There’s something happening here.
Or is there?
Is there something over there? There are lights. And the sound of tin cans tumbling over the brick floor. The people are moving that way. Should we go that way, too? Is the “something” here over? And is that a train?
In Wild Space Dance Company’s fascinating In the Space Between there is always something happening. It might be meticulously orchestrated. It might be accidental. And thinking about which is which – occupying that space between, perhaps – is what makes it such a heady and satisfying experience.
And beautiful, too. Choreographer Deborah Loewen, visual artist Tom Bamberger, composer and singer Amanda Schoofs and the company’s 14 dancers have made a beautiful space – the Pritzlaff Building complex just south of downtown – more so. And they have created something that makes us see that space more deliberately and intensely.
The piece starts in a large interior studded with raw wood pillars. Three wall-size screens display Bamberger’s visual-collage, a series of images – some familiar, some puzzlingly unfamiliar – that fade and dissolve in lazy succession. It’s a quiet and meditative version of rapid-fire montages that emphasize the jarring disconnects in the perceptual world (think Koyaanisqatsi). But in a softer, slower rhythm – and a public, theatrical setting – the images engage the gap between the personal and collective. The images are all more or less familiar, but they still inspire reflection: Have I ever seen that movie? That painting? What country is that factory in? And how familiar or meaningful is all this to the other people in the room?
Against this luminescent backdrop, Loewen begins with three pairs of dancers, almost motionless at first, but eventually articulating very slow phrases that suggest the exploration of a physical world: walking the edge of a building and peering cautiously off the side, looking skyward with one hand poised to block out the sun, and the other pointing at it. Phrases, as such, are slowed and stretched to the breaking point, resolving when two dancers combine in a unison gesture, which immediately draws your attention.
From there, Loewen turns the dancers and audience loose on the space. In past site-specific work, she has sent audiences through environments with the help of tour guides and ordered presentations of dances in different locations. But here, you are on your own. Grab a drink and talk to the bartenders all night, if you choose. 
Yet the piece is carefully orchestrated. Lights come up on a solo, and a group gathers to watch. As it’s ending, a sound or change in lighting suggests something happening around a corner or through a doorway, and you can pursue it – or wander off on your own to find another “event.”
And a strange thing happens. You stop thinking about what the artist wants you to see, and start exploring for yourself. You lose the interior voice that asks, “OK, now what am I supposed to do.” And you watch according to your own desires and whims.
So you might follow Jade Jablonski, clad in a ruby-red, taffeta gown as she wanders through dramatically lit passages. Or you might simply stare down one of the “tunnels” in the Pritzlaff complex, noting the way the brick frames the glow of the traffic passing on the street. You can watch a large ensemble of dancers gather for a bit in the building’s brick-lined courtyard. But also linger after they and the audience have wandered off into other rooms, and take in the glowing brick facades and the night sky. Loewen is skilled at staging little micro events in the building’s nooks and crannies. A garage door is raised and unveils a trio of dancers from the knees down. A solo dance takes place behind a vintage glass double door, the dancer resembling a creature in an aquarium.
Wherever you are, be sure to follow the ethereal singing of Amanda Schoofs, crystalline tones that cut through the space’s white noise (enhanced by audio recordings of Loewen leading rehearsals), but also occasionally drop into a gut-bucket, field-holler growl. Toward the end of the dance, Schoofs and Laura Murphy perform a duet in front of the screens, the two urging each other on like two jazz masters in a cutting session. It’s one of many ravishing moments from a piece that shows Loewen and company – 25 years and counting – still offering new and eloquent ways of seeing the world.
Wild Space Photos by Matt Schwenke.
