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Together Apart

Mesmerizing to watch? Or commentary on life versus machine? The program performed by Lyon Opera Ballet at New York’s City Center is both. Merce Cunningham’s “Biped” (1999) features a double cast—one of human dancers, and another of computer generated figures. In “Mycelium” (2023), Christos Papadopoulos animates a regenerative root-like network of fungi as a meditation on symbiosis. Born 63 years apart, the two choreographers represent different eras, countries of origin, and movement styles. And yet these two works, presented as part of the Dance Reflections Festival by Van Cleef & Arpels, share much common ground.

Performance

Lyon Opera Ballet: “Biped” by Merce Cunningham and “Mycelium” by Christos Papadopoulos

Place

Dance Reflections Festival by Van Cleef & Arpels, New York City Center, New York, NY, February 19, 2026

Words

Karen Hildebrand

Lyon Opera Ballet in “Biped” by Merce Cunningham. Photograph by Agathe Poupeney

In “Biped,” Cunningham’s signature stiff-legged hops and turns strike me as insect-like, an impression the iridescent costumes of Suzanne Gallo enhance. The dancers perform in twos and threes and other small groups—there are fourteen when all are onstage. I hesitate to call it an ensemble—one is always aware of the dancer as an individual in a Cunningham work. Tonight for instance, when five dancers perform a phrase in unison, the timing of each is allowed to be a tiny bit different. 

Cunningham was an early adopter when it comes to experimenting with computer generated dance. In this case, the images are projected onto a transparent scrim, which hangs across the proscenium. At first a series of colored bars form a grid of light, then 3-D animated figures emerge that look like gesture drawings made with a stick of charcoal. A giant skeleton galumphs across the stage. The projections hover intermittently over and above the shoulders of the live dancers, and tend to dwarf them. It’s like trying to see past floaters in your eyes. Most successful are a series of lively clusters of dots that tumble and cartwheel through the air. 

The activity of the humans onstage is continuous and fascinating, always changing. Music composed by Gavin Bryars is performed live with piano, double bass, cello, electric guitar, and viola. Three dancers resemble birds with their breast feathers puffed. In a deep lunge, the back leg forms the tail feathers. When midway through the work the dancers don translucent jackets, suddenly they all seem to have wings. A dancer performs a bourrée in second position, and her entire body vibrates for an exquisitely long moment. When a group hops with arms poked out like antlers, what I see is a herd of antelope. Could it be that the existence of the computer projections has stimulated my imagination?

Lyon Opera Ballet in “Mycelium” by Christos Papadopoulos. Photograph by Agathe Poupeney

Lyon Opera Ballet in “Mycelium” by Christos Papadopoulos. Photograph by Agathe Poupeney

While individual dancers of “Biped” repeatedly connect with each other in a variety of configurations, Papadopoulos’ “Mycelium” invests in the idea of the collective. Twenty dancers move together as a single organism. Mycelium, Wikipedia tells me, is the root-like structure of a fungus that aides nutrient absorption and breaks down organic matter. In other words, this is a collective that supports gut health and composting—truly a choreography for the current era. 

The piece begins with one performer onstage, grows to include two, then three as the group multiplies into a large pulsing organism. The electronic score (composed by Coti K) makes a rumbling sound that turns into thunder. All the dancers move exactly alike. Their feet shuffle, barely visible in the lighting (designed by Elisa Alexandropoulou), giving the appearance of floating. They cluster and sway as they march in unison with arms like strands of seaweed. So rhythmic this arm movement, I imagine it as the finger snapping of back-up singers for an R&B band. The shoulders gyrate; the hips respond to footsteps underneath. 

This continues for more than an hour, a marathon of repetition. Like an accordion, the cluster of dancers expands then contracts. Vehicles idling at a stop light, then suddenly someone steps on the gas. The back scrim ruffles with a silent breeze. The light hits the dancers’ faces in such a way they look like finger puppets with features drawn on with a Sharpie. Heads previously held immobile, now occasionally nod. It’s an odd tick. Is something wrong? The rhythm quickens, the head movements become more frequent and the pulsing motion grows into a wave. The dancers glide farther apart and a cluster breaks off into its own entity. I’m watching so intently that I begin to feel a little motion sick. There’s a sound of chopping ice and sawing, gurgling water. I sense the end of the work approaching with, I have to admit, a bit of relief. This work is as close as I can come to describing a meditative state of flow. It’s beautiful, and a little intense. The dancers recede into a ghostly blur upstage. I can hear them breathing together. 

Karen Hildebrand


Karen Hildebrand is former editorial director for Dance Magazine and served as editor in chief for Dance Teacher for a decade. An advocate for dance education, she was honored with the Dance Teacher Award in 2020. She follows in the tradition of dance writers who are also poets (Edwin Denby, Jack Anderson), with poetry published in many literary journals and in her book, Crossing Pleasure Avenue (Indolent Books). She holds an MFA from the Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. Originally from Colorado, she lives in Brooklyn.

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