This photo does not represent what audience witnessed on Saturday evening when LaJune McMillian presented the amateurish "Constellations" at PS21's small ice rink.

A bright idea executed badly is a terrible idea. And for those who watch it unfold, it’s torture.
 
That was the experience on Saturday afternoon at PS21: Center for Contemporary Performance when LaJune McMillian and dancers performed the world premiere of “Constellations” on the center’s small ice rink.
 
The idea of the piece was to create a world where, the website describes, “light, shadow, and motion create a cosmic landscape.” But aside from the electronic score, this 40-minute, outdoor show was hardly cosmic.
 
Instead, it featured four dancers in black bodysuits who had string lights wrapped around their right hands and poorly attached to the soles of their skates. About halfway into the piece, the skate lights unraveled off of one boot. Then another string and its battery pack, not able to withstand the movement, shattered and spewed its contents across the ice.
 
We’ve all seen costume malfunctions. They happen. While the broken lights contributed to the discomfort of watching "Constellations," what made this dance/skate so unbearable was the skating. It was tentative and wobbly. McMillian herself was not a great skater, so why or how did she come up with this idea.
 
The beauty of skating, once mastered, is the sense of freedom. One glides, not teeters, to create a seamless trajectory in any direction. “Constellations,” on the other hand, was lurching and grasping, and therefore unpleasant.
 
Only two of the four seemed adept at skating – but even they had difficulty. Letting go in this tiny synthetic ice rink, about the size of a large conference room, required too many jerky stops and starts.
 
And the promised show of light and shadow didn’t materialize. Rather, a purple light cast was upon them. The mystery of the cosmos was not revealed.
 
McMillian’s choreography was made up of lines and circles – skating dancers coming together and then splitting apart into their own orbits. But again, the skating was not proficient enough to suggest objects floating through space. It was amateur hour, all around. McMillian has much work to do – including learning to skate well -- before “Constellations” is ready to present.
 
Making matters worse, it started about 15 minutes later than scheduled. When people waiting outside with impatient children, it’s imperative to start on time.
 
I’m not sure why PS21 included “Constellations” in its first ever winter festival, dubbed The Dark. It was promoted as free and for children, so perhaps PS21 thought it didn’t have to be of the highest artistic caliber. But this is poor reflection on their choices for their loyal audience who stood outside watching, likely thinking “it’s got to get better.”
 
It didn’t. PS21 has to do better.

kNoname Artist / Roderick George's "The Graves Tears," performed at Williams College on Tuesday night, is a deeply moving, spiritual work. (Courtesy of kNoname Artist)

In this moment in time when the power structure wants to erase differences for homogeny, kNoname Artist reminds us that crushing authenticity, particularly that of the LGBTQ+ community, crushes humanity.

On Tuesday night at Williams College, Roderick George’s “The Grave’s Tears” evokes that truth by reeling viewers’ back to the AIDS crisis of the 1980s when thousands of healthy young men died from what was dubbed “the gay plague.” And many, including those in the highest elected office, didn’t seem to care.
 
What “The Grave’s Tears” tells us, in flesh and sweat, is what indifference costs.
 
This is a deeply spiritual work that carried its viewer across a timeline of the crisis. It opens with George entering from the shadows, an angelic figure with arm spread like outstretched wings. He is joined by the full cast of seven – all-men – in what can only be described as something close to George Balanchine’s “Serenade.” Dancer moved as one, wrists to their foreheads, arms extended as if shading their eyes from inspections glare and then sidestepping to the groves of a disco beat.
 
The vibe was joyous at first with a dance club scene with music by Diana Ross and Donna Summer – among others. Heads bopped, shoulders shifts and hips swayed to the thunder of the infectious beat. But then tragedy strikes – these strong vivacious men sink to the floor, stumble, stagger and struggle for support.
 
The work then breaks up into solos, duets and trio of anguish of souls seeking help and a way out of their pain. A voice over talks about mysterious lesions, fatigue or a cold that never goes away. It talks about hospital stays, fear of caregivers and undertakers. And then finally, a devastating of farewell that was heartbreakingly depicted by MJ Edwards and Zack Sommer. Edward’s effort to keep a partner alive is palpable, but futile and Sommer finally collapses on that stage that is covered in what appears like bits of dirt.
 
The symbology throughout was staggering. At one point, the dancers fall to the floor and their arms jut skyward like tombstones. There is a dark angel (another touch of Balanchine “Serenade”) that guides a dancer blindly to their death. George himself dances a solo in which he is tumbling about, seemly tossed by the relentless confusion and loss.

Ultimately, there is not good answer on how to handle our differences in who and how we love, or in how we express our gender. But one thing is certain, “The Grave’s Tears” insists we do better.

Dancer barkha patel performed ​“ramit aave: her playful arrival" at Union College on Friday night.

The path barkha patel treads is one of mystery in “ramit aave: her playful arrival.” As seen on Friday night at Union College, the dancer strides along a road to delve into the feminine side of sensuality, dying and ultimately into a territory of enlightenment.
 
She’s an intrepid explorer, using her skills in kathak dance and the hypnotic music of sarangi, tabla and voice, to lead her audience into an unseen world. And then she leaves the viewer there, slightly rattled and breathless.
 
The program notes for “ramit aave” (translated from Hindi as “she comes dancing”), tell the audience that patel is tapping into the forces of the Goddess Kali to release female desire buried for generations. Kali oversees time, doomsday, death, disorder, sexuality and violence. And in her work, patel dies and then rises as an erotic figure. Then she returns from on high as a spiritual being, one disillusioned by romance, but also unaffected by it.
 
The stage is set up with vocalist Shweta Pandya, tabla player Vivek Pandya and sarangi performer Rohan Misra on a low platform on which they sit. patel enters upstage on a well-worn pathway painted with red footprints. Carrying a vessel atop her head, she walks slowly in silence. Only the bells at her ankles can be heard gently tingling.
 
She pours from her vessel folded papers and crushed red flower petals. And then she dances, her long flared skirt billowing to the intriguing music.
 
So much of traditional Indian dance rests on storytelling. And it is one of the few dance forms in which the face and gestures tell its tale. In the first section, patel appears to be building something up that she strains to keep. She is unsuccessful in her effort and she crumples to the floor.
 
In the next section, a trio of mirrors reveals a woman preening, gently caressing her face and admiring her reflection. Then she steps out, beautifully confident with a flirtatious look in her eye. But then she is disappointed by a rebuff and finishes by stroking a fragile heart.
 
After an amazing musical interlude in which Vivek Pandya astonished with his fleet and flexible fingers and hands gliding over the tabla, patel returns from above. She walks through the audience offering roses she would then refuse to bear and instead stripped the flowers of their petals that she crushed as she went.
 
The magic was broken by technical difficulties as the lights went out on patel before they were supposed to. She called up to the booth, to turn them back on. “I’m not done,” she called.

But her request was unheeded. The audience accommodated her with cell phone flashlights and she completed her dance stomping in anger and then whirling, with her loose hair flying, as if finally attaining her higher calling.  

"9.2," seen here with Norika Isomura center stage, was performed on Friday night at Williams College.

Of all the -isms that good people are trying to shatter, ableism might be the most stubborn.
 
Cas Public, a Montreal-based ensemble, thankfully weakened the notion that people with physical and mental barriers are lesser on Friday night at Williams College. Its “9.2” – an evening-length work – questioned “can a deaf person dance.” And the answer is, of course. Their language is movement. They dance all the time.
 
The piece, choreographed by Helene Blackburn in collaboration with Cai Glover, who is deaf and a company member, is not only a repudiation that the idea of “disability” but a celebration of all humanity’s abilities.
 
That was immediate clear at the beginning of the piece. Dancers surveyed the audience, inviting members to participate in the show. Those who chose to take part in “9.2,” including a child, were not the typical foils for performers. Instead, they were an integral part the entire dance, including bowing with the company at the end. None of these folks were planted. And at least three of them danced with American Sign Language (quickly taught by Glover.)
 
That’s the thing with ASL – it is a dance. This is the revelation of “9.2.”
 
The work is contained by chairs – normal, child and toy size. Not only do they decorate the stage with a symmetrical design, they also define its limits and serve as a welcoming metaphor. Come, sit, join us.
 
Within its bounds, that the participating audience help to arrange, the dancers reveal their power with snippets from nearly deaf composer Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Arranged by Martin Tetreault, the music is often clipped, not allowing ears to fully get a handle on it. That was likely the point.
 
There is also a video, by Kenneth Michiels, that features children – one of whom has a cochlear implant (as does Glover). Finally, there is a toy Volkswagen Beetle, with a video camera that projects its live images on the screen as it darts between the dancers.
 
And what dancers they are. Dressed in black, they, along with Glover who took out his implant, are fast and sharp. They moved to the highlighted sections of Beethoven’s symphony in spotlights on the blackened stage. The focus on lighted circles emphasized their refined top-to-bottom abilities.
 
Among the standouts were the statuesque Arnaud Mongeon whose fluidity was astounding. He’s a gorgeous dancer that devours the space with clarity. Norika Isomura, dancing both blindfolded and later sighted en pointe, carried herself with authority as she kicked and pas de boureed across the stage. At one point, her legs appeared like a metronome for a piano variation.

Glover was one of the ensemble, but took a central role in audience’s minds. As their spotlighted solos morphed into synchronized ensemble work, Glover was gloriously spot on. It seems ridiculous to point out that Glover is as fine a dancer as others in Cas Public.
 
Yet, that is reason for “9.2.” It’s a lesson I’m glad to learn.