The first two dances, “Poem of Exile” and “Doa Persembunian—A Prayer for Refuge” were loosely linked musically, topically, and geographically. Violist Stephanie Griffin composed the score for the former and arranged a choral composition by Tony Prabowo for the host of violas for the second. “Poem of Exile,” per the program, was “inspired by Ovid’s account of his wife’s agony while he was exiled to the remote regions of the Roman Empire (now Romania).” And “Doa Persembunian” was based upon a work by Indonesian poet Goenawan Mohamad about a woman’s despair during the modern day Romanian civil war. The casting for these dances was similar too, but additive. The trio in the first dance—AJ Guevara, Jordan Morley, and Emily Pope—expanded to include Guanglei Hui and Tiffany Mills in the second. And both works were built upon guided improvisation.  

The similarities ended there. “Poem of Exile” was, true to its title, a lonely work. It began with a snakelike solo for Pope to eerie viola sounds, including scraping noises from bowing along the bridge of the instrument. Guevara slithered in and commenced rigorous floorwork. While they danced, Morley stood frozen against the back wall, creepily facing it like a doomed teen in The Blair Witch Project. He was stuck there a long while until he sprang to action and ran multiple circles around the stage. But even when in motion, he still felt stuck. Like the laps, many of his moves were repetitive, as when he returned to the wall and endlessly pawed his leg while leaning against it. He could have been the exiled poet spinning his wheels or the despondent spouse going mad from waiting. 

“Doa Persembunian” started in lonely silence as well, as Hui performed a stirring port de bras sequence that started slow and then accelerated. After the music came in, Morley repeated this arm motif with a very different inflection. Where Hui emphasized fluidity through hyperextended elbows, Morley’s interpretation was gawkier. Control versus wildness was a theme of “Doa.” Sometimes the cast worked together to form chains with sustained counterbalances. At other times they thrashed and stamped chaotically in a circle or ricocheted back and forth across the floor in waves. Though these opening two dances were loosely based on female suffering, everyone seemed to be carrying a great weight. But in contrast to the solitariness of “Poem,” the “Doa” quintet sometimes shouldered that burden together. In between moments of frenzied paranoia there were some tender, comforting sequences—like dancers softly catching each other in slo-mo falls. Pei Chi Su uniformly dressed the “Doa” cast in matching coveralls in dark shades, like factory workers or inmates. These were people united by turmoil. My favorite image from the night was of this group in a connected, amoebalike pose, with a few dancers touching at the soles of their feet.