The first weekend of this year’s Northwest New Works began and ended
with screaming. On Friday, an hour before the first showcase, a pack of
people crowded onto the corner in front of On the Boards for a mock
protest of performance art. They chanted, yelled at passersby, and held
a variety of picket signs: “Performance Art Is Unsustainable,” “This Is
Not a Protest Sign,” and “Keep Art Where It Belongs—ON THE WALL!”
One large board, held by micro-etch artist Ben Beres, was covered in
writing so small it was indecipherable.
The protest was announced by Greg Lundgren as part of his series of
arbitrary art grants (unaffiliated with On the Boards); one lucky
protester, selected at random, won $500. “I was just talking to this
pretty girl,” the winner said afterward, sounding a little dazed. “And
she just handed me $500.” Not everybody realized the protest was a
joke. One resident of a nearby apartment building descended and told
everyone to shut up, and a short, elderly man with gray hair accosted
one protester, loudly asking, “What’s so un-American about performance
art?” The protester didn’t have an answer.
For the past 26 years, Northwest New Works has introduced the world
to new names and new projects—it’s an annual survey of things to
come.
The protesters picked up their tickets, settled into their seats,
and the weekend of performance began: Byron Au Yong sang a solo
operetta about a Chinese deliveryman stuck in an elevator. Headwaters
Dance Company danced about Montana, with stylized lassoing and
squeezing of water from their shirts into glasses. Helsinki Syndrome
began its piece about moving overseas in an ominous mood (stories about
doomed travelers, a woman smearing herself with a blood orange) and
ended with goofiness (dancers in sparkly unitards mugging to “Come Sail
Away” by Styx).
Best performance by a company you’ve never heard of: Home
Bodies, a gorgeous and tender pas de deux about a confused love
affair by Umami Performance. The score, by Amy Denio, piped in sounds
of public buses, giving the dance an urban, transitory undercurrent.
The two dancers met and tangled with deadpan ease, gently lifting and
falling over each other. Theirs was a melancholy and uncertain affair
of push and pull, fusing and breaking, not knowing how to be with each
other. Awkwardness has never looked so graceful.
Meeting high expectations: Local dance companies Salt Horse and
SANDSTROMMOVEMENT, both led by well-known local dancers (Beth Graczyk
and Corrie Befort in the former, Ellie Sandstrom in the latter). Both
companies performed meditative, enigmatic, and haunting
pieces—and closed out the weekend to shouting applause.
Dragging me, kicking and screaming, into liking it: Queen Shmooquan,
who, until last weekend, I had thought of as a cheap-shot artist who
relied on scatological shtick—bright leotards, rubber chickens,
regurgitated Twinkies, and homemade strap-ons. The poultry and penises
were fully represented, but the Queen revealed new depths of flagrant
pop-culture weirdness—she might be an heir to Dina Martina and
Klaus Nomi. Shmooquan stuffed her performance with exquisitely surreal
video (Mister Rogers, cheesy hand-holding on the beach, kaleidoscopic
underwear) and antics. She rode a bicycle, danced on roller skates, and
smeared her face with lipstick before chewing off the tip. At one
point, the audience applauded her for simply eating a Dorito.
Shmooquan’s heart beats pure entertainment—glittery, gaudy, and
shameless. God save the Queen.
