I'm at a point in my process, where I'm a bit stuck. I have these two related but yet very unrelated solos, waiting to see how they fit inside the work. The piece is one large loop trying to represent this idea of missed opportunities, and tension that arises because of such a situation. The first part shows the breaking point of an individual when you have so much tension built up inside your body, you start to lose who you are. The other part shows the process of "missing" things, and these opportunities. However, the potential "climax" of the work comes early on when the plate stacker throws the last plate down. And the piece ends with dancer two arriving to the plates and unstacking them while dancer one stands in the upstage right corner, watching.
The piece is multidimensional in a way. The greater story lies in the structure while the movement inside has the details but has less power over the reasoning for the piece. The next step is to now unite the two solos and see how we can create from here. Trying to create movement around this idea has left me at a point of small frustration I need to accept that it is challenging to “catch” something and that may be part of my problem; maybe I am working to hard to “catch.”
I spent some time today playing with this idea of catching bubbles. It led me to a strong place, I place where I could finally find comfort in what I was making. I recognized that the audience just needs to be able to recognize this place of discomfort in the mover. That she herself is having a hard time reaching something, and even when she can obtain it, it’s disappears. [An object that is often used but is not necessarily integral to a performance] The stacking of the plates is representational of each missed opportunity that exists in one’s life. They are the physicalization of moments in time, passing on and on. The person who is continuously stacking the plates is at a point of no return. She has lost too many things and is starting to miss the opportunity to function. She continues to push forward while there is no one around to comfort her. She stacks the plates consistently, over and over. She gets to the end and there are two plates left, she needed three, she’s missing one. She stares at it for a second. You can feel the tension rise around her. She then picks it up as if to throw it or smash it. She does. She smashes it on the floor. Breaking it into tiny pieces. The tiny plate is now tiny pieces. This post is a bit late, but I needed some time to process. On Sunday, February 1st, we started to dive into the creation of this piece. My dancer and I met to discuss what the end goal was and we started playing and creating movement.
We took two approaches: 1. I set a particular phrase on the dancer. She then melded that into her own body, and is still working towards an end goal. 2. We improvised with the score of "catching" bubbles; whatever that may mean. As it may have been made clear by now, I have a strong pull to choreographing from these love letters I have been writing. Each one has so much depth and meat, so much to tell and to share; and when you break them down to the rawest form, you see that they have something everyone can relate to. You don't have to see the same love letter that I do, but I want you to see something, and this particular work is no different. Let's be honest, we have all had moments when we can recognize that we have missed an opportunity. We get stuck in this cycle of I'm going to be there, but I'm not, and then someone else takes over, and then you walk away and someone else comes in. This basic cyclic structure can be placed across the board for any particular idea, concept, or situation. That is where the idea of the piece lies. The cyclic structure of missed opportunities. For me, it's based off of a love letter I wrote to a guy who I was crazy about but didn't realize it until it was too late, and it's still too late. What we could've had will forever be a memory, that isn't going to change. I like to call him, the one that got away... to the one that got away, I’ll never be able to put into words what you made me feel. It never really made sense you and I. We fought worse than anyone in the world, but when you hugged me, I felt it down to my bones. I just could never let you in, and when I finally did, it was too late. You’re the one that got away. It should’ve been clear to me the night I crawled out of the bathroom window at your place that we were headed towards trouble. We had only known each other for a month but you had a girlfriend, and she hated me, and rightfully so. When she showed up that night, and a few of my friends and I were there, we bailed, through the bathroom window, I swear. There’s something I never told you…you were always asking me that question: “Tell me something I don’t know about you.” But you knew most it, almost all of it, really. And I loved that you knew it all, even if I couldn’t admit it to myself. It’s funny because I know exactly what night I ruined us, you came to visit me in my room and I wasn’t there, my roommates told you to come back and when you did I still wasn’t there and instead of coming to find you, I decided to text you and act as if it wasn’t a big deal. But it was, you wanted to see me and for whatever reason I just kept pushing you away. And like most great love stories as soon as I couldn’t have it, I wanted it. I regret it, not coming to find you that night. I don’t regret many things, but that I do. You were there for me through so many things, you never abandoned me. You cared when you didn’t need to. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it until it was too late. And while I regret not going to find you that night, I don’t regret the path we ended up on. I’m sure there’s a reason for all that has happened between us, whether together or not. I’m sure you’re beyond happy doing whatever amazing thing(s) you’re doing now, and I know my life has kept going, and is ever so beautiful. There are about six more pages of things that I wish to write, stories about us I want to hold on to, but I won’t, for not everything needs to be written to be remembered, and somethings are best left unsaid. You will forever be a rather large part of me and who I am today but we are no longer a “we,” And luckily, I have moved on. This piece in my eyes has a simple surface value, but has more layers than one could imagine.
I want to incorporate teacup saucers, two dancers, and a small table. There will be two dancers. I want the sound score to be that of Bill Withers and Portishead and in seven short minutes, we are going to show you the vicious nature of the cyclical structure of missed opportunities. |
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katie ann haldeman