Thibault Lac, in an oversized, mangy fur coat, and New Kyd, in an orange tee, each sit on one of the eight piano benches lined up, throwing arms and legs upwards. Harrell and the other cast, each perched on their own bench become animated. Luc, et al, reappear in black, draped toga-like around his tall body, imposing but distant, as if lost in thought. Kyd, who is currently basing and working in New York, returns with her hair down to dance in solo trance, flinging her braids in the air, leaving a trace or an aura of resentment or defiance in the air. Ondrej Vidlar, tamping down his outrageous titillation from Antigone Sr just a tad, vamps around, cheekily lifting his dress to show some cheek as he finishes his turn, his chin slightly over his shoulder suggesting “You can kiss my ass.”

Paris-based Perle Palombe slithered before us, her breasts nearly escaping the chasm of her dress, her ever so barely twinkling eyes fixed on the audience, a barely perceptible smile at the corners of her mouth. The sweet-faced Songhay Toldon almost looks shy, but with his hair unleashed, he’s tornadic, powerfully spinning en l’air, leaving us breathless. All the while each dancer sits placidly on the piano benches, arms crossed at the wrists in their laps, shifting slightly as one leaves or another enters, or rises or lowers to dance. Throughout, the dancers step on demi-pointe, as if they are house-dancing in stilettos.

Berlin-based Rob Fordeyn, who is subbing for another that day but has been working with Harrell at least since I first saw him in 2014, makes a slight move with his hand, his eyelids slowly lift, his lips part as he rises to solo. He astonishes, both with his humility and assurance as he weaves through the rest of the cast with an utter sense of dignity. He dipped and swayed among them like a bird lazily skimming between lily pads on the surface of a lake.

Harrell gathers them all in a circle of trust. Walking slowly, they froze in sculptural poses like figures on a Grecian urn. Each breaks out into a little solo downstage before they line up for a deeply devout bow while a peaceful hush descends on the space. Applause is respectful, full of gratitude. Clearly, many of us are tearful as this enigmatic work has touched us to our core.

Jarrett, by the way, was born a little north of Philly in Allentown, PA and now lives across the Delaware River in northern New Jersey, unable to play due to two strokes he had in 2018 from which he’s only partially recovered. This draped an even more poignant shadow over the Harrell concert. I hope Jarrett knows about how this dance takes his playing to yet another dimension. 

Lastly, accolades must go to the Philadelphia Fringe Festival founder and main curator, Nick Stuccio. A former principal with the then Pennsylvania Ballet, Stuccio founded the festival in 1996 along with conceptual choreographer, Eric Schoefer. While Schoefer left the festival long ago, Stuccio has traveled the world unfailingly finding dozens, if not hundreds of superb artists like Harrell as well as giving local artists like Nicole Canuso, Megan Bridge and Pig Iron Theater a world stage. Stuccio leaves the festival this year, remaining for a while as Emeritus Artistic Director. But his imprint on the City of Philadelphia and the numerous gifts he’s given to our audiences, can never be overvalued.