Call to Action

Reggie Wilson's “The Reclamation” opens in a waiting room. The stage is bare, and one dancer wanders downstage alone, as if his number's been called. The dancer stops at the edge of the stage and stands relaxed—almost slumped—surveying the audience with disinterest.

After a couple of minutes, another dancer moseys along behind him and touches him on the shoulder, alerting him that his time is up. The first dancer, emotionless, turns and walks upstage; it's the second dancer's turn.

Performance

Reggie Wilson's “The Reclamation”

Place

NYU Skirball, New York, NY, April 5, 2025

Words

Cecilia Whalen

Bria Bacon in “The Reclamation” by Reggie Wilson. Photograph by Greg Kessler

“The Reclamation,” which premiered at NYU Skirball, is Wilson's newest work, but it is hardly his newest concept: Wilson's Fist and Heel Performance Group has always focused on the reclaiming and celebration of African diasporic movement forms for the postmodern concert stage. The idea of reclamation is in the name: “Fist and Heel” comes from a characterization of the African American spiritual movement form “ring shout,” which was dismissed by White plantation owners as mere “fist and heel worshipping.”

In this dance, Wilson uses his distinctively compelling mix of traditional African and postmodern dance forms (“post-African/Neo-HooDoo Modern dance,” says Wilson), but the word “reclamation” is also imposed ironically. “Reclamation” implies action and agency, but this dance seems to dwell in apathy. “The Reclamation” demonstrates a group of dancers who, despite sporadic bursts of duet, trio, and ensemble dancing, ultimately seem unable to act.

The opening sequence—where each dancer has a turn at the front of the stage to see and be seen with no particular outcome—is repeated for each of the seven dancers. Afterwards, the dancers line up horizontally in the back, and they slowly make their way downstage together. The dancers move forward hesitantly, shifting their weight back and forth before taking a step. They float and sway, bobbing along downstream.

Rochelle Jamila, Annie Wang, and Bria Bacon in “The Reclamation” by Reggie Wilson. Photograph by Greg Kessler

These moments of calm bubble up into disorder with dancers separating for exciting, faster movement sequences. Dancers drop to touch the floor, rise to kick an extended leg, and perform a series of arm gestures. They slurp their hands to their mouths and circle their fists to bump the sky.

Spontaneously, they collide into duets. In one, a dancer runs in a circle and then rams into another dancer, pressing his head into the other's stomach. He repeats this several times without aggression, like a magnet that is released momentarily into orbit before being sucked into place.

In another striking moment, two dancers meet each other on the floor in a plank position. They make eye contact, then release their planks and tumble in straight extended positions, heads meeting as the dancers stay connected, spinning against the floor rapidly like pencils rolling across a table.

The piece's score, which is a compilation of songs from Gladys Knight & The Pips, Tom Smothers, the Staple Singers, and others, plays in the background, juxtaposing the dancing like elevator music. Songs like “I Can See Clearly Now” are matched with a purposeful lack of clarity or revelation, as the dancers contradict the lyrics with blank stares and despondency.

Miles Yeung and Pluwadamilare Ayorinde in “The Reclamation” by Reggie Wilson. Photograph by Greg Kessler

The last song, “Touch a Hand, Make a Friend,” by the Staple Singers, builds into an ecstatic call to action. By this point, the dancers have, themselves, crescendo-ed into vibratory foot tapping, each moving at their own time and in their own space, internally building towards eruption.

But in contrast to the Staple Singers, who command rapturously to “Touch Somebody! Touch Somebody!,” the dancers just don't seem able to make the leap. Whether they can't or they won't is not clear—what Wilson shows us is that they don't.

Instead of responding to the call with responsibility and fervor, the dancers end back on the floor. The music is insistent; the dancers are indifferent. They roll slowly around each other, disappearing into the fading lights.

The dance is implicating: When the time comes, who among us will answer the call to act?

We'd like to think of ourselves as noble.

It is far more likely, as Wilson tragically demonstrates, that we will defer the call. We'll pretend we don't hear it. We'll lie down and around, waiting for somebody else to pick up.

Cecilia Whalen

Cecilia Whalen is a New York City-based dancer, choreographer, and writer. She is a graduate of the Martha Graham School and the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. In addition to her work with Fjord, her writing can be found in various publications, including Dance Magazine and Commonweal Magazine.

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