Come On In, It’s Hard Outside – New Releases Choreographers Showcase at Dance Place by Ashayla Byrd

Come On In, It’s Hard Outside

by Ashayla Byrd

New Releases Choreographers Showcase

*featuring*

Kristen Bolger

Tabata Vara

Leah Esemuede

Stephen Shynes & Artists

Sydney Goldston & Elan Robinson

Lindsay Grymes 

Emily Green 

Featuring commissioned artists Emily Ames and Rae Luebbert

Dance Place

May 3 at 7pm & May 4 at 4pm, 2025

(Banner photo by essie soul photography

Audio version below

Spring has sprung, and I already have whiplash. Choruses of birds harmonize with the rising of the morning sun. Wandering eyes and perspiring bodies search for the perfect, shaded space to lay out their blankets and break bread with those they hold dear. The girls, gays, theys, and their company–freshly outside, equipped with glitter, and drafting Pride itineraries–scroll through their feeds to discover that there are fewer events happening this year than last year. And why are there only Black and Brown hands grabbing items in Target’s TikToks for their spring releases? Don’t they remember that they rolled back their DEI initiatives? Curious. 

Rather than taking the chance to stop and smell the multi-colored roses, immigrants’ daily walks are cut short by ICE, and not the kind that keeps their water cold. A family’s plans to see an outdoor performance may have to be cancelled since their local theater just lost its funding. The pounding, omnipotent thunder and falling rain of April Showers pale in comparison to the first 100 days of a sinister presidential agenda that aims to Bring America Pain Again. The pressure of impending economic collapse echoes the oppressive nature of muggy spring heat. And the mosquitos! God, the mosquitos. That’s the worst part! 

Everything about Spring screams: “NOW! NEW! NEXT!” Forever keeping his finger on the DMV Dance Pulse–and his mind on literally everything else–Dance Place Artistic Director Tariq D. O’Meally brought back something (relatively) old–the New Releases Choreographers Showcase– to give dance artists a chance to say something new. On hiatus since 2019, this mixed-bill evening of performances offers a nurturing opportunity for DMV college students, emerging artists, and dancers to share their creative work, receive feedback, and bring their unique perspectives to Dance Place’s stage. 

The evening included works by Kristen Bolger, Tabata Vara, Leah Esemuede, Stephen Shynes & Artists, Sydney Goldston & Elan Robinson, Lindsay Grymes, Emily Green, and commissioned artists Emily Ames & Rae Luebbert. The choreographers’ disparate voices coalesced to create an atmosphere of warmth, deep introspection, play, satirical interrogation, and solace from the mayhem of the outdoors. As O’Meally often says, “It’s hard outside.” The 2025 edition of Dance Place’s New Releases Choreographers Showcase brings audience members inside, literally offers them tea, and invites them to stay for a while to unpack the gravity of the present moment. 

Show-stopping show-opener Leah Esemuede struggles to find comfort in her work “Listen Twice–Solo.” Clad in a russet brown tank-top and flowing pants of the same hue, Esemuede is exposed. Trembling beneath the warm glow of stage lights and the ambient sounds of nature, Esemuede’s passion ripples through every extremity and spills onto her face. Her expressions stretch and contort just as her body does, but it is done so in a confined, restricted manner. Her extensions expand and soar as if she is being held–or perhaps controlled–by the empty space surrounding her; it is juxtaposed by the depth of her lunges and the fluidity with which she negotiates her relationship to the floor. While watching in the very front row, I felt an overwhelming sense of empathy for Esemuede, a desire to loosen the grip that the dim space held on her, and offer some respite from that confinement. Esemuede aims to interrogate the distance between free-flowing expression and confrontation, specifically as it relates to the Black Lives Matter movement of 2020 that continues into the present day.  

“how can we remain true to Black culture while at the same time breaking ourselves to conform to the dominant white society?” 

In a solo performed by the exquisite Malik Burnett, Stephen Shynes’ “This Dream Ain’t Free” investigates the “two realities” that Shynes identifies for Black people in the United States: “the grind and the escape…in the quiet cracks between survival.” Burnett’s costume, designed by Roslyn Galberth-Mayes, immediately catches the eye: a sleeveless, red- and blue-striped jumper painted with white stars of varying sizes and frayed material at the shoulders. The soundscore takes on its own character as Burnett christens the space with his movement. Over the expressive tones of jazzy horns and a piano, a voice shares his story: “I knew America wasn’t gon’ help us, so I made my own army…I don’t have no limit to what I can do.” That’s as clear as a message can get. Under amethyst and magenta hues, Burnett dominates with sustained extensions and a peppering of gestural phrasework. The gestural inclusions make the movement feel more conversational, as if saying, “Don’t you see this too?” At some points, Burnett cowers beneath a presence above or beyond him, pleading. At others, Burnett takes center stage, blowing a dramatic kiss to the open air. To me, it reads like an act of defiance. This duality of countenance reminds me of W.E. B. Du Bois’ concept of double consciousness within Black bodies in America: how can we remain true to Black culture while at the same time breaking ourselves to conform to the dominant white society? 

In complete and utter silence initially, Sydney Goldston and Elan Robinson perform “held, then poured”, a work that, to me, embodied clear and active listening as they traverse the performance space. They move in and out of synchronous and asynchronous movement structures together at the undercurrent of pensive instrumental music. As the work evolves, the sound becomes more electronic. Goldston and Robinson build a traveling progression of swinging arms, swiping shapes, leading and following, and tossed movement that echoes the movement of slings. Demonstrating the push and pull of conversation, connection, and relationships, I deeply appreciated how thoughtfully these dancers took time to see and notice one another as they explored various movement motifs throughout the duet. Together, they cover every corner of the stage, diverging and converging in harmony with one another. The work concludes with the gentle silhouette of them holding one another as they connect for the final time. Deep listening, connection, and embracing one another is more essential now than ever before. 

Along a similar vein of witnessing and noticing, Kristen Bolger’s “stall” takes a more internal approach, centering the mirror and an individual’s response to their own reflection. Because the cast was dressed identically–in smoke-grey t-shirts and matching grey track pants with slicked-back buns–I interpreted the cast as versions of a single being. Driven by the low hum of a beat that escalates, the ensemble of dancers leap into the air repeatedly, tossing their arms to the same side of their body with each ascent. They sport stoic expressions and execute cyclical repetitions of gestures and movement motifs. The energy reminds me of the eerie, unsettling monotony found in hit Apple TV+ series Severance where a single man’s consciousness is split into two separate entities–a personal self and a work self–that have no knowledge of one another. In Bolger’s universe, these multiplicitous reflections of a single core, of a single self, are aware of and responsive to one another. For me, the most thrilling moment comes when the full ensemble executes a heavy-hitting, complex floorwork phrase that tangles and untangles itself throughout the black expanse of the stage. The bodies ultimately merge, forming what I like to call a “cuddle puddle”, and they lock their eyes on the audience. What happens when all of our self-reflection(s) unite? What happens when we face ourselves? At the very least, I have to fill in the eyebrows of all of my selves first. Mirrors are obviously really helpful for that. You won’t catch me out here bald-faced. *Insert laugh track*

Lindsay Grymes’ “Took to Leave” immediately came in hot with the drama. I came for the black vests the pair of dancers wore and stayed for the synchronicity and intensity with which the duet performed. The initial dancer of the pair longs to distance herself from her partner onstage, and said partner is intent on making her stay, sometimes weighing her down or redirecting her partner’s movement with gripping force, speed, and sense of urgency. Their relationship to one another seems to lack warmth; many moments of softness and fluidity are intentionally cut off. It’s almost as if one is begging the other to remain in what appears to be a harmful, injurious partnership or situation. They continuously fail to meet one another’s needs, this is most clearly demonstrated when they thrust their bodies forward in what should have been an embrace. Instead, their arms shoot out past each others’ bodies; they connect at the chest and continue to claw their hands and arms outwards to no avail. The final image is striking: under a stark white spotlight, the pair executes biting gestural phrasework. The initial dancer continues to dance, her focus fixed on an indeterminate point offstage; her partner retreats from the light with a chilling sense of resignation. 

Grappling with a rope from one corner of the stage to its opposite, Tabata Vara shoulders the weight of unresolved generational trauma and hardly bearable personal sacrifice. Performing an excerpt of Los Pecados De Nuestros Padres, Vara finds herself almost fully ensnared within the rope’s knots, loops, and burdensome weight. She continues to advance forward in a diagonal, rectangular column of unmoving, white light. Clearly bound, she flings her body repetitively, quivers, and begs to be freed without uttering a single word. Adding to an already arresting moment, the soundscape is haunting. Meredith Monk’s “Education of a Girlchild” plays, and it sounds like an insistent wailing of words I cannot discern, a wailing that sometimes breaks into a full-on yodel. There is a period towards the middle of the work when Vara frees herself from the ropes, clearly liberated, and takes up more space in the column of light. I am perplexed by the fact that, towards the end of the work, Vara reassumes the ropes–I want to call them chains–and returns to the place where the solo began. Does she make the choice to maintain those burdens? Does she posit that we are bound to these wounds, whether self-inflicted or inherited, regardless of our attempts to unfasten them from our consciousness? I would love to dissect that moment in a million different directions, but we don’t have time for that! 

“ This is the kind of work that tells you exactly what it is, rubs it in your face, makes you laugh, and then runs away. It’s so over-the-top in an endearing way. And it works.” 

In “MACHO HUZZAH”, created by Emily Green in collaboration with the performers, a very serious moment from the preceding work becomes very unserious–my favorite word and way to be–very fast. Having seen this work for NACHMO DC 2024, I immediately said, “Ahhhh, here we go…” with an eye roll and a grin. I knew exactly what I was getting into. A cast of six women and non-binary dancers, their all-black tracksuits with bright green trim signal that something athletic is afoot. I am dazzled by their all-out sprint to be the most masculine, most machismo, most virile character that they can be. The cast dances with undeniably exuberant energy, accompanied by what I like to call “Game Boy Music”. I got tired just looking at them sprint around the stage, make massive leaps, and perform other feats of strength that directly played into the overperformance of masculinity. Of course, it ends with a gun show. This is the kind of work that tells you exactly what it is, rubs it in your face, makes you laugh, and then runs away. It’s so over-the-top in an endearing way. And it works. Thus concludes Act I! 

For Act II, all eyes are on commissioned artists Emily Ames and Rae Luebbert for a long side: a queer double portrait, a work that “pairs well with tea.” Like the true community peers that Ames and Luebbert are, the pair opens their presentation with words of gratitude for the many hands that touched the work. Ames and Luebbert assign a timekeeper, a captain, and a radio contact, each equipped with an hourglass, noisemaker, and walkie-talkie respectively. I notice the live music set-up they have on stage, their ladder, the fairy lights, and their kettle. I appreciate the fact that this movement exploration and the artists’ prompts aid in the demystification of the performance space. Their world-building removes all of the pomp and circumstance that often comes with a proscenium dance setting, offering the audience a soft place to land, play, imagine, and investigate together. 

Music composer and performer Amelia Diehl loops and unloops, winds and unwinds, crinkles up and smoothes out the music with several instruments live: a guitar, a trumpet, even a tea kettle. Diehl’s real-time music-looping is truly a performance in and of itself, creating an additional layer of texture and craftsmanship to the overall work. Diehl even cues Ames and Luebbert onstage to execute certain steps. Diehl’s sounds, sometimes ambient, other times lyrical, create another character for Ames and Luebbert to connect to. An integral part of the double portrait as it is painted, Diehl’s earnest and steadfast presence throughout the work is refreshing and assuring. 

Dancing both in tandem with and alongside (get it?) life-sized projections of themselves, their movements flow in a continuous and steady stream. There is no rigidity or hyper-technicality, just two peers dedicated to their sense of play. I’d be curious to know more about the aspects of queerness being investigated between the two of them: the fluidity of friendship? The intimacy and care that queer spaces provide? The looming question of romance and society’s assumptions of roles in partnerships? The sanctity of simply having space to be seen, be held, simply be? What about the concept of body doubling when it comes to queer partnerships? Do queer people gravitate towards or depart from people like them, or maybe a mysterious third thing? Is queerness the continuous dance of departure and return to one’s self, those around them, and traditional notions of love? 

“I truly think that this work could be done anywhere, and that’s part of the magic of it.” 

Written both in real time and via the projection, Ames and Luebbert provide the audience with several provocations: Imagine we’re dancing. Imagine a portrait. Imagine a portrait doubled. Imagine we’re wrapping and unwrapping. Imagine we’re flying. Imagine we’re infinite. Between Ames and Luebbert serving Passion TAZO tea shots, making paper airplanes with the audience, reading text by queer and trans writers, sharing Werther’s caramel candies, or demonstrating their own liftoff in a cardboard plane, it wouldn’t be far-fetched to imagine us as friends either. a long side: a queer double portrait flirts with postmodernism and performance art in an engaging way. I would be so fascinated by a site-specific iteration of this work, one that really plays into the intimacy of the world created by Ames and Luebbert. Tenderness and imagination are the connective tissue of this movement exhibition. I could imagine this work in the round, at a park, or even on a roof. Play, imagination, and friendship are universal; I truly think that this work could be done anywhere, and that’s part of the magic of it. 

(This piece compelled me to reflect on quite a lot, so let me cook.) I’ll admit this: the work was equal parts heartening and challenging for me to fully absorb and settle into. Queerness is a spectrum, a sphere of experiences, and we are all dreamers. However, white queerness is afforded more space to actualize the dreams they set forth, a privilege not granted Black and Brown queer and trans bodies. I struggle to position white queerness in this binary, oppositional way, considering we’re all just queerdos trying to be comfortable in our skin, have basic human rights, and thrive while we do it. But still…I have to sit with that envy. And we all already know how hard it is outside, so why even bring this up? 

This could, perhaps, be a larger conversation for the region. A specific brand and lineage of Eurocentric modern and post-modern dance has dominated DC stages for decades, and it’s my hope that queerness does not become a smoke screen for that continued domination. Whiteness begets access, begets space, begets ease, begets autonomy, begets agency. Granted, two of the artists are women and one is a gender queer person, so gender and sexuality compound to pave the roads they walk as they move throughout the world. They are queer, white people who continuously lead with kindness, generosity, and curiosity above all else. Post-performance, Ames shared with me that she and Luebbert spoke at length about the whitewashing of queerness in the vast majority of media and culture. They acknowledge that as three white, queer bodies on the stage, it could be challenging to explicitly name that line of thought in the ultimate presentation of the work. 

“I am confident that our collective imagination could dream up a multicolored, queer existence that offers everyone the chance to imagine themselves without limits, unburdened by the weight of injustice and inequity.” 

In the midst of the presentation, though, I yearned for an homage, a robust portrait of the present moment and the realities that queer and trans Black and Brown bodies face, especially because of our positioning in the DMV dance scene. I acknowledge that this is a tall order for anyone not directly connected to those worlds. Alongside the complexity of my musings about the work sits a deep appreciation for genuine, intuitive artists like Ames and Luebbert. I am grateful that they have the platform to share their experience of queerness and what it means to them, especially in such frightening times. Dance Place, a nearly 45-year old DC dance institution, continues to expand as a container and incubator for queer dance expression. I am confident that our collective imagination could dream up a multicolored, queer existence that offers everyone the chance to imagine themselves without limits, unburdened by the weight of injustice and inequity. 

Spring has sprung, and the visions of season’s newness are juxtaposed against the dull ache of watching a menacing regime demand that society return to such a dated, traditionalist state of being. It’s hard outside. Dance Place’s New Releases Choreographers Showcase offered new voices an opportunity to share their hearts, their worries, their fears, and their joys. It offered a container for deep thought, humor, rigor, and tenderness. I am eager to see how these choreographers continue to press forward, push artistic boundaries, and encourage thoughtful dialogue through the works that they create. I hope that they continue to invite us into their worlds, bringing their most imaginative, uninhibited selves, no matter the personal, social, political, cultural, or literal season.

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