This essay discusses three recent British contemporary dance works that radically rework the spatial relation between audience and performer. These are Nicola Conibere's Assembly (2013), Katye Coe's (To) Constantly Vent (2014), and Alexandrina Hemsley and Jamila Johnson-Small's Voodoo (2017). The essay draws on Henri Lefebvre theorization of the social and political production of space to analyze the kinds of reworkings of space-time that these works enact. It argues that the works evade capture by the apparatuses that maintain normative ideologies, not only those governing the reception of art but also the apparatuses of racial classification.

Animals have provided a theme and a model for movements in dance from time immemorial. But what image of man do danced animal portrayals reflect? What questions of human identity and crisis do they reveal? Do the bodies of animals provide symbolic material for the ethical, political, and aesthetic questions raised by man's mastery of nature?

The exploration of the boundary between man and animal—in myths and sagas, in the earliest records of ritual and art, and in the history of knowledge—is part of the great nature-versus-nurture debate. In the Bible the relationship is clear: Adam, made in the image of God, gives the animals in Paradise their names. In this way he rules over them—but Thomas Aquinas's commentary on this biblical text makes clear that the act of naming animals in Paradise is a step toward man's experiential self-discovery. Since then the hierarchy seems to be beyond doubt. Homo sapien, as the animal significans, is distinguished from other animals by his ability to speak, his upright gait, the use of his hands, and the capacity to use instruments and media—man as what Sigmund Freud called the “prosthetic god” (1966, 44).

Rumba guaguancó, a sub-genre of Afro-Cuban popular dance, has been widely defined as a dance of courtship, characterized as a male pursuit of a woman's sex. The article analyzes alternative meanings of the sub-genre articulated in the pedagogical practices of black women rumba dancers. Insights were gleaned from the author's own dance training in Havana while conducting original ethnographic research between 2009 and 2018. What the author terms “a black feminist choreographic aptitude” taught by rumberas (women rumba dancers) speaks to the pointedly gendered valances of worsening racialized class inequality in contemporary Cuba. Building on Blanco Borelli's theory of “hip(g)nosis,” the article interrogates the racialized and gendered discourses historically reproduced through dominant definitions of rumba, limiting women of African descent to sexual objects. The study argues for increased critical attention to pedagogy as a hermeneutical tool, centering those subjects historically marginalized from the production of knowledge about their bodies.

How does one come to terms with the “already said” or the “already danced”? I ask this in light of the many instances where contemporary dance has insistently undertaken—as a condition of its own renewal—a critique of past works that have been transmitted through the oral tradition. This undoing of the oral tradition's dominance has instantiated a new relation to the past in contemporary dance. Hannah Arendt throws some light on this process when she quotes Walter Benjamin, for whom modernity required that we find a different way of connecting with the past—one that would replace transmission with citationality. To cite, in speech act theory, as in dance, presupposes that the authority of the past be replaced with that disquieting ability of the past to infiltrate the present in a disembodied way (Arendt 1974, 291). The challenge of citation to the prestige of oral person-to-person transmission of a dance has introduced a new way for contemporary artists to relate to and re-embody past works.

In 1975, German choreographer Kurt Jooss created his last dance, Dixit Dominus, for Swedish-based Indian dancer Lilavati Häger. After Rani Nair reconstructed what is often seen as a “minor” work, she then created Future Memory (2012) to engage more directly with her inheritance, from caring for the personal things and stories that surrounded the piece to re-working its promise of dancing between European and Indian forms. Working outward from my position as dramaturg and historian for this project, this essay addresses the potential and precariousness of contemporary dance's experiments with redoing history at the intersection of multiple contested legacies.

There is evidence for the existence of some kind of grammatical structure in a passage from Golek Lambangsari, a Javanese classical court dance for women, composed by Sasmintamardawa of Jogjakarta, Java. In the passage under examination Sasmintamardawa used two different choreographic methods for manipulating the Javanese classical dance material: first, the more usual traditional, multipart variations with their connecting transitions; and second, very short, simple variations which seem not to have transitions between them. An analysis of the boundaries between the phrases in this passage reveals that the boundary conditions are different for each choreographic method, and further, for each level of the structure of the passage. The latter discovery indicates that the structure of the passage (no matter which choreographic method is considered) is different at each of three levels which I define in the boundary analysis—phrase, subphrase, and basic movement unit—and that there is some overall organizing grammatical principle causing this to be so. An explanation of Jogjanese classical female dance style phrase structure precedes the boundary analysis of the passage from Golek Lambangsari.

The phenomenon of spirit possession exists throughout Africa and many other parts of the world. Recent studies view possession as a performance, concentrating on the manner in which mediums become possessed and a description of the ensuing action. The following study of the Ondo ceremony of the Anago-Yoruba in Dahomey, while concerned with this, focuses more specifically on the numerous symbolic references to possession within the dramatic framework. Possession cannot be meaningfully discussed solely as a state of dissociation. As a performance it is made up of complex arrangements of symbols—visual, aural, and kinetic. The combination forms the reality of possession as witnessed by the audience. An examination of each element in the ritual complex deepens one's understanding of the others and of the whole. Dance specialists, particularly those analyzing dance cross-culturally, should be sensitive to all contextual elements in order to perceive patterns of thought and philosophical ideas expressed kinetically. This paper considers a number of crucial ritual elements: first, imagery in oral tradition, which reveals the personalities of the gods involved in the ritual; second, shrine architecture and priestly regalia, which symbolizes man's relationship to the divine; and third, the possession dance, which unifies the vast array of references to possession in time and space.

As authors who contributed to an edited volume, we were startled to learn that editors added a subtitle that broadly declared French balletic supremacy. This text, entitled The Opera Ballet: Three Centuries of Supremacy Beginning with Louis XIV [Le Ballet de l'Opéra: Trois siècles de suprématie depuis Louis XIV] (Auclair and Ghristi 2013), presents the notion of “supremacy” as a seductive value, and it is disturbing, to say the least. It is first and foremost a false assertion. The editors cannot seriously suppose that the Paris Opera Ballet, during the course of three centuries, occupied a position of dominance; and such a notion requires, in any case, detailed discussion establishing the criteria that are considered to define and delimit said domination. Such a title participates in a type of competition better identified with nation states, capitals, or European theaters after the seventeenth century. To suggest that the Paris Opera Ballet has always existed as a place of cultural “supremacy” is first of all to ignore the question of métissage, and to overlook how the institution adopted exogenous knowledge and savoir-faire; it is a rejection of dance history that occurred elsewhere, entirely separate or sometimes in opposition to the productions of this single cultural institution. Most disturbing of all is the highlighting of the notion of “supremacy,” or a superiority and power over others. By valuing the notion of domination, the editors encourage readers to envision dance and the broader world in terms of inferiority and superiority (between classes, genders, nations, and cultures). The Paris Opera Ballet may have acted in the service of such an ideology in the past, and may do so again in the future; however, the role of a scholarly publication should be to analyze discourses of propaganda, not to reproduce them.

Contemporary dance in Senegal emerged and thrives at the interstices of the local and the global. Multiple expectations and values, of which gender and sexuality are no small part, converge at the site of creation and production, enlisting choreographers to navigate oftentimes conflicting ideologies. Based on ethnographic research, this article examines three works by Senegalese men that employ gender and sexual transgressions alongside the artists’ seemingly contradictory verbal articulations of their work. Using the local-global entanglement as an analytical framework, I argue that these works offer ambiguous assemblages of masculinities that challenge conventional masculinity in Senegal, thereby elucidating the potentiality for contemporary dance to transcend singular meaning-making capacity.

“What does it mean to reconstruct a dance?” wonders Martin Nachbar in his text “Training Remembering.” Following Henri Bergson, he proposes an explanation in terms of images that are actualized in ways that involve not only the visual sense, but also hearing, touch, and proprioception. Remembering something is actualizing it through the senses. Such sensory actualization is instrumental not only to literally remember moments from our own past, but also to our modes of engaging with the thoughts, ideas, experiences, and creations of others. In this process, Nachbar observes, our own body, with its movement knowledge and experiences, becomes the frame through which remembering takes shape, while at the same time this frame may be questioned and trained anew within the process.

In 1933, the year Hitler was named chancellor of Germany, Ruth Page and Harald Kreutzberg launched a “new and rather surprising partnership” with a joint recital in Chicago. Page and Kreutzberg were, on the surface, unlikely artistic collaborators: she, an American ballerina and he, an exponent of the German new dance. Nevertheless, their partnership lasted four years—from 1932 through 1936—a fairly long term considering the usual obstacles to collaboration magnified by physical distance. With Chicago as the focal point they toured the Midwest and other regions of the United States, Japan, and Canada. The collaboration offered the two artists a number of advantages. Page had certain difficulties to surmount in achieving her goal of becoming a choreographic entrepreneur in the post-Diaghilev international ballet world: besides being a woman—a decided disadvantage when it came to being taken seriously as a choreographer, artistic director, and impresario in the ballet world—she lived in Chicago, outside the dance mecca of New York. She could parlay her collaboration with Kreutzberg into a cosmopolitan, modernist identity, thus preempting the threat of consignment to Midwestern obscurity. Kreutzberg, for his part, was in need of a continuous and widening stream of performance venues in which to develop his unique gifts as a solo performer; moreover, he had to contend with the rising fascism and homophobic militancy of the Third Reich as a gay man whose identity was antithetical to the nation-state of which he was ultimately to become a pawn.

In the late Sixties, Nam June Paik, one of the creators of videoart, expressed his concern that “it is about time we make the distinction between video art and video taped art.” Looking at TV and video dance of the Seventies and early Eighties one feels compelled to agree with Paik, realizing that a distinction must finally be made between video dance and video taped dance. Even when given the opportunity to create a work for video, rather than adapt a proscenium piece, choreographers frequently continue composing dances from a theatrical point of view which are then more or less successfully captured by the media. In other words, instead of creating videodance — a blending of structural and perceptual elements intrinsic to dance and the media — makers unintentionally slip into the genre of video translations of existing works or of videodocumentation. It appears that this state of affairs is chiefly due to two factors. Dancers and choreographers, on the one hand, do not always seek opportunities for hands-on experiences in a television studio or even with portable video equipment (other than shooting a record tape in place of a dance score). Such a practice does not allow for an understanding of the nature of the medium and excludes a creative integration of its expressive potentials. The number of media artists, on the other hand, who are familiar with the nature of dance is small. Independent artists, such as Charles Atlas, Doris Chase, and Jeff Bush or TV directors Fred Barzyk and Rick Hauser, are a minority, and individual dance/performance/media artists, such as Birgit Cullberg, Amy Greenfield, and Elaine Summers are still exceptions.

In the San Francisco Weekly in 2002, reviewer Bernice Yeung referred to butoh as a “bizarre and mysterious art.” Although it has become a leading postmodern and international art form in the last thirty years and is familiar to contemporary arts festival viewers around the globe, butoh is still referred to as bizarre, tortured, disturbing. As a butoh practitioner who has seen many butoh performances in Tokyo, the United States, Canada, and Sweden from 1981 to 2006, I have come to believe that its grotesque elements, though important, do not constitute the core of butoh. Rather, it is the basic Buddhist value of compassion that inspires butoh's content and powerful expression. In the above remarks by Ohno and Hijikata, the founders of this esoteric art form, stretching out a hand or stepping a crippled step forward in crisis are acts of compassion, and it may be this compassionate aspect of butoh that engenders its appeal.

The radical innovations of African-American artists with artistic form during the 1960s and 1970s, according to black performance theorist Fred Moten, led to a new theorization of the avant-garde. His book, In the Break: The Radical Aesthetics of the Black Tradition, discusses the poetry and jazz music of artists, from Amiri Baraka and Billie Holiday to Charles Mingus, and extols their radical experimentation with the structures and conventions of aurality, visuality, literature, and performance dominant in European art and aesthetics. In this essay, I consider the implications of these processes of resignification in relation to the choreographic legacy of the artist, Eleo Pomare, whose work and career during this period was both experimental and radical and, I will suggest, critical to the formation of a transnational, multiracial conception of modern dance.

This article examines how choreographer Zab Maboungou uses philosophical themes about the “self” positioned in time and space to reappropriate subjecthood through a contemporary African dance vocabulary. I suggest that in deploying such methods—which I describe as an “embodied Africanist metaphysics”— Maboungou challenges the rhetoric of the European Enlightenment that continues to influence constructions of race today. Maboungou's choreography and pedagogy effectively undermine implicit assumptions that align whiteness and European aesthetics with universal subject-hood and creates a productive space for the presentation and development of contemporary African dance in Montreal (and North America more generally).

The dancer, Xavier Le Roy, walks with a calm yet deliberate pace across the empty stage toward its center, where he stops, with his back facing the audience. He slowly lifts his arms in front of him and, after a brief moment of suspension, makes a hand gesture, as focused as unexpected, as if channeling a stream of intensities—a gesture to which the music responds. Echoing Le Roy's movement, Igor Stravinsky's most notorious score, Le Sacre du Printemps, begins its first notes. The performer goes on gently whisking the air, with a fluid yet measured pace, and thus engages an uncanny dialogue with the recorded symphony by conducting the seemingly empty space before him.

Among the Yoruba-speaking people of Nigeria recreational dances are a popular art form usually performed at purely social gatherings such as weddings, funerals (of elderly people), or child-naming ceremonies. They are distinct from the more symbolic dances which may accompany such social events, or even from the more formally structured and often public events such as historical festivals, initiation rites, and ancestral remembrance ceremonies. The recreational dances, which are performed mainly for relaxation and entertainment, are also opportunities to express and communicate emotions arising from the occasion being observed. Social ceremonies in Yoruba society are simply inconceivable without recreational dances.

Social festivities are of course not the only occasions for these dances; they are also performed on non-specific occasions for purely aesthetic fulfillment or as an expression of general well-being. At the end of a day's work, for example, friends or relatives get together to relax, or as they say, “múfàáji”—’ catch relaxation.’ At such fàáji evenings dance performances feature prominently alongside story-telling and riddle contests, games, poetry chants, or merely sharing anecdotes. Occasionally, too, a popular dance form may find performance space at the end of a successful symbolic ceremony, when the inclusion of a different form, both thematically and conceptually, is no longer a distraction from the desired goals of the ceremony. At such times recreational dances produce a cathartic effect following the tension of the event's significant symbolism.

In 1700 the London theatrical world was in crisis. The quality of English plays had deteriorated during the 40 years of restored Stuart rule. Playwrights, believing themselves to be working in the tradition of the finest Elizabethan and Jacobean dramatic poets, were churning out ranting tragedies, stripped of the subtle heroes and comic relief of Shakespeare, and amoral comedies, rarely showing the sparkling wit of Jonson. The two London theatre companies were locked in bitter competition for the small, mostly aristocratic audience, and managers compromised the poets and actors by introducing into their plays music-hall entertainments, from ventriloquists to tumblers. At the center of the crisis, however, was not the lack of playwrights of genius nor a fickle, world-weary audience; rather British drama was seriously weakened by a tradition that had since 1660 allowed the play to become the vehicle not only for spoken drama, but for large quantities of music and dance as well.

Until I became involved in dance, I believed that art is public property. It seemed there was a definite connection between the personal, even intimate character of the artist's process and the generosity with which he or she relinquishes a work when it is completed. This interchange might partly define the altruism that people have associated with artists—up to the twentieth century anyway.

Since the last millenium, Western culture has undergone many drastic shocks that have redefined the transaction known as artmaking. Mechanical and electronic reproduction techniques have put the uniqueness of the art object into question. They have transformed visual arts and music into commodities—”cheapened” them by diminishing their exclusivity and multiplying the number of people who can enjoy them. Yet dance continues to elude capture by the potent, ever-present media of films, video and computers. A dance is still a singular event—but, it seems to me, one that's even more vulnerable now to disappearance. Dance images submerge almost instantly in the flood of other visual stimuli that's constantly washing over us; dance is everywhere but the choreographic entity has resisted translation to film. As an inherently live phenomenon dance preserves its aura of spontaneity and surprise, but it loses some of the visibility, and the standards and protections, that benefit artworks with a more permanent format.

This article examines Rudolf Laban's theory of dance as it developed in his written and stage works from 1919 to 1926. Specifically, it shows how Laban defined dance as a form of positive liberty, which provided the anchor of what I label as his “embodied conservatism,” a conceptual and practical orientation of movement toward the goal of reshaping society according to principles of harmony as universal law. Bridging the history of dance with the history of political thought, I argue that Laban's theory of dance offered a theory of politics in response to social and political fracture during the Weimar Republic.