The Susan Lyle Studios program was split into two distinct events. The first half was a collection of different dance styles: tap, ballet, African, contemporary, jazz, acrobatic ... I'm sure I'm missing a few. Performers ranged from pre-kindergarten to high school, with a few guest artists as well (including one currently majoring in dance at The Juilliard School, and an SLS alum slated to work with the London Contemporary Dance Studio this fall).
Not surprisingly, the biggest applause was for a group of about a dozen children who must have been about 3 or 4 years old, often from proud parents and grandparents, who were probably most happy that their pride and joy didn't freeze on stage in front of an audience of nearly 500. But there was plenty of cheering for older students and their routines as well, from interpretations of pop songs like Michael Jackson's Thriller (complete with a tribute to its famous "zombie" dance routine, and yes, I mouthed along with Vincent Price's commentary), Lady Gaga's Born That Way, a mix of Nancy Sinatra's Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) and Fleetwood Mac's Rhiannon, and the Bee Gees' You Should Be Dancing, as well as an eclectic selection of classical, instrumental and jazz selections.
Prior to the opening, I thought about my family upbringing and our participation in the world of art. My sister, Miriam, was heavily involved as a child and teenager in painting and drawing (including a comic strip for a Gaba family-created newsletter during our formative years), dancing, and being a clarinetist in the high school marching band. My brother, Charles, played cello and helped create a award-winning movie during his days at Michigan State University, before venturing into the artistic world of web design. I pondered my own background as a violinist, violist, electric violinist, kazooist (is that a word?), writer, and photographer. I thought of our parents, who always encouraged us to be active and creative, and embrace all that the world of art, in its various forms, offered, for a chance to grow and mature. I remembered our musical performances in the living room, mom and dad's attendance at our school concerts, our family trips to the Detroit Institute of Art and Cranbrook Art Museum, and attending the Meadow Brook Theatre for Shakespearian performances.
And as the dancers performed their routines, I was struck that each of their parents had similar, if not identical, ideas and goals for their children, and each dancer was taking his or her skills, dedication and love, and applying them in ways they perhaps never dreamed possible.
It was sometime during the first half - specifically, during one of the solo dancer performances - my mind wandered to the sequence in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, where Ferris (Matthew Broderick), Sloane Peterson (Mia Sara) and the Gordie Howe sweater-clad Cameron Frye (Alan Ruck) are strolling through - and taking in - the Art Institute of Chicago. In particular, I locked in on Frye's moment of self-realization while gazing deeply into (and I do mean "into") Georges Seurat's A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte.
According to the DVD commentary by director John Hughes, the museum scene - and, specifically, Frey's connection with the famous painting - was vital. "You don't have any idea what you've made until you step back from it," he said. "I used it in this context to see that he's (Cameron) looking at that little girl. Again, it's a mother and child. The closer he looks at the child, the less he sees. Of course, with this style of painting. Or any style of painting really. But the more he looks at, there's nothing there. I think he fears that the more you look at him the less you see. There isn't anything there. That's him."
Hughes didn't beat us over the head with this idea. He didn't force it upon the movie's viewers. It was done with subtle and creative editing, allowing us, the audience, as critically thinking humans, to infer as we individually chose.
Now, art in its many forms - dance, theatre, painting, drawing, sculpture, printmaking, ceramics, photography, movies, music, etc. - is open to three possible positions: from that of the producer (the artist); of an individual interpreter (the viewer); and of a group (the audience). And what the author chooses to convey doesn't mean the audience will take it that way.
After all, dance isn't concrete; it's abstract, performed in many different cultures and used as a form of expression, social interaction and exercise - and can be presented in a spiritual or performance setting, as it was today. Dance may also be regarded as a form of nonverbal communication. It's even found its way into sports; gymnastics, figure skating and synchronized swimming incorporate dance. Art is expression and opinion wrapped into one. Hughes had an idea of what he wanted out of the scene, just as the choreographers of each dance element wished to achieve. Did my alternative thought process mean the choreographers were failing in their approach? Absolutely not; for if their goals were to make the audience, both individually and collectively, think and ponder the possibilities of art, and what it means, then their goals were met with flying colors.
After a brief intermission came Part II - a full-throttle ballet presentation of Alice in Wonderland. From the legendary White Rabbit to the Mad Tea Party (the Dormouse, Mad Hatter and March Hare - not to be confused with the fanatical right-wing political faction); from the Two Tweedles (Dee and Dum) to the Caterpillar and Cheshire Cat; from the King and Queen of Hearts to Alice's trial; the performance cleverly incorporated dance, lighting and music (and a few video tricks) into a compellingly fluid and professional show.
However, I would be remiss if I didn't mention the mind-wandering phenomenon reared its head during the second half as well. At various moments, I pondered some of the various interpretations others have had of Alice in Wonderland over the years, both long ago and fairly recent. From The Jefferson Airplane's psychedelic rendering of White Rabbit to the Disney animated classic to the surreal imagery in Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers' Don't Come Around Here No More, the Lewis Carroll novel has been captured in a variety of media since it was first published in 1865.
And yet, as with the first half of the program, my wandering thoughts did not cause me to lose my focus on the overall performance in front of me, or my appreciation for the dance routines to lessen. In fact, I think it allowed me to be more deeply touched and appreciate what the young adults on stage were doing. They had learned from their teachers, worked as a team with their peers, and viably presented their own interpretation of both individual routines and a collective piece of literature (which is also a type of art).
Now, I have no clue if "mind wandering" during a dance recital is a good thing, in the grand scheme of things (although it's probably a bad thing if you are the performer). I suppose one could argue the implication that, if my mind was wandering, I wasn't really paying attention to the program on stage in front of me. But I would argue the opposite, that my mind wandering was a direct correlation to what I was witnessing and emotionally processing. And I see no harm in the end result: a deeper appreciation for the world of dance than I had previously.
