Eye Candy
’Tis the season, so it would be churlish to pick holes in Christopher Hampson's glorious confection, adapted from Peter Darrell's iconic work.
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In the dimly lit theater at Irish Arts Center on the west side of Manhattan, James Greenan puts himself through his paces. Facing two portable mirrors and wearing practice clothes of shorts and a tank top, Greenan pounds out a clear, simple rhythm in heeled Irish tap shoes on a very small square of wood. As the audience gathers around him, almost intruding on his private practice, he maintains his rhythmic discipline. The crisp sounds of his shuffling feet echo off the wall behind me. Soon sharp heel drops begin to alter the emphasis of the phrase. The patterns of his footwork continue to morph and intensify over several minutes until he is lashing the floor with the coordination and power of an elite boxer at the speed bag. Yet his face never betrays the effort.
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’Tis the season, so it would be churlish to pick holes in Christopher Hampson's glorious confection, adapted from Peter Darrell's iconic work.
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