A.I.M by Kyle Abraham
The Joyce Theater
New York, New York
April 22, 2025
Shell of a Shell of the Shell, Just Your Two Wrists, 2×4, Year
Jerry Hochman
Kyle Abraham’s company A.I.M returned to the Joyce on April 22 with a week-long program of four New York premiere dances, only one of which was choreographed by Abraham. There was, however, a common denominator of sorts: each of the four, either predominantly or solely, was non-narrative, and so abstract that finding any meaning beyond the abstract glue that holds it all together is not possible. But fear not: as to two of them, I think I did.
I’ll address the dances in reverse performance order.
The evening’s final dance, Andrea Miller’s Year, was by far the most ambitious and most interesting piece on the program. Its quirky choreography and score, and equally quirky costumes, were brilliant – as was the collective execution by the eight-dancer cast.
Faith Joy Mondesire and Donovan Reed
in Andrea Miller’s “Year”
Photo by Steven Pisano
I have no idea to what the dance’s title refers, but, consistent with my tendency to overthink, I can conceive of one that I’ll posit at the end of the Year-related comments.
Year opens with a single female dancer, Faith Joy Mondesire, lifting herself on the balls of her bare feet and posing in attitude for seeming minutes without moving. She wears a costume that suggests some southwest locale: the costume (a unitard – or leotard over tights) is primarily Sedona red/orange, with several embedded designs, including one that dominates her upper midsection, that seem stereotypically Native American.
When she finally breaks the position, she dances around much of the stage, occasionally pausing to pose in positions that emphasize her command, both of the technical demands and the dance in its entirety. I didn’t think of it until after-the-fact, but this action may have been a territorial marking; a precursor to some “event” over which she would preside or in which she would be intimately involved.
Faith Joy Mondesire in Andrea Miller’s “Year”
Photo by Steven Pisano
While Year initially appeared haphazard and unconnected, it soon displayed a unifying and intriguing sense of a disparate group of people coming together – much of that attributable to the dance’s costumes and score. And although Year appears to lack clarity as to what is taking place and where, that absence of clarity in many cases is intentional – to create a sense of universality (and to stimulate habitual overthinkers).
A.I.M in Andrea Miller’s “Year”
Photo by Steven Pisano
Eventually other dancers join Mondesire, each wearing the same basic unitard but painted or otherwise emblazoned differently – not just a little different; significantly different in colors and designs. The costumes followed no particular pattern or style other than having no particular pattern or style. But as original-looking as they were, they weren’t completely created of whole cloth; rather, the costumes (designed by Orly Anan Studio) appeared, at least to my eyes, to be adaptations/ representations of various cultures and/or cultural markers at a given point in time. Just as Mondesire has a costume engendering a sense of Native American culture, so another (Olivia Wang) wears one that looks somewhat like an Impressionist painting in motion. with a nude-looking “canvas” unitard (or leotard and tights) onto which have been “painted” a variety of differently colored paint-brush strokes covering strategic body areas. Another is costumed like some god-creature dressed almost in all black, and another wears a basic single-color costume with some sort of appended design, which on closer examination is a stylized face with the “appended design” being staring, watching (or watchful) eyes.
Jamaal Bowman and Olivia Wang
in Andrea Miller’s “Year”
Photo by Carrie Schneider
Although the dance at times briefly brings to mind Hofesh Shechter’s Cave (Year’s composer, Fred Despierre, also composes for Shechter’s company), the similarities are brief and appear and disappear quickly. Rather, the spectacularly impressive costumes, abetted by Despierre’s multi-faceted and multi-culturally-inspired sound segments, together presented a sort of ceremony, or a prelude to one, though I couldn’t pinpoint any particular one. Its physical locale certainly was not one “indoors,” like in a church/ temple; it was more like something that would take place outdoors, in the open air, perhaps on a desert plain, a jungle clearing, on some unknown planet, or in a canyon of the mind. On the other hand, the piece is bordered by “walls” of white along its three sides, onto which Dan Scully’s lighting projects changing shadows of the dancers, so perhaps the location is some sort of cave. Whatever the locale may have been, Year reflects an amalgamation of accumulated religio-cultural practices. And there were pairings or small groups singled out (in addition to “tribal-like” ensemble dances), perhaps for the purpose of, eventually, selecting a “chosen one” (though not necessarily for a sacrifice).
(l-r) Mykiah Goree and Keturah Stephen
in Andrea Miller’s “Year”
Photo by Steven Pisano
As I watched I felt echoes of another dance, one that I quickly dismissed because it seemed so differently-focused and culturally singular – as well as being more coherent: Bugaku. [Since it hasn’t been performed in a very long time, perhaps a casualty of political correctness, I’ll very briefly and incompletely summarize. Bugaku is a traditional Japanese court dance that has been performed for over 1200 years, mainly at the imperial court and for select elites. It’s characterized by highly stylized movements, intricate costumes, and often masks, and is accompanied by music. George Balanchine based his dance, Bugaku, at least partly on that ritual, but added an overall sensuality, and an erotic pas de deux to which the ceremony, by implication, is context. Some consider the sexual encounter to be a stylized seduction; others a ceremonial pairing; and others the consummation of a marriage.]
Gianna Theodore and Mykiah Goree
in Andrea Miller’s “Year”
Photo by Carrie Schneider
But as to Miller’s piece, maybe my sense of ritual or ceremony and the selection (or, in hindsight, arrival) of a “chosen one” may not be so far off the mark. As the piece ended, I saw what appeared to be a ceremony following closely upon an intricate and erotically-charged duet between the mostly black-costumed god (Mykiah Goree) and one of the women (I think Gianna Theodore, the one wearing the “eyes” costume, but I can’t be certain). The “ceremony” involved the same two dancers, and as I saw it was “officiated” by Mondesire’s character. Immediately upon the ceremony’s end a “being” emerged (“oozed” might be a better word) – one of the dancers, compressed into something like a fetal position – from between the pair’s (or one of the pair’s) legs.
The action in Year might appear by other viewers to be somewhat mindless movement, negatively impacted by the dancers’ consistently ultra-serious demeanor. But whether as non-narrative movement alone, or as a dance with a difficult to decipher meaning, Year is a visually spectacular dance that’s consistently imaginative and entertaining, and the dancers’ ultra-serious demeanor was appropriate to an ultra-serious occasion: dances at a gathering of composite cultures.
Donovan Reed in Andrea Miller’s “Year”
Photo by Steven Pisano
In addition to the costumes, Miller’s choreography, the score, and the lighting (designed by Dan Scully), Year worked as well as it did as a consequence of the Company’s outstanding, and obviously committed, dancers: Jamaal Bowman, Amari Frazier, Goree, Mondesire, Donovan Reed, Keturah Stephen, Theodore, and Wang.
All that being said, I’m still confused by the dance’s title. Unless there was a preexisting composition by Despierre with that title that Miller used here (and I found no indication that that’s the case), the title just sits there, without a clue from the program or within the dance. But given what I saw in it, perhaps Year references the gestation period for this society’s baby.
Continuing my comments in reverse performing order, Year was preceded by Abraham’s 2×4. Unlike most everything else I’ve seen from Abraham, 2×4 has no narrative content whatsoever, overt or covert. Not even I could conjure one. It’s purely abstract, and pure movement, but that doesn’t make it any less than a well-conceived, lively, and interesting dance relating to nothing more than its score. Simply put, it’s a little gem of a dance.
(front) Morgan Olschewske and Mykiah Goree
and (back) Guy Dellacove in Kyle Abraham’s “2×4”
Photo by Steven Pisano
The piece’s title is reasonably clear – it’s a clever reference to the dance’s participants and how they’re divided during the course of the dance. There are 2 live musicians and 4 dancers, and 2 pieces of music composed by Shelley Washington danced by 4 dancers, and any number of 2×4 permutations and subsets that Abraham creates as the dance evolves. There are moments when one or another of the four dancers (William Okajima, Morgan Olshegewske, Goree, and Wang) danced solo or as a single pair, and for roughly 2/3 of the dance only one musician, Guy Dellacave, plays – with considerable animation – upstage audience-left. He’s joined at that 2/3 point by Thomas Giles, who appears downstage audience-right, entering from the wings. Both played saxophone to Washington’s score (“Big Talk” and “Black Mary”), incorporating their own and the two compositions’ contrasting styles.
Donovan Reed (left) and William Okajima
in Kyle Abraham’s “2×4”
Photo by Steven Pisano
In addition to the obvious 2×4 divisions, the dance also is concerned with the geometry inherent in the size and shape implicated in that title. Accordingly, on occasion the dancers, individually or collectively, form geometric shapes (no, not like a 2×4 block of wood). On the Company’s web site, Abraham describes the dance as using “geometrical playfulness to explore conversation, confrontation, stillness, and bustling movement phrasing.” I saw the shapes, but not the actual connection examples that Abraham describes, though I don’t doubt that going beyond shapes was what was intended, and achieved, here. Indeed, if it had been limited to shapes, the dance would have been considerably less interesting than it was.
The piece begins with Dellacave pumping his body, his beating legs, and his saxophone-playing posture that is energizing just by its intensity. [Note: I’ve found this musician’s last name spelled both Dellacave and Dellecave. One is a mistake. The spelling used here is the spelling in the program.] The dancers soon join, moving in a generally fast-paced manner as they weave their way through each other to Dellacave’s beat. When the second piece begins, which to my understanding is when Giles joins the ensemble, the contrast between the visual presentations by the two saxophonists, the score’s two components, and the four dancers navigating themselves through the at times contrasting musical punctuations is invigorating.
(front, l-r) Mykiah Goree and Donovan Reed
and (back) Guy Dellacove in Kyle Abraham’s “2×4”
Photo by Steven Pisano
2×4 is a highly polished piece, one that does what it does but delivers little beyond that – and doesn’t pretend to.
The immediately preceding dance, a solo choreographed by Paul Singh titled Just Your Two Wrists, may not have the same polished look, but it’s more intellectually interesting because of the way Singh uses his dance’s score. Titled “just (after song of songs),” composed by David Lang and performed by a group identified as Trio Mediaevel, the song and the manner in which Trio Mediaevel sings it permeate Singh’s dance in a fascinating, and positive, way.
For much of its relatively brief length, the solo appears strangely disconnected from reality. The dancer, Frazier (on some dates the piece was to be performed by Stephen, evidencing that the piece is not intended to be gender-specific) first appears wildly wandering, as if lost to the demons that drive him. The music piped through the Joyce speakers sounded like some sort of hymn, and appeared to have no connection to what the solo dancer was doing.
But when the angelic voices sing of the beloved’s body that they loved, one by one – just your this, just your that – it becomes clear that Frazier’s character hears and reacts to the sounds and words; that they were ringing in his head as he wandered feverishly about the stage. It’s that connection that makes the dance captivating to watch (as well as coherent). When the angelic-sounding female voices chant “just your wrists” (or “just your two wrists”), Frazier suddenly looks at his two wrists.
At strategic points thereafter, Frazier’s character responds to certain other “justs” that he could relate to himself, and stops meandering enough to look at what the voices had specified. Eventually it seemed that to Frazier’s character, the angelic voices were talking about him; that he was the song’s beloved object.
Amari Frazier
in Paul Singh’s “Just Your Two Wrists”
Photo by Steven Pisano
As I listened to those voices chant the hymn-like series of “justs” that were loved, I thought I’d heard it, or something like it, before. That kind of angelic sound is difficult to forget – or, as Frazier’s character visualizes – to get out of your head. So I looked it up. Sure enough, I had heard “just (after song of songs)” before. It was used by choreographer Emery LeCrone in her piece Beloved, which was performed during 2017’s Joyce Theater Festival.
Of the music, I wrote then (and it’s equally applicable here): Lang’s composition, is, at least overtly, vocalization of a text Lang created by encapsulating the biblical Song of Songs into simple phrases (e.g., “just your lips,” “just your name,” “and my soul,” “and my beloved”) that highlight features, physical and otherwise, that in the erotic original ignite the passion of the lovers (with the lovers either being individuals or metaphors for greater concepts, or both). Even without being able to understand the specific words (sometimes they’re not clear), the composition is mesmerizing by itself: the vocal phrases, usually three syllables (in fact or effectively) and sung to minimal musical accompaniment, become as much musical sounds as distinct words, the result being not only a sense of passionate eroticism, but also of timeless, chant-like prayer. [Trio Mediaeval is a Norwegian trio that specializes in exactly that kind of angelic sound, and is apparently, and understandably, quite popular world-wide.]
I described LeCrone’s dance as fascinating and intimate, with filigree balletic movement among the three pairs of dancers that illuminates Lang’s score the way illustrations illuminate a religious manuscript. The dance that Singh has created isn’t that, or anything close to it. It takes an isolated situation in which a character has little sympathetic value, and, through the angelic voices in his head that he comes to believe are referring to him, his attitude gradually evolves into someone far more sympathetic. I have nothing on which to base the following comment beyond that sentence and Frazier’s look of somewhat bewildered awe, but it appeared to me that Frazier’s character’s fretful movement reflected thoughts of suicide, and that the voices he hears convince him that he is loved, and that his life is worth living.
Whatever its meaning is, or if it has one at all, Just Your Two Wrists is, in its own simple, inner-directed way, as intriguing as Weber’s Year.
The preceding dance, the piece that opened the program, titled Shell of a Shell of the Shell, was choreographed by Rena Butler to music composed by Daryl Hoffman. I’ll keep my comments about it to a minimum. Aside from the quality execution by the Company’s dancers, Shell of a Shell of the Shell says nothing, and shows nothing, of any interest – at least not to me.
A.I.M in Rena Butler’s “Shell of a Shell of the Shell”
Photo by Steven Pisano
I didn’t recall it while I watched Shell of a Shell of the Shell, but I’ve seen a Butler-choreographed dance before: The Ride Through, performed by Parsons Dance at the Joyce two years ago. As is the case here, that dance had been accompanied by a score (five separate pieces) by Daryl Hoffman. In the earlier piece, Hoffman’s music was electronic-generated, primarily percussive, and at times apocalyptic. That description applies to the score here. And I described Butler’s choreography as structured one-dimensionally and on a familiar subject. I can’t say the same thing here, since I didn’t detect any subject beyond, perhaps, a post-apocalyptic world from which there’s no escape; and/or an environment for whatever reason (war, plague, pick a calamity) bereft of children, because I heard what sounded like the disembodied voices of children playing with each other as the dance neared its end.
But these scenarios are difficult even for me to attempt to justify by the one-dimensional presentation on stage (including one-dimensional all-white costumes). I consider them possibilities because they’re similar to what Butler apparently attempted in The Ride Through.
Olivia Wang and Jamaal Bowman
in Rena Butler’s “Shell of a Shell of the Shell”
Photo by Steven Pisano
Shell of a Shell of the Shell does include interesting lighting (designed by Scully), but that lighting became far more of a dominant force in the dance than it should have been.
If/when I see Shell of a Shell of the Shell (a great title) again, maybe I’ll find something in it to commend. Regardless, three out of four isn’t bad. As ever, I’ll look forward to seeing A.I.M when it returns.
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