Minneapolis based dancemaker.
From on stage, back stage and the theater seats, the Performing Arts blog illuminates the intersecting worlds of dance, theater, and music.
Minneapolis based dancemaker.
The design of Saburo Teshigawara’s stage in Miroku creates an overwhelming sense of PLACE. It seems obvious to write, but this dance BELONGS in this PLACE. It is not a haphazard environment. It is a highly detailed, clean place from which we see Teshigawara’s intensely intricate articulations of muscle and bone – and it does […]
The design of Saburo Teshigawara’s stage in Miroku creates an overwhelming sense of PLACE. It seems obvious to write, but this dance BELONGS in this PLACE. It is not a haphazard environment. It is a highly detailed, clean place from which we see Teshigawara’s intensely intricate articulations of muscle and bone – and it does seem that he can manipulate his bones.
What a wonder when for a moment, as I watch him dance, I am thinking of snow geese! I think of the long migrations snow geese make and I remember watching thousands of them, gathered in their eating grounds – a wetland suddenly swollen with graceful bird bodies – moving in a method to keep themselves alive. They are eating, in their life-long mating pairs, digging watercress and gulping water. Their movement is constant. And tenacious.
Saburo Teshigawara doesn’t need to tell us what or where this particular place on stage is. It is a place that holds what he gives us through movement and light. And it is through his light (Saburo Teshigawara designs his set, lights and costume) that I am brought to places OUTSIDE the McGuire stage. I remember an ocean. I remember Saburo Teshigawara floating in the tumbled upper layers of waves and I remember him down at the depths. Suddenly this PLACE was the ocean and it was also his mind. It was perhaps his soul. It was a place upon which Saburo Teshigawara imprinted himself so we could travel through fear – if fear was an emotion you happen to feel at any point in this dance – I write this because just as Sabura Teshigawara does not tell us what this place IS or what can and cannot happen in this place, he does not guide us to explicit reactions. He screams, but do we connect to the scream or to the fact that he is safe, here in the place of his own design? The drive to create the picture of screaming evident. The drive to escape, not.
Escape: at one point a door opened in this place. Except there was no actual door. This is what I mean: we were in a place where our minds were a most evident player to this dance. The light created a prison cell block, a serene blue heaven, a nightmare, the tent you were in as a child with friends retelling ghost stories – or, it created none of those places and my particular mind brought me and me alone. THIS, I think, was the simplest beauty of this dance.
Sabura Teshigawara is alone in this place. There is no breach of traditional solo dance structure. There is no invitation into his world. He creates scenes that starkly burn into our eyes. I can see him, now, lit brightly against the wall in the briefest moment before another black-out. I can see the blue light bearing down on him. I can see his open mouth just behind the naked bulb. I can see his shirt, suddenly fluorescent, and I remember wondering if that is what a fishing lure looks like as it trails along in search of an unsuspecting fish mouth.
My eyes did grow tired of trying to catch these moments – there were times when the lights, while not in strobe, were close – and of course, the bare bulb inches from his face or penis – calling me to look but not letting me actually see. It became physically difficult to watch and I appreciate how my physicality was suddenly assumed and swallowed into his show.
I’ve mentioned many places this dance brought me to and I suppose part of this comes from the structure of Miroku. It was built as segments. There was no bleed, no transition, just light that called for my mind to switch from where it had grown accustomed, again and again. I grew tired here too, but isn’t that amazing? That I am pushed in this dance, to move beyond where I am happy, to move constantly, to access my past and my present simultaneously, to see Sabura Teshigawara up there, dancing in his place completely alone and to feel, as I am sitting in a very full audience, also completely alone – my mind the only thing to rely on. As this earth changes, we will have to dance like Sabura Teshigawara. And this brings me to think of the future. This is exciting to me – that I witnessed a dance that brings me to think about the future and to place myself somewhere out there, years from now. When I think back, then, what will I recall?
And now I am going to read my program and to do a little research into Sabura Teshigawara/KARAS’s methods and thoughts. It is rare I ever get to go to show without background information or previous exposure to the artists’ work. So, in honor of this gift, I saved my research until right now. I’m going to start with listening to the Talk Dance podcasts on Miroku that Justin Jones and Philip Bither did: http://channel.walkerart.org/series/talk-dance/
H3 by Bruno Beltrão at the Walker Thursday, February 11th- Saturday, February 13th.
The entrance. The footwork. The freeze. The exit.
DJ. Rap. Break. Graffiti.
The first are the codified segments of breakdancing (you can read more from Sally Banes).
The second are the elements of hip hop (granted, there may be more).
H3 by Bruno Beltrão is utter movement that can move from the tip of the skull and rock down through the veins, integrated and embodied in a spare (empty stage) and full (of swagger) intimacy. Meticulous accuracy through the tiniest trails of muscle make the aim of Beltrão’s focus undeniable. We know where we are supposed to look and what we are supposed to see – a hold in a violent image: kicks toward a still, blasé head that never land; fingers as guns; punches near the space of ears; a foot held, stomp-ready over the crotch of another man.
We know age by – what? Appearance? A certain energy? Without speaking we can name: young, old, elder, infant. And we know violence by – what? Impact? Result? And what if violence makes no impact – no bruise, no blood – if swagger and bravado and kicks don’t actually cause pain we still see violence. Is the violence here, in H3, rooted in the history of breaking? Or the history of the world? Or the imagination of Bruno Beltrão? Is the youth necessary to this dance? Are young bodies the only ones that can move this way? Or is it important for us to see this effort, this dance as necessary to the men performing it? They certainly perform in an all-encompassing, almost devotional character. What elements are needed for this commitment (for any commitment)?
The heads that shake are earth shattering. We know by witnessing there is an effect to this kind of action. Time is essential here. No one move or sequence lasts long. And, there is the time of youth. Here, ever present. Timing is essential – the relationships between bodies and space that build and break in a matter of moments are as distressing as they are enticing and in all cases they are impressive. The light moves across the stage like little windows and so I think of sun and again the element of time. In H3 time calls for action. It calls for us to be young and moving and alive and worthy (and male).
I do get a little tired of the stand-offs. The onslaught of men challenging one another and the space around them can become tiresome and though the choreography of duets are intricately laced and the floor patterns are almost single-mindedly circular – which is a nice juxtaposition to the straight edges of violent impulse – the onslaught never ends. When the shirts started to come off I screamed (in my head) “no! too much of this maleness already!” But see….I screamed too soon, for there is reason for a few bare chests as they arc up to the never ending pulse of time and light.
And pulsing with these men is the sound of their effort. Tennis shoes are a status, a symbol, a costume on-stage and off. Here, they cause that high, rubbery squeak we know from basketball courts. I love that sound and in this dance it creates a secondary map – an aural map that helps our minds see where the action has been, where it could be, and it instills a pleasurable excitement. Like a game, we route for the action happening on stage.
I am delighted with the light that frames a finger then breaks open the stage; that becomes oppressive and then almost holy. The light here is time and these dancers are caught. But when one grabs hold of the waist of another, throws his lower body away from the gravity of ground and takes two running, controlled steps in the air I get a chill in my chest and I think they can do it – these men can keep dancing like this forever. They will stay young and stop time. Everything they stand for, all the elements of their lives, everything they fight for and against will make sense because they will continue running full speed backward and into the space of one another, flying almost.
There is much dancing in this world that is not yet defined. This remains true for H3. It is something entirely new to view this dance. Those who get to see it are lucky because at no time in history has anything like this existed. In fact, it is the more definable breaking moves that become less interesting – though they are stunning, they are belted out without regard to anything but immediate impact. And, while the accumulation of this effort is something to be valued, it unfortunately becomes too much of a good thing.
I would not call H3 a “fusing of hip-hop and contemporary dance” as it is described, in part, in the Walker brochure (and this may well be a description from the company itself) because to name it like this is too simple. The labels cause us to think in categories. It makes us view the dance in parts and influences upon Beltrão. This dance is formed from movement into excitement and beauty. It is youth. It is speed. It is an image of violence in challenge and it is a challenge to violence. It is a pursuit upon the space that separates our bodies. It is looking up to the sky which is a form of surrender. It is effort which remains when the movement stops. It is community. It is the sound we make when we are surprised. It is hip hop. It is contemporary dance. None of this is label. All of this is elemental to our lives.
Youth. Challenge. Pursue. Remain.
These are the elements of our lives honored by this dance and I am honored to have viewed it.
The following review is courtesy of Emily Johnson, director of catalyst dances If I could ask a question of Anna Teresa De Keersmaeker regarding “ Once” it would be: Why did you choose to fast forward through those particular two paragraphs of the Bob Dylan song “ With God on our Side” (we got to […]
The following review is courtesy of Emily Johnson, director of catalyst dances
If I could ask a question of Anna Teresa De Keersmaeker regarding “ Once” it would be:
Why did you choose to fast forward through those particular two paragraphs of the Bob Dylan song “ With God on our Side” (we got to see the words flash on the wall as they flew by without sound – I only caught the word “ Russians”).
If I could ask a question of Joan Baez regarding “ In Concert Part 2” it would be:
Why did you tell your audience they could sing along to ”The Battle Hymn of the Republic?”
The first question is because Anna Teresa De Keersmaeker made a million decisions regarding the creation and performance of “ Once” and out of all those decisions, I only question one. It could be that those paragraphs become too specific – Germans and World War II (hate), Russians and the Cold War (fear). This theory doesn’t hold though because if it did, it would bother me that the text “ The Indians died”…(oh, this country was young) is dramatically highlighted, not only on the wall in silence, but through her body crumpled on the floor (as if Indians are less specific that Germans or Russians). Rather, the exact moment the record scratched, her legs fell and she stayed still and crumpled as “ The Indians fell” read on the wall behind her was genius and simple and clear and as specific to hate and fear as it was maddening and sad. Perhaps the omission of a few paragraphs is simply because the song is a long one.
The second question I would ask because last night many in the audience at “ Once” began to softly sing “ The Battle Hymn of the Republic” both with Joan Baez’s voice as support and without. My first impulse was to get a little choked up. We were well into the performance, my emotions were already being prodded by Ms. De Keersmaeker, people around me had already cried, and low and behold – people began to sing! I was struck then with the horrid irony of a group of Americans singing a battle hymn, a war song. Yes, it is gently sung, yes it was born out of a union army camp during the civil war…but it has a hell of a lot of marching in it, a hell of a lot of righteousness, hell, it was sung at Ronald Reagan’s funeral. My horror gave way to awe when the genius of Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, and Anna Teresa De Keersmaeker blended – from 1963 to the present moment on stage. (Joan Baez told the audience they could sing along to the battle hymn, which they did. She countered with the Dylan song “ With God on our Side” (look up the lyrics and read them), revealing what the audience fell into and De Keersmaeker used that moment in a concert to create an alive, poignant and universal showcase of what it means to fall into step (sing a battle hymn) without consequence (“ accept it all bravely”), from a safe place, and with more than a little pride “ For you don’t count the dead When God’s on your side.“ )
God, I’m quoting Dylan songs – I’ll move on.
Besides, perhaps the above is too “ political.” Folk songs are a way to protest wars and injustice and so are dances but “ Once” made me think that there might be a few people we should all pay more attention to. People who don’t count their work as “ political” outright, but who view and live in the world in a way that their depictions and their art lives outside the boundaries of politics. A higher level of understanding? Maybe. Maybe those of us who have to view work as either political or unworthy are lagging behind. Whether I lag behind or not, I wish “ Once” were playing to more American cities. I’d love to get all Americans willingly singing “ The Battle Hymn…” then listening to “ God on Our Side” as they see on a flickering screen anyone they could ever imagine having a war with as the silhouette of a person, larger than those fighting on the screen breathes and moves a little. The silhouette (Ms. De Keersmaeker’s) became a visual depiction of what it’s like when you wish so hard that a) your heart wasn’t breaking, b) there weren’t any wars, c) you could bring someone back to life or d) any other impossibly huge wish that takes over your body and ultimately you can’t do anything about. The moral fiber of war was literally projected onto De Keersmaeker’s skin as the moral fibers of herself were projected back onto war.
I love being captivated by simplicity. Her entrance (walking in a door to the side of the stage and taking off her shoes) was as simple as her exit (putting on her shoes and shirt and walking away). The first minutes of the dance are stark and in a nicely redundant way, put us all in the same room. Obviously we are all in the same room, but in silence she has herself and us – the audience – lit equally. If you’re lit, you’re as important as the person on stage or next to you, with as much responsibility and blame as anyone else. Her movements are as bare as the slight shuffling and coughs of us. The moments she mouths the words of a song as she dances or touches her face – are very nonchalant, unassuming and earnest at the same time. I couldn’t help but notice others sitting around me doing almost the same kinds of things.
Perhaps it is her stage presence, perhaps it is her commitment to her work but moments into “ Once” I completely trusted it. I trusted that the performance would contain a little more than I could grasp and I decided I could trust the choices De Keersmaeker would make. I say “ would make” because at times it did seem she was choosing how to say/move/look at us next. Like when you have to stop your sentence in the midst of it to choose the next word – because you want to choose a word that holds meaning in its sound, in its pronunciation – a very important word. A friend of mine after the show said she knows she’s seeing a good piece when her creativity is tapped in the midst of performance – when her mind is allowed to wander a bit. This place of wandering – of being in more than one place at a time is a fertile place and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a performer do that. It was as if we were seeing De Keersmaeker perform and choose how her performance would go next – listen to her record as a child at home and hear it on stage at the McGuire – protest a war and be non-political – be 15 and 45-years-old at the same time.
I also love when a dancer is so intensely a dancer you can see it in her hands. This is why dancers train so hard – so that dancing/technique (whatever that technique may be) isn’t what shows. What shows instead is the reason for dancing. De Keersmaeker says, “ I am obsessed by pure and taut lines, magnetized by the rigorous equilibrium of classical dance, but while I can formally execute this severity, beauty and certainty, it doesn’t mesh with me at an intimate level. So I put up resistance and use the resulting tension – between pride and fall, between charging forward and retreating, between certitude and doubt, between reaching out and withdrawing, between the straightness of a line and the meandering curve – to compose “ a clear exposé of the odyssey of introspection…”
Yes, she is classically trained and I appreciated it so much. It let me see her reasons for creating “ Once.” The dancing brought me to consider my own thoughts. Her dancing taps into whatever current allows her to communicate. It was the perfect example of an artist using her potential to perform to perform rather than performing her potential.
I also appreciated her tiny foibles, her mimicking of words, the literalness of a lyric like “ go away” as she puts her hand up and turns her head. Such literalness would usually make me squirm with embarrassment, but here it was like when you see a kid copy you – the kid is trying to learn something new, to figure something out, to try something on – and quickly it (the act/word the kid copied) teaches you (the adult) what you’re like and sometimes you like it, sometimes you squirm. I had a composition teacher in college who told us at the time not to use songs with words. Songs with words are too powerful I assumed. This Baez album is powerful but “ Once” is absolutely not a recreation of word-meaning into movement. I appreciated how De Keersmaeker “ non-politically” but very clearly pointed out that dance is as powerful a language as any when she literally acted out “ Hush little baby” and it simply demonstrated that a lullaby is a lullaby whether it is in words or in movement.
Have I used the word genius enough yet? I am a little overwhelmed that all of the choices Anna Teresa De Keersmaeker made make sense. I am astounded by the integrity of “ Once.” How can lying down on the floor and half completing a backbend make sense with turns and a leap, classical lines, a fierce focus, small gestures, the singing of “ We Shall Overcome,” the screaming into a blanket, undoing and redoing a bun? Somehow it does and she does what Joan Baez did with the battle hymn – points out that we all have our patterns, our skills, and our mistakes to contend with each moment and that the choices we make really do affect someone sitting next to you and someone across the globe. It’s so much bigger than politics.
She put her face into the open part of a very bright and I assume very hot standing light. She played us a record from her childhood. She danced for over an hour. How much more does she have to give us before we understand that if we all took time to turn our thoughts into communicable meaning considering the feeling in our guts we wouldn’t find ourselves singing loudly or softly of marching at all – our guts probably wouldn’t allow it – and we would all be on to much better (and hopefully more peaceful) actions and thoughts to consider at all.
The following review is courtesy of Emily Johnson, Director of catalyst dance I kept thinking about being on a bus. During “ Daylight (for Minneapolis)” by Sarah Michelson on Sunday night, I sat on the constructed risers built on the stage. Sitting there, face forward, with more space and more audience members behind than in […]
The following review is courtesy of Emily Johnson, Director of catalyst dance
I kept thinking about being on a bus. During “ Daylight (for Minneapolis)” by Sarah Michelson on Sunday night, I sat on the constructed risers built on the stage. Sitting there, face forward, with more space and more audience members behind than in front felt conspicuous. Someone near me wondered outloud if the audience members on the balcony knew more than we did, he questioned whether we were supposed to use these seats at all. On a bus, you choose your seat, sit and wait. The vehicle (space) you are in moves you physically from one place to another. Riders get on, get off – and each one, as they walk or get hoisted up those couple of steps to the main bus aisle – provides those already seated with a chance to look (scrutinize? judge?). Some people get on the bus looking down, pick a seat, pull out a book and wait with the rest. Some get on and recognizing someone else already seated, shout hello and begin a distanced communication – disrupting or enhancing (depending on how you take it) the ride. Some riders are drunk and belligerent, some you hope don’t pick the empty seat near you, some you get up for so they can have your seat, some strangers you begin to know by sight because the bus route doesn’t change and your schedules don’t that much either. As each rider chooses how they enter and act on the bus they change the fragile dynamic built amongst those who have already ridden blocks or miles together. You don’t get much of a chance to relate to fellow bus riders – inhibitions or habits or shortage of time all play a role in that. And as you sit, taking in the oncoming passengers or ignoring them completely, you have the option to look out the window. You do not; however have the option to stop exactly when you want in order to take in a scene more completely. You have the few seconds it takes to pass something by – someone crying on the sidewalk, a kid running after a grown-up, a tree, a particular garden. You have a limited view, it is obstructed by other passengers and by your original choice of seat.
It was similar last night at the Walker. One audience member, growing impatient and perhaps feeling conspicuous as well – stood up, turned around and yelled to us all, “ This is ridiculous. You are all sitting here, waiting for the show to start?” We could call her the belligerent bus rider. We had all made our way to these seats, passed huge drawings of people we recognized or didn’t, and passed girls and a Mickey revealed along the buildings edges or crooks – or they revealed the edges and crooks – (depending on how you take it). Some of us realized there really was no official start,’ still, we looked behind, we grew impatient, some got up to look over the big wall that was the back of our seating. Those on the balcony were restless too, I could see them and hear them. The talking was loud and I admit, I felt disloyal. I felt like turning around to catch a glimpse of one of the girls, posturing herself in a position that obscured her face and her individual identity (all girls were dressed the same, save the differing patterns printed onto their nude leotards) was disloyal to the huge effort it must have taken to design and construct the seating I was in and the wall I was facing. It is my habit, when sitting on a bus or in a theater – to sit facing forward and more or less still. Here is the crux of this particular work. I believe this piece was made to encourage us to look/experience our surroundings (in this case, the Walker and the McGuire Theater) in a more thoughtful way than we are accustomed. I believe it was made in order that we would have to face our habits. Built within this mission, however, were barriers to the exact goal. We could not sit or stand or walk as the more-or-less passive people we usually are. Even to sit and admire – really admire (or hate) the structure or the referencing of the afore mentioned girls doing the afore mentioned postures along the wall of windows facing Hennepin meant that you were missing something somewhere else. We were made to decide whether sitting still or getting up to look were our best option. It made many uncomfortable – which in fact, reassures the very habits we use to protect ourselves and increases inhibition. Partly because of this increased inhibition, “Daylight” did not encourage IMMEDIATE exploration, I think most people were perfectly settled on finding the stage,’ simply passing by the scenes they encountered en route. I would have liked “ Daylight” to create a mad scene in which people were running about trying to catch at least a small part of everything, but the scale (those portraits were huge) and the pace (the posturing was slow) created, instead the fairly normal scene within a museum/performance space which is of a quiet politeness.
“Daylight” did completely thwart expectations – which is, of course, an exploration all its own. Coming into a theater or a gallery, we expect we will have the chance to see/experience everything that we paid for. Good’ audience members are purposefully taking time to immerse themselves in something outside of their personal, everyday experience. This is perhaps what Sarah Michelson enjoys most – creating a place in which you cannot escape your personal, everyday habits. If some of your habits make you uncomfortable, it might be difficult to watch a performance and if you expect an easy time, perhaps Sarah Michelson’s performances are exactly what you need to watch. We are all looking for something better – better sneakers, a better job, a better place to live…and Sarah created a piece that drums up the inescapable feeling that we are missing something, that there is something better happening just over there – where we cannot get to or see. So you sit – and become obsessed with what you cannot have even while there is plenty happening right before you. You question yourself – did you pick the right seat, did you come to the right show? You get so worried about “ getting enough” and to me, that points out that the self induced importance we place on what we actually see/experience is based on what we value. If we value getting it all’ we won’t ever be satisfied and if this piece is supposed to reference the architecture of Herzog and deMerron, it does it best by pointing out that we cannot take it all in at once. One has to walk the halls, ride the elevator, be on the outdoor balcony at 5am, then 5pm to note the changing light…All of this outside of the art that happens within, on and around the physical building. We are comfortable with the notion of exploring a building (even if we never actually take full initiative to do it on our own) because a building is a static thing, it does not move (of its own free will), does not sweat, does not shit. Right – the unbeautiful ways that we are human are what make us the most challenging to explore which is why the staging of the humans (rather than the staging of the building) in “ Daylight (for Minneapolis)” was most intriguing.
I sat above the normal stage’ (the risers took up maybe 3/4 of the stage space) and watched four dancers squeeze themselves and their space eating dancing onto a square footage that seemed much too small for them. Sarah Michelson had literally reduced the theater and I thought of the thousands of choreographers who, unable to afford a space to their liking or unable to be presented make use of their lofts or a storefront, or a theater that’s just too small for them. I wondered why this piece called “ Daylight,” that utilizes both architectural findings and a very long, narrow dancing space couldn’t be performed in say, an alley. I say “ Daylight” would look beautiful in an alley; however, as odd as it sounds, an alley would make “ Daylight” too accessible. And this is where I admire what Sarah Michelson knows about humanity and what she tries to usurp. We (ah ha) expect strange things to happen when we watch dance in an alley and we assume we might not be comfortable. Sarah Michelson needed this beautiful, fancy theater with an amazing spectrum of lighting options and sound quality to lay her base. Her base is recognizably dance but the way that the light was made to create walls, to add spectacle, to illuminate the space between the floor and ceiling and the purposefully empty seats is how she generates a new form. The way she took a recognizable theater and changed where the walls were and where we sat is how she stirred our brains into seeing that dance and performance is vital – on stage, on sidewalks, and in alleys. The concept of seeing, the concept of perception, the concept of want, the concept of beauty and functionality – they are all placed in your hands during “ Daylight” and you either hold them preciously as though they were fragile, form them into something useful for you, or drop them on your way out the door.
All this concept and what delighted me the most was a Mickey coming onto the stage and holding her big, oversized head in her hands. The Mickey made sense. As on a bus, or in this piece, the characters make sense just by being there. It would be the weirdest thing to be on a bus and have no characters enter, have no one ride it with you. Mickey entering made it seem as though this piece were no longer confined to either the stage,’ the inside of the Walker, or Minneapolis itself. “ Daylight” suddenly occupied a larger space in our minds. And maybe because in actuality I know the image of Mickey more so than I do any of the dancers, I felt acknowledged and I felt a tenderness – both toward the Mickey with her face in her hands and from the piece “ Daylight” itself.
The dancing. The fancy and beautifully executed rigorous, often violent dancing of the main quartet allowed the last solo to be one of the sweetest moments in theater I have ever seen. When “ Daylight” seemed over enough to warrant the resumed chatter and exiting of many audience members, one woman, in the dark, back corner of the stage’ began referencing the dancing the quartet had executed the past hour. I truly thought she was a dancer in the audience who felt compelled to get up and show off for the friends she was with – repeating movement she remembered because she was inspired or because she wanted to make fun of it (I have friends who do this). But no, in an unglorified way (the most unglorified of the whole evening) she made dancing make sense. She took what we had experienced through the movement of the quartet and saudered it down to the essential. Combined with one of the sweetest songs you may ever hear, it’s like it illuminated within you every opportunity you have ever missed – in a way that made you think – “ I will never again miss the opportunity to run, arms outstretched in a field! “ or “ I will never again miss the opportunity to let what I happen to have the fortune/misfortune to see/experience/catch in this life affect me to my deepest core!” When I had arrived to my seat an hour before I noted the built in doorless doorway in this constructed makeshift wall and I thought, “ they must have left that open for a reason.” When that space, that wall, and that light emanating from it literally engulfed that dancer – it made me think that we really can reimagine places and reimagine each other. The home you grew up in can hold a beautiful memory perfectly intact, a lone brick wall from a knocked down factory can offer you a place to lean against, a newly redesigned museum and newly built theater can offer a million opportunities just by existing and the next person that walks up those stairs onto the bus is much more than a stranger to you – we are all much more than we seem at initial glance (in real life or portrait).