10.17.11
"I have a dream about you and me..."

So goes the first line of text in Reves, the collaboration with Rebeca Medina and Carolina Van Eps. After playing them a song I had written, Carolina misquoted the lyrics and began improvising with this simple, banal phrase. Of her affected pronounciation I was fixated. I have often considered some of my post-academic song writing as "post-ironic." I know that in my work I have been striving for the right representation of this idea. Could this foreigner, in her total ignorance of language cliches be the answer to my prayers? I remember the first time I talked to Lindsay Clark about my work. "I use singing," I said. She said, "me too." And I said, "No, but I use it... like, un-ironically." In a generation so influenced this now cliche'd ironic singing-of-the-pop song, I feel frustrated with this stale representation of our secular spirituality. But wait, listen. I'm not talking about a return to blind earnestness. I'm talking about a self-awareness about the implicit conflict present in irony.
In a biography I am reading about Sondheim, I found a criticism of his earlier work in a review by Clive Barnes: "A non-hit parade of pastiche that trades on camp." I have always connected deeply to the work of Sondheim, recognizing in his work a deep reverence for the power of a form, and an avant-garde approach that would distance the viewer from the immediacy of the impact, only to create something much, much, more powerful as a conceptual work.
So, here's to post-irony.
But back to Rebeca, and to Bogota. Our daily conversations have been food for thought in so many ways. This experience has taught me so much about what I crave in a dance practice, and has allowed me to contrast my experience as a dance maker in NY with what I observe here. We discussed the state of academia in relation to art-making, writing and doing, critique (and lack of constructive critique), and embodiment. More thoughts to come... for now, Rebeca and I (above), with a dream about "you and me."
un abrazo.
Tatyana