molt

Choreographer’s Statement

The original point of departure for molt is a visual metaphor for the reduction of human beings into “consumers”: a cat chasing after a feather being dangled from the end of a wire. Should it catch the feather, the cat will only choke. The cat is probably aware that the feather, at the very least, offers no sustenance. But like humans in constant pursuit of further acquisitions – beauty, power, sex, material junk, and so on - the chase continues. This concept is realized in molt by means of a long flexible wire attached to the back of a corset. As I dance in the corset, a large red ostrich plume is always dancing ahead of me, tantalizingly just out of reach.

Research on the feather as “the object of desire” led to the discovery that birds symbolize the female in innumerable cultures. In our society women are still called “birds” and “chicks”. Many primitive peoples danced homage to the black winged bird they believed was the creatress of the world. Through the ages, “progress” meant the subjugation of the goddess to upstart male deities. In Norse legend, the black winged world-maker was splintered into the Valkyries: shape-shifting, carrion-eating, raven-goddesses who were servants to a supreme male deity. As a woman who looks more suited to a Wagnerian battle helmet and armored breast plate than a delicate feather headpiece and pointe shoes, I was fascinated to learn that the Valkyries themselves were demoted over time into fragile swan maidens and a helpless spinning princess: Swan Lake and Sleeping Beauty, respectively.

Birds are one of the few species besides humans who dance. Perhaps this is why dance has long used birds as inspiration. In spite of my ornithophobia, I have always been fascinated by and admiring of birds. Indeed, I spent my entire youth trying to be one! As a serious ballet student, I was devastated to realize that at age fifteen, 6’2” en pointe, and weighing in at over a hundred and twenty pounds, I was never going to make it as a swan. “Amazonian” and not “bird” was the word. Dance progressed to the “pointe” where there was no place for a woman like me.

Progress can be a trap. One of the scenes in molt is a reinterpretation of the iconic Fokine ballet solo to Saint-Saëns’ TheDying Swan: with images of oiled marine birds and a simultaneous projection of black oil pouring onto my arms, I dance the last hurrah of a hideous cheerleader of the current oil-mad U.S. administration. Terms such as “smart bomb” make me wonder at how the progressive ingenuity that has made us the dominant species of this planet, has ironically put us, and our whole world in terrible jeopardy. If this world were a coalmine, we would be the dodos exclaiming “Progress!” as canary after canary goes stiff, and points its little feet skyward. And isn’t it tricky to see the black winged goddess now in all that tulle?