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Succumbing to Glimpses of a Poet's Soul and a Closet
By Tobi Tobias
Emerging choreographer Dusan Týnek opened his program with Pilot's Dream, in which Keith Sabado—all delicacy, precision, and innocence—falls to earth like Saint-Exupéry's Little Prince and makes life's vexing personal relationships luminous with imagination. Ambitious beyond its power to deliver, the piece is filled with vision, charm, and wit. Charge, less adventurous but more coherently crafted, departed from the familiar infernal-machine response to Philip Glass music by effectively pitting a soloist against the ensemble and allowing human desire and effort to show. Richard Daniels (big, craggy, unabashedly middle-aged) redeemed the ramshackle Wardrobe Spectre, flinging motley garments at nearly nude bodies beautiful—a Goddess of the Thrifts, issuing invitations to the dance. I enjoyed the opening piece most. I have a fatal weakness for art that preserves uncorrupted the poetic fantasies of childhood. Such personal inclinations, as potent as they are inexplicable, are what make criticism so subjective—so, you might say, unfair.
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