Ariel Rivka Dance
New York Live Arts
New York, New York
March 6, 2025
Rust, Lead Me, Converge, Mossy, Selves (world premiere)
Jerry Hochman
Ariel Rivka Dance (ARD) presented its 17th annual Spring Season in a three-evening run at New York Live Arts. I attended its opening night performance. The program consisted of five dances choreographed by Artistic Director Ariel Rebecca Grossman: one world premiere (Selves, the program’s concluding piece), and Rust, Lead Me, Converge, and Mossy. Each of these, except for Rust, I’ve seen and reviewed previously.
The finest of all five dances remains Lead Me, which I reviewed in 2022, but Selves has much to recommend it. I’ll start with that, then Rust, followed by the remainder of the program.
Selves is an annoyingly wonderful piece: Annoying because there were moments in it that I didn’t completely understand; wonderful because it’s a highly interesting dance, well-executed by each of the company’s seven dancers, with a score that is quite good and that, in context, was a welcome change of pace.
To my eye, the piece that Selves most resembles is 2023’s What You Want in that it visualizes a search for personal identity, and although she doesn’t say as much in the program note, is told from a feminist point of view. Grossman describes Selves as exploring “what we reveal and what we keep hidden, both intentionally and unintentionally…[when we are performing] – which, as I interpret it, does not necessarily mean a theatrical performance; rather, it’s applicable more generally as the outward-facing “performance” we reveal to others, as well as the inward-facing “performance” we believe to be ourselves. It’s a bold, intriguing, and ambitious, theme.
Most of that theme comes through in the piece. It takes awhile to get there, but the stages are unmistakable: from the initial solo by Abriona Cherry wearing a flashy outfit that seems inconsistent with the somewhat helpless position she’s in – sprawled across the stage floor, pushing her upper body up with her arms sufficiently to see something beyond her reach – coupled with an expression that seethes with desperation. It speaks of a display, a statement about herself that she sees in the mirror or expects others to see.
She’s soon joined (first by one, then eventually by the others), to the finale where the entire seven-dancer cast appears in a vertical line, audience-left, expressing themselves (at times like models with an attitude and costumes to match), either as the way they see themselves in front of others, or the way they think or want others to see them. Either way, it’s a performance.
(l-r) Abriona Cherry and Amy Ashley
in Ariel Grossman’s “Selves”
Photo by Jonathan Pellow
Although Grossman’s choreography (each of the evening’s dances is indicated as having been choreographed by Grossman and the dancers) is quite varied and expansive, displaying enviable command and integrating a variety of movement qualities, including strutting and preening, swirling, twisting, and other movement expressions that are meaningless out of performance context.
However, there is one image that endures and that makes a statement different from those I’ve already described: at one point, in what appears to be recognition that her situation is unresolvable (and, perhaps, can’t ever be resolved to her – or others’ – satisfaction), Cherry punches herself, as if arguing with herself as to what the real person she is is. This brief individual image is echoed later, toward the end of the dance, when the other dancers do the same thing.
Abriona Cherry (standing)
and Ariel Rivka Dance in “Selves”
Photo by Jonathan Pellow
The meaning is obvious – it’s an expression of self-criticism, something I suspect everyone does in one sense or another. It may just reflect a sense that she (and each of the others) is dissatisfied with the image she’s created, but I think it cuts deeper than that. Here it’s scary – and I think intended to be.
As he did in What You Want, Summer Dregs created the score for Selves, which he played live during the performance. Dregs, the performance name of Carl Caldwell, collaborated with Grossman in creating the piece, and describes Grossman as wanting a piece that takes risks. The score reflects this – as well as being a refreshing counterpoint to the piano scores for each of the other program pieces. As Dregs has said in a far more coherent statement than I could make about the score: “I smashed together classical strings with a modern jazz combo. I used traditional Japanese drums against the backdrop of ambient synths. I paired beautiful counterpoint with ugly distortion, and this was all in service of the choreography and emotions Ariel [Grossman] spoke of behind it. It’s a story of exposure, of trying to hide in “The Opaque Veil,” of being exposed without consent in “Stripped,” of having nothing to hold onto (“No Anchor”) as life floats past, then whips past (“Shrapnel”). Finally, a resolution, making the choice to be exposed (“Nude”). [The words in quotation marks are the titles that Dregs has assigned to segments of the entire score, as he did in What You Want.] There are also themes of community, and friendship, and love in there, too.” It’s a wonderfully complex and original score, and Dregs’s comments are an accurate reflection of that, and of the piece as a whole.
It’s not a pretty picture, and the dance doesn’t resolve the issue and doesn’t try to. It only visualizes and presents it – but that’s sufficient. Like What You Want, its concluding line of self-absorbed and self-projected images can also be seen as a sort of protest, the opening salvo in an effort to change what seems immutable. And although told from a feminist point of view, the issue that percolates throughout Selves is one that has as much applicability to men as it does to women (even though I suspect that women don’t think so).
In addition to Cherry (who merits particular praise for her multi-faceted characterization), the cast consisted of the company: Amy Ashley, Asia Bonilla, Caitlyn Casson, Abriona Cherry, Kristin Licata, Casie O’Kane, and Hana Ginsburg Tirosh.
Selves closed the program. Rust, created in 2021, opened it.
Per its program note, Rust explores “the humor and ultimate acceptance of the physical, emotional, and internal changes of aging. While sometimes ugly, undesirable, and filled with fear, aging is natural and mesmerizing; like the rust that appears on old metal.”
You betcha (I can personally bear witness): as Betty Davis reportedly once said, “Old age ain’t no place for sissies”
I’ve never seen “rust” described as mesmerizing, or for that matter, as a metaphor for aging. Be that as it may, Rust is a decent, fun dance. It’s far more entertaining than the program description would indicate, and it doesn’t push all the aging buttons that the program note says is its purpose. But take that with a grain or two of salt – or salt water. Rust was commissioned by Ballet Vero Beach, as in Florida, home of a large senior population. My guess is that Grossman had to tread softly to avoid painting a more realistic picture of aging, thereby potentially ruffling some old, rusty feathers.
(l-r) Kristin Licata, Hana Ginsburg Tirosh, Abriona Cherry,
and Caitlyn Casson in Ariel Grossman’s “Rust”
Photo by Jonathan Pellow
To a score composed by David Homan and Stefania De Kennessey, Rust doesn’t look rusty at all. On the contrary, it’s a lively, generally effervescent dance for four, with movement in broad strokes through most of it, as if moving fast and thrashing invisible air would keep one young – which may be true. Every once in awhile, however, Grossman throws in real indicia of aging – having to lift a leg up with one’s arms, unintentionally bumping into things or each other, losing balance,… Nevertheless, a sense of optimism (as in successfully challenging aging) and a sense of humor percolate throughout the piece. That includes the costumes for each dancer (credited to Marianna Tsartolia and reimagined by Gabrielle Corrigan): Here they’re all the same for each dancer – flowing skirts and tops that have the color of … rust.
The dance is roughly divided into two parts. The first is more active; the second, slower, as if signaling that even optimism and constant motion has it limits. But Rust never loses its sense of camaraderie and community in the common pursuit of avoiding letting themselves get rusty.
The four company dancers were Cherry, Casson, Licata, and Ginsburg Tirosh.
Following Rust on the program was Lead Me, one of the finest dances, and conceptions, of this or any other year. By far the evening’s finest dance, and its most unusual, Lead Me is unlike anything else I’ve seen by Grossman – or anyone else for that matter, although I suspect that distant cousins of the idea have been presented several times by others. But Lead Me, conceived of necessity during the pandemic (and one of the few good things arising from it), is by far the best of any of those I’ve seen in this performance genre in its originality and the quality of its execution.
All this praise and it’s not even a dance in the usual sense. There’s body movement, so it qualifies, but the only purpose of the movement is to enable and facilitate its capture by laptop computers on an electronically connected multi—paneled almost stage-spanning screen.
(l-r from bottom) Asia Bonilla, Kristin Licata, Caitlyn Casson,
Amy Ashley, Abriona Cherry, Casie O’Kane,
and Hana Ginsburg Tirosh in Ariel Grossman’s “Lead Me”
Photo by Jonathan Pellow
I won’t repeat the entirety of my discussion of it in my prior review. [Available, for those interested, at: https://criticaldance.org/ariel-rivka-dance-from-light-to-fight/ ] Suffice it to say that the generated images, their size and number, and the action they present, certainly are “choreographed” in the sense of ordering and controlling movement and movement images, even if one discounts the actual positioning of the dancers that determine what the images look like on screen. The dance is what the audience sees: both what happens on stage and what is shown in the transmitted images, including decisions made as to what to show, how to show it, and when to show it (the way in which the projection of this movement is captured, organized, and re-presented) – and in that respect the piece is in fact significantly choreographed. It’s a brilliant piece of work, brilliantly executed.
The only difference between this performance and the one I first saw three years ago is in the number of dancers: then there were nine; here there are the seven. That made not a bit of difference to me – although perhaps the stage and the projected images aren’t as “busy”-looking as they may have previously appeared – though I didn’t, and still don’t, consider that to have been in any way problematic. I suspect the other two dancers simply weren’t available for this engagement.
Selves was preceded in the program by Mossy, the meaning of which eluded me (but see below).
According to the program note, Mossy reflects the physical, emotional and intellectual consequences of constant interruption, where frustration and desire compete with the need for space and independence. I didn’t see much of that literally – at least not those specific instances. But the duet, performed here by Casson and O’Kane, does establish relationship of sorts between the two women that (as I concluded on my second exposure to it) provide images of that evolving and often frustrating relationship, until, in a natural role reversal, the child (Casson) carries her mother (O’Kane) on her back. On the other hand, each the two women can be seen as representative recipients of the constant interruption, which was my initial conclusion when I first saw the dance. [There’s nothing like critical consistency.]
(l-r) Casie O’Kane and Caitlyn Casson
in Ariel Grossman’s “Mossy”
Photo by Jonathan Pellow
As for the “below” that I referenced above, I tend to continue thinking of a piece long after I’ve seen I’ve seen it, including its meaning (or whether it has one). It’s a nasty habit. This time I thought once again of the dance’s title. I still couldn’t figure it out. I’d initially thought that it somehow referred to “moss,” but no real or ersatz moss was evident on stage. So I hypothesized previously that it might have been the title of Stefania De Kenessey’s score. As I thought about it this time, however, a lightbulb went off. Eureka. When he was a toddler, my son used to demand his bottle, which he called “bobble.” Maybe “Mossy” is the same kind of toddler-speech; what Grossman’s daughter as a toddler (or both her children) screamed when they wanted whatever it is that they wanted at any particular moment from their “Mommy.” I’m not certain that that’s right, but it makes more sense than “moss.”
Converge, sandwiched in-between Lead Me and Mossy, though well-crafted and executed, appeared nothing more (or less) than visualizations of three dancers repeatedly “converging,” breaking apart, and then converging again somewhat differently.
(l-r) Hana Ginsburg Tirosh, Asia Bonilla, and Abriona Cherry
in Ariel Grossman’s “Converge”
Photo by Jonathan Pellow
It’s tempting to assign some sort of statement or theme to Grossman’s choreography here (see “below” above), and there are a lot of images that might support that. But any such themes don’t appear to be developed, so overall the piece continues to appear simply to be a non-narrative representation of three women “converging” and responding to the music they hear: reacting to each other, letting their individual characteristics or expectations control their actions, but ultimately suppressing all that for the benefit of the group, and the converging again. And the “fact” of three dancers “converging,” rather than any more cosmic statement, may have been what the group Konverjdans (the word looks and sounds Danish, but it’s the name of a Brooklyn-based contemporary ballet company), which commissioned the 2021 piece, wanted. The dancers were Bonilla, Cherry and Ginsburg Tirosh.
It’s impossible to overstate the choreographic evolution that Grossman has demonstrated since I first saw her company in 2014, and almost annually since. I’ve made that statement before, but, based on the pieces on this program, merits restating here. I’ll look forward to seeing more of it in next year’s Eighteenth Spring Season.
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