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A Form of Order: On Paul Taylor | The Nation

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A Form of Order: On Paul Taylor

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Esplanade is a masterpiece of construction and simplicity. The lapidary dance critic Arlene Croce called it “unfaked folk art.” The story goes that it was inspired by a girl running to catch a bus, its steps derived from the simplest everyday movements—walking, running, jumping, holding, falling—and interwoven into pleasing patterns. The entire final movement consists of dancers rushing across the stage, leaping into the air and careening into slides across the floor, their backs twisting in wild arcs as gravity pulls them downward. Annmaria Mazzini, a recently retired company member who now sets Taylor dances for other companies, taught Esplanade to a group of students at the Paris Conservatory last year: “I told them the first day, ‘Listen, you’re going to bleed—your feet are going to bleed, your knees are going to bleed, you’re going to bleed from your hips, you’re going to bleed from your elbows. It’s just…Esplanade.’” The extreme display of physical courage is one of the compelling features of Taylor’s work, both for audiences—what could be more exciting than bodies hurtling through space?—and for his dancers. There’s no faking this kind of risk.

About the Author

Marina Harss
Marina Harss is a freelance dance writer and translator in New York. Her dance writing has appeared in The New Yorker,...

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It also draws young, aspiring dancers to classes at the company studios, where they learn the basic vocabulary of the Taylor style, the fluid phrasing in which the spine curves inward and then opens outward, arms swooping around the torso or pulling away from it, as if stretching toward the sky. As Taylor says, “It’s the big muscles, the back, the thighs, the chest. That’s where the strength is and where the eye should go.” It’s a dance that requires core strength and endurance. The feet are firmly planted on the ground, often with the body’s weight tilted toward one hip or the other, in an exaggerated form of classical contrapposto. The spine arches and twists with buoyant, yielding muscularity, while the arms reach and sway, energy radiating from the back and through the fingers. The head completes the movement; the eyes extend it even further. “We do a lot of things that require a lot of plain old effort,” Amy Young says. There is something heroic about these dancers, especially the men—in addition to everything else, Taylor often has them cradle and carry the women around. The guys in the company tend to be strapping, the women smaller and feminine but no less athletic. All of them exhibit the supple strength that permits a constant flow of movement from one shape into the next; they seem to be always in motion, running, jumping, hopping, squatting, lunging, turning and changing direction. Even the pauses pulsate with life.

Nowhere is this weighted, buoyant fluidity more evident than in the slow, legato solos featured in many of Taylor’s dances (often performed these days by one of his two most Apollonian dancers, Michael Trusnovec and Laura Halzack). Aureole, created in 1962 and set to assorted movements from Handel concerti grossi, is a perfect example. It contains a long solo Taylor created for himself, which was captured on film at the American Dance Festival in 1962; in it, a tall, powerfully built man in white tights moves with exquisite slowness. He lunges, sweeps one arm forward as if scooping the air, pulls himself up, deliberately unfurls a leg—leaning away from it and twisting his torso—then brushes into a series of swooping turns, leg floating behind him. Everything is connected, as if he were swimming through the air. He stretches his long arms away from his supple swimmer’s shoulders, reaching in all directions, like da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, radiating into the space around him. The movements are repeated north, south, east and west. As Taylor has explained, “The main difficulty lies in keeping the flow going by passing through, rather than hesitating in, each position.” It’s athleticism on an epic scale.

Another feature of Aureole (and of many of Taylor’s best-known works) is its easygoing, quirky musicality. Taylor listens to music constantly—the radio is always on in his house, says his biographer, Suzanne Carbonneau—but he doesn’t read musical scores or treat them with particular reverence. It is a frequent practice of his to splice together movements from different pieces (as in Aureole and Esplanade) or even to layer sounds on top of one another (as in Cloven Kingdom). And he uses all kinds of music, from popular songs to Muzak to Beethoven quartets, barrel organs, Bach and noisy electronic compositions by Donald York (a onetime musical adviser to the company). The music and movement enter into a kind of dialogue, though Taylor isn’t interested either in fitting steps to music in the traditional sense, or in matching the internal structure of the music with his dance phrases—an approach he calls “Mickey Mousing” the music, with Balanchine having been a particular offender. As he writes of one of his early works, Junction, he wants the music and the dance to be “like chums whose compatibility is so strong that they even have the right to ignore each other.”

And yet Taylor is musical in his own way. His interest in music, especially classical music, drove a wedge between him and the avant-garde when he made Aureole. His earlier work had been much more radical. In one program, he performed a dance in which he did little more than shift positions periodically while the recorded voice of a telephone operator gave the time; in a second piece, he walked around while a dog sat onstage and David Tudor made noises with the piano (the score was by John Cage); and in a third, he and his partner did nothing at all, in silence. These maddening experiments were a passing phase. With Aureole, Taylor said goodbye to the modern dance notion that ideas and feelings were more important than music, and also to the postmodern idea—just beginning to emerge in the work of Cage and Cunningham—that music and dance really have very little at all to do with each other. (This was the beginning of the end for “modern” dance; most postmodernists took the separation of music from steps as a given and began to question other ideas like structure, technique, movement and the usefulness of the proscenium stage.) After Aureole, many in the avant-garde saw Taylor as rather old hat. His friendship with the artist Robert Rauschenberg, who had provided designs for most of his early works, ended. The rift was compounded by Taylor’s interest in classical structure—beginnings, middles and endings—and with communicating stories and emotions through dance. As Carbonneau says, “To appreciate Taylor, you have to accept his premise: dancing to music, classical structures, the proscenium as picture frame, heroic technique, theatrical clarity, sincerity.” There is nothing abstract, cerebral, ironic or dry about Taylor, and as in the case of Big Bertha, the gestures and behaviors depicted can be quite literal. Not much is left to the imagination.

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This notion that Taylor is a kind of retrograde artist has stuck with him over the years (as it has with like-minded choreographers such as Mark Morris). The New York Times recently published a discussion among its dance critics, and one of them complained that the manner in which Taylor “tethers choreography—structurally and emotionally—to music feels terribly reductive.” Another described feeling torn between admiration for his craft and the sense that the work is “wincingly corny and rather dull.” His creative wellspring and sources of inspiration are certainly located in an earlier time. And yet he is, and always has been, a nonconformist, and an earnest one at that. Communicating meaning is foremost in his mind. “I’m just trying to present human nature on the stage,” he says, “so that people can connect to it.” Perhaps for this reason, his dancers come across not only as virtuosos, but as living, breathing people, connecting with one another and with the audience. The choreography calls for a lot of touching—a hand placed on the knee or shoulder, a physical metaphor for warmth, friendship, even love. As Mazzini said, we empathize with the dancers, see our own troubles and emotions reflected through theirs. They gaze into each other’s eyes, and we never get the impression that they’re thinking about the laundry list or how they’ll be spending their day off. It feels true. If that’s corny, then, well, there it is.

What will happen to Taylor’s company when he’s no longer here to run it? It’s an inevitable question, considering the recent deaths of Merce Cunningham and Pina Bausch. Bausch’s company has vowed to continue touring her work for as long as possible; they performed a marathon of her recent dances in London ahead of the Summer Olympics. Cunningham’s company, on the other hand, took the radical step of shutting its doors two years after his death, transferring the licensing rights for his dances to a trust. Modern dance companies are closely linked to the personas and creative powers of their founders, so it’s difficult for them to survive once that person is gone. There are exceptions: the Martha Graham Dance Company has turned itself into a kind of living museum for her works and those of her contemporaries.

Choreographers are notoriously diffident about the future. “I don’t care frankly,” Taylor told the Times in 2007. “I won’t be here to see the dances which I enjoy, so what does it matter to me?” He doesn’t seem to be grooming an heir within the company’s ranks, someone who would continue his legacy while also adding new dances to the repertory. (There once was someone, Christopher Gillis, but he died of AIDS in 1993, at 42.) In the absence of such a figure, John Tomlinson, the company’s executive director, told me that Taylor has determined “the board of directors will decide the future of the company” after his death. Should the board decide to keep the troupe going (its current intention), it will select Taylor’s successor with the help of an artistic committee (whose composition has not been revealed). It is also Taylor’s wish that the troupe should become a repertory company doing new works in addition to his own and, possibly, the works of other modern dance masters, such as José Limón and Doris Humphrey and even Martha Graham. However, this is just “one possibility” among many. Others may yet be entertained, but there is a basic structure in place for the company’s continuance and, it seems, the will for it to go on.

For now, Taylor is still making new dances at the rate of two per year. In 2008, he made a truly great work, Beloved Renegade, inspired by the life and relationships of Walt Whitman. When I spoke with him this summer, he was just beginning to think about a new dance, based on a short story set in the 1930s or early ’40s. He wouldn’t name the story (“I think it’s bad luck”), but he did say that it was one “a lot of us read in school.” He is methodical, gathering ideas, taking notes, and listening to the music over and over (“I kind of plot it out with the music I’ve selected”), then goes into the studio to work with his dancers. These days, it takes him about four weeks in the studio to finish a piece. Little by little, minute by minute, he builds the dance. Michael Novak, who joined the company in 2010, says that when Taylor “comes into rehearsal, he always has a goal in mind, and it’s usually about a minute of choreography. Some days it takes him thirty minutes, and then he’s done for the day.” After all these years, making dance is still a kind of mental and spiritual discipline for Taylor, a way to make sense of the world. As he says in his memoir, “Dance is a form of Order.” So it is. n

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