Ewa Dziarnowska, This resting, patience. Photo © Mayra Wallfraff

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Tanztage Berlin 2024: rites of hope and grief

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Ewa Dziarnowska, This resting, patience. Photo © Mayra Wallfraff
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What can – and do – the performances of Tanztage Berlin offer, against our backdrop of escalating social and political tensions?

Tanztage Berlin – a staple of the Berlin independent contemporary dance scene, hosted and produced by Sophiensaele – is the place where Berlin audiences can check the zeitgeist of the city’s bustling performance arts field. Each year the selection is devised around a series of curatorial themes, and this 33rd edition tuned into topics of collective body and disorder. While showcasing experimental formats and fostering unconventional artistic visions, Tanztage Berlin remains true to its ideals and also tunes into the present. And what is indeed the present we are living in?

Two years ago when my article about the 2022 edition of Tanztage went online, Russia had just invaded Ukraine, sending blast waves across the world. It seemed to me back then that the slightly ‘apocalyptic’ focus of Tanztage Berlin 2022 had been spookily premonitory. Fast forward to January 2024, and things have gotten far worse. None of the wars have ended, and more have broken out. Far-right sentiment is gaining momentum across Europe, and the characteristically left-wing city of Berlin has flipped to the right (which has of course endangered its performing arts budget). In a move that hardly anyone had predicted in a country seemingly immune to state control over artistic freedom, many artists and theorists were cancelled, silenced or deprogrammed over their expression of solidarity with the Palestinian people in the ongoing war, or even calls for a ceasefire. Many other artists, in particular those who cannot afford to bid their status and reputation against cultural institutions, have muted themselves in self-censorship.

On a more local level, the opening of the festival coincided with the introduction of a controversial ‘anti-discrimination clause’ to be signed by applicants in order to get cultural funding from Berlin. Many figures in the art world criticised it for relying on a controversial definition of antisemitism, saying it would have a stifling effect on legitimate criticism of Israel’s actions. Berlin authorities have back-pedalled since and repealed the clause, however the chilling effect of the measure and, more generally, of the mess the world has become, was felt throughout the whole festival, that saw many artists take the mike after their shows to express their political stance, to an always unpredictable reaction from the audience.

Concluding the festival statement, curator Mateusz Szymanówka said that ‘despite the persistent feeling that the world is always ending, we stay curious and tender’. Although even the six premiering shows had been selected in summer 2023 (three other works were restaged, and one was an invited production), rehearsals had started only after the events of 7 October, and, according to Szymanówka, the works ended up by ‘soaking up what was happening in those months just before the festival’. Despite this turbulent offstage reality, most of the works presented during the festival indeed managed to carry through ‘curiosity and tenderness’, which at times created a strange symbolic gap between the show themes and the tense atmosphere in the audience.


Trailer for Deva Schubert’s GLITCH CHOIR

On opening night, Deva Schubert’s GLITCH CHOIR, a vivid exploration of public mourning, resonated notably with the news (in October 2023, several manifestations of public grief had been violently dispersed by Berlin police). The work seeks to re-compose a lamentation song, here performed by a series of cries, yells and shrieks, through glitching: a digital technique of faltering, cutting and distorting a composed object. Schubert and her on-stage partner Chihiro Araki play within a liminal space between the individual and the collective. In a mesmerising scene they embrace and lock their open mouths in a dialoguing lament, crying ‘within’ each other, as if their bodies have turned into echo chambers, vessels of sorrow. Their dance, at times static and statuesque, unexpectedly explodes into a series of jittery falls and quick squats, wrestling locks and careful hugs. The piece makes explicit references to the tradition of public laments, usually performed by women, with its constant interplay of the private and the public to the point where it becomes impossible to separate both. Quivering and glitchy dramaturgy upholds the eerie symbolism of GLITCH CHOIR which also resonates with the audience when choir members stand up and join the two performers in a hypnotising display of collective grief. Schubert conceived the show as a surgical dissection of a cultural phenomenon, and the show indeed starts in a slightly cold and distanced fashion, but she achieves a rare emotional tour de force in the final scenes that see all the performers immerse themselves into a collective body of grief and lament.


Absolute Beginners, Rob Fordeyn. Photo © Mayra Wallraff
Absolute Beginners, Rob Fordeyn. Photo © Mayra Wallraff

Scenes, or rather snippets, of mourning subliminally made their way into many shows of the festival. Rob Fordeyn’s Absolute Beginners offers a more personal and intimate take on grief and memory. Alone on an empty stage, Fordeyn first deploys his solo as a reenactment of a rich dance vocabulary he has stocked throughout his performer’s career. Generous arms sweeps and gentle arabesques unfold into powerful twists and controlled hip sways, all carried by a moving music score by Ashley Wright. Soon, however, the show morphs into a sorrowful ritual, when Fordeyn builds an altar around two folding chairs hidden under white sheets. Candles, toys, sunglasses, incense sticks and other memorabilia ornament the DIY altars while Fordeyn unfolds his choreographed journey into personal memory. He deliberately takes the risk of losing his audience along the way through multiple personal references, however his calm and sharp demeanour together with refined and generous dance material swiftly bring the audience to the riveting final scene (set, as one might expect, to the eponymous ballad by David Bowie), in which Fordeyn twists and swirls along the perimeter of the vast Festsaal, as if trying to break free from the impossible burden of memory, too heavy to carry.


Makisig Akin and Anya Cloud, We Are (nothing) Everything. Photo © Mayra Wallfraff
Makisig Akin and Anya Cloud, We Are (nothing) Everything. Photo © Mayra Wallfraff

Tanztage always holds a special place for dance pieces working with queer optics and narratives. We are (nothing) Everything by Makisig Akin and Anya Cloud is bold in that it brings back the good old ‘couple dynamics’ narrative duet. Akin and Cloud live through all possible stages of a relationship or kinship: flirting, making out, fighting, longing, mourning, caring for each other, cuddling, or even building a home together. The performers hardly ever let go of one another, and their dance, at first arrhythmic and acrobatic, unfolds into a series of languid slows and visceral wrestling holds, theatrical face-to-faces and cautious caresses. The show ends in what might very well be the longest kiss in dance history. Akin and Cloud lock their lips in a fervent osculation and slowly dance their way through the audience, carrying each other, twisting necks and pretzeling their limbs, to reach a steel staircase connecting the grandstand to the balcony. There they freeze in a cinematographic spotlit pose halfway up: unvanquished and free. This dramatic denouement has the audience on their feet, and hits the right note: if Akin and Cloud’s execution feels raw at times, they come off as incredibly sincere, and their skilful reification of queer togetherness is a rare delight.

The literary critic Maggie Doherty has written about the way many contemporary writers produce work that has just enough formal excitement ‘to catch the eye of cultural gatekeepers but not so much that it renders a work unmarketable.’ The entertainment economy makes them ‘forge aesthetic compromise and favor political consensus,’ she notes. This reflection is all the more relevant for the contemporary dance scene where many dancemakers ‘tick the boxes’ to get programmed by theatres or selected for festivals. While reaching political consensus in current circumstances is a daunting and hardly honourable task, Tanztage artists do not chase aesthetic compromises either. On the contrary, many up-and-coming Berlin dance makers use this opportunity to challenge themselves with knotty dramaturgical concepts and rather shun convenient modes of representation. To assist them, the festival offers in-house dramaturgical support to all premiering artist collectives for the whole duration of rehearsals (this year, dramaturges Dandan Liu and Jette Büchsenschutz supported six premiering shows). And there hardly exists a more challenging dramaturgical construct than a dance installation. An elusive and elastic genre at its best, it can crumble under its own weight when its creators lose focus. Yet two dance installations programmed and co-produced this year by Tanztage easily stand out as the best shows of the selection.


BRAVURA, juan felipe amaya gonzalez. Photo © Mayra Wallraff
BRAVURA, juan felipe amaya gonzalez. Photo © Mayra Wallraff

juan felipe amaya gonzalez’s BRAVURA is a three-hour dance installation at Sophiensaele’s Kantine space, transformed by Matti Schulz into a cave-like salsa club adorned by huge surrealist drawings. The show, narrated and commented from behind the decks by DJ Carlos Andrés Rico, unfolds through three acts as a genuine theatre play with all its constituent elements: ‘a couple, love, jealousy, drama, crimes, tons of cocaine, unresolved heterosexual tension and lots of sweat’, as introduced by Rico. BRAVURA also offers a brief introduction to the anthropology and mythologies of salsa, makes use of ancestral masks and nods to surrealism, but its core element remains dance, performed by amaya gonzalez and Luisa Fernanda Alfonso. Salsa footwork intertwines with slowed-down step patterns, undulating solos and fierce duos. This complex and multi-layered work is so thoroughly thought-out that even casual interactions with the audience and humour do not disrupt the dramatic tension that rises towards yet another scene of public mourning, during which the audience is invited to form a circle around ‘dead’ amaya gonzalez and to muse on ‘those who are not with us any more’. The ensuing staggering salsa duet upends the sorrowful atmosphere and elevates the show to its emotional heights. The two dancers start with careful salsa steps. As the music builds, they tilt their torsos, carefully stroking each other’s necks and speed up the footwork. In a rare balance of unostentatious control and emotional release, the pair deftly sew together the overwhelming theatricality of previous acts, and open the show to the audience, who are immediately invited to join them on stage for a party finale.


Ewa Dziarnowska, This resting, patience. Photo © Mayra Wallfraff
Ewa Dziarnowska, This resting, patience. Photo © Mayra Wallfraff

Another dance installation, Ewa Dziarnowska’s This resting, patience is one of those rare shows that make you feel like the first time you’re seeing dance. Attending (and writing about) dozens of dance pieces can have a side effect of numbing emotional awe receptors, but then there comes a work that brushes off all memories and brings back the old-forgotten feeling of falling in love.

The floor of Sophiensaele’s Kantine is covered with a thick cobalt-blue carpet, reminiscent of exhibition rooms, airport lounges, vast expanses of ocean and myriads of other liminal ‘resting’ spaces. Dziarnowska and her on-stage partner Leah Marojević execute sweeping, ebbing-and-flowing solos to Dionne Warwick singing ‘What the World Needs Now’ played on loop. Both in deep blue backless chiffon gowns, they keep a smart balance between control and release, always finely attuned to each other. Their bouncing knee kicks and waltzing shoulder swings translate regal chic and cold detachment, and chime with Warwick’s lulling ‘love, sweet love’ suddenly heard as if from a distance. The static loops of the first chapter are quickly dismissed when Krzysztof Bagiński’s majestic soundscape gradually transforms into ambient vibrations rich with field recordings and buzzing rustles. Marojević and Dziarnowska drop their worldly grace and break the promise of a repetitive durational performance. Having rearranged the seating area into a series of rows and semi-circles, the dancers tip over into a slow torquing duet: they crawl, relentlessly twist their spines, warp their torsos to emerge in painfully beautiful poses with their arms aloft. Their patient exploration of longing physicality and yearning for love unravels into the immediacy of upbeat punk-rock fuelled solos and swaggering disco scenes, all carried by a seamless musical score. This resting, patience never gives up on its main theme: attraction, sensuousness and the alienation of desire; but it does transcend its own message in a way only the greatest works of art can. Not a minute of this three-hour show is tarred with lazy transitions or convenient topicality. Dziarnowska and Marojević master their score without showing off their exceptional virtuosity: their controlled refinement is never obtuse, and the emotional tension they build remains unabated. And when the show ends with the same looped ‘What the World Needs Now’ sequence that sees both performers bounce and swing away the exhaustion, hardly anyone in the audience can withhold a tear.

This resting, patience comes across as a centrepiece of Tanztage’s 2024 selection. Like many other shows, it bears a great sense of loss, shrouded in velvety blue, but palpable and alive. But it also carries, perhaps undeliberately, a message of hope in all its complexity: far from the usual spectrum of nostalgic ruminations and forced joy. Two years ago Tanztage Berlin artists somewhat presciently inquired into what it meant to dance ‘when the world was ending’. This year is time for ‘intersectional hope’, says dramaturge Jette Buchsenschütz. Tender, curious, maybe indeed too abstract and evasive a concept to clearly articulate on stage, intersectional hope shines brightly in Dziarnowska’s This resting, patience. If for a fleeting moment a dance performance can indeed allay fears, offer respite, and draw communities together in an act of solidarity, than yes indeed, performing arts still have their word to say. ‘Not just for some, but for everyone,’ as sings Dionne Warwick. 


What the world needs now... ?

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05–20.01.2024, Sophiensaele, Berlin, Germany
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