But I’m getting ahead of things. First on the program is “Dedications,” which sets a tone of respect for the evening. Jodi Melnick and David Thomson each improvise a solo in honor of persons nominated by volunteers from the audience. Names are drawn from a jar and the two people selected meet privately with the performers, then take a seat of honor to witness the tributes. The rest of us don’t know the details.
Melnick moves like an elfish ragdoll with an economy that favors the shortest, if inelegant, path—sometimes in silence, sometimes to a delightful song with French lyrics. She surprises with a cough into her elbow—perhaps circumstantial, she then confirms it twice more. She dangles her arms like bell clappers that swing back and forth, a perpetual motion sculpture; slides her hoodie to cover her face. When she scoots forward on her knees, arms held taut to her side, she veers into a person sitting in the front row.
Thomson’s energy is more dramatic. Fully committing to each phrase, he takes his time, bending forward at the waist and circling his head, then leans back and eases gradually into a low squat. The silence is so pervasive that the scratching of my note-taking seems to shout. Then, he’s suddenly mobile with hands waving. He runs and trips, vocalizing ahh, ahhh, stamps his feet. When the music starts—a pop tune with lyrics I almost recognize, he stands still. When he runs in a circle looking upward, it’s like he’s miming the cheerful tune.
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