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Back to the 'Garden' with awe and delight

Linda Belans,

Who hasn't been devastated by a first 
great love? We freeze the memory in time and space, wondering if 
we'll ever feel that way again, and all the while indulge in the 
fantasy of a do-over. If only I had said ... The French call it 
l'esprit de l'escalier, the witticism you wish you had uttered 
as you climbed the stairs in a dramatic exit.

Few of us ever get a do-over. But Martha Clarke has with "Garden 
of Earthly Delights," which opened the American Dance Festival's 
30th year in Durham.

Clarke first presented the work at ADF in 1985. Based on 
Hieronymous Bosch's eponymous triptych, it forever changed the 
way we viewed and defined dance. We fixed it in our memories and 
anchored it with the smell of incense that wafted through Page 
Auditorium. At least that's what I remember.

Clarke created an atmosphere that sucked us in, made us gasp, 
horrified us, melted and broke our hearts, and mucked around 
with our dark side. She revealed the Garden of Eden, spun loose 
the seven deadly sins and took us to hell. Musicians cavorted 
with dancers, and performers flew over our heads past row J. In 
all its deliberate scenic spareness, it was on an operatic grand 
scale unlike anything we had ever seen.

"Garden" was the first piece Clarke created as she flung herself 
free from Pilobolus after seven years with the troupe. She 
integrated the Pils' trademark cantilever partnering and took it 
to levels the troupe hadn't yet discovered.

She called it "a work in progress." And that's what she calls 
the 2007 version as well. What is she searching for? What would 
she alter? How have we changed?

From the original creative team, Clarke retained only costume 
designer Jane Greenwood and composer Richard Peaslee, who 
reworked the score. The results are reminiscent of the original, 
but somehow different.

Some of the original esoteric images recur. Bare branches form a 
morphing motif as gondoliering sticks, whips, masks, swirling 
and evocative imagery. The onstage musicians (Wayne Hankin, Egil 
Rostad and Arthur Solari) fill the otherwise empty space with 
the sound of wind.

Enter those iconic creatures Clarke created long ago, loping 
effortlessly on all fours, clad in impossibly sheer flesh-
colored unitards, which Jeffrey Wirsing designed. Bathed in 
Christopher Akerlind's chiaroscuro lighting, they're 
breathtaking again.

The serpent, legs wrapped behind her on the menacing tree trunk, 
smiles seductively as two hands reach underneath and through her 
crotch to present the apple to Eve. Dancers stand aloft rolling 
bodies, traversing the river of waves. Hankin, twanging his jaw 
harp, doesn't miss a note as a woman clasps her body upside down 
to his chest, her crotch serving as an arm rest. Bodies 
intermingle organically everywhere.

One of the most hauntingly painful and successful segments is 
the duet between the cellist (Rostad) and dancer Gabrielle 
Malone (in the role originally danced by Clarke). "See me, 
notice me, love me," her body screams as she tries in vain to 
interrupt his playing. It has a brutal finish.

Brutality lurks, stabs and drives the nearly 90 minutes of 
uninterrupted dance. In the gluttony segment, people torture and 
kill each other for a potato. If Bosch has captured the true 
human intention and spirit, it's not a stretch at all to 
understand what drives us to war.

There is much to marvel at with this reimagined version. And 
much to ponder. Clarke once again chose to create an imagistic 
version of Bosch's painting, and in the process, spareness 
reigns where his work is claustrophobic. The intimacy of 
Reynolds Theater diminishes the impact of the other worldly 
atmosphere that Page supported. When the dancer's leg comes 
close enough overhead to reach out and touch, we shift from 
heaven and hell to the programs on our laps and the gleam of the 
rigging.

As for the flying, this version soars with better technology for 
the angelic and the demonic, although the sound of the 
machinery, like the uncamouflaged rigging, proves distracting. 
Throughout the evening, I couldn't help wondering what it must 
have been like for Clarke to have those Boschian images living 
inside her head for more than 20 years, and wanting to immerse 
herself in them again. And what does it mean for us to revisit 
them all these years later?

We take a big risk when we tamper with memory. The cascading effect can be treacherous, forcing us to ask, Who was I then, and how have I reconstructed my past? And will the work ever be finished?

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