and does a little snatch of dancing for each. To emphasize the privacy of it, the first guest starts out seated close to the wings, facing offstage, and Baryshnikov dances out of our sight for several seconds. He’s very gentle with these people-charming-and pretty soon, he’s dancing for all three, filling the space they surround. (Who in the audience didn’t half wish to be up there too?) In the end, Tipton frames each of them in a spotlight, and they take a bow with the star. The message is subtle; he is dancing for each of us, all of us, and without us, it’d be no fun.
Second...on Friday I had a little Fun with Words, in which I wrote about Ms Alice Stonewood and her husband Morgan. I've been thinking about them a little more...
Principal Morgan Stonewood goes out the doors of the high school cafeteria, and, released, the student body collapses over their wrappers and trays and cellphones.
It's not that they don't like him. Principal Stonewood's famous for his smiles: an oddly merry one when he's honestly amused, a kind one when he's trying to help some dumbass sophomore get through a tough patch in Honors History, a proud one when somebody does something cool. He's got an open door if a student needs him.
Of course, he's also famous for this trick he has, this kind of looming thing, where he goes tall and still and cold-eyed and dark-voiced at any hint of trouble. Even the toughest kids, the ones who in another school would be the bullies shoving weaklings into lockers or flicking out knives, back down when he looms.
Stupid Jack Elliot pulled some stupid shit in the courtyard this morning, and there was major looming, and even after Elliot went all hangdog to class, Principal Stonewood still had the eyes and the voice working. He spent the morning stalking the halls, checking on everyone.
The more imaginative students thought they heard a rumble and a rustling as he passed, like storm working through a forest, dark overhead, dark underneath, like heavy branches would fall if the wind twisted the wrong way.
It's hard to enjoy your lunch when Principal Stonewood's in that kind of mood.
But now, tray in hand (on which are bread and butter, salad, and a slice of key lime pie with two forks), Principal Stonewood is walking a little easier. He's headed outside, to the green.
When he took over as principal a decade ago, the first thing he did was plant a circle of ash trees around the school. The school board members protested a bit until he did some modified looming, and then they decided green was perfectly acceptable. They even have a page about the trees on the school-system website. Environmental responsibility, that's what they call it.
Morgan lets them call it what they want. That's not why the trees are there.
He steps lightly into cloud-filtered sunlight, and looks over to the smaller circle of trees within the circle, and smiles his merriest smile.
Thick trunks, heavy leaves even in spring, a hidden place -- but he sees. She's waiting, tall and straight, severe-suited and hands-folded, for him on the stone bench.
"Ms Stonewood," he says, "darling," and in a leap or two enters the circle.
"Morgan, my heart," she says. "Bad morning, was it?"
"You could say that."
"Or I could say worse?"
"No. Just bad." He smiles, crooked and warm.
When he sits next to her, however, he leans just a bit toward her, and she meets him. Her hands unfold so that she can rumple his hair (which will be combed before he goes back in) and undo his tie (which will be knotted, ditto).
He takes off his shoes and socks himself, while she holds the tray.
As they eat lunch, there in the hidden place, he hides his bare feet in the cool fallen leaves. The light is green, green, green all around them, and storms are far away.
.........................
Oh, I wish I had a proper story for them. Alas.
But for today, I send you thoughts of cool and of green. May you have a lovely start to your week!