HQ Review: RESILIENCE Dance Company presents “Collective Realities”

Since its inception in 2019, Resilience Dance Company has strived to not only platform and spotlight its own cohort of artists, but to uplift and support the work and livelihoods of the growing community of dance artists that have made St Louis their home. Through Collective Realities, an evening of dance choreographed entirely by six of Resilience’s eight company dancers and performed by an ensemble of seventeen local dance artists, Resilience has managed to double, even triple down on this mission. While the greatest sentiment of the evening was undoubtedly the wonderfully diverse range of voices in our community and the beauty that comes with pure creative inhibition, it would be a disservice not to acknowledge the impressive and generous feat of an organization (one only in its sixth year at that!) not only offering time and space to its own artists to develop and grow their own creative ideas, but being able to provide equitable financial, career, and health resources for a group of over 15 local artists, particularly in the face of such tumultuous times in arts funding. 

The evening bubbles open with Michelle Parkhurst’s “But It Flickers,” a tender duet shared between dancers Hayley Barker and Ally Lamkie. Two sets of arms writhe out of the dancers’ backs, licking the space around the others’ limbs and occasionally threading past the borders of their own bodies, aligned on top of one another like the base of a candle. The atmosphere is light and curious - a sea of blue light envelopes the dancers as they grow larger in their movements, tossing the weight of their limbs through the space before reconnecting to hover around the surface of the others’ body. Moments of heaviness peek through, one individual at a time, giving room for the other dancer to console, support, and guide them back to a soft, shimmering jubilance. Through this constant ebb and flow of weight and darkness, Parkhurst points to the flickering nature of our relationships. Moments of light, pleasure, and togetherness are always to be met with moments of darkness and loneliness. But to flicker means that the light will return swiftly through warmth and care.

Where “But It Flickers” feeds into a space of light and tenderness, “wheRe do we GO, Now thAt WE’RE HERE” by Renée Austin arrives in a state of pure anxiety. Beginning with an exaggeratedly timid solo by Kyla Kikkawa paired against the unsettling presence of a massive ensemble of eight other dancers (the largest cast of the evening by far), “wheRe do we GO…” contrasts skittish, guarded intricacy against wide-eyed athleticism. A series of duets sweep by with a clenched, frictional rigour before the stage fills again, slipping (but not giving way entirely) into a state of hesitant fascination. The eyes tell much of the story of this work, establishing fear, curiosity, and uneasiness, especially when landing on one another. While the story and sensation is clear, its central question remains unanswered. Instead, “wheRe do we GO…” explores all of the anxious reckoning that comes of arriving blindly at a precipice and not know where to continue or how to trust.

Both otherworldly and incredibly human, Josiah Gundersen’s “let’s go look at the moon, the sun no longer shines” offers itself as poetry does in its simplicity and profundity. A mere three dancers sequence through a series of small gestures and steps that rarely stray far past unison, yet each second feels undoubtedly mesmerizing. The air permeates with a still patience, like watching the dust in a library float, shimmer, and settle through an unexpected ray of light. Each repositioning of their hands, shuffling of their feet, or gentle swelling of their limbs echoes loudly through the soft soundscape. The dancers interlace with each other, grasp each others bodies with the full weight of their hands, and shift their weight in time with each other’s breath. While this dance certainly gives some bouts of grandeur, athletic movements a chance, what it offers best - and what it keeps returning back to - is its masterful use of simplicity and genuine, weighted connection. 

Trading poetic minimalism for sensual chaos, Chrissy Clair’s “just turn me on” slips the night into something a little more flashy. Dressed in white lingerie, dancers slither seductively out into one giant, sleepy mound amidst an eclectic tangle of lamps strewn around the stage. A dancer moans, a lamp clicks off and on, a hand pounds the floor - an orgy of sounds swell together with an evolving sense of rhythm as company artist Ashlynn Woelbling enters with a sultry stride. As these noises die out, the sounds of a hypnotic club track by Hot Chip awakens the remaining dancers into a raucous, sweaty concert of all things sensual and strange. Tangling and untangling themselves from the lamp cords, flashing their light bulbs off and on, the dancers move and pose through a series of intimate tableaus that feel somehow entirely seductive yet completely out of place in any familiar bedroom scene. One dancer lip syncs into a lightbulb dangling by his face. Another messily pries open her mouth before being swarmed and carried away by a sweaty mass of bodies. There is an electricity and excitement that churns its way through the work’s cheeky, raw surrealism. Despite being physically tethered by its tangle of electrical cables, “just turn me on” feels like liberation in all of its senses. 

One of the most physically enticing works of the evening is undoubtedly Emily Small’s “I don’t mean a lover.” Filled with yearning and occasional defiance as it wrestles through feelings of loneliness and isolation, Small’s cast of six dancers demonstrate an unwavering commitment to fluidity and physicality. They swim through an almost dreamlike ether, pining for any chance at connection. Their limbs wrap through space with an intent to taste and grab every particle around them. The work unfolds and refolds itself in a constant ebb and flow, rarely letting the eye settle in one space for too long. Space itself feels like it no longer operates by familiar rules as dancers melt their way in and out of the surfaces of each other’s bodies and the floor below them. Constant yet fleeting moments of contact feel both effortful and smooth, weighted and gentle. Ashlynn Woelbling again offers a remarkable performance as her stillness, loud with honesty and defeat, echoes against the whirling drone of bodies surrounding her, each on their own lonely journey together. 

Closing out the night, Abbi LeBaube’s “the price we pay for [interlude] comes a hesitency with change” carries the light, nostalgic, yet contemplative atmosphere one might expect of a Lizzy McGuire Valentine’s Day special. Four dancers deposit themselves around the space, outfitted in pinkish, purplish hues and accented by a large wooden plank laying curiously in the corner. A dancer unfolds a red fabric to reveal rose petals, which later journey their way in a path across the stage while the others shift from deep concentration in their movement tasks to joyous bouts of skipping. Laying among the rose petals, a dancer asks “what is love?”, rambling through a series of thoughts and questions to further probe the topic. The three other dancers vulnerably read out what feels like an entry in a private movement journal, offering up descriptors of carving, spiraling, feeling the floor coming up to meet you, and asking themselves why they do what they do. Eventually, the dancers find their way to a circle, skipping, gallopping, and folk dancing through one another, offering up an occasional “weeeeeeeee” like children on a playground. It is an incredibly endearing, nostalgic image - one that captures entirely the joyful naivity of our youth. Leaning into the genuinely curious and eccentric nature of contemporary dance theatre, LeBaube’s work asks with a youthful earnesty: must we take dance, ourselves, and our love so seriously?

As a company built on collaboration, this is neither the first nor last time audiences can expect to see the choreographic voices of these artists presented on Resilience’s stages. Yet, seeing these artists’ ideas and aesthetics distilled from one another is incredibly eye opening to the artistic range Resilience Dance Company holds. If there were any doubts about the vibrancy of dance in St. Louis, the stunning works and remarkable ensemble at the heart of Collective Realities should dispel them, proving that this city’s dance scene is truly thriving.

Photos by Lumosco Photo