In order to receive that lil' slip of white paper (aka an MFA degree), I had to make, at least, a half hour presentation to my peers, advisors, and Goddard community. Over the past four years, I have attended more graduation presentations than I can count on both hands. I've seen dances, I've attended galleries, I've watched films and Powerpoint narratives, and I've heard concerts as well as soon-to-be graduates read directly from their portfolios. One of my favorite graduating student presentations, however, was Tiffany Lee Brown's.
TIff had her 'audience' dress up in red and then she asked a few of her peers to take the group on a meandering tour of the landscape surrounding Fort Worden. Ann and Kristine created found-art sculptures, while Nancy was in the process of doing so, along the way. Jess was the audible guide, while Emily served as the visual cue that kept the group moving forward. I was to be found, inverted in a shoulder stand, at the ocean's edge and on a cement jetty where I united the horizon with the foreground. As we walked along the sun-lit shore, the visiting sunbathers gazed at us and wondered what this large group in red was up to. Children followed behind our little parade, and were heard saying, "What are they doing?" and "I want to go, too." We continued following the ambling coastline, until we reached the Battery just adjacent to the Pt. Wilson lighthouse.
Winding our way through the multi-leveled, stone bunker, we created a soundscape of drifting lullabies and haunting echoes within one of the darkened chambers. Emily and I danced, with each other, with the hard stone below our feet, and with the warm rays of the sun. Ellen stirred an invisible cauldron, after which Tiff emerged from a hidden compartment to take her place within the welcoming womb at the center of our gathered crowd. Her presentation was called 'Seeds.' As a woman who has never given birth (nor was ever expecting to), Tiff was exploring this cultural taboo while also metaphorically associating it with the devastation of Easter Island and its native inhabitants. She was also investigating creation and the birth of creative work. Prior to her presentation, she had requested that our community make something representative of these 'Seeds.' She planned on traveling to Easter Island the following year, and taking these Seeds with her. That was a year ago. Tiff has been taking her ideas on the road with her - traveling around, from the east coast to the west, presenting, talking, making, and creating. She has yet to make it to Easter Island, however. You can check Tiff's work out at magdalen.com
Finally, one full year later, it was my turn to take the spotlight. I had requested extra time so that a DanceJam could follow on the heels of my presentation, and I also enlisted the help of a number of my peers. At 3pm, last Saturday, the Goddard community was ushered into the USO building (an old performance hall that has a wooden stage at the back and a vinyl floor placed squarely in the middle of the old carpeting). Greg was on the piano, diligently creating moody melodies while Deb was improvising with her voice. Plucking up excerpts from my portfolio, she hummed tunes to words that I had penned in the past. "On the brink," she sang. "On the brink." She also had a wide array of music makers (shakers, recorders, & more, some of which were borrowed from my Dance Church community in San Diego) to add to the overall ambiance. At the center, back of the vinyl flooring, and just below the towering stage, sat two chairs draped in black fabric. A microphone towered over them. Deb and Greg were positioned just to stage right of these, while the audience sat around on each side of this makeshift stage.
After the audience was well positioned, and the space had been sufficiently warmed up by the musical talents of Deb and Greg, David emerged from the audience holding a thick stack of white papers. He stepped onto the fabric-draped chairs and began to read from the manuscript in his hand. After thanking the audience for their presence, he began. "Human story is the fabric of our existence," his steady voice called out. He read the first page and a half of the introduction from my portfolio. "Make the best life story for yourself that you possibly can." He repeated it again, and again. At his conclusion, he tossed the script up into the air with a flourish and the white papers scattered, and fluttered, down down down. He stepped off of the chairs and began to walk a dramatic half-circle around to the back of the chairs. Meanwhile, Monique had entered, from the audience as well, and she bent down to the ground and picked up a sole piece of yellow paper. David tilted the chairs backward, towards himself and the stage, and I rolled out and onto my strewn portfolio. I entered into a contact dance with the body of work that I had spent the past four years crafting. I slid, spin, and glided across the papers, across the floor.
David and Monique stood watching, off to the left, while Greg accompanied my movement on the piano, and Deb improvised right along with me, her voice twirling with my body, as she stood watching from the right corner. Then, I began to speak a text, my text, an untitled poem that captures what I feel is an essence of embodiment.
"I am the grass on a cool, autumn, day," my voice called out. "I am the sun, radiating warmth and heat."...
"I can be me on any given whim, and I can be you without having to be told to."...
"I am the moment, I am the kiss, I am the "yes" falling from your lips, I am the perfect reflection."
