WonderSlow Reflections 1

We recently completed our first cycle of the WonderSlow project: 15 hours of continuous performance by Dandelion and friends dedicated to explorations of slowness. There was so much learning for me in this grand experiment in regards to:

• slowing down
• immersive performance
• inclusive community
• safety and risk
• letting go of control
• moving through and past distraction, boredom, resistance
• levels of trance-states
• meditation
• pushing past beliefs about limits of energy and abilities
• setting up conditions for magical things to happen and then letting them arise in their own time and manner
• and so much more

I'll be processing this for a long while, and plan to write about it more down the road.

For now, here's a video tour of the event:




(link to video if needed: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FFBi5aaJpN4 )

And what I wrote as an introduction to the event:

The Origins of WonderSlow

by Instigator and Co-Director Eric Kupers

WonderSlow began with a big green sign. The sign has the word “Wonder” on it, and originally referred to a town in Oregon by that name. But through the years, the sign came to mean so much more to my family, and eventually sparked this community performance.

My account of the story of the “Wonder Sign” has no doubt been shaped by my many tellings and retellings, as well as my own biases and desires. I offer this to you as one possible way to enter into the WonderSlow performance today.

In the 1960’s my parents were passionately involved in the American counterculture. They were particularly active in left-wing, progressive, political movements—and I think they believed that some kind of revolution was coming soon to this country, to change it for the better. Their passion led them to many demonstrations, organizations, meetings and artistic beacons of hope. They loved the poem “I am Waiting” by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and particularly the lines speaking of Ferlinghetti waiting for “a rebirth of wonder.”

One wintery night they were driving back to Los Angeles after picking up my uncle at Reed College in Portland, Oregon. Out of the snowy darkness, in the middle of nowhere there suddenly emerged a big green sign that said simply “Wonder.” I can only guess at what a potent moment that was. This must have seemed like a sign from the universe, a confirmation of faith, a symbol of deep connection and meaning, a revolutionary battle cry. My dad and uncle jumped out of the car and my mom was the “getaway driver.” They unscrewed and took down the signs that it turned out were on both sides of the road, jumped back in the car and drove home.

After that fateful night, my uncle took one of the signs and my parents kept the other. My mom says that they would use it as a kind of barometer for guests in their house. They hung the sign as “found art” in the living room, and based on people’s reaction to the sign when they entered the house, my parents would know whether or not they were of like minds.

Eventually my parents’ Wonder sign was passed on to me, and I hung it in my bedrooms in high school and college—the sign remaining a testament to creatively embracing the unknown. And then at some point the sign was put into storage.

A few years ago I discovered it again. It now sits in our backyard, just outside of the Dandelion rehearsal studio. I love the sign. It’s heavy and awkward and very simple. And it gets right to the point, “Wonder.” That’s it. No population numbers for the town of Wonder, Oregon - no instructions about how to practice the techniques of wondering - no indication that anything else matters outside of this basic commandment.

The aesthetic of the sign as it decayed seemed to call out for a performance piece to arise from this artifact of a fertile, forgotten time. It took a few years for dreams of the work’s shape and structure to percolate. And now it has turned into something that reaches far beyond this one story, this one poem, this one sign.

The spirit of my parents’ hopes and dreams, and the instruction to “wonder” has encouraged me to experiment with large-scale community performance in a way I never have before. It has pushed me to question my notions of time on the stage. It has evoked a curiosity for me in what possibilities lie in long periods of waiting.

I’m very interested through WonderSlow to investigate further how performance can be a ritual of healing, grounding, connection, new ways of seeing, waking-up and spiritual practice. I am inspired in the creation and implementation of WonderSlow by my parents, Buddhist meditation practice, the work of Anna Halprin, Contraband, Andy Goldsworthy, John Cage, Merce Cunningham and the courageously creative group of collaborators participating today.

WonderSlow was created with support from the City of Oakland Cultural Arts and Marketing Program, the Clorox Foundation, the CSU East Bay Department of Theatre and Dance and a Theatre Bay Area CA$H Grant. Special thanks to all the performers and volunteers, Jim Macilvaine, Luiza Silva, the Oakland Acupuncture Project, Essential Balance Bodywork, Theatre of Yugen, Navarrete x Kajiyama Dance Theater, A.V.I.D. and all of you joining us today.

Fermented Art

I'm a big fan of fermented foods and drinks: sauerkraut, tempeh, kombucha, rejuvelac, kim chee, wine, beer and more. It's fascinating to me how completely new nutrients and beneficial bacteria develop when we let things settle for awhile. And then how new food and drink is created, not necessarily better than what was originally there, but different and fulfilling other needs.

I'm realizing that I love fermented art too. When a project first appears to complete on closing night, I feel a great sadness at "losing" my connection to something that is immensely nourishing to me. And yes, I am saying goodbye--to a particular lens for experiencing the project, to the material that makes it up and to the magical time with the collaborators.

But as the project ferments--as it sits for awhile--new gifts sprout up from its remains. I'm able to view the piece (through video, memory, reflection) with a greater sense of calm. I'm able to discover new things in it. I'm able to integrate the insights, the shifts and the sheddings that the piece offers up to me.

Today I re-watched one of my excerpt videos from Friend. I was moved in a completely different way than I was moved when performing it, or even than when I first edited the video. But in a way that feels just as important.




I could follow the trajectories of the piece as if listening to a juicy story. I could watch without the same attachments. I could let myself be taken for its rides. My guess is that this will only deepen as the work ferments. When I look at some of my earlier works now, I notice and feel new things in a way that delights me.

Art that is created through intuitive processes always holds more than initially meets the eye. And in order to digest all of its gifts, we must revisit it at different stages of our own life experience. One can't "get" it all in one viewing, or even one month or one year. There are things hidden in each piece that the creators don't even know about while creating. There are mysteries waiting to be investigated, and will wait as long as is necessary.

In a recent post I wrote that I am shifting my view to think of the performances of a work as just the midpoint of the project--that the same time that was taken to create it is needed to integrate it.  However, in some ways, the performances are not the mid-point, but the "beginning" of a project. And then the project ripens, matures, ferments throughout the rest of our lives. It's like when a redwood tree first sprouts out of the ground--that is the performance portion. And then the many centuries of growth of the tree is what happens after the performance as the art expands in our hearts.

Often we take trees for granted, like we take art for granted. It's there, I saw it and I don't need to pay attention anymore. But we miss so much when we do that. There's so much to discover every time it crosses our path, and each discovery is fresh and completely new.


(video from this post is my second set of Friend excerpts:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jf-lwL7GgYY)

As the Light Fades

Transitioning back to ordinary life after a performance run is difficult for me. And this particular transition out of performances of Dandelion's Friend has been particularly difficult.

Ram Dass wrote and spoke about how as he began to get in touch with larger and more beautiful spiritual experiences--as he got "higher" each time--the accompanying falls afterwards became increasingly painful. These performances were especially "high" for me.

I made some big breakthroughs artistically: editing more fiercely, trusting my inner feedback over outer feedback, and delving deeply into musical, lighting and visual art elements. And I made some big breakthroughs spiritually: reclaiming performance as a vehicle for healing, trusting my inner feedback over outer feedback, stirring up and riding a storm of emotional energies and letting go of a lot of worry and doubt.

I had a strong sense over the four performances and the week of tech rehearsals that led up to them, of the sacredness of performance. My intellectual understandings of performance as a spiritual practice and even religious gathering place were transformed into direct experience of something quite palpable. I noted many times during the weekend a sense of finally beginning to "get" what going to church is all about. I felt invited in, embraced and empowered.

I can think of a lot of causes for this string of experiences:

• I made a conscious choice after my friend Sharon died to direct my art-making more intentionally towards healing, connection, friendship and my own spiritual growth. 
• I was working in Friend specifically with powerful emotions and energies surrounding grief, loss and deep love. 
• The residency at CounterPULSE provided me with a great deal of logistical and ideological support, allowing me to focus more than I have in a long time on the art-making itself. 
• The combination of artists collaborating with me in the Dandelion ensemble brought a maturity, a willingness and a unique collection of personalities and talents all adding up to great artistic chemistry. 
• I've been working towards many of the realizations I've had during this project through many years of experimentation and hard work. 
• And then there is the mysterious nature of grace that seems to grant us new levels of insight and integration when we are somehow ready--keeping all of this outside the realm of control and formulas for action.

Because of all this, the energy crash after the performances has felt like finding the "Garden of Eden" and then being cast out. The world that we wove together onstage (and throughout CounterPULSE) was rich, juicy, inspiring, sensitive and beautiful. I felt a great freedom and a great power. I moved up to my edges and beyond them musically, theatrically, visually. I discovered a ritual for "cooling down" after the performance--the playing of live music until I have settled enough to coherently engage with audience members.  I felt a sense of clarity and connection to purpose. And then we had to clean up and go home.

I've realized that I need at least a week of no plans after performances like this--to decompress, integrate and rejuvenate. As it was, I had a day. And then it was off to errands, meetings, deadlines and the return to teaching.

The week leading up to our performances was the first week of Spring Quarter at Cal State East Bay. This is always a crazy time, but compounded with the stress around this production it feels insane. And adding to this, I have had a leaky tire on my car because of a screw stuck in it for over a week now; The piles of emails, mail, papers, "to-do's" and miscellaneous stuff on my desk have become daunting; I'm choreographing an opera for the Cal State Spring Dance Production that opens in one month; I have over one hundred students this quarter; I'm directing a major collaborative project with Dandelion and AXIS Dance Company that starts up rehearsals again tomorrow. I can barely find room to walk in my office because of all the props, sets and lighting equipment from Friend that I now have to find spaces for; I need to find time to practice my mandolin to get ready for some upcoming musical gigs; I haven't had my car washed in a long time; I can't find my "To Do list;" and to top it off, I need new socks. It's a lot to pick back up again when I'm feeling this raw, depleted and emotionally spent.

Everything seemed so much clearer last weekend. My job was simply to show up as fully as possible and give myself to the art. I'm grieving the loss of that energetic space, and wishing I had a lot of time to sit with this grief rather than run around trying to get caught up. My colleague Nina Haft remarked at one of our work-in-progress showings that she experiences loss like the tearing off of a scab so that all the past grief-wounds come pouring up once again to mix with the present one. This is the clearest description I've found of the grieving process over my friend Sharon's death, and it is proving true of my grieving over the loss of the Friend project.

I've seemed to be fine this week when I'm at home, feeling safe and having time to rest, snuggled up against my partner and/or our dogs. As soon as I have to go out into the world to take care of business, I feel a weight descend on my whole insides. I get tearful over the smallest things and feel a mounting sense of anxiety the farther I get from the house. Everything seems overwhelming. Somewhere inside I know I can handle all the details, especially when I think of them one at a time, but the contrast between this post-show struggle and the immersion in grace during the show is poignant.

I realize that a big part of my suffering this week is rooted in my wishing things were different--wishing I was back in performance mode with my ensemble or at least that I didn't have to do much of anything as I transition. I seem to be wishing my time away, instead of settling into how things actually are right now, amidst the exhaustion and overwhelm and grief.

There are a few things that seem to help and so I've been turning to these as much as possible:
1. Organizing and putting away props, costumes, instruments, lights and other paraphenalia from the performances keeps me connected to the experiences I had while also physically moving me forward into my life.
2. Editing video of the performances reminds me of the experiences, gives me new perspectives on what we created and re-engages my creativity.
3. Cleaning and organizing the non-show items in my life grounds me and seems to refresh my environment. I'm reminded of Jack Kornfield's teachings from "After the Ecstasy, the Laundry."
4. Writing and talking about what I'm going through with friends, my partner, and this blog cuts down on the alienation and the stagnation of my thinking.

And most importantly, a specific shift in my perspective on all this has been getting me through and reconnecting me to the power of the processes I've been engaged in. I've heard Buddhist teachers say that it takes about as long to integrate a meditation retreat as it takes to do the retreat. So a two-month retreat will take at least two months to transition back into ordinary life from. A three-year retreat will take at least three-years to transition back from. I have found this to be a very helpful way of looking at performance projects I direct. Friend took four months of pretty intensive rehearsals to create. So I think it will take at least four months of active reflection to integrate its insights, gifts and emotional reverberations into the rest of my life. This means that the closing night of performances is not the end of the project, but the mid-point.

Each time I view my present experiences from this perspective I relax and feel great relief. I'm still doing the necessary work of the project as best I can. I plan to continue sharing post-show reflections as they come to me as part of this next stage of Friend.

Here is my first draft of video edits from Friend, taken from footage shot by friends throughout the weekend. I love watching this for new perspectives on the work, especially since up til now I've only seen it from inside:





 ( Video can be seen directly at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQwOPxKOFgk )

Impermanence Made Visible

My current favorite definition of the word "dance" is:

"Impermanence made visible."

That seems to cover the immensity and the minutia of this slippery form.

I'm particularly in touch with impermanence as Dandelion moves into our premiere of Friend tonight. It strikes me as odd how performance is what I pour my most extreme efforts and longings and strivings into--and then it's gone so quickly after it arises. This is particularly true in the experimental dance world wherein we often work for many months, seasons and/or years on a particular project and then perform it for one weekend (or if we're lucky, two.)

Where does the work go? Where do our efforts live after we've made them? How does something that feels so important to me pass away before my eyes? I can feel it leaving even before we begin our opening night.

I do believe that the impermanence of live performance is the key ingredient that gives it power. We have to show up completely to make it work, and we ask the audiences to show up completely to share it.

All performances--but especially Friend which feels intensely personal--get me really excited as we move closer to the moment when "it's time" to head to our starting places; and also stir up great sadness  the closer we move to the final moments of closing night. Performance for me is like a blender that shakes, swirls, crushes, blends, releases and renews our insides. And depending on the level of vulnerability required to birth each piece, it's a blender set on high, medium or low power.

Today as I start to get ready to head to the theater I feel great anticipation, joy, gratitude, sadness, fear, queasiness, and a sense of adventure. I'm reflecting on the many profound moments of impermanence I've experienced with the Dandelion ensemble over the last number of years and am looking forward to adding this one to our swirling artistic field of visions.





Bringing a new work onstage is always scary to me. It helps somehow to remember that I've done it before so many times, and to "huddle" with my team by rewatching some of those instances.

(If you don't see the embedded video, here's what I'm watching today:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8EfYewQgTnQ )

Entering The Temple of Tech Week

I've come to love tech week--the week leading up to a performance run in which we have tech (technical) rehearsals, dress rehearsals and last minute scramblings to finish.

I notice that during this time I am highly energized with a mix of anxiety, anticipation and joy. And I notice that the main thing that keeps me grounded is spending as much time as possible at the theater.

I like to get to the place we're performing hours before each event, taking time to set up, putter about and sometimes work on a project like the lobby installation that is continuing to evolve for our shows this week at CounterPULSE.  I start to feel a very strong connection with the theater and experience this connection as the closest thing to church that I've known.

The theater becomes sacred space--the hours and hours of labor that goes into getting it ready for performance generates a palpable sense of presence.  I  feel "extra-alive." Every nook and cranny is illuminated with the wonder of creativity. And in the midst of all the work to be done, many windows of just "hanging out" arise as we're waiting for a tool or finishing up a task or taking a break.

While I'm always also exhausted and stressed during these times, I'm also rejuvenated and in touch with profound gratitude for the artistic path I've found myself on, the ensemble that travels this path with me and the ever expanding community we are a part of.

Here's a few moments from our load-in at CounterPULSE on Monday night:

(Video can also be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7ffNgQbLUg)

Showings, Feedback and Protecting Clarity

The showings that Dandelion has been doing as part of our residency at CounterPULSE have taught me a lot. Here's an incomplete list of insights, reminders, clarifying moments that I've gathered so far from the three monthly public showings of our Friend project:

1. Public showings are crucial to the development of the kind of experimental performance we create. They force us to get things together on a deadline, to try them out and then to retreat and re-tool. There are so many great ideas in experimental creation processes, but it takes showings to clarify which are the ones worth developing.

2. It helps my anxiety level to have other things being shown next to my work. I've loved sharing the showings with Kegan Marling as he develops his new work. It's easy to feel very alone in the midst of the extreme vulnerability that arises when showing a piece in progress. Having someone else going through something similar at the same time makes it much more bearable. And it takes the attention off of me and my work long enough for me to re-ground myself.

3. My relationship to feedback is shifting. I've found at these showings that it's been more difficult than usual to listen to a bunch of feedback about my work. I'm a big believer in getting outside feedback on what I create, and I've found it to be crucial for much of my art-making. However something is changing. Perhaps it's the personally vulnerable material I'm investigating with Friend, or maybe it's a new phase in my artistic development. I'm finding that a little bit of feedback is helpful, but that during the big public feedback sessions I easily lose touch with my creative center and get wrapped up in other people's ideas, desires, aesthetics, etc.

I've been reflecting on the different needs we have as artists at different stages of our path. I find myself more and more drawn towards doing whatever I can to discover my deeper inner feedback--and doing whatever I can to not get hooked by other people's views on my work. I feel that I'm on the verge of discovering some important new piece of my inner artistic truth and more than ever I don't want to be swayed by things closer to the surface.

4. I was able to feel more clarity when I didn't take notes at the last feedback session. Sometimes taking notes is helpful. But sometimes trying to write everything down keeps me in an analytical state. At the most recent showing I decided to try just letting feedback flow over me without trying to hold onto or remember any of it. I trusted that what was important would stick and the rest I could let go of. And then about an hour after the showing, I had many powerful insights about the piece and wrote them down then.

5. I have trouble setting boundaries when receiving feedback. I tend to think that it's very important to hear whatever people have to say. I see so many works that I believe could have been made much stronger if the director/choreographer had listened to more honest feedback from colleagues. I fear that my work will suffer if I don't let everyone tell me every single thing they want to in response to my piece.

In the feedback structure that CounterPULSE uses at these showings, there is a time when responders can say that they have an opinion about something, and ask me whether I want to hear it. And then I can say yes or no. But it turned out that most people would just say they had an opinion and then they'd roll right through saying it. I didn't feel I had a choice.

But I do have a choice, and could have said I wasn't interested in opinions. That would have been more honest. I knew that I could ask for the opinions of my close collaborators and trusted advisers later, but instead let the opinions of a large group of people keep coming until I was completely overwhelmed. And once I'm overwhelmed, there's not much that gets through.

I want to work on noticing sooner when I've had enough feedback and letting people know that. Along with that I want to work on trusting the process enough to know that the piece will reveal itself to me even if I don't hear what everyone has to say about it.

6. Showings seem to always fuel an explosion in my work, even when they're uncomfortable. Sometimes these explosions turn everything upside down. And sometimes they gently peel away an unnecessary layer so that more of the work's truth can come out.

Here's some images from the rehearsal we had the day after our most recent showing. Ideas were flying and the ensemble was riding them beautifully. We created a new section that night in which I gave a series of action words and everyone made a phrase from those. We are playing here with unison movement that doesn't necessarily look the same, but that has synchronicity in the energy patterns:





(Video can also be viewed here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qz9Ib3HOLrw )

Art vs. Fundamentalism

For Dance Anywhere Day this year we performed a minimalist movement structure in Frank Ogawa Plaza in downtown Oakland. Ensemble Member David Ryther led us in an improvised piece based on a street performer he had witnessed many times in Santa Cruz.

We traveled slowly around the plaza, waving and looking back and forth with a highly exaggerated and slow motion smile.

There happened to be someone shouting what sounded like Fundamentalist Christian doctrines on the plaza for a good half hour before we started. We decided to pass by him with our movement. I thought it would be an interesting balance of energies for a performance piece. I was looking forward to moving in slow motion behind him as he continued ferociously and with great shouting speed.

As he noticed us approaching, he closed up shop and left. We couldn't even get near him. We must have scared him somehow. While I was disappointed that we didn't get to "collaborate" for that moment, I also felt elated. It was a victory for Art over Fundamentalism. And we won because of our inclusivity. His material worked great for our piece. It added dynamic tension. We embraced what he was doing. But he didn't have room for our expression in his, and so he go pushed out of the space.

A reminder of the power of inclusion and openness.




 (Video excerpt at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2cBE-ePU8U0 )