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We are unable to locate information at: http://www.doe.mass.edu:80/contact/phone.aspx?mode=staff It is possible that the page has moved or no longer exists.Please also check that the URL web address was typed correctly. If you require further assistance or have comments, use the form below. To help us filter spam, please type the current year with four digits:e brought samples of colours & designs to my house to help me choose my blinds.G Flavinha CorcoranMichelle Courcy ByrnesAshley KennyMandy GlynnBridget FallonOlivia SweeneySee allUtah Ballinasloe added 30 new photos.SPRING IS IN THE AIR @ UTAH A LITTLE TEASER OF SOME OF THE FANTASTIC NEW STLYES JUST LANDED. MORE NEW DELIVERIES DAILY !! WHICH IS YOUR FAVOURITE ??Utah Ballinasloe updated their cover photo.See allUtah Ballinasloe added 2 new photos.BACK IN STOCK HIMALAYAN SALT LAMPS LARGE RRP €40 OUR PRICE €30 MEDIUM RRP €30 OUR PRICE €20 WHILE STOCKS LAST !!Utah Ballinasloe added 16 new photos.WE HAVE GONE CRAZY AGAIN !!
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Clark and the other choreographer invited to participate in the Biennial, Sarah Michelson (who I wrote about on Culture Desk), share an interest in collaborating with other artists, but there is a stark contrast between the two. Whereas Michelson is preoccupied with the layered history of her dance creation, its intellectual nature, Clark revels in the possibilities of movement and sensory stimulation. Their approaches to using the space they were given at the Whitney—the five thousand square feet of the fourth floor—also diverged. Michelson confined her dancers to small circular patterns; Clark’s choreography filled the expanse. In the first section of Clark’s Biennial commission, “Who’s Zoo?,” two men clasped hands at around the midpoint of the space and ran toward a large beige curtain hanging on the west-facing wall. The burst of motion was breathtaking, liberating; the enormous space cries out for people to propel themselves headlong through it. The men stood before the curtain briefly, then bent down and lifted the edge and stepped into the light-filled void beyond.
Even though we knew there was a big trapezoidal window behind the curtain, and a deep sill for them to run onto, it was a moment of surprise, an idea of pure whimsy. Aside from the curtain, the room was bare; the audience was seated on the floor or standing, though a few stools were available. The only element of décor was a thin horizontal blue line projected about a third of the way down the rear wall, stretching between the narrow doorway on the left and the wider one on the right. (The lighting design and the projections were by Charles Atlas.) Downstage on the right side stood a setup for a band. Entering the space first, as “Wickerman,” a dreamy story-song by the British alternative-rock band Pulp, played, were two men in black unitards. They immediately clued us in to the kind of dancing we were about to see: balletic, muscular, angular. The two often moved in unison, and projected a kind of sensitive friendship, if not a more involved relationship, culminating in the hand-holding dash.
They were joined by four other dancers, three women and a man, wearing shiny unitards, mostly deep orange but fading to near-white at the top. They passed in and out of solos, duets, trios, hungrily attacking the phrases. As the section ended, the blue line opened up to become a wide swath, then turned to white and shrank again, and disappeared. Partway through this beginning, about fifteen or twenty men and women dressed in black street clothes entered through the wide doorway and sat down in a grid in the corner, watching the dancers. A few minutes into the next section, these individuals—non-dancers who volunteered to participate in Clark’s project—got up and started encroaching on the space, moving in a simple forward-and-side-stepping pattern, staying in their formation; the dancers had to weave around them. When the first line of volunteers reached about center stage, they ran off into the narrow door, with short, choppy steps, and were replaced by another group of the same size that had emerged from offstage, who proceeded to execute the stepping phrase.
Then they ran off, and were replaced by a third group. The effect of seeing the space populated this way was satisfying—you wanted to see the room’s purpose fulfilled, and Clark had figured out how to do that; his volunteers formed a monolithic unit, a big, breathing, organic set. Watching non-performers onstage is frequently poignant. Seeing the rawness of their efforts, an audience empathizes with them. In a group as large as the one that Clark deployed, there was a range of ability: some had a confident serenity as they went through their patterns, placing each foot surely. Others looked around, hoping for help, but with phrases that continually changed directions it would have been difficult to find one person to be a guide. Most of the volunteers were somewhere in between: they knew what their tasks were, but being in front of an audience took away their trust in themselves, and they hesitated, though they got back on track eventually. It was a microcosm of humanity. After the third group exited, what happened next was startling and euphoria-inducing: all forty-six of the volunteers streamed in from the upper-right door, running in single file, swooping down toward the audience and then curving up and out the upper-left door.
I looked around me; In the course of the piece, the dancers’ movements sometimes departed from the purely balletic and virtuosic, becoming more animalistic, or slow and gooey, or playful, as in a section in which the dancers engaged in Piloboloid shape-making on the floor. Throughout, however, Clark’s choreography evinced an undeniable sensuality, and abundant sexuality, which his dancers embodied beautifully, going full out while maintaining control. While his wild days might be behind him, his personality was still evident. In a duet with one of the women, with simple stools as props, he swung a stool leg between his own, a slightly lascivious look crossing his face. In that duet, Clark wore baggy white pants and an oversized white polo shirt, cutting a very different figure from that of his dancers, whose bodies were so available to us. (From the orange and black outfits at the beginning, they changed into black-and-white striped costumes, with more detail, and more skin showing; two of the men were topless.)
We’d seen Clark at various points throughout the piece: near the beginning, he entered at the far left, wearing a blue hoodie, just making his presence known, it seemed; a bit later he was there again, but in shorts, a tank top, striped socks, and dark gloves. With his shaved head and his bemused expressions, he was like a sprite overseeing the proceedings. Or like a ringleader. Perhaps he was the keeper of this zoo. Perhaps he was Who. “Who’s Zoo?” had live music for the last few sections, and it made perfect sense in the progression of the piece, which had been building in intensity and complexity. The performers were the electro duo Relaxed Muscle, the singer Jarvis Cocker and the guitarist Jason Buckle, who played their own catchy, raw rock songs. Their arrival coincided with the black-and-white costumes and some new movement motifs: swivelling hips, a chicken-wing strut, an arm-chugging bit of running. As Cocker, wearing dark face paint and carrying a whip, sang, the dancers sweated, and the heat of the mood increased, Atlas drenched the back wall in red light.