A red wheelbarrow

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these dancers, tere tells us early on in the interrogation. they’re so liquid in their interpreting that they’re almost like audience members inside of the dance

how much comes from the audience

all of these finished products will become just material he says

there are big pots of geraniums on the white, industrial windowsills. makes me think of this book for some reason. who’s got the apple?

have fun-ish he tells his dancers

i love watching things in studios. white rooms. instant happiness. why aren’t more dances performed in studios? what’s the big thing with theaters, anyway? i am less and less into theaters, with a few exceptions. theaters make my ass twitch.

relevé quick step, deadpan and grief

go ahead, dance your heart out. die. i’ll just stand here being witty & beautiful, occupying myself with inscrutable gestures.

the harem … i remember reading somewhere that tere sees all of his dancers on stage as female. no i am sure that’s not right, i’m getting it all wrong. but, well, that’s what has stuck. pesky audience members, always mixing up our facts.

all of this is in some ways a response (rebuttal) to a post tere put up on facebook (a system to which i no longer belong, but word gets out) about a review i wrote of this dance, a dance which he didn’t see. so his review of my review has interesting connections to that infamous arlene croce review, though i am inflating things just a bit. anyway, this is all an aside not really. also, some publications frown on the use of “infamous.”

dance for me is a form of agreed upon hallucination, he says. and: i am making a network that’s perforated that you can bring your storied life to

sometimes i think tere wants to have his cake and eat it, too. well, i guess we all do

but i do adore his dances.

sometimes i would like to see them without any design elements. just the facts, ma’am

look at that: a miraculous, delirious tower of two men


ritual; the crowd and the outlier

repetition to dull & to strengthen

the geraniums are still on the windowsills

the dancers move in gusts

everything happens all at once and again and again. we forget to look, until we remember.

who’s got the apple (it’s red) now? the chickens, white like snow.

We will be happy to hear your thoughts

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