Hey! Look! It’s a Mad King Thomas dance you almost certainly have never ever seen before, called The eyebrow, or some expression of doubt or daring on their faces:
That’s Liz Schoenborn & Stephanie Stoumbelis. They’re so great. They jumped in to our totally confusing and aimless process with nothing less than complete enthusiasm and they performed the hell out of the dance we made with them.
(The most productive rehearsal for this piece involved five serious hangovers, a little bit of makeup from the night before and a bucket of Halloween candy. It generated the phrase “industrial glitter,” which is one of the most useful and perfect phrases of all time. I also hit my head really hard that day while acting like the NFL robot.)
People sometimes say only Mad King Thomas can perform Mad King Thomas work, which is untrue (although I feel flattered when I hear it).
The difference, as far as I can figure, is that when we make a dance on ourselves, it’s a really extended form of dramaturgy (as if I even know what that word means). We talk a lot until we find the bones of the thing, then we let performance tell us how the flesh hangs. We sometimes finish pieces earlier, which means we get to practice them, which occasionally leads to crazy things like polishing the work. But the basic arc is a lot of back end research, discussion and argument, with a relatively miniscule amount of work on the front end (what it actually looks like to the audienc). Mad King Thomas bravely dances on with only half a clue what’s happening elsewhere on the stage, but fully aware of why it’s happening.
When we make work on other people, we suddenly get to WATCH it. It’s totally different and usually we get drunk with power. (Do it this way. Okay, do it backwards. Okay, do it faster. No, really faster. Okay, say it with a British accent. Now cry.) The piece gets more codified and rigid.
At this point the dance has become, more or less, an aesthetic object. Something we can look at and turn into something we find aesthetically (rather than performatively or emotionally) satisfying. A thing rather than a lived experience.
When we make work on ourselves, we don’t know what the “right way” is to do the dance. We’re out there singing and dancing with only our internal sense of the appropriate to guide us. No one says, “Not like that, like this.”
When we make work on other people, we constantly say, “Not like that, like this.” So our dancers DO have a sense of right vs. wrong. (Yuck.) That’s where we go astray. We reenact power structures and exert controls that completely undermine the basic promise of our work:
You already know how to do everything you need to do. Everything you have ever done has prepared you for this moment. You are ready.
All Sparkles, No Heart hasa big cast. Only three of them are Mad King Thomas, so I guess it’s time we figure this out. Luckily for us, everything they have ever done has prepared them for this moment. We just need to get out of the way.
Who:Tara King, Theresa Madaus & Monica Thomas, along with the skills and charms of: Ashley Akpaka, Heather Arntson, Emma Barber, Jessica Briggs, Charles Campbell, Sarah Jabar,Tom Lloyd, Nick LeMere, Renee Lepreau, Megan Mayer, Crystal Meisinger, Susan Scalf, Liz Schoenborn, and Stephanie Stoumbelis.
There will be sparkles. We’re doing a lot of reading and worrying. Please come see it! Mad King Thomas and Momentum! TOGETHER AT LAST
So, you may have heard. I hope you did, because we were kind of pathetic and frantic about getting the word out. In an unprecedented move of professional dancerly-ism, Mad King Thomas had some auditions.
Auditions, sounds nerve-wracking, right? Turns out they were fun! And weird.
Here’s the thing; we’ve never really done this before. Plus, this isn’t really a big auditioning town. We were worried. I swear we were more nervous than our auditionees. Nobody really knows how to deal with the strange dynamic of having to prove yourself/choose from amongst your friends. The Minneapolis dance-scene is like a sprawling dysfunctional family. It’s weird to put some of your cousins and sisters and step-brother’s uncle’s adopted grandchild in a room together and pretend like you’re the patriarch. No one will believe you. And besides, you no matter how removed someone is, someday in the future you’re going to see them at a family reunion and they’re going to hear from your Uncle Dick about the time you showed up to Great-Grandma’s 90th birthday party wearing nothing but a hospital gown and a cheap plastic tiara.
Okay, I’m not really sure where that analogy went. But suffice it to say, HOW COULD WE POSSIBLY CHOOSE? We got a crowd of delightful, enthusiastic people in a room together, and we made them do silly things, they cheerfully obliged, we laughed until we hurt, they were all awesome in so many ways; how could we do anything other than love every one of them?
And we did love every one of them, in both auditions that we held, but we’re learning there is more to auditioning than just love. The tricky thing, the thing that makes this an audition and not a project, is learning to pick out the awesomenesses that are the right awesomeness for our current dance.
It doesn’t help that we weren’t entirely sure (and we’re still not) exactly how we want to use this corps of people we’re trying to gather, how much of a commitment they are going to be required to make, and what the dance is ultimately going to look like. Last-minute construction is kind of a big part of our process. We work for a long period of time with lots of dramaturgy and not many promises, and then KABAM, there’s a dance. Working with other people means making promises before we’re ready. Which I’m sure is a good challenge for us, pushing our boundaries, learning new skills, blah blah blah, etc. etc. But right now I want to know, can’t we just take the audition and put it on stage as the piece?
Do you know 30daysofbiking? It’s a bunch of people trying to ride their bikes every day for the month of April. It starts tomorrow! Because April starts tomorrow!
A big part of rehearsal last night was dedicated to figuring out where and how bikes fit into our show, because maybe not everyone in the universe thinks of the bike as the Great Liberator! But some people do! Right? When’s the last time you rode a bike? How was it? Seriously, I’m curious.
On the plane the other day I was chatting with this pleasant, jovial man. He had an Irish accent, which made him seem even more pleasant and jovial. Everything was lovely, and then he leaned over and said, “I’m not a racist, but…”
I kept my face neutral while my insides squirmed. I thought, Oh no. I thought, What do I do? I thought, Just keep a blank face and a calm demeanor.And I did. He said some things about how it was hard because “The Muslims” were taking their (the British) jobs, and then proceeded to complain about the Polish and the Czechs as well. And I said some non-committal things about globalization and hard times being hard for everyone and stupid shit that was meant to be sympathetic but not agree with his xenophobic and nationalistic statements.We got through it and back on to inoffensive ground, and everything was polite.
And here’s the thing. GODDAMNIT WHY WAS I SO POLITE?
How is it that I have been so socialized to value politeness, to shy away from confrontation, and to ‘keep the peace’ that I fail to address racism when it is blatantly spread before me? When there is even such a handy and obvious clue heading up the statement like, “I’m not a racist, but…”? This is ridiculous. My first response should not be “stay neutral, stay calm.” There is no such thing as neutral. Calmness is a racist response to racism.Not that I had to freak out and get hostile on him, but I could have challenged him, been more assertive. I could have spoken my mind. Maybe nothing I could have said would have changed his mind, but I didn’t have to tacitly condone his worldview either. Silence is assent. Polite hitherthithering is even worse.
I AM SICK AND TIRED OF BEING POLITE. I am such a good little middleclasswhitelady, and this is BULLSHIT. There, I said it in all caps. That’s not polite.
We’re told not to rock the boat. We’re taught to conciliate. We learn to silence ourselves. And I’m not throwing the baby out with the bathwater- I know the value of politeness, I know the number of times when approaching with polite subservience, when withholding, when using extreme diplomacy, when being able to smooth things over has saved my butt. But when did it get to be the default? When did it become an end unto itself? When did I start sacrificing my integrity to politeness? Well, since forever. But I’m done.
I value vulgarity. I value messiness. I value a little bit of conflict and a little bit of chaos and a lot of righteous anger. And I value being able to channel those powerful and rebellious tools into something productive, but sometimes you’ve got to play with fire if you want to burn some things down. Sometimes you’ve got to shake things up.
I guess this is where the connection to Mad King Thomas comes in. I love that our work is vulgar, messy, chaotic, a little out of control, based in anger and love and mostly unabashed. I love that Mad King Thomas helps me embrace my better, louder self. Our choices are not only aesthetic, but political too. (Of course aesthetics are always political, as I ranted at length several posts ago.) I hope that we can construct our dances in such a way that the rebellion is useful.
It’s always a balancing game. I’m learning to push. When to yell and when to hold my tongue and when to flip the middle finger. How to be wrong. I’m going to push and sometimes it’s going to be too hard, sometimes in the wrong direction. Good thing I live in the Midwest, where nobody’s going to push back, ’cause they’re all too polite.
Okay, you’re not going to see me running down the street, finger-guns blazing, flipping off the world. Sometimes I’m going to be the Midwesterner, and forget to speak up. But this is a call to question the silence, the status quo and the right times to be polite.
I mean, you knew it was coming, right? How can I not blog about the topic I think about most often right now?
Joey Brooks. Just kidding; who the eff is that? I’m talking about Justin Bieber.
(A note: I love a lot of things, Justin Bieber included, unironically. Yes, I am often embarrassed by this. I take pop culture and pop music in particular way too seriously. I like a lot of things I should hate, or at least question deeply.)
I saw Never Say Never 3D: The Director’s Fan Cut Sunday night and I couldn’t sleep afterward.
What is it about that kid? I mean, I can sit here and list the ways he has charmed me (and millions of others), but seriously, what IS it? He’s a force of nature, an animal, something that exists because it must. But if you delve into the specific case, you just get footage of thousands of people crying, hysterical, screaming, “I love you, Justin!”
It’s so super hard being Justin Bieber, guys. Seriously.
I’ve been that person before, kind of. I cried when I heard that Jon Bon Jovi had gotten married. I was five. He was 26. I’ve been in an arena, my body tense with excitement, screaming. I enjoy giving into the collective energy of that many delirious people.
But Bieber fans are different. They weep uncontrollably. They are obsessed. They can’t get enough of whatever it is he’s offering. What do they get out of it? I mean, eight-year-olds riot when he is doing a public appearance. Generally speaking, eight-year-olds don’t riot. They all look so sad, so pained in their worship.
Is it the desire for what he represents–A beautiful, sensitive guy to sing love songs for you? Is it a safe, sanitized way to feel and express all the loneliness and desire pent up inside of you? Is it cultural conditioning that lets you know you should want this? Is it the fame, the fact that he is untouchable, beloved by everyone?
It reminded me a lot of Fame, by Tom Payne. The New York Times review provides a quick summary of what it’s about.
I lent it to Monica so I can’t quote from it, but Justin Bieber as virgin sacrifice rings true. A large undercurrent of the narrative is whether or not he’s normal and what fame is doing to him–and a tense look forward: Will he be the next Britney? Or Michael? We’re shown home movies of his earliest perfomances and we’re meant to see that this kid is different, special. He was made to be world-famous at the age of 14. He deserves the acclaim and we (the public) get the rights to him, forever more.
His vocal coach says to him, “You gave up normal.” You gave it up. You sacrificed what you had before: Hockey games, roughhousing in your grandparents’ home, screaming and yelling with your friends. You gave it up. And the gods gave you 10,000,000 beautiful, lonely girls holding their hands up in the shape of a heart, singing the words to your songs.
But you have to keep sacrificing. You have to rest when your voice is tired. Drink wheat grass juice. Be gracious to the people who hound you. It is Olympian in scope. When I look at my life as a choreographer (I have been moaning over how HARD it is, why don’t people UNDERSTAND), the scale of sacrifice is so minimal. I get to make the art I want, on my schedule. I don’t have to drive to every small theater in the country and shill. I don’t even have to be skinny or beautiful. Making dances makes me feel better about myself and the world; I don’t have to worry about 10,000 girls crying all night because Tara King cancelled the show. (Results may vary for other people named Tara King.)
Anyway, I don’t know what I’m going on about. I don’t really get fame. I don’t know that anybody does.
Reminds me of a joke I heard recently. A man in a bar says, “Look out that window. You see that school? It’s a good school. I built it with my own hands, paid for the bricks so the little children would have a place to learn. You’d think they’d call me a school builder.” He orders another drink and says, “You see that bridge? I built that bridge. Needed a safe way to cross the river so I did it. You’d think they’d call me a bridge builder.” He drinks some more. After several beers, he looks up and says, “But you fuck one sheep….”
Notoriety wins every time.
(And there lies a door down the road to my thoughts on Michael Vick, crime, and forgiveness…a door that will stay closed for now.)
I wonder, also, about the way Justin Bieber being a boy changes things. Certainly when Miley Cyrus hits the stage, there are 10,000 girls singing rapturously along, too. But I don’t think Miley gets chased down by screaming hordes. I don’t think her mom gets assaulted by little girls.
Is it that women are allowed to lose their heads, to go wild and get a little violent, where men are not? Men have to remain aloof? I don’t know. I do Miley Cyrus looks a lot older than she is. Coltish teenage women have no place in the cultural imagination. Coltish teenage boys (particularly when devoid of any threatening marks – stubble, acne, deep voices) tap into something deep, emotional, semi-religious, viral, visceral, violent.
Yeah, sure. I wish it was me. I wish that the things I love to do were beloved by the world, supported with a huge crew and millions of dollars. As a friend said, “I want someone to steam my costumes.” There’s nothing like coming off a show that you killed, the feeling of connection with the audience, the feeling of being bigger and better than yourself. And it doesn’t get much bigger.
And yeah, I wish our shows provoked the reactions that his do. I’ve been in a crowd of screaming, singing fans, sweating and dancing together. I’ve gotten lost in a euphoric haze at a rock show, been expanded beyond my edges, lifted to a place of reverie and joy.
Of course, one of the joys of contemporary performance is that it can and will fail (as Jerome Bel talked about at length in Pichet Klunchun & Myself). Justin Bieber’s music can’t fail because it’s generated from pure calculation.
But when contemporary performance succeeds, the feeling of being changed lasts longer and is more memorable. At least, I can talk about it afterward, more coherently than, “It was awesome! Everyone was so stoked, man!”
But I miss the kinetic experience of standing in a crowd of people who are too close together, bodies moving because they can’t stop, voices rising in a chorus–I want to know how to bring that to the dance audience. I want to know how audience participation can go from awkward to transcendent.
And, I really want to watch some more Justin Bieber videos.
It was laundry day today. I composed a special outfit comprised of the biggest lumpy grey wool sweater I could find and shiny purple lame’ leggings. Then I put on heels for good measure. Is it wrong for me to take so much delight in ridiculous outfits? Probably. But I do it regularly anyway. Mad King Thomas has fueled in me an unhealthy love of all things shiny, gold, outrageous, or lame’.
And here’s the thing. It used to be ironic. Now it’s a little too genuine. It used to be a joke. I guess it still is a joke… a very serious joke.
Friends, let me introduce you to perhaps one of the most relevant words in my life: ‘post-ironic.’ It’s not the same thing as just being earnest. Earnestness is perhaps innocent and naive and genuine. It’s definitely not ironic- the tongue-in-cheek posturing and cynical laugh have faded. It’s that strange space where you’ve gone through the irony and come out the other side, feeling genuine and whole-hearted, aware of how ironic it could (or should) be, but somehow you can’t help your honest love.
Eighties pop is particularly ripe for this, I think because so much of it was made in earnest, with an aesthetic that isn’t afraid that people will laugh at the dramatic tone. Our cynical referential generation loves to scoff at the cheesey soul-baring, but eventually the synth beats its way into our hearts. One day you’re laughing at Bonnie Tyler and the next suddenly you ARE holding out for a hero, at the top of your jaded little lungs. And by “you” I mean “I”, clearly.
I probably experience post-irony most frequently with music, but it’s a concept that permeates my life. Honestly, it’s one of the best strategies for dealing with the wreck that post-modernism tends to leave well-intentioned liberal arts students like myself. Once everything is deconstructed, lying about in shambles on a floor of shifting truths and self-aware derision, there’s not a lot of space for earnestness. You get laughed out of college as a deluded essentialist, sneered at for your simplicity. Earnestness is too easy to undermine.
But it’s a bleak miserable life when you can’t love anything, when everything has to be picked apart and problematized, when heartfelt emotions are scorned as antithetical to intellectualism. Irony provides the humor and let’s us love again in a bleeding, broken way, but it’s a cynical existence.
Here’s where post-irony kicks in! You’ve picked apart the world, tried on the pieces in high-irony, laughed and nodded and made knowing winks, and now you’ve hung out there so long something else is bubbling up. There’s a space to engage with the complicated and contradictory nature of a constructed reality, not just wallow in the brokenness of the world. You get to enjoy things! and still value the critical deconstruction and recognize how fraught with problems everything is. But your laughter doesn’t have to have that bitter edge anymore.
Okay, so maybe we’re not talking about my laundry-day outfit anymore. But we are talking about my dance-making now. Perhaps Post-ironic is a term better saved for musical loves and clothing choices, but it gets at the contradiction that Mad King Thomas talks about all the time. Part of what drives us to make dances, and what makes us make dances the way we do. It’s a fucked-up, broken world out there. And we love that world SO HARD. It hurts to love something this much, and it hurts that what we love is so fucked up. We couldn’t love it so hard if we didn’t recognize how awful and fucked up it is. We’re angry, and it is in accepting- no, meeting head-on- that anger and disappointment that we can love and have the most hope.
As facebook says, “it’s complicated.” We choose to LIVE in the complication, dance from fragment to fragment, knowing that meaning will be made in between, and the need for stability will be diminished in the revelry and inquiry of a dancing spirit. No longer is the only question “What can we do?” Now we ask, What does doing look like? What decides can? Who are we and what is what? What can be? And how can we do to make that be come to be? Let’s scrabble it all around, embrace the mud, which we know is also gold, and roll in the mess because magic is in the making.
starts at 8pm at SECRET WORKS LOFT 59 Jefferson St. #301 Bushwick Admission is a contribution to the free bar where everyone drinks for free all night long!
We don’t have a lot of friends in New York City, you know? Probably has something to do with living in Minneapolis. So even if you can’t see the show, spread the word! Tell everyone you know that Mad King Thomas is the most ridiculous monarch of ever and that they’d love our work. Assuming, of course, that you think those things are true. We’d never ask you to lie (well, almost never.) (Unless you like lying.)
Monica & Theresa will be showing excerpts from The World Is Your Oyster Eat Up, Little Pearl, which debuted in June 2010 at Bedlam Theater.
I was simultaneously confused, turned on, and filled with awe. Monica Thomas has an amazing tongue! It makes noises! She can control it almost effortlessly!
I alternate between feeling really happy when mainstream culture produces something awesome and feeling really worried that Mad King Thomas is doing it wrong.
