Carcaça by Marco da Silva Ferreira. © Adam Mráček

review

Snapshots from Tanec Praha 2024

Read Icon Read
Time Icon Pink 11 min
Carcaça by Marco da Silva Ferreira. © Adam Mráček
S pink identity

Places for dance in times of unrest – a week at Tanec Praha

The pace of the international Tanec Praha festival is set at a steady average of one show per night across the entire month of June, giving it a lovely, easy flow. It’s a rich, varied programme that includes participatory performance events, shows for children, work from both ‘native’ and visiting artists, and it’s all set in a beautiful, lively city that’s easily navigable – plenty of scope for consideration and reflection, whiling the day away in various historic settings.

I’ve chosen the densest, midway point of the programme for my visit, to capture a ‘snapshot’ at a time of considerable unrest amongst the dance community in Prague. Earlier this year at the 30th Czech Dance Platform, a number of established artists presenting work developed and supported by Ponec, the city’s sole dance development organisation, publicly announced their withdrawal from it, many of them ending relationships many years in the making, citing a lack of transparency and accountability from those responsible for artistic direction. Since this implosion in April, I’m disappointed to find that many artists remain ‘homeless’. The centralisation of resources is part of the problem – no alternative context exists outside Prague for the development of dance practice – but it’s the power dynamic that really tells. The formation of an Artistic Council and subsequent call-out for ‘new artists’ in May seems to signal a doubling down and moving on rather than a desire to find a resolution.

In spite of this, Tanec Praha forged ahead for its 35th edition, remaining under the bold artistic direction of founder Yvona Kreuzmannová. I arrive to catch a double bill of work set outdoors at The Highline – a graveled path that runs behind Ponec, on a public walkway. Against the backdrop of a long, heavily graffitied brick wall, intermittently disturbed by the sound of passing trains on the tracks opposite, a temporary stage hosts the premiere of two Brazilian-Czech coproductions, the first of which, Womanhood, sees Jana Reutova and Clara da Costa proposing that women don’t ‘take ourselves too seriously’. Whilst I bristle at being told to lighten up, what I see on stage is expressed with absolute commitment, the dancers wearing their femininity at first playfully, and then as an earnest and sisterly asseveration of solidarity.

The second in this female-forward double bill is Fantasmas (Ghosts) from Brazilian artist Flávia Tapas, who creates a surreal world in which to ask questions about the very nature of existence, in a similar surrealist vein to Beckett or Stoppard, but with a generous topping of Brazilian telenovela melodrama. Text and movement is articulated so carefully that it’s possible to lean into the confusion and enjoy finding coherence in the chaos.


Participants in Jaro Viňarský’s Elevated. © Adéla Vosičková
Participants in Jaro Viňarský’s Elevated. © Adéla Vosičková

The Dance Well project which originated in Bassano, Italy, in 2013, currently extends across five European cities. Here in Prague, Jaro Viňarský’s ELEVATED premieres at the National Gallery. Suffused with gentle invitations, the inclusive ethos of Dance Well is made manifest through this thoughtful experience, the performers a cast of people who do or don’t have experience of Parkinson’s disease. There are no grand gestures or coups de théâtre, rather a deliberate, delicious blurring of audience and performer; at various moments everyone is immersed together in the soft unfoldings as the sensory world comes to life around us – brightly coloured fans held to the face generate a gentle breeze, seating banks are whizzed around on wheels and, best of all, huge transparent pillows filled with a gently glowing string of coloured fairy lights float like clouds, suspended over and amongst the vast airy space of the gallery. I watch the performance twice, and both times children are visibly enchanted by this magical space, instinctively moved. Adults respond to soft invitations too – a nod of the head or gentle beckon bringing them into the space to join in. The event culminates in a party, complete with food for everyone and infectious tunes – a recognisable, immensely enjoyable scene and we’re all invited. A lovely reminder of the power of dance to connect and move us together.


Mai Juli Machado in Sinais Particulares. © Adéla Vosičková
Mai Juli Machado in Sinais Particulares. © Adéla Vosičková

A triple bill of ‘Stories from Africa’ is an immaculate evening of striking performance work from artists whose cultural heritage is mixed, but heavily influenced by the dance practices of Mozambique and Senegal. The first is Sinais Particulares, a solo created and performed by Mai Juli Machado, using captivating imagery to explore female genital mutilation (FGM). Bursting onto the stage, spinning, darting, stomping, she is a whirlwind of energy. Her power holds when the pace doesn’t, and moments of slowness provide powerful imagery: a red flower pushed into the mouth, a gown that’s covered in glinting blades, powerful clapping of hands. Post-show, Machado talks with impressive candour about her research and how it has manifested in choreographic choices: clapping might symbolise the evocation of spirits, for example, or the stiffness and stuffiness of a formal dress might evoke a coming-of-age ritual. It’s a truly illuminating discussion, and the first time FGM is explicitly cited, making me reflect differently on what I’ve just seen. I wonder whether this theme is too culturally sensitive to include in the programme?


Nangaline Gomis in Wo_man, by Amala Dianor. © Adéla Vosičková
Nangaline Gomis in Wo-Man, by Amala Dianor. © Adéla Vosičková

The post-show discussion also sheds illuminating rays of light on the second and third works of the evening, both choreographed by Amala Dianor. His solo, Man Rec (translation: ‘Just me’), which premiered in 2014, is an established and much celebrated autobiographical work that is delivered flawlessly, with an almost meditative texture. The silken smoothness of his body and the way it is used to splice the space is perpetually unexpected, as though gravity is set aside to make way for an entirely different force. Wo-Man is derived from Man Rec, inspired and performed by the female dancer Nangeline Gomis, whose movements are a similar mix of torque and fluid release but perhaps more explicitly powerful than Dianor’s – the Range Rover to his Porsche? Dianor and Gomis agree that in the creation and performance of these ‘sister’ shows, it’s not a question of gender that surfaces but rather a scrutiny of heritage: whilst Amala’s journey has taken him physically through west Africa, picking up the dance influences that are visible in his work, Gomis grew up in France and speaks about finding a ‘legitimate voice’, avoiding appropriation whilst acknowledging and drawing upon the richness of her cultural heritage.

Ionna Paraskevopoulou’s MOS has surfed the Aerowaves, and I’m glad to finally catch it in Prague. Its exploration of foley, the creation of sound effects, makes for an unlikely performative event, yet is surreal and funny, and a vehicle for some breathtaking rhythmic work – a tap dance duo that shifts in dynamic and speed, never faltering, not a beat missed. From its beginnings in a video of foley artists at work that the choreographer had seen during a visual arts editing course, this work really has come a long way.


Chloé Robidoux and Anka Post­ic in Fantasie Minor, by Marco da Silva Ferreira. © Barbora Dolezelova
Chloé Robidoux and Anka Post­ic in Fantasie Minor, by Marco da Silva Ferreira. © Barbora Doleželová

Two contrasting works by Portuguese choreographer Marco da Silva Ferriera are presented on my fifth evening in Prague and I’m just not sure which was more exciting. The first, Fantasie Minor, is a duet presented in the town centre, an outdoor location that feels initially like the dappled shade of a town square, but where a huge crowd eventually gathers, testament to the draw of the performance. The work is Gen Z personified: a playful, extremely athletic blend of voguing, contemporary and breakdance performed by a pair of impossibly young, gorgeously androgynous dancers. Their deep, bouncing plies, pumping arms and impossibly fluid spines would find a natural fit with a thudding, bass beat, but are performed here to the strains of Schubert’s Fantasy in F Minor, albeit with digital enhancement. It’s a simple, fantastically well-developed premise. What could have been a jarring juxtaposition of disparate movement and music seems in fact to create a fascinatingly complimentary frame for both, and they glow. The clarity and unbridled energy with which the dancers seem to ‘own’ the show makes it a highlight. It’s absolutely of its time, embodied by those who perform it and informed by their lives.

Carcaça, the second presentation of the evening shares this sense of extreme now-ness, but threads it through with explicit political purpose. A cast of 10 dancers slowly fill the stage performing what appear to be folk dance derivatives, low, gutsy movements that sweep across the floor in unison, accompanied by the thudding rhythm of a live drummer stage right. A range of ages and body types are represented, some androgynous, some with visible disability, some perhaps occupying transitional identities. They are the living antithesis of a homogenous corps de ballet, and as they break off into sections of solo work, their individual physical qualities come to the fore. The uniting factor that bristles from every one of the performers is a sense of defiance: there’s a confrontational gaze, a determination that’s both steely and vulnerable. Rebellion is increasingly explicit as the group formations disband entirely and transform the space, the floor is peeled up and hung from hooks, subject now to defiant slogan-writing to the sound of singing slave chants. The reaching and flailing of limbs, some dancers held up by others, their costumes semi-removed, tell of chaos, of a war against oppression. And finally, the return to one relentlessly repeated phrase of the tightly-performed folk dance provides a lengthy, intense crescendo that the audience responds with an ovation. Point made.

Two works created for young audiences conclude my Czech experience: Spitfire Dance Theatre’s Vivat Messi, about the legendary footballer, featuring a world champion ‘freestyler’ (think keepy-uppy on steroids), and Chotto Desh, Akram Khan’s dreamy dance study of childhood and place. The first is a challenging concept to realise on stage, although clearly it’s hotly anticipated by the excited family audiences packing out Divadlo Hybernia. Messi is represented by both a dancer and our champion freestyler, both incredibly skilled, charismatic performers who buoy the audience. But a slow and fractured narrative fails to carry the initial fervour forward. The energy drains from the stage during ponderous, dimly-lit scenes, and the imagination of the audience is lost. The central message, about how aspiration and discipline can bring us all closer to our dreams, resonates most clearly in film footage of youngsters participating in freestyle football projects, but sadly not the theatrical experience.

Khan, in contrast, delivers a masterclass in storytelling, captivating audiences with this invocation of his ancestral homeland, Bangladesh, inflected with personal and familial memories – all vividly painted using using dance, design and animation. A fidgety child whose instinct is to move, Khan creates a journey shot through with dance, both as a device and as a central part of his story (performed impeccably in Prague by Jaspar Narvaez or Nicholas Ricchini). Often, the soloist invokes a mesmeric blur of motion with the whipping spirals and intricate hand gestures of kathak, and the stage becomes a realm of infinite possibilities, transformable in part by design, the other part being our own imagination. When we engage, Khan’s world surfaces with clarity and feeling, and we’re all on the journey together.

As I reflect on the wonderful Tanec Praha experience, I wonder about what it means to have so enjoyed the festival at a time of unrest; in Prague, in Europe and in the wider world. A guilty pleasure? Blissful ignorance? Perhaps both, if I don’t add my own voice to those calling for change. For me, one principle holds true and is reinforced by my week’s immersion in this wonderful place with the artmakers it hones and hosts: artists must be at the heart of decision-making – without their voice we are lost. ●


You may also like...