After intermission, quite a different tone pervades. “Jamelgos” (a poor-tempered horse) opens with an unclothed, male figure hanging from a pull-up bar. Endowed with the swollen musculature of a body builder, he faces away from us. The muscles gleam. Below him is another body, laid out on the floor with what will soon be revealed as a silky blonde horse’s tail. The hanging man drops from the bar to mount the prone figure and the two slowly merge into a centaur that clops crookedly off into billowing fog. It’s visually stunning. From here on, I can’t tell whether the characters are meant to be humans or horses. These centaurs, six dancers in all, walk on two legs, with horse tails strapped to their rears and the crowns of their heads. The dancers move—choreography full of the breath, gravity, fall and recovery that are hallmarks of Limón technique—then freeze as if a painting. Lighting by Corey Whittemore paints the flesh with golden opulence. At times, the dancers flip their ponytails like members of a drill team on the playing field. (On the night I attended, one lost her headpiece and masterfully continued on as if the mishap was part of the plot.) An electronic score by Ebe Oke sets an otherworldly mood. The final section is a slow-motion wrestling match, the movement behavior more horsey than human. I see it as a full Botticelli tableau brought to voluptuous life.