Transcendence at the Radio Bean

Arthur Brooks / Ensemble V at the Radio Bean (taken on my cell phone)

Every Wednesday evening at 7:30, in a dark and funky coffee house at the end of Church Street in Burlington, VT, a group of musicians gather to practice the rare and radical act of showing up. Arthur Brooks, Polly Vanderputten, Nelson Caldwell, Michael Chorney and Anthony Santor are Ensemble V (as in the number, not the letter), an improvising quintet of top drawer/low profile musicians directed by Arthur. On this particular Wednesday, they are joined by fellow improviser and esteemed music heavy, Barry Reese. And I have traveled the two hours from Littleton, NH with my friend Hilary, to be there, because I’m lonely for my people, and hungry for the real.

We’ve arrived early, to meet with Arthur and talk over summer plans of collaborations between Ensemble V and the Architects. Hilary is visiting from Portland, a spur of the moment trip inspired by an out of the blue Facebook chat a few days before. We’d been talking about the importance of finding and cultivating an art community with deep roots, about the challenges of making and supporting experimental work in rural, out of the way parts of the country. About a growing gnawing knowing that this work we do is not some out-of-touch-with-reality luxury of privilege, but a powerful tool for connection, transformation and paradigm shifting. And we’ve just spent two days immersed in a delightful mix of dialogue, writing, shared movement research and coffee-driven art plots/plans/provocations. I’ve given her only the lightest hints as to what we are about to hear, with a casual, “our ears are in for a real treat.” She has no idea what she’s in for.

The members of the ensemble greet each other, set down their coats and grab a beer. There’s not a lot of standing on ceremony here, no pretense in this group, and, once they enter the space and take up their respective instruments, virtually no eye contact either. What for the briefest moment seems like “warming up”, (the testing of a bow, the tuning of a guitar) soon clears its throat quietly and announces itself as having begun. As if simply picking up from where they left off the last time they met, the conversation is underway. Arthur, balancing on a stool, rests his back against the wall, closes his eyes, bows his head and listens. Nelson taps his bow lightly against the strings of his cello, and whispers a quiet winding solo statement. Polly and Michael take turns nodding, swaying, and sipping their beer. No one here is in a rush.

I am struck by the similar posture in each musician’s body as they play: the back is soft, and bent forward, the feet are planted wide on the ground. The head tilts to one side and slightly up, like the open cup of a flower, catching the rain.

I know I am right where I want to be when I find myself simultaneously energized, heartbroken, inspired, fired up, undone, done in and completely awake. Within moments of the Ensemble taking the space, the very air in the room starts to change. We are in the presence of Presence itself. So simple, and yet, so deeply profound, this powerful act of choosing to show up and pay attention together in this way. I can hardly stay still in my seat. Suddenly, it seems, the entire room is alive and dancing in collaboration with the sound, with the bodies and the instruments that are making the sound. Everything is part of what is happening, and nothing is irrelevant.

I let the sound surround me, and in the semi-private cocoon of closed eyes the sounds start to take on shapes. Like lines, but somehow with a spacious volume. Indulge me for a moment, as I loosen the grip on the words, in order to give you the tiniest glimpse of the sweet state that room was in. Imagine, say, watching a film of ice crystals forming on a glass surface, each tiny line, like a finger, branching off into countless others, meeting, layering, fanning out, folding over each other. Now speed that film up and expand the frame, so it’s no longer a two dimensional thing, but starts to fill the room. Imagine that glass surface beginning to bend, expand, inflate and move through the room. Now imagine that the lines are both sound, and light, and you’re not just watching this film, but feeling it in your skin, your lungs, your bones, your blood. Each note a ripple, an undulation that moves through the space, tapping awake the attention of everything in its path. Each note, simultaneously a sound, a sensation, a taste in your mouth. A flicker of light, a pang, a memory and a future shout. And all this is happening and unfolding in glorious real-time, like a Polaroid developing before your very eyes, from the inside out.

A woman enters the cafe and passes just inches from Arthur’s post near the door. Her orange beret bounces a vigorous greeting, and Arthur responds with a smile and a nod. Her entrance reminds me of the world outside, and suddenly, my perception expands and, like pulling wide-open the shutters on a follow-spot, light floods my attention, my attention floods the room, floods the street outside the room, floods the sky above the street…

What is happening here? How you answer that question depends entirely on which perceptual level of reality you’re interested in, or tuned into. What’s your fancy? What’s your fascination? How far down the rabbit hole are you interested in going?

I’ve been scribbling notes in my sketch book, thinking that later I might try to string some words together, to write about this experience. The tip of my pencil snaps, I’ve been writing so fast. I look down at what I have just written, and smile at the words that have appeared on the page:

They are beings of light!! They are beings of shining voluminous light!

They keep going. I look outside and notice it’s started to snow. The very air in the room is alive, the room itself is buzzing: The bartender washes racks of glasses, in perfect tune with the muted trumpet, in perfect time with the talking drum. Anthony’s fingers blur as they chase each other up and down the fret of his upright bass. A bell rings from the kitchen window; someone’s food is ready. Oh right, I think, someone is hungry. Of course. Of course, there would also be hunger here. Deep hunger. Every one of us, hungry for the real, even when we don’t know it.

Suddenly, an ambulance tears past the cafe. Then a fire truck. For a few moments, the punched tin ceiling of the cafe flashes red, as the sirens scream and blast in unison with the sharp cries of Arthur’s trumpet.

I used to hear the scream of an ambulance and think…oh…someone’s life just took an unexpected turn. Someone out there is not having the kind of day they thought they might have when they woke up. Maybe I got this from my mother, a devout Catholic, who used to close her eyes and make the sign of the cross whenever an ambulance passed us on the highway. It stayed with me, this kind of sudden heaviness of empathy every time I heard a siren, until one day I told a friend about it, how the sound of a siren hit my ears like, “someone’s in trouble.” She said, yeah, but if you listen, you can also hear something underneath it, something like… “don’t worry, help is on the way…” Whoa. Paradigm blaster. Tune in, tune in, by all means tune in. Don’t doubt for a second that you are inextricably connected to everything around you. But when you tune in to someone’s suffering or bad fortune, let go of the heaviness: they have more than enough of their own. Send them the lightness they need, send them help is on the way…

Like the cook ringing the pick-up bell, the ambulance reminds me that life doesn’t stop just because six people are playing music, and a handful of people are listening to them. Life goes on. Lives go on. Not separate, but alongside, and there’s always an emergency…an emergence…an emerging, a coming into being, from the formless into form, into the moment, into the right this very moment. As the red glow fades from the room and the ambulance disappears from view, I feel a shift among the musicians, I feel a shift in the room. I feel the threads of this music spilling out of the Bean, and following that ambulance down the street connecting every person in that room with the unknown person for whom that siren tolled. What is happening here? I think of a line from a favorite Rumi poem:

This is love: to fly toward a secret sky,
to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.

And they keep going. Keep playing, keep sending that sound out into the air. I look at Hilary, who sits next to me, knitting and nodding her head with the music. Her eyes are wide open and bright. We beam at each other. I say, just loud enough for her to hear over the music, which, as it turns out means practically shouting, “This… (motioning towards the huddle of magic bubbling up from the corner of the room) THIS is how you change the world!”


improvising to films (part 2): perception as a practice of patience

It’s been a week since the performance at Sidewalk Tzara/Outpost 186. There is a wee review in the Boston Phoenix, written by Marcia B.Siegel, who apparently enjoyed the show very much, even if she hardly mentions the presence of the live body in an evening primarily dedicated to films. (Which is curious to me, and raises interesting questions about presence. I would have thought that the live body trumps the virtual body in impact and power any day, especially when those bodies are dancing mere inches from the audience. Of course, as soon as I write that sentence, I question it, knowing how mesmerized our culture is by all things digital and flickering. But that’s a topic for another post…)

I titled this post a week ago, the night before the performance, as a kind of bookmark, a trail of breadcrumbs to find my way back to where I had left off…I had wanted to get at the experience of both creating an improvisational structure/approach to working with August 2009, a minimalist film by George Manupelli, and the experience of actually performing with it.

August 2009, (which had its public premier at Sidewalk Tzara) runs 18 minutes and is comprised almost entirely of a fixed frame, single shot of a summer thunder-storm in decrescendo, filmed from the deck in Manupelli’s backyard. Bookended by the sound of a typewriter striking each letter of a blunt and brief breakup note, the film unfolds at a rate that tests the patience of most viewers, and offers the opportunity to pay attention to change, narrative, emotion and time in some new and perhaps uncomfortable ways.

I had wanted to write about dancing with the idea of dancing with this film, and how odd that was, that day in the studio, before the performance, not having the film with us, just our memory of it, and some notes about its structure and the poetic effect of that structure. “Perception as a practice of patience” was the phrase that came to mind, as a way to describe the way the film unfolds in time

The simple score of trading solos that didn’t work for the first film, likewise, didn’t work here. (Perhaps a good reminder of the difference between the conceptual and the experiential, or the classic, “sounded good in theory” syndrome!) We worked with several variations and finally landed on one that seemed promising: a unison score, in which the role of “leader” is traded back and forth, and each mover can choose at any time to enter or exit. In the studio, the score felt interesting, spacious, and rich with potential, even in its simplicity. In the performance, however, I found it impossible to stay pure with it, and found myself breaking, or at least bending, the “rules.” But in my defense, let me say that in doing so, I felt like I was answering to a higher (compositional) authority. I fear that sounds flaky. Let me explain:

In the very act of performing, I experienced that kind of meeting the moment/material in a new eye opening way that brings those sudden, though sometimes subtle, understandings I suspect most artists long for. There I was, in the space, in the moment, with Jen, and the film, and the rain…and the audience, close enough to touch us. I felt the unfolding of time, felt the unfolding of form as we moved, making choices based on the score. And then I felt the tug of the necessary. The choices that wanted to be made, even if making them meant taking a detour from the score.

Performing is an alchemical process. Webster defines alchemy in part as “a power or process of transforming something common into something special,” andan inexplicable or mysterious transmuting.”  The act of performing, and all of the rituals that surround it (preparing, rehearsing, practicing, making all manners of decisions about how to frame the work to be performed, what to say about it beforehand, how to advertise it, present it, etc) serve to sharpen the focus, not only on the work performed, but the makers of that work. Fellow artist/performer/maker of things Karinne Keithley says it beautifully: “Performances are always my most fruitful rehearsals…” Through performing I find the most potent and useful information about what it is I’m making, what it is I’m doing, and the poetic effect of my choices.

I often wonder why I have chosen (and keep choosing) this dance-making and performing life. (Oddly enough, I usually wonder this in the handful of moments before stepping out on stage, and the wondering comes in the form of the only half-joking adrenaline-filled thought, “Just WHO exactly thought doing this was in ANY way a good idea??”) It’s certainly not for the money, or the fame. It’s not even for the pleasure of creating something and sending it off into the world, though that is deeply satisfying. I think it’s because through moving and making, I come to understand my experience in this life. It’s how I interact with, and make sense of, the world around me.

On this side of the performance, after a week has passed, and the information and insights are settling, I think of the title of this post. I notice how the words themselves seem to be dancing their way into a new arrangement, pointing the way to the beginnings of a deeper understanding…and so I let them reorganize themselves and step back to let what I do show me what I need to know. And I watch the subtle transformation as “Perception as a Practice of Patience” becomes “Performance as a Practice of Perception.”