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Josie Moseley could charge admission to her rehearsals. Watching the lanky dancer--who choreographed the wonderful Quiet Stories for Oregon Ballet Theater in early spring--throw herself onto the stage and screech for music as she runs around in tight Levi's, leather mules and long pulled-back hair might be even more fun than watching a finished performance. Moseley is one of seven choreographers creating new works for 36-year-old Linda K. Johnson, who has performed and taught modern dance extensively in Portland. Gregg Bielemeier, James Canfield, Kristy Edmunds, Mary Oslund, Drew Pisarra and Stephanie Skura are also composing five- to 10-minute solo pieces; the muscular Johnson, who looks like a longer-haired version of Sinéad O'Connor, will dance them all. During rehearsal, Johnson switches gears like an oiled robot, absorbing the ideas and images of seven choreographers. One moment she's a sponge, silently soaking up direction; a second later she's figuring out the order of music on the DAT tape, arranging publicity and coordinating a hectic schedule. Then, suddenly, she's dancing again. As Johnson works with each choreographer, the relationships between these members of Portland's art community immediately become clear. Bielemeier's stage-side manner is almost doting; he seems to be as much a fan as a friend. Edmunds barks directions sternly, the way you can only with a close friend or lover (Edmunds and Johnson are partners). Oslund, with whom Johnson shares the Conduit dance space, seems the most familiar with Johnson's body and style; her piece suits Johnson more intuitively than Moseley's or Edmunds'. Most of the artists insist that no narrative string ties together the individual segments. But only two pieces are truly abstract: Edmunds' epileptic vibrations set to the Velvet Underground's "All Tomorrow's Parties," and Skura's depiction of speeding and suddenly braking to a soundtrack of pounding rain. The others have more distinct subtexts. Ladies' Voices, Pisarra's piece, marries chaotic motion--Johnson spins on a stool throughout--with pointed verse by Gertrude Stein. Using cocktail party jewelry and yard-sale organ music, Bielemeier's segment evokes an aging woman hanging onto youth with martinis and lipstick; he has Johnson's movement range from maniacally energetic to lethargically slurred, with a few shivers thrown in. Puritans who objected to James Canfield's slinky seductress in Dance Card be forewarned: Johnson performs his segment of the program naked with one finger in her bunghole, to music by the Wu Tang Clan. Kidding! Johnson wears more clothes for Canfield than for anyone else. The choreographer's lyrical steps are set to Beethoven's moody Moonlight Sonata. Because they work together so much, Oslund and Johnson display a comfort and rapport with one another that is a pleasure to watch. Oslund turns her dancer into a hardboiled Gidget; moves that look like popping up on a surfboard match coyly crooked glances and shoreline shimmies and mesh with Johnson's natural aura. Moseley's energetic, Latin-toned dance is glorious, but you almost wish she would just dance it herself--it seems much more an extension of her energy and body type than Johnson's. Neither overly dramatic nor contrived (both are common pitfalls of contemporary dance), Moseley's piece is a beautiful version of dancing around the house. Every movement seems natural and unaware of an audience: She has Johnson spin when you would spin, her chin tilted, her expressions both sincere and campy. Some of the repeated movements in Not Fully Myself grow tiresome. There's a lot of twitching, lying on the floor and images of feminine self-destruction. But the variation--moves that include swiveling on a stool and hip-hop-style popping, and a score that ranges from Lou Reed to Philip Glass--makes up for it, as do Johnson's skill and stamina. |
