ON A MID-DECEMBER morning at her home studio, which is perched on a wooded hill near Mount Tamalpais in Marin County, Calif., the 98-year-old dance artist Anna Halprin was leading a movement class. “Think about positive and negative space,” she said, observing from a director’s chair as her 12 students — a retired preschool teacher, a fine-linens importer — assumed a range of positions at once ordinary and not. One woman began to crawl through the parted legs of another, as if a child at recess, while a third communed with the wall, splaying her limbs against its rust-colored surface. Warmed up, the class then made its way to the adjacent 1,800-square-foot redwood deck that Halprin’s late husband, the landscape architect Lawrence Halprin, built in 1952. Since its construction, artistic heirs of Halprin, including Simone Forti, Yvonne Rainer, Trisha Brown and Meredith Monk, have visited the deck at one time or another to practice and move with her. An esteemed teacher and performer, Halprin is known for her use of scores, or task-based improvisations, as well as for making dances inspired by nature. Once outside, a pair of students inspected some overhead branches and then offered full-body impressions of leaves rustling in the wind.
It’s difficult to see the beginning of things, and this is especially true of artistic movements, which tend to bleed together at their edges. And yet Halprin’s deck is considered one of several birthplaces of what would come to be called postmodern dance — an experimental school that posed formal questions about just what dance could be — which otherwise originated in New York in the early 1960s. Its 20 or so most active and influential practitioners were mostly trained dancers working on the fringes of the dance-world establishment and their visual artist peers, all of whom recognized that one of the things dance could be was a type of conceptual or performance art, other then-burgeoning and medium-blurring movements that regarded the three-dimensional body as a Duchampian ready-made. Together, this group retooled the common dance vocabulary and redefined who might be seen as a dancer, which inevitably had implications beyond the realm of composition, upending assumptions about beauty and bodies at a time not unlike our own.
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While stylistically divergent, postmodern dance tended to reject virtuosic movements in favor of pedestrian ones like walking, crouching, flailing and falling — take Rainer’s 1963 piece “We Shall Run,” in which the dancers made good on their word. It also embraced humor and a Dadaist sense of the absurd, as evidenced by Lucinda Childs’s “Carnation” (1964), in which the artist placed a colander on her head and a stack of fanned dishwashing sponges in her mouth, or David Gordon’s singing of “Second Hand Rose” and “Get Married, Shirley” during the first performance of his finger-wiggling “Mannequin Dance” (1962), which he conceived of while in his bathtub. “‘Swan Lake’ it ain’t,” the New York Times weekly arts columnist Grace Glueck reported overhearing at the First New York Theater Rally in 1965, which featured a dance work by the artist Robert Rauschenberg combining live turtles, saltine crackers and a campy tap routine by the dancer Deborah Hay.
Until then, thinking about dance had been, as Gordon once lamented, “peculiarly conservative,” with performative Western dance history unfolding rather apart from the other arts and consisting largely of ballet (which had been twirling in place since the 1600s until its neo-Classical offshoot was developed by George Balanchine) and modern (which the experimentalists felt was overly and falsely expressive). The postmodern movement wasn’t exactly a strident dismissal of all that had come before: “I think there was a question of, ‘Why do these people take ballet if they’re just carrying mattresses around?’ But I felt it was important for dancers to have a certain discipline,” says Childs. Discipline, however, did not mean favoring what was considered a dancerly body, with long legs and good turnout. Postmodern choreographers placed trained and untrained dancers — as well as more- and less-toned ones — side by side, dispensing with the makeup and organizational structure of formal companies so as to privilege the mind and movements of the individual. In deconstructing dance, then, they managed to democratize it.
“We’re still feeling the reverberations of that moment,” says the New York-based choreographer Pam Tanowitz, who might be described as a contemporary postmodernist. In a way, in fact, we’re feeling them as much as ever. Postmodern dance developed alongside both artistic and social upheavals, particularly second-wave feminism and, though it was not often expressly political about things other than aesthetics — “there wasn’t a specific agenda,” says Childs — the style’s early champions, many of whom were women, were seeking alternative ways of moving through space and, by extension, life. Their work is a reminder, as we live through our own reckoning surrounding the control and mistreatment of women’s bodies, of the ongoing validity of that search.
PART OF POSTMODERN dance’s power lay in the fact that, for all of its foreignness, it was also familiar. Here were movements taken from the street or home and performed by able but merely human bodies in intimate settings — namely at downtown galleries, lofts or the freewheeling Judson Memorial Church in Greenwich Village, either in the main sanctuary or upon the painted lines of the basement basketball court. As in life, gestures often lacked musical accompaniment: The dancers took many cues from the composer John Cage — most famous for his composition “4’33”,” in which no music is played for the duration of the title, the only noises coming from the environment surrounding the performance — and from Cage’s partner, the choreographer Merce Cunningham, who applied the same theories of indeterminacy found in Cage’s music to movement. Cunningham, who would have turned 100 this year, would sometimes flip a coin to decide the next move, giving his work a nonlinear, collagelike quality.
These were ideas simultaneously being explored in visual art, which was engaged in a similar resetting of boundaries as Pop, Minimalism and conceptual art replaced Abstract Expressionism, with which modern dance was closely aligned; for one, both were preoccupied with working on the floor, as in the paintings of Jackson Pollock and the dances of Martha Graham. Postmodernists remained keen on gravity, however. Certain choreographers would come to treat the floor as a dance partner, just as multidisciplinary artists like Ana Mendieta and Bruce Nauman used it in their performance pieces as a site for symbolic regeneration or heady writhing. (“Once, after seeing me perform, my father said, ‘Well, that was very nice, but now that you’re in your 40s, perhaps you should think about standing up,’” says Forti.) In 1960 and 1961, first at the Reuben Gallery in the East Village and then again at Yoko Ono’s Chambers Street loft, Forti showed “Dance Constructions,” featuring a choreography centered around a series of physical structures (a slanted board, a hanging rope), which she created after coming across pictures of the Japanese performance artist Saburo Murakami bursting through a row of paper screens. In one of her constructions, an abstracted portrait of a domestic drama, Rainer and the artist Robert Morris, Forti’s then husband, bobbed up and down from opposite ends of a wooden seesaw. Forti considered her work as much dance as sculpture, its human performers art objects like any other — but it hardly mattered, since, for this brief and exceptional window, art, dance and music were almost synonymous.
If postmodern dance’s acceptance as visual art was fueled by the form’s sheer conceptualism, it was helped along by its genre-hopping participants. The 1960s New York art scene was famously small, and disciplines blended together as a result. In addition to Rauschenberg and Morris, visual artists best known as painters and sculptors such as Alex Hay, Carolee Schneemann, Red Grooms and Andy Warhol were all part of the greater Judson scene. “Bob [Rauschenberg] was with [the dancer] Steve Paxton and I was with Alex and for a while we were a little foursome,” says Deborah Hay. “Bob liked to cook for people, so we’d go to his place for steak or lobster and then we’d all go dancing at Max’s Kansas City.” As the dance artist Ralph Lemon puts it, “The fact that these people were sleeping together doesn’t get talked about enough,” adding that the exchange between art and dance at that time must have been “visceral.”
Lemon came up in the late 1970s, when the new new dance was infusing postmodern constructions with overt social commentary, and was greatly influenced by what he calls dance’s “lineage of white women.” It’s true that the downtown scene at that time included few artists of color — uptown, Alvin Ailey was leading his own dance revolution — and it’s also true that, simply because they’d always been there, women in dance held power not necessarily afforded to those in other artistic realms. “We all learned the same movement,” says Rainer. “By the mid-60s I was having women lift men.” Ana Janevski, a curator of the Museum of Modern Art’s recent exhibition “Judson Dance Theater: The Work Is Never Done,” believes Judson’s esprit de corps had a “proto-feminist” bent. “This was essentially a group of women working together democratically and mining their own lives for material,” she says. For Rauschenberg’s turtle piece, Brown danced in her wedding dress.
In time, though, the moment of equilibrium passed and the community collapsed, reality itself acting as a sort of score. After the last Judson dance concert in 1964, Childs taught elementary school for five years to support herself before returning to the field. Rainer’s return, following a long career making experimental films, came much later, in 2000. Forti lived for a time in Rome, crossing paths with the Arte Povera movement, and Deborah Hay eventually landed in Austin, where she hosted group workshops. Even in the ’60s, says Hay, when visual artists and dancers were intensely collaborative, they were still split over the matter of finances: It was the visual artists who had money. That gap only widened as contemporary art became ever more expensive, and by the 1980s, art institutions had little incentive to invest in something as inherently ephemeral and thus nearly impossible to own as performance. Around this time, Childs professionalized by starting her own dance company and moved increasingly afield from the visual arts community, performing on more traditional proscenium stages. The work, though, remained radical. At one of the early showings of Childs’s seminal “Dance” (1979), the technically simple leaps and phrases of which create complicated floor patterns that evoke the line drawings of Sol LeWitt, one of Childs’s collaborators on the piece, a disgruntled viewer threw eggs.
THOSE YEARS HELPED us to understand the body not just as a tool for making art but as a battleground. Deborah Hay talks about finding her own language for movement in the post-Judson years and about practice as protest: “I’ve been choreographed as a woman. I’ve been choreographed as an older woman. I’ve been choreographed as a liberal. I’ve been choreographed as a Jew. I’ve been choreographed as a single woman. I’ve been choreographed as a mother,” she says. “When I dance, I try to enlarge that choreography.” At 77, she still spends every morning in the studio. Eventually, though, so-called ordinary movement becomes less so. One of the things that does separate a dancer’s work from a painter’s, say, is that it must change along with her body. Rainer, now 84, has incorporated text into her recent work and given herself the role of reader. Childs, 78, mostly choreographs for others these days, but she danced her 1973 work “Particular Reel” as part of MoMA’s Judson exhibition this past fall, her measured gestures still assured and her presence still potent. It is a striking thing to see her and her contemporaries onstage or merely moving across a room (as Forti did during our interview to retrieve a poem she’d written that week), knowing we may not have much longer with these witnesses to and architects of an extraordinary time. “They’re here,” says Lemon. “Right in front of us. They’ve placed these bodies with minimal physical information left to give, and in that requisite reduction is something profound.”
“This is sort of the last chance to get it all down,” Tanowitz says of recent attempts by contemporary companies and art institutions, from MoMA to the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis, which have acquired pieces by dancers like Brown and Monk for their collections, to preserve early postmodernist contributions by reconstructing scores and restaging works. (Brown died in 2017, but her company lives on, still holding rehearsals in her loft at 541 Broadway.) Younger artists have also taken on the responsibility of preservation and recontextualization. In 2017, the artist Adam Pendleton made a video portrait of Rainer that alternates between footage from 1978 of her dancing her minimalist-leaning “Trio A” sequence and present-day scenes of her reading found text accounting the deaths of black Americans including Eric Garner and Tamir Rice. In this revisiting, Rainer’s quick and careful steps become pleas for space in which bodies can move freely, unrestricted by race, gender or immigration status.
Halprin, who early on saw dance as a social corrective and pathway to personal healing, creating community-based work with the arts organization Studio Watts Workshop after the Watts riots of 1965 and with people with AIDS in the ’80s, is also attuned to the more minor injustices of modern life. “That one’s a graphic designer,” she said to me of one of the students in her California studio. “When else does he get a chance to connect to his spirit? He doesn’t.” Most of these women are hesitant to describe dancing — and theirs in particular — as spiritual, but, if one has dismissed a technique-based approach whereby one dances to become better at dancing, an alternative objective, it was abundantly clear on the dance deck, is joy. How encouraging that this joy might be available to anyone willing to look for it. At the end of class, the students gathered on the deck around Halprin, who was wrapped in a wool blanket-coat she wore as a dance student in the Midwest in the 1930s, as she described seeing a rendition of her 1965 work “Parades and Changes,” in which a group of dancers slowly undress, performed at San Francisco’s de Young Museum last October. “My 9-year-old great-granddaughter was there and has taken to telling her father, ‘You see, Dad, ordinary movement can become art. You just have to do it with awareness.’”
【苏】【唐】【转】【身】，【抱】【起】【小】【小】【在】【怀】【里】。 【小】【小】【扑】【在】【她】【胸】【口】，【小】【胳】【膊】【搂】【着】【她】【的】【颈】【脖】，【在】【她】【耳】【边】【软】【软】【悄】【声】【地】【说】：“【妈】【妈】，【我】【见】【到】【叔】【叔】【了】【哦】。” “【嗯】，【有】【没】【有】【把】【我】【告】【诉】【你】【的】【话】，【说】【给】【他】【听】？” “【我】【都】【说】【啦】，【可】【是】【叔】【叔】【看】【上】【去】【好】【难】【过】【哦】。【妈】【妈】，【我】【觉】【得】【他】【不】【开】【心】。” 【苏】【唐】【干】【涩】【了】【一】【天】【的】【眼】【睛】【微】【微】【湿】【润】，【亲】【了】【一】【下】【小】【小】【的】【额】【头】
【二】【五】【眼】【行】【动】【算】【快】【的】，【第】【二】【天】【就】【敲】【定】【了】【视】【察】【日】【期】，【还】【特】【地】【跑】【来】【店】【里】【通】【知】【叶】【子】，【甚】【至】【说】【路】【过】【一】【家】【花】【店】【顺】【便】【包】【了】99【朵】【珍】【品】【红】【玫】【瑰】…… 【叶】【子】：【我】【可】【代】【表】【花】【店】【老】【板】【谢】【谢】【你】【全】【家】。 【格】【洛】【替】【叶】【子】【接】【过】【玫】【瑰】【花】，【虽】【然】【痞】【痞】【地】【笑】【着】【但】【熟】【人】【看】【得】【出】【来】【他】【心】【里】【总】【归】【是】【不】【高】【兴】【的】，【一】【双】【眼】【睛】【快】【把】【人】【瞪】【穿】【了】，【隔】【着】【大】【老】【远】【也】【能】【闻】【见】【一】【股】【子】【的】
“【来】【了】，【别】【敲】【了】。”【伴】【随】【着】【短】【促】【的】【敲】【门】【声】，【林】【战】【从】【客】【厅】【走】【到】【了】【玄】【关】。 【打】【开】1***【的】【大】【门】，【林】【战】【看】【到】【了】【重】【明】【通】【红】【的】【脸】【颊】，【不】【知】【道】【是】【因】【为】【雪】【后】【的】【天】【寒】【地】【冻】【还】【是】【因】【为】【小】【跑】【赶】【来】【的】【肾】【上】【腺】【飙】【升】。 “【你】【怎】【么】【来】【了】，【这】【么】【急】【干】【嘛】？”【林】【战】【看】【到】【他】【这】【样】【子】【还】【颇】【为】【搞】【笑】。 【林】【战】【和】【重】【明】【虽】【然】【在】***【里】【算】【得】【上】【是】【好】【朋】【友】，【但】【离】
《【香】【蜜】》【虽】【然】【现】【在】【已】【经】【是】【播】【完】【了】【但】【是】【还】【是】【有】【很】【多】【的】【人】【都】【是】【觉】【得】【剧】【情】【很】【有】【意】【思】，【那】【么】【小】【编】【今】【天】【还】【是】【要】【讲】【一】【下】【关】【于】【这】【部】【剧】【的】【细】【节】【问】【题】，【相】【信】【很】【多】【的】【观】【众】【还】【是】【会】【忽】【略】【这】【个】【细】【节】【的】【问】【题】，【那】【我】【们】【一】【起】【来】【看】【看】【吧】。大长江044期一头中特【陶】【梓】【跟】【在】【贺】【焱】【的】【身】【后】【差】【点】【同】【手】【同】【脚】，【一】【只】【脚】【刚】【踏】【进】【门】，【贺】【焱】【就】【被】【一】【个】【纤】【细】【的】【身】【影】【推】【开】【了】。 “【小】【陶】【呀】，【你】【来】【了】，【肚】【子】【饿】【了】【吗】？【很】【快】【就】【能】【吃】【饭】【了】。”【贺】【夫】【人】【拉】【着】【陶】【梓】【的】【手】【就】【往】【屋】【里】【走】，【自】【己】【亲】【儿】【子】【那】【是】【看】【都】【没】【看】【一】【眼】。 【贺】【焱】【被】【嫌】【弃】【了】【也】【不】【恼】，【只】【安】【静】【的】【跟】【在】【他】【们】【身】【后】。 【陶】【梓】【被】【贺】【夫】【人】【拉】【着】【在】【客】【厅】【的】【沙】【发】【上】【坐】【下】，
【在】【得】【到】【了】【最】【后】【一】【颗】【雷】【属】【性】【的】【魔】【石】【以】【后】，【飓】【风】【号】【的】【动】【力】【系】【统】【被】【激】【活】，【再】【次】【重】【新】【翱】【翔】【在】【天】【空】【上】。 【虽】【说】【帝】【国】【军】【立】【刻】【派】【出】【了】【飞】【空】【艇】【进】【行】【追】【踪】，【然】【而】【飓】【风】【号】【的】【动】【力】【强】【劲】，【远】【非】【普】【通】【的】【飞】【空】【艇】【可】【比】【的】。 【没】【有】【花】【费】【多】【久】【的】【时】【间】，【就】【摆】【脱】【了】【追】【击】，【而】【飓】【风】【号】【在】【离】【开】【暖】【风】【市】【以】【后】，【先】【去】【了】【一】【趟】【机】【械】【师】【之】【村】。 【其】【实】【这】【里】【已】【经】【不】【再】【安】
【显】【然】，【这】【位】【木】【灵】【族】【的】【族】【长】，【已】【经】【是】【动】【了】【真】【怒】，【要】【动】【用】【雷】【霆】【手】【段】，【斩】【杀】【慕】【容】【月】【这】【个】【魔】【宫】【的】【妖】【女】。 【然】【而】【面】【对】【着】【木】【灵】【族】【族】【长】【这】【般】【凶】【悍】【的】【攻】【势】，【慕】【容】【月】【本】【人】，【却】【是】【面】【色】【依】【旧】【平】【淡】，【她】【的】【嘴】【角】，【反】【而】【是】【掀】【起】【了】【一】【抹】【嘲】【讽】【弧】【度】，【就】【在】【那】【众】【多】【的】【根】【须】【即】【将】【要】【落】【到】【她】【身】【上】【的】【时】【候】，【她】【忽】【然】【动】【了】。 【她】【的】【身】【上】，【魔】【气】【骤】【然】【翻】【涌】，【只】【见】【得】
【刚】【刚】【荒】【族】【族】【长】【拍】【他】【一】【掌】【的】【瞬】【间】，【也】【给】【他】【传】【了】【一】【些】【力】【量】，【而】【他】【此】【时】【正】【是】【凭】【借】【荒】【族】【族】【长】【给】【他】【的】【力】【量】【来】【急】【速】【前】【进】。 【数】【个】【时】【辰】【之】【后】，【荒】【族】【就】【已】【经】【近】【在】【眼】【前】。 **【立】【刻】【就】【朝】【着】【荒】【族】【大】【门】【冲】【去】。 【此】【时】，【看】【守】【大】【门】【的】【两】【个】【荒】【族】【之】【人】【见】【到】【只】【有】**【一】【个】【人】【赶】【了】【回】【来】，【不】【禁】【十】【分】【疑】【惑】：“【周】【公】【子】，【你】【怎】【么】【先】【回】【来】【了】？” 【之】【后】
【车】【子】【驶】【进】【庄】【园】【内】，【在】【侍】【者】【引】【领】【下】【将】【车】【挺】【入】【指】【定】【地】【点】，【穿】【着】【黑】【色】【运】【动】【服】【的】【高】【个】【细】【瘦】【青】【年】【开】【门】【下】【车】，【宋】【简】【行】【没】【等】【他】【来】【为】【自】【己】【开】【门】，【伸】【手】【便】【推】【门】【下】【来】。【青】【年】【跟】【在】【他】【身】【后】，【朝】【着】【宴】【会】【场】【地】【走】【去】。 【侍】【者】【看】【着】【青】【年】，【不】【知】【道】【该】【不】【该】【拦】。 【踌】【躇】【之】【间】，【两】【人】【已】【经】【进】【入】【会】【场】。 【门】【口】【两】【名】【守】【卫】【再】【次】【伸】【手】【核】【对】【一】【番】【请】【帖】，【将】【宋】【简】【行】【放】