Artist's Date #2: OYSTERKNIFE: m | ou | f
@ ODC Theater // State of Play Summer Dance Festival
After last week’s inaugural installment of the Artist’s Date, I was ON FIRE, let me tell you. Not only was I evangelizing for substack to every member of The Ruby who came through the attic, but also I made a content matrix of possible newsletter topics for every day of the week, and brainstormed essays for each, including a draft of one on parenting and another verbal draft of a review of the reading with Angela Garbes and Shruti Swamy, that took place in the living room downstairs. That was on Thursday. And then, on Friday, I took all that amazing potent artistic potential and spent it all at the mall. Unfortunately, for special security reasons, I can not reveal the exact nature of this binge, but let me just tell you that it was trashy. It was so consuming that I had to keep reminding myself on Saturday: it’s the weekend. You write a newsletter now. Get thee to an Artist’s date.
And I did. I made it to the OCD Theatre, who presented a number of experimental works in their studio space, including m | ou | f by the duo known as Oysterknife.
The show began with a clever nod to the social construction of blackness, but it took me the whole show to realize it. At first, I noticed only the way that the notion of experimental was reinforced by the moving around of structures: a few mirrored boxes, a ladder opened up and set, a pair of gold heels on a good platter, placed at the top of the steps. Media played on TVs on either side of the room and some excellent, and original, music boomed as the dancers invited the audience members to get up and move, after a few moments of them already dancing in a more formal and presentational way. I had all kinds of thoughts during this group dance, in which I participated. How much fun I was having. How it felt so good to move. How I felt a part of something here, this dance community, even after taking just a few classes in which I have been, pointedly and noticeably, even comment worthily, bad.
Pleasure turned to shame, when I realized the dance I so quickly jumped into was another example of a blackness that fit; an unchallenging, fun and joiner-friendly culture that, likewise, was so cost effective that it was even free. This first act was fun and easy and was followed by a serious and intentionally different second act; where the dancers dressed in ritual masquerade for a totally stark and culturally more invisible version of Afro-Diasporic dance. The contrast pulled me in and I watched the male dancer from behind — his shoulders — with full attention as he moved in a way that was rigid and fluid all at once, possessed and himself, sexy and also solo, something so fine tuned and perfected that it could not be noticed as anything but professional, even as it had little resonance with the version of black culture that felt so familiar in the first act.
I would have forgotten about a sweet and site-specific moment, when, in the middle of the second act, the two dancers led two audience members to a set of double doors that opened to a fire-escape overlooking the street, were it not for Rachel Howard’s review of the festival in the SF Chronicle. I spotted Rachel at the informal chat by the box-office and again at the performance, because SHE HAD A NOTEBOOK, and WAS WRITING IN IT, which is why, I’m assuming, she remembered to write about this subtle but poignant moment. It felt both dangerous and full of possibility, to see these unknowing audience members being led to the edge and then being given the gift of fresh air and a kind of horizon, past the top of the ledge and toward the coming night: a Saturday, @7pm, and hour before I put myself straight to bed, after one pre-show happy-hour wine only. The event itself was a “turn-no-one away” ticket so all-in-all an artist’s date complete for $7 + tip.
There are a few nights left of the festival and I’m planning on one more visit: to see Fever Dreams, which is described as a dizzying dance spectacle based on Mexican folk Artist Pedro Linares’ Cartoneria known as Alebrije. Ornate and vibrantly colored costumes decorate dancers as they transform into Linares’ mythical creatures who are as loud and unapologetic as the heat hallucinations that sired them. Wild imagery and sensuous yet eerie movements are the backbone of these birds of paradise and they haunt the space with stories of longing, lust and looming fears, although it is SOLD OUT, with a side note that no one will be turned away. There’s also: ritual for thrivation no. 2, which promises explore urban-indigenous futurism. See how I did that? Got in one more paragraph in with some cut and paste? Phew. 5 paragraphs. That’s a wrap.
Oh AND, it was so nice to see Kristin pop into The Ruby on Monday, looking for Peggy, but I got a hug out of it. Kristin, I am not, as of yet, the person at Friday’s lunch who tested positive for COVID. I am now reading your moving and mediative essay on TV, supermarkets and loss published by catapult last month. Many parts of this took my breath away: heavy and gorgeous, like the black chunks of Joan Mitchell’s La Vie en Rose. Group 1: send me things about things if and when! Happy Summer. See you back at The Ruby in July because Done But Not Recommended: saving money by cancelling your membership while you travel for two weeks, thereby having two less weeks of the month to be in this room of our own.