| The Best New Year's Ever |
| Mon, May. 18 2009 |
The
first 20 hours went seemingly well. In fact, I was having fun. I was
like, "I was made for this!" and "I'm a Dancing Machine!" I even felt
a little competitve, as web cam viewers were reporting that, unlike
most of the other artists around the country, I was still on my feet.
I ran through my internal 80's song book of alternative and soul. I
danced to war poems in my head. I returned again and again to "The
Source of All My Good" and the stories of soldiers I had heard about
and met. Civilians. Everybody's kids.
Daylight hours were the easiest, I could navigate by the warmth of
the sunlight streaming through the windows. I was energized by visits
from my little nephews and Wiggles, the dog. The boys danced with me.
The webstream crowd went wild. My mother hugged me. It was good.
At one point, as the only adult in the house, I had the honor of
kneeling down and tying my nephew Asa's shoelaces. The blind leading
the itty bitty.
I was even happy that, for once, I didn't have
to think about what to do for New Year's Eve. This was so EASY. I
couldn't remember why I'd been a little scared when I first volunteered
to rep for Arkansas.
All that changed around 7 or 8pm.
The sun was gone. My
clothes were soaked. I couldn't think of any moves. My assumption
that I would eventually orient myself in the room turned out to be an
intermittently painful mistake. I couldn't think of anymore songs to
sing to myself. There was nothing left. No clever tricks to hide
behind to convince myself that what I was doing wasn't so hard. The
real meaning of the project began to sink in for me. What it means to
be displaced. Uncertain. Exhausted. And a little lost in your own
home. Hours that had flown by began to limp, then crawl.
After awhile, the pain in my feet was such that I didn't want to take a
step. The rest of my body was still ready to go, despite some cramping
in my legs, but my feet didn't want to carry me. My scope of movement
in the room began to shrink, as I realized that any move I made might
run me into something, or it might not. The last four hours were a
lesson for me. The long haul is hard. Twenty hours, though very
impressive, is not enough. I kept thinking how I had to keep it up for
the viewers. The other artists. Throw in some of those 4pm moves when
my inspiration started to shut down....
I realized then, that until I took the blindfold off, I would be
flailing around in pain, fear, and confusion. Period. Even with a few
moments of seeming freedom, I would inevitably hit something, or wander
in a completely wrong direction. All I had to do was take the
blindfold off and open my eyes. But I couldn't. And neither could
anyone displaced by war, or waiting in confusion and silence for a
loved one to come home, I couldn't begin to imagine their pain. This
was the lesson of New Year's Eve.
Thank you,
Malinda
-- |
|
| I See Beyond the Black Sun - Our First Review! |
| Tue, Apr. 21 2009 |
From ESPdisk.com:
At Zebulon last Thursday, bar patrons were treated to, as Arrington de Dionyso put it with a subtle lisp, “Special Forces with special forces—the special Special Forces.” Special Forces, with Marc Edwards on drums and Darius Jones, Randy Borra, Gene Janas, had just finished a set when I arrived; the room buzzing with chatter of band members and appeased listeners. Arrington de Dionyso in collaboration with Malinda Allen was to follow.
I had trekked to see Arrington de Dionyso perform after being blown away by his recent live set on WFMU as well as his new record with The Naked Future on ESP-Disk’. I knew that Arrington was quite prolific: eight albums with Old Time Relijun and extensive touring throughout the world. I knew about his uniquely predominant use of bass clarinet and insane skill with throat singing like an ageless Mongol. Through the spectacle of his live performance, Arrington proved to be a complex player who thoughtfully conveys his accepting, hedonistic and free thinking ideas as a conceptual artist as much as a musician.
To begin, a Shruti box, set up in front of a snare drum on its side, issued forth a steady drone rattling the snare’s beads. Malinda, dressed in a black leotard, somehow revealed that an emergence from womb can be sexy. A slideshow of sorts was projected on the wall at back of the stage. The view panned and zoomed across several of Arrington’s paintings, mostly naked humans poised in stoic stance, several more explicitly sexual images of male/female copulation, as well as one auto-biographical painting of a naked Arrington (I presume) with a hard-on playing bass clarinet amongst naked admirers (us?). Steadily, Arrington began with pulsating blasts on his bass clarinet. As the playing became more dissonant, I was surprised by Arrington’s avant garde/free fervor and imagination anchored in an almost Maceo funk rhythm. This set the stage for some inspired dancing which included Malinda sweatily perched on an empty spot at the bar sipping water like a jungle cat. With Arrington as conjurer, the raga mediation was set on expelling the evil of the room and summoning the spirits to return karmic balance.
Meanwhile, I was hoping for some good ol’ throat singing. Arrington must have sensed as much from the audience because he then began his second piece solo with some guttural Tuvan sounds issued forth through a reed that sounded absolutely incredible. He also sang without the reed, but I believe his voice was a bit strained as the drone and whistle petered a bit. Regardless, I was mesmerized by the whole thing, stunned at this comprehensive performance.
With the set finished, Arrington announced a short intermission to be followed by a joint session with Special Forces. This proved to be an excellent treat for lovers of free improvisation. The musicians were incredibly skilled, and all were smiling widely. The trumpet player dizzily played pacing back and forward. The highlight of the set came when things quieted down a bit and the bass player began singing a stream-of-consciousness melody that was as beautiful as it was out-of-place in such a free improv setting. Arrington’s boogie-skronk blasts brought the momentum back to propulsion to finish the set, making certain that I will be taking every opportunity to see Arrington de Dionyso on stage. |
|
| Sacadouche 1 |
| Wed, Nov. 5 2008 |
Fresh out of the bath, I walk into the living room.
Gregoire has an idea for a new show.
More soon... |
|
| Wanna be a soldier? |
| Fri, Oct. 26 2007 |
Wednesday night, I attended a panel meeting at Dance NYC on technology and the future of dance, The panelists were Jonah Bokaer of Chez Bushwick, Doug Fox of Great Dance, and Doug McLennan of Arts Journal. They all brought up some great points, and somehow, during the discussion, Doug McLennan tossed out a very interesting question…
Why isn’t there more art about the war?
The question was asked as an aside. He went on to say that, compared to the same time in the Vietnam war era, there was art coming out the yin yang about the engagement.
But nowadays? Not so much.
People didn’t seem to have a quick answer for him. I did have a quick answer, but didn’t want to hijack the discussion in a completely different direction. I thought I’d save my answer for this space, and it looks like this:
The reason why there isn’t more art about the war is the same reason there isn’t more protest about the war. The means of recruitment for this conflict is drastically different from that of Vietnam. During Vietnam, the draft insured that the people going to war spanned the full range of economic and educational backgrounds…this meant that more college-educated or college bound people from upper middle class families were directly affected by our government’s military actions. These groups have:
1) A greater tendency to show up on college campuses and hold a rallies, sit-in, peace march, etc.
2) They have the leisure to take time out of their lives to do this.
3) They’re more likely to hold the interest of the legislators who make these decisions for our country, and perhaps most importantly,
4) These people are also more likely to know - or be - artists.
So where does that leave with Iraq?
Recruitment practices for this war have predominantly focused on the courting of inner-city minorities and low-income whites from rural areas for voluntary military service. It is somewhat unlikely that these folks have a friend, lover, or cousin preparing for a season at Dance Theater Workshop here in NYC, or in a number of other alternative spaces around NYC.
Was this decision to focus recruitment on lower income soldiers an intentional choice to avoid the media morass that the government found itself in during the Vietnam War? My gut response ?
Hell yes.
Really quite a savvy choice, if you think about it.
Was this decision to focus recruitment on lower income soldiers an intentional choice to suppress the amount of art being created about the war effort? My gut says that, once again, we artists are just collateral damage.
|
|
| Recipe: Soup for a Sick Ex |
| Thu, Oct. 18 2007 |
Ingredients:
Light miso
Dried Shiitakes
Dashi broth granules
Leftover Cuban roast chicken
Kale – cut with scissors
Garnish with
Red pepper flakes
Sesame oil
Fresh scallion - again cut with scissors - on a slant
Equipment:
Your best culinary skills - all must be added
Chopsticks – 2 sets
A spoon – for stirring
A spoon – for your guest
A spoon – for you
Cups for tea– stolen from Stella’s in college town 13 years ago, when that sort of thing seemed like a challenge to the social order, an unexpected fulfillment of expectations…when that sort of thing seemed like a good idea
Accompaniments:
Water with lime - served in wineglasses
Expensive tea - the kind that requires you to discuss the ingredients like you’re doing your guest a favor just to let them smell it.
Seaweed salad
Vegan thai dumplings
Serve with:
A quiet remove
Restrained yet boisterously intimate conversation
A chaste kiss – on the lips to show that we’re past all that – on the way to the door.
Post-meal:
Tidy kitchen
Insert new ex
Repeat
|
|
| Absorption rate |
| Wed, Oct. 10 2007 |
| A dear friend of mine is in business. She says that, in business “you never look back”. She’ll sometimes mention that she’s made mistakes, but with a shrug. She’s been doing this for a long time. Mistakes are part of the territory.
What would it look like to live our lives like that? Accepting mistakes as necessary parts of our internal evolutionary process? How much mental energy would we save? How much time? All that would be left to do is move forward, make new things happen. Add new mistakes to the landscape of our existence. It is usually the results of accidental acts that add topographical interest to life. A little unevenness in the pavement, bumps, cracks, mountains, ravines. All the tiny (and monstrous) errors of our times.
The idea is not to avoid errors and not to dwell on them. Accept them. Absorb them. And move on. |
|
| Art mustn't be sequestered... |
| Sat, May. 12 2007 |
| Last night, at dinner, I surprised my friend by mentioning (really, complaining) about a mention I got in the Times last year. "You were mentioned in the Times?" I was like, "Yeah, but that's not the point." And she was like, "But still, the Times..."
I thought about it, how surprising that was to her, and realized that different people know my work in different ways. From showing up at clubs and open mikes, to concert stage stuff with press kits and publicity.
I really like that idea. Of taking art off the grid, and letting the work speak for itselff across venues, across "demographics", across contexts. Even when that means going on at 1am in a warehouse in Brooklyn.
Audiences are smart, no matter where they find us. As artists, we have to trust them - and trust art. Emotional honesty, risk in all forms, depth...all of these elements always work, all the time.
We just have to give the Times a little space to get the message. |
|
| Talking doesn't always help... |
| Fri, May. 4 2007 |
| People often find it easier to relate to my pieces, because of the use of language...
Language doesn't always clear things up - in fact, it can occlude meaning, bring us further apart from one another.
that's why I use poetry and non-linear text in my work - it's of language, but not about language.
Language, in the abstract, is a series of sounds created by moving breath over various configurations of teeth, tongue, vocal folds, and lips. We give those sounds meaning, and flavor them with facial expressions and body language.
In a way, I don't use language to communicate. Instead, I see it as part of the frailty of the human condition. the hope to communicate, to be understood, to feel that we understand those around us perched squarely on the shoulders of a fallible system. Speech. Text. They are only tools. Conveyances. They can only be as clear as the people who use them.
It's a fallacy to think that language creates some sort of instant transparency in dance. That's why I use poetry or figurative text. Speech creates mysteries. The myth of understanding.
mention Sasha Waltz writing on the blackboard in German |
|
| going to the theater alone |
| Tue, Feb. 27 2007 |
| inhaling,
the scent of bodies
brought in close
for an hour or so
warmed by the shared heat
of expectation released in shedding
the too-much-clothes of winter whispers rasp against the throat
tensed back leans slightly forward
pupils dilate in the darkened room
lights flood unshuttered eyes.
performers come in close enough
to touch
or catch to be seen,
sensed,
pulled,
pushed,
carried, caressed, jolted, joined, lured, lifted,
and finally, left. slight shock
at the end
a breath caught moment before
the stinging
palm spank of applause vibrates
the chest
lip skin wetly parting in praise
and protest it's over. exhaling,
back straightens
weight sinks
down the spine again.
breath slides
velvety through the nose
singing:
"I felt it.
I saw it.
I was there." |
|
| "I used to dance..." |
| Fri, Feb. 23 2007 |
I'm a little sad these days talking to people who say, "I used to dance..."with such loss in their voices. It's the way they breathe after the last syllable. So mournful. They might as well be saying, "I used to laugh..." or "I remember sunshine..."
Some day, I'll convince them that they're dancing even now. They never stopped. |
|
|
| Tue, Sep. 19 2006 |
| Commerce isn't evil. The real sin is forgetting to keep track of your soul. |
|
|
| Tue, Sep. 19 2006 |
| Research in the sciences is fueled as much by passion and desire as it is by facts. Such painstaking and unrewarding work must always be fueled by something beyond reason - a need greater than common sense. |
|
| Change of Season |
| Tue, Sep. 19 2006 |
| Nowadays
I'm drinking so much tea
It's full of antioxidants
And makes me think of you |
|
| Proof |
| Tue, Sep. 19 2006 |
| I wonder at the relationship between truth and sentiment. What is the line between what we know and what we believe? The realities we shape, the suppositions that lead us from one assumed "fact" to another are shaped by our experiences, our hopes, our internal maps of the world as we see it. The inferences we make in even the most analytical settings are colored by our need to verify that the world we live in is exactly the one we assume it to be.
A conclusion based on a collection of flawed assumptions is a flawed conclusion.
How can we know that we know anything? What is this desire for certainty? Does it really comfort us, or simply make us less afraid? And there is a difference between true comfort and lack of fear.
What would happen if we simply decided to give up knowing and chose instead to respond: to let the world come at us and trusted in our ability to bob and weave? To embrace opportunity and shrug off adversity and know that we are working with a limited definition of "knowledge" at best?
What if all training leaned toward listening, guessing, and reacting rather than grasping, reciting, and defining? What would happen if we acknowledged subjectivity? - accepted that circumstance is crucial to outcome, and the idea of standardized control is more of an aspiration than an attainable goal? Would we lose all our standards? Would scientific advancement grind to a halt?
Would we go wild?
Would our lights go out one by one?
Would it be
the death of order?
the death of expectation?
the birth of Chaos?
a newer brand of truth? |
|
| A Vampire's Inverse |
| Tue, Sep. 19 2006 |
| I've learned that black skin is an adaptation that protected my ancestors from the equatorial sun. The downside is that it makes it harder for us with darker skins to absorb enough vitamin D from the milder sunlight of northern latitudes.
Vitamin D aids the absorption of calcium, which builds bone; regulates metabolism, blood pressure, and muscle contaction, as well as facilitating the movement of nutrients across cell membranes...
Being nearly nocturnal,
I've come to worry about my health.
if I don't see daylight soon,
I fear
my bones might turn to dust. |
|
| the whole truth |
| Tue, Aug. 22 2006 |
| I often talk about the "playground injuries" that people get in my work - scrapes, bruises, usw. I admit to more than a little pride about them. I like knowing that the artists I work with could probably throw (or take) a punch, if it came to that.
My dear friend, who is a lawyer reminded me that I said that dance didn't have to hurt.
Then she asked me to explain myself.
I blushed - in the way that some brown people do - and squeezed this out:
...
Sometimes, in expanding to our fullest capacities, we brush up against the world and are marked by that experience. As long as that act doesn't wrench us from the inside, displace our bones, tear our tendons, or slosh our brains agains our skulls, then these childlike scars, brought about in the act of childlike exploration, are cool with me.
tha end. |
|
| Unconditional love |
| Fri, Jul. 14 2006 |
| Making work (dances, films, plays, anything) is like raising children, you can't get so wrapped up in your vision of perfection that you fail to see the unique and beautiful thing that is growing right in front of you. |
|
| Dance doesn't have to hurt |
| Sun, Mar. 12 2006 |
| Dance doesn't have to hurt. Nothing does.
In creating work with so much phyiscality, it can be so hard to convince dancers to take it easy - make it easy on the body. Find focus, and substitute that for effort.
We should finish dancing healthier than when we started.
There is only so much suffering one should have to do for their art.
See you next Sunday. |
|
| the raw and the cooked |
| Tue, Nov. 16 2004 |
| Often, in my work, I'll use something very sculpted against something chaotic. I like that juxtaposition of order and wildness, since it's a balance that I see underlying most systems. Order being the algorithm - the overall plan, and wildness being reality - the shit that happens. Survival (and success) often depend on starting with a plan, but being prepared to respond to life as it happens. I always insert risk into my work, to make sure it doesn't happen the same way every night, but I also insert structures and supports - little oases of order and calm.
I like to see things happen exactly as I planned them. I also like to react to things I don't expect. I can point to moments in each of my pieces when the dance is out of my control, I can also see the underlying structures that keep it from exploding into utter chaos (and aesthetic crap).
So it goes. The Method is about training the ability to react, emotionally as well as physically. The challenge is taking those newfound abilities into the unconstrained environment of everyday life. That's the real test drive.
Love to everyone.
-Malinda
PS-I'm going to see Pina Bausch tonight, which I suspect will be pivotal for me in away I don't yet fully grasp. Wish me luck. |
|
