the place – dance art journal

Mapping Gender by Anders Duckworth | review

Words by Francesca Matthys. Mapping Gender was performed at The Place in September 2022.

Mapping Gender by Anders Duckworth in collaboration with sound artist Kat Austen—is a beautifully tailored piece of performance art/dance theatre that entices the senses and maps both a personal and historical story of gender.

The story begins in the theatre foyer, even before the actual performance, through an exhibition of Duckworth’s process and research. Photographs, quotes, videos, punch needle art and images. This thoughtfully curated tapestry created a curious foundation for what we were to witness.

As the audience entered the performance space that had been completely stripped of any wings, the seating arrangement of the theatre had been extended to accommodate watching from the sides. This exposed the performance space that held large wooden boxes stacked as if they were in a warehouse. A liminal space where objects are held in transit. In these boxes perhaps one’s identity is hidden, packed up to be taken away or ready to be opened, shown. To come out.

The bare space and the DJ/sound desk positioned stage left evoked feelings of being in a nightclub or a ballroom space, offering a potentially more intimate connection to the performer.

After a prolonged silence, an unlocked latch and the sounds of physical struggle and scuffling amplified through a microphone, a hand with glistening ‘burnt Sienna’ nails gently rested on the edge of one of the boxes. This, our first clue of the performer, a first in flesh taste of what is expected. Poised and prim yet cautious of what awaits them.

This tone soon shifted as we were witness to a cold and hard object that looked like a crowbar. The violent connotations immediately made my body quiver as thoughts of the many injustices experienced by queer bodies reverberated through the space. The sensitivity through which the object was handled allowed its purpose to translate in and out of both harm and protection; of both self and other.

“Duckworth’s choice to conceal their body as if it were an unfamiliar, foreign object as well as label their body as unknown is an impactful and harsh representation on the way that non-binary bodies are in many spaces still seen as ‘other’”

Duckworth’s full body was soon displayed to us in what looked like a white hazmat suit made famous during the beginning of the Covid-19 outbreak. Protecting its contents. As it is carefully unzipped, Duckworth’s body was adorned in an extravagantly designed Rococo style dress famously worn in the 18th century by Marie Antoinette. Like a barbie out of a box. As Duckworth danced closer towards us the intricate lines of a unique map, including landmarks like ‘parts unknown’ were illuminated.

Duckworth’s choice to conceal their body as if it were an unfamiliar, foreign object as well as label their body as unknown is an impactful and harsh representation on the way that non-binary bodies are in many spaces still seen as ‘other’, not fitting into ‘conventional’ gender categories. The many borders that informed the piece. And the map; a tool for a process of discovery. In the post performance discussion, the creative team highlighted the importance of maps in the work and mentioned maps that are both oppressive and empowering in allowing one to share more about oneself.

The work is informed by thoughtful conversations had with non-binary individuals who have consented to sharing their stories. In the post performance discussion, dramaturg Emma Frankland mentioned that the work is held by the community rather than a representation of it. This community of voices were layered through the rich performance score. The spirits of these many individuals, divulged their opinions on borders and what it meant to exist in their bodies. This was the score as Duckworth moved from coyly sashaying across the stage to sword fighting on tiptoes and of course contorting their face into a silent scream while holding up the crow bar-like object above their head. This poignant image reminded me of Hitchcock’s haunting shower scene, though Duckworth’s version subverted this, resembling both victim and perpetrator. Duckworth was soon swept away, through dynamic whirlwind movements, by the sea of gender perceptions and binaries that dictate gender privilege. Another voice questions who is allowed leisurely walks; men in suits and woman in dresses. A ruthless polarity that has been infiltrated through our humanness.

Duckworth’s playful use of scenic devises allows the words ‘Gender playground’ to rest in the foreground of my mind. How are we able to be playful with our gender expression?

Their use of an array of scenic devices from boxes to ropes, to costume pieces to crowbars paints both beautiful and harrowing illustrations for us as watchers. We are witness to the body of the dress becoming a horse, a more dated yet still present mode of transportation. Transportation as a liminal experience becomes a metaphor in the work for the journey of many individuals who exist on the outskirts of ‘gender norms’. Though Duckworth’s exploration allows us to travel towards a place of reparation and resilience as it develops.

We watch as the bright orange string, inspired by the colour of the routes on the map, is retched out as if Duckworth were sea sick, purging old ideas of gender or ill as a result of them. The research around liminal, natural landscapes is a large part of the work in both its imagery and soundscapes. Water and the sea specifically as a powerful and immense body, both disturbs the performer’s body but can also be seen as a metaphor for the depth and magnitude of this subject matter. As we are more than 70% water it may also be seen as a metaphor for the self, the non binary body that is waved through a tumultuous existence of becoming and acceptance.

“The juxtaposition of what is shown and hidden in costume is a smart and very clear commentary on not belonging to one polarity but choosing to exist in-between spaces.”

As Duckworth begins to undress, the many layers of their costume are exposed that include a very restrictive corset that reminded me of the practice of ‘chest binding’ where a trans individual will compress their breast tissue with tight clothing, bandages or a binder to create a flat chest. As Duckworth sat with their back towards us they very carefully untied the ribbons that held their chest tightly together. The care in this action conjured up thoughts of the emphasis of care that is needed to be shown for non-binary bodies navigating the world. As Duckworth undresses they also expose their knee high socks and pink 18th century shoes that have been mostly hidden until now. The juxtaposition of what is shown and hidden in costume is a smart and very clear commentary on not belonging to one polarity but choosing to exist in-between spaces.

Before the final moments of the work, Duckworth now, stripped down to a white 18th century nighty almost like an embodied surrender, drinks water from a bottle and pores some into a makeshift bath created from one of the boxes. This act is synonymous with that of the often African practice of libation where one pores liquid or grains in recognition of one’s ancestors. Whether conscious or not, it is a moment of awareness for those that have began the fight for queer rights across the globe and those that are to come, those that are here like Anders Duckworth. This sentiment echoes the words of those in the space with Duckworth; ’My existence is activism’.

Throughout this important and sensitively loaded work we are reminded of the journey that is filled with not only joy, self appreciation, playfulness but mourning as we see the crinoline dress structure mimic a dead carcass and Duckworth’s body displayed in a crucifixion pose. We swiftly move through these various moments as if we are in a fever dream, afraid to look but also afraid to miss out.

The impossible nature of mapping gender as mentioned by the creative team is exactly what the work tackles. The creative team once again mentioning that ‘…sometimes we need to map our gender to communicate…’. Duckworth as a performer is a strong and present and ultimately the work offers an intentionally highly physical experience of how non-binary bodies and anyone who experiences themselves on the boundaries may dig deep, excavate and land on fertile soil in their own journeys of self discovery.

Choreographer /Performer: Anders Duckworth

Sound Artist: Kat Austen

Designer: Kit Hinchliffe

LX Designer: Martha Godfrey

Dramaturg: Emma Frankland

Costume Designer: Nadia Miah

Costume Makers: Nadia Miah & Laura Rose Moran-Morris

Scent Artist: John Foley

Outside Eye: Ania Varez

Imagery: Rosie Powell & Guy J Sanders

Producers: Reece McMahon & Emily Beecher, The REcreate Agency

Joseph Toonga on Born to Exist | interview

The final piece in Joseph Toonga’s acclaimed trilogy comes to The Place next week 25-26 October. We reviewed the first piece Born to Manifest a couple of years ago, and the second work Born To Protest toured the UK to outdoor festivals last year.

Ahead of Born to Exist’s performance next week, we sat down with Joseph Toonga to talk about the work.

Born to Exist is part of a trilogy – can you give us a brief description of how the three works fit together thematically?

The three works fit together as they look at the themes of black excellence, black experience and black journeys. I think the thread between the three pieces is the insight into the journeys and experiences of black brotherhood and sisterhood. The trilogy overall looks at relationships and how they are perceived and seen through another lens.

When you started out with the trilogy did you already have in your mind the overriding themes of each piece? Did you always know you would end up telling this female-focused story?

No, originally Born to Exist was meant to be part of a double bill when I did my R&D in 2018. It was meant to be a solo on myself and then a trio on three females. However, I realised that those two stories needed a separate show, so I started Born to Manifest which became a duet. From there, I realised that I wanted more people who looked like me and reflected my journey and my background to see the pieces of work. Born to Protest came out of this and was an outdoor piece because I wanted non-theatre goers and non-dance lovers to be able to access work like this. So the trilogy came out of the want for more people to be exposed to Born to Manifest.

I always knew the last part of the trilogy was going to be female-focused as I wanted one part of the work to reflect the different females in my life and my upbringing. I also wanted to bring in other viewpoints and shine a light upon the journeys of their mothers, aunties, best friends and cousins.

Born To Exist tells the story of how you were brought up by your mum and aunties when you came to the UK – can you briefly describe this experience?

I think Born to Exist has moved past my upbringing. My upbringing was a stimulus, but through the process we had a survey and I spoke to a lot of people, including the performers. I tried to get consensus from the performers on the themes and issues covered and on how we explored them. We didn’t want to make it cliched or stereotypical or for it to feel like I’m telling a story of how they are. It’s more of an insight from my research and their opinions, and we’re presenting their journey to you.

In terms of my experience growing up, it was good, but it was also hard because I had to watch my aunties and my mum be very resilient in a place that wasn’t home for them. And of course, there were certain scenarios that they couldn’t hide from me as a child. But they tried their best to make sure that we were brought up in a positive, hard-working environment. They really tried to form a sense of community, a sense of home, a sense of being proud to be African, to be black, because it wasn’t the norm at that time.

What was it like for you to move to the UK from Cameroon 25 years ago?

It’s hard to talk about this because I don’t have a lot of memories – just images and pictures. I know my family had to work hard and sacrifice a lot for myself and my cousin to be in this country, so I’m grateful for that and I try to limit the amount of questions I ask. I think my mind is still trying to gather information and put it together…so it’s still very puzzling.

Can you tell us a bit about how you make your work – the collaboration process involved with your cast and creative team?

I think it varies depending on the subject and what I’m exploring. For Born To Exist, we had a research and development period where we solely focused on quality and texture of movement. We looked at what movement within hip-hop spoke and didn’t speak and how we could break down and decode the norms associated with a female style and a male style.

In terms of the creative process, I always try to find a team who believe in my idea but will also challenge me when they feel it’s the right time. I always have a premise for my creative team that they understand my vision and what I want to do, and I have to trust that they will match my vision. I think that’s the same way I work with my dancers – I give them stuff, but I’m also very interested in what they give back and how they respond to the space.

Why do you feel it is important to tell your story at this time? Is there a political message you want to get across?

It’s a message that needs to come at this time because we’re at a point where while black and ethnic minority stories are starting to come out in little drops, there is a lack of focus on black female stories. I don’t want to neglect the stories of my mum and my cousins, and other black and biracial females whose stories are not being told because they’re not in the mainstream. There’s so much beauty in their journeys and strength in their sisterhood, and I felt that my work needed to highlight this. I have a spotlight right now where people are wanting to hear and see my opinion, so I think it’s the right time to put this work out and start conversations that will hopefully give others a platform to make work and know that their story is relevant.

I don’t try to convey a political message, but I think the journeys and stories are political in and of themselves. There are three black women on stage who all come from different backgrounds, different tones of black, a different mix of what black can look like. The political message is in the piece of work: to see them how they are, for who they are, and see their journeys. Who they are is important and we need to hear their stories. We need to celebrate their journeys and realise that their stories are just as complex as anyone else’s.

How do you imagine seeing the work will affect its audiences / make them feel?

I don’t have an expectation in terms of what people should come out feeling, but I want people to think – to think about others around them who don’t look like them and consider their journey. The piece isn’t trying to educate anyone; it’s about giving an insight into someone’s journey.

How would you describe your choreographic style?

Fluid, raw, a mixture of hip-hop and contemporary language. I would describe my style as hard-bodied – taxing on the body but in a way that hopefully activates different muscles. My movements are very action-based, very practical movements that sometimes don’t feel nice but look nice to the audience.

You are Emerging Choreographer in Residence at the Royal Ballet, has this had an impact on your career, plans, trajectory?

If I’m being honest I don’t know yet. I think it has had a personal impact on me, and I’m still on a journey to feel like I belong because not many people look like me in that space. I feel a responsibility to expose new creative ways and make sure I implement my creative practice on the company and on that part of the dance sector, as much as take everything that they give. There is a reason why I’m there, and my journey and experience is valid and needs to be in those spaces.

In terms of trajectory, I couldn’t say, but I hope other companies that see me want me in their spaces and want to commission me. I hope that what I do can also open up more doors for other artists who look like me or have similar journeys.

Anything else you’d like to say about Born to Exist to potential audiences?

I hope it gets the exposure it needs in order for more people to come and watch these stories.

Born to Exist comes to The Place 25-26 October. Book here.

Reflecting on Sivan Rubinstein’s Dance No 2° | Review

Words by Maxine Flasher-Düzgüneş. Watched at The Place, London.

“There is no activism without hope,” said choreographer Sivan Rubinstein in the post-show talk, speaking of her piece Dance No 2° as a culmination of her climate research project with Generation Z students at King’s College London, China, and communities abroad. A tree branch, which began Sivan Rubinstein’s Dance No 2°that evening at The Place, London, teetered atop the head of dancer Lydia Walker as her body graciously allowed for its precarious up-falls and downfalls. Walker handled the weighty branch with a delicate sense of protest and then…an acquiescence, as if through its own unforeseen tilts, it demanded her movement more than its own.

The elevated slabs of marly at the back of the stage resembled a white desert plateau, like the remnants of a former sea floor run dry by wind. The branch’s instrumental lasso swoops coloured the airy soundscape and in its final stakes into the ground, the remaining three dancers’ slithery entrance painted a reptilian landscape. It was at first like seeing through the eyes of a creature oriented to the horizontal, and then to the storming crescendo of drums, the dancers’ long diagonal strides inverted us back to the vertical. Their loose khaki linens airbrushed them into nomads, lost mariners, like the tiny figurines inside sea captains’ bottled ships. Their dance became adagio-ed and worn down, a wafting current to the felt piano which played sparingly.

Later on, their upstage and downstage bursts progressed like airstreams, diverging and turbulent but then serendipitously condensed, to the smallest isolation of the ribcage and a stamp of the foot. Their stares out at us were of animals in survival mode, their humanity turned rugged as seemingly the last ones left there. A dichotomy emerged between a holistic peace with one another and the daunting revelation that it would all fall away in a second. During the post-show talk, Rubinstein argued for these blended extremes of “body as planet, and planet as home,” of concurrently creating and wasting energy, that have to be both the preservation and demise of our existence in an environmentally fluctuating terrain.

As the piece drifted from the landscape of the desert to that of the sea, dancer Harriet Parker-Beldeau decayed to a gnarled, embryonic state, her screeching like a form of suffocation until relieved by the sound score’s watery release. The antiquated crackles of water drops framed her solo, as if the dance could have been fed to us through a phonograph, its needle vibrating with the tides. And dancer Jordan Ajadi’s strayed running patterns seemed to trace the foamy pathways of departed dinghies in a shipyard, his weight constantly escaping itself through miles of corkscrewed pirouettes. If possible, the dancers were interchangeably sailors and the creatures who roamed underneath the sails. Dancer Nathan Goodman’s blend of razor-edged hiccup jumps with effortless splashes into the deep brilliantly shifted between the moment of float and the moment of sink. These divergences in movement were like distinct personal odysseys; the dancers were the captains of the chaos that raged around them and then, too, were the life preservers that saved them from drowning.

The voice of Kadeeshah, an 86-year-old woman whom Rubinstein met in the desert during her research initiative, resonated throughout the piece as the desert soul whose uncanny youth convinced us all of miracles. In one of the last segments when her projected image spanned the floor, her words conjured the incalculable feeling of moving to be moved, erasing what separates us from our intended destinations.

Dance No 2° reminded me of the stories my father used to tell me of his family’s weekend excursions to the Turkish side of the Black Sea – the high levels of minerals and salt would often cause him and his brother to float, and the absence of tides would create the serene effect of glass over the surface, like land crystalized upon sea. And it distilled time, their bodies suspended where neither land nor sea could be identified.

The idea of a desert sea explored in this piece pooled together the image of motionless saltwater with the endless spirals of the sands, and vice versa, the wild riptides of whirlpools with the static papyrus layout of arid wilderness. The dancers moved as if breathing in the water and swimming through the soil, suggesting a climate that one day – if not already – will have to accommodate for extremes.

Today can be an era of understanding ourselves as constellations on continents that are starting to move within and without the seasons. The dancers acted as these connecting points, as driftwood migrating over a map that can no longer split ocean from coast – an endangered species belonging to a country now undefined. It forced us as audience members to consider – as potentially the last of our kind on this earth – does movement across great distances result in refuge or peril? And can a home, if we dare to still call it that, sustain both?

Header image credit: Jurga Ramonaite.

Credits: A work by  Sivan Rubinstein
Created with and performed by: Jordan Ajadi, Nathan Goodman, Harriet Parker-Beldeau, Lydia Walker
Composer:  Liran Donin
Lighting Designer and Scenographer: Edward Saunders
Dramaturg: Xenia Aidonopoulou
Costume Designer: Olubiyi Thomas
Sound design, recording and mix: Gal Cohen
Community Performer & Voice Over: Aturah Kedeeshah Baht Israel
Film made in collaboration with: Bar Alon, Dror Shohet, Shai Skiff

Creative Producer:  Lia Prentaki
Academic Partner:  Dr. Sarah Fine
Mentor: Theresa Beattie
Access Support Worker: Lauryn Pinard