Monica Bill Barnes at Skirball

A couple weeks ago, I saw Monica Bill Barnes & Company perform a new work called Luster. I feel haunted by the piece, replaying what I saw in my head, and decide to share my thoughts of the work (which received mixed reviews) with you:

Enter Barnes and her partner in crime Anna Bass, not physically onstage, but via film. The two are dressed in full length parkas and tennis shoes as they carry a mini proscenium stage through the city. The stage is bright red and gold, about the size of a play theater. It’s symbolic; we’re about to witness something grand that falls just short of success.

Barnes and Bass enter the theater—carrying that play stage, still in parkas, sneakers on. The “stage” is dropped off (front and center), and we get to see what’s hiding underneath their overcoats. Gaudy, and borderline tacky, evening gowns. Barnes in gold and Bass in brown, these frumpy sequined dresses are reminiscent of the 1980s.

The choreography makes a statement: “hey! look at me! look at what I can do!” It feels showy and cheeky. Barnes and Bass make every effort to impress us, seeking laughter (like when they hand-jive to Tina Turner’s “Proud Mary”). Another series of funny moments resembles a dog-trick pattern where the reward is a handful of glitter in the air.

The piece eventually becomes more subdued and Barnes and Bass begin a series of running patterns, hitting points of exhaustion. They seem tired but still determined to please us.

And then, something remarkable happens. Offstage — hidden in the wings — industrial sized fans turn on, their roar audiable even in the cheap seats. The duo are left facing upstage, away from each other as though standing still after a very tiring battle. It happens — a glitter blizzard of brown and gold sparkles — falling and twirling behind the proscenium’s barrier. The massive quantity of sparkles, and its reflective and gravity defying qualities, make it visually stunning.

Then an epiphany: here’s this material that’s supposed to make both dancers shine, standout, look pretty. However, the glitter doesn’t really stick to their bodies, but continues to swril around them. Barnes and Bass begin to move, slowly, a simple pattern. Even as they do, they remain impervious to the material—its unable to make its beauty mark. It turns from a vision of splendor into something desperate, horrific even. The glitter storm becomes an unimaginable effort to really sparkle and Barnes and Bass, once again, strike out.

The storm ends and the dancing resumes. In the final moments the back curtain parts revelaing a children’s choir. They sing “I Hear a Symphony.” For me, this felt like another realization—there’s a need for simplicity. We just watched a series of attempts to impress and really dazzle, and yet, the work ends with the charm that only a chorus of children’s voices can make. The piece finishes with Barnes and Bass applauding the choral group… in this case, innocence counts for more.

 

 

 

 

 

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