Real modern dance at the Boston Ballet
There are many reasons why New Englanders have the tendency not to move away from their places of birth. I have discovered one of them – the fact that there are four distinct seasons here. There is more to it than variety in temperature and flora (a good reason in and of itself, as far as I am concerned). The most magical time of the year is in the change of seasons. It is the segment of the temporal axis where it is impossible to say exactly where you are. The indeterminacy opens possibilities – we can be in summer and fall at the same time, each with its own personality, and us with both our summer and fall identities at our disposal; there twice as much of us…
Maybe it is that expansion of the possible and the permissible that is the reason that most theatrical seasons open at about this time. The Boston Ballet, a local institution to which my wife and I subscribe had its first performance start this week. We saw our first ballet this Sunday. It was composed of three contemporary pieces.
*** One thing that distinguishes true art from purely utilitarian entertainment is that true art has some kind of essence, which is conveyed through the form, and the content of the artistic piece. This is not a typo, I did write form and content, as I believe that the content of true art is not an end but rather a means to an end, just like the form is. What is this essence then? I truly can’t articulate it well enough. Whenever I try to do so, words both fail as well as cheapen the attempt at understanding. However well and deeply one can analyze and explain a poem, a movie, a sonata, the explanation always appears to somehow miss the mark. And even if it does not, even if everything has been broken down, deconstructed to its sub atomic components, the perception of the work itself is gets muted – any pleasure we may have experienced is long gone after it has been explained to death. And yet, that essence is there. We can call it truth, unadulterated beauty, the image of God, the true mark of genius. Words certainly fail here. But we all know that experience. It is when a work of art manages to connect with our most inner self, something that we know intuitively but cannot fully communicate or articulate. It is the sense that everything has fallen in place with you and the world around you. It is not a Zen like equanimity but a kind of crescendo that rocks the universe and you with it, an opening of a new sense of perception that allows you to “get it all.” The intensity and elation is only akin to the state of being deeply in love and seeing the eyes of the object of your adoration staring back into yours, reciprocating your emotion with the selfsame intensity. Nothing equals that state of complete mutual understanding and apprehension.
I think that one way to define what modern art has tried to achieve was to convey that almost indescribable essence as directly as possible, with a minimum of artistic “conduit” as it were. I think that this is the reason why modern art so often fails, but when it succeeds, it is a formidable experience. If you think about it, the attempt can never be fully successful. After all, the incomprehensible inner core is not conveyable “in and of itself.” In order to be perceivable and apprehensible, a work of art has to have some kind of anchoring into the audience’s frame of reference, otherwise the piece will come across as total nonsense, cacophony, an incomprehensible smudge on the canvas, depending on the form of art employed. Here is reason for the frequency with which much of modern art fails. To achieve its aim, it has to deny itself many forms of expression that have been perfected over millennia. In that respect the artistic techniques of modern art are in their infancy and it is markedly unfair to compare it to artistic forms that peaked in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Nevertheless, the enjoyment of art is not relative – we enjoy it or we don’t enjoy it; one cannot factor the relative newness of the artistic form to account for an infantile delivery. It is for all those reasons that it is such a boon to see a truly masterful piece of modern art, where no excuses are necessary. This is what I got on Sunday at the Boston Ballet. The three pieces performed were thoroughly modern in nature in the sense that there was a minimum of mediation in the form of an involved plot. In two of the three pieces the accompanying music was classical in nature (Beethoven and Bach). The third was some kind of techno music. And did it work! Another barb at modern art for one more minute. The focus on its incomprehensible aim diverts the attention of modern artists from technique. The notion is that a “feeling” is a justification for creation is the reason there is so much crap (literally upon occasion) being shown in museums. Boston Ballet has been struggling over the last several years – some disputes between the dancers and artistic director and the like. Well, there is a new artistic director, and the dancers have been improving markedly over the years. The performance I saw on Monday combined an incredible emotional content, coupled with music and movement – all perfectly executed – that managed to have a direct emotional appeal, to draw the audience in on the most elemental, basic emotional level. You have to see it to understand what I am saying – just like describing art’s essence words are of little use here. It was like seeing something out of the corner or your eye, but every time you turned your head it moved away. On the other hand, if you did not try to follow it with your gaze, it poured over you, suffusing you with an incredible intensity of emotion.
11:15:02 AM 
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