Behind an unsuspecting program, the Toronto Symphony puts on a show for the eyes and (of course) ears November 9th, 2022 | Roy Thomson Hall BY MICHAEL ZARATHUS-COOK We’re coming full circle: it’s actually refreshing when a program sticks to the old school, the meat and potatoes of the canon, taking a brief break from the premise of new music. While this dynamic Toronto Symphony Orchestra (TSO) program - featuring Holst, Mendelssohn, Rossini, and Coleridge-Taylor - plays it safe, it manages to deliver the best show in town with an adventurous presentation. In my Globe and Mail review of the TSO’s season opener, I sought to put my finger on the pulse of the orchestra’s programming ethos: come for the old but stay for the new. This pulse remains, but it’s perfectly fine if it occasionally skips a beat with retro-programs like this that shift the focus towards the orchestra itself, and to just how much fun there is to be had on stage. With orchestras everywhere clamouring to be as relevant to the emergent now as possible, there’s a new metric to set the posers from the breadwinners: can you serve old recipes on dazzling new platters? On its surface, this program is mostly basic-cable, a random assortment from the TSO’s centennial jukebox. But the flesh-and-blood execution of these slightly anthemic pieces, presents something else entirely. In short, the vibes were immaculate and galactic, from downbeat to finale. This program doubles as a history lesson, a retrospective on the orchestra’s recent history via the vehicle of its previous music director, Peter Oundjian. When Oundjian made his debut, as guest conductor, with the orchestra on October 24, 1998, that program opened with the same La gazza ladra overture as this program. And from the sound of a few particularly enthusiastic “Brava!”, a handful of audience members present that October might have been in attendance for this program as well. Oundjian is a TSO staple, regardless of how long he’s been gone (at his other gig as music director of the Colorado Music Festival) his ability to connect with audiences right from the drop is something special. My own introduction to the TSO in my teens was with Oundjian as conductor, and his knack for delivering little quips within the program - for those who didn’t read the program notes beforehand - is missed. Before Oundjian was Andrew Davis, yet another British conductor whose career is intertwined with the TSO’s recent history. Throughout this week I’ve been listening to the 1986 recording of Holst’s The Planets by the TSO, conducted by Davis and recorded in Kitchener, Ontario. Hearing this piece resurrected again nearly 40 years after that recording, in the same building where the orchestra then might have rehearsed it (the TSO moved into Roy Thomson hall in 1982), is exactly the sort of historical undertone that added an extra kick to the usual concert proceedings. In practice, this program is a string of ten tableaus: Rossini’s overture, Mendelssohn’s Concert Piece No.2, Coleridge-Taylor’s Ballade in A Minor, and the seven movements that make up The Planets. The order I’ve just listed matches the order in the printed program, though that’s not exactly how things unfolded—Oundjian opted to swap the placement of Mendelssohn and Coleridge-Taylor, so the former could dovetail into the intermission. Throughout these ten parts, the energy waxes and wanes but never dissipates. The Rossini overture is a light fanfare with instrumentation that matches well with the other items on the program—a top shelf performance as far as mic-checks go. The intrigue kicks into a more robust gear with the onset of the Ballade. I went down a bit of a rabbit-hole on Colerdige-Taylor and his use of Brahmsian hemiola while putting together the program notes for this item. Here’s a fun tidbit that didn't make it through editing: Coleridge-Taylor formed his baton with wood from a tree that was growing in the yard of Frederick Douglass. The performance was right on target, albeit overshadowed – as much of the first half was – by the mighty good time that orchestra had playing Mendelssohn’s Concert Piece No.2. By far, the highlight of the night came by way of Miles Jaques (basset horn) and Eric Abramovitz (clarinet) tag-teaming for the Concert Piece. Talk about an entrance. The pair showed in matching glittering sequin tuxedos that caught and flung light throughout the hall. Jaques (black tux and blue bow tie) displayed the full range that can be covered by his instrument’s extra keys with virtuoso flourish. Abramovitz (blue tux and black bow tie) was far from an appendage to the basset horn, particularly shining in the improvised cadenza at the bottom of the Andante. The pair came back, following a feverish ovation, for a knives drawn tête-à-tête battle of woodwind wits, which ended with a draw. Even after the intermission that separated Mendelssohn from Holst, the energy generated by Jaques and Abramovitz could alone power the rockets needed to launch into the orbit of The Planets. During his stage banter at the start of the concert, Oundjian had little to say about Planets, perhaps on account of how ubiquitous it is across seasonal programs, how frequently it is referenced in popular culture, and how self-evident the viscerality of its sonic experience. He did however implore us to keep a keen ear out for the Toronto Children’s Chorus & Toronto Youth Choir’s part in the closing stretch of the Neptune movement. Their insertion into the soundscape could not have been more seamless. Offstage, their voices wafted in just barely above the wings of the string section, and they gently guided the intergalactic locomotive that took flight - nearly 50 minutes earlier - back down to earth.

“For the record: not all classical musicians want to cheat on their partners or spouses because the music compels us to.” BY EMMA SCHMIEDECKE *SPOILERS AHEAD* A musical superstar, the performance of a lifetime, and a genius that can’t be contained. Every few years, a film is released about classical music and there are many overused and false stereotypes about the classical genre and its musicians that are utilized. The recently released Tár is far from the most egregious of these misdirected and uninformed dramas, instead, providing us with a more layered and nuanced interpretation of the classical world: part exposé, part top-drawer soap opera. The film provides many angles of analysis, but as a professional classical musician myself, I was most curious about how they would portray the musicians’ personalities and work habits. And whether they would use the same stereotypes so many other “accurate” films about classical music have relied upon to create a sensational piece of entertainment for the big screen. The film stars Cate Blanchett as Lydia Tár, widely regarded as one of the most famous and sought after musicians of our time who has recently been appointed the first female Music Director of the Berlin Philharmonic. Right off the bat, the film attempts to legitimise itself by name-dropping as many classical institutions and notable figures as it can, showing the audience that the film has “done its homework” in finding out who and what really drives the classical music scene. Curtis and Juilliard for conservatories, the Big Five Orchestras of the United States, JoAnne Falletta and Marin Alsop for conductors, Jennifer Higdon and Caroline Shaw (interviewed for Issue 9 of smART Magazine) for composers. They’re all there in the first ten minutes of the film and, of course, Lydia Tár has had something to do with all of them. She is portrayed as knowledgeable but haughty, someone who really likes herself and thinks that everyone else should too. Whatever she says goes, and if anyone takes issue with that, they are dispensable. All in all, I think that Blanchett – who is known for her deep commitment to role preparation – did an accurate job in embodying the higher-than-thou persona one would assume of a classical music giant. Though in this era of performance, not many people in her position can get away with that anymore. Blanchett plays the piano herself, instead of relying on cutaways and hand doubles (upon investigation, I found that she studied piano well into her teens), and though she does not play the instrument much in the film, when she does it is indeed her playing. Her conducting, on the other hand, is not convincing – there’s a moment when she slices through the air with the baton as though it is an axe, and she lunges and thrashes around so much I was afraid she’d fall off the podium into the violas. I’ll cut her a little slack; it’s hard to expect someone who has not had musical training throughout their life to convincingly portray someone who has, but many conductors start their conducting education later in life, and it is much easier to teach someone the basic techniques of conducting than a musical instrument, so whomever prepared Blanchett should have stuck around for the shooting of the film to make sure that conducting accuracy made it into the final cut. What I take issue with is the material Blanchett was given to work with, and the storyline at large. The same old stereotypes of classical musicians are there in every setting, from rehearsals to artist interviews, concerts to teaching—only this time dressed up in the costume of an art film. Tár has a commitment to women in classical music, having founded a conducting fellowship for female artists, and a big emphasis is put on the fact that she promotes music by women. This definitely reflects current real-world movements to include more women in the conversation of classical music, but instead of a celebration of female artistry, her actions come back to bite her. She is accused of grooming a former student into providing sexual favors in return for professional opportunities, but when that student ultimately commits suicide because of her entanglement with Tár in the midst of the conductor’s preparation for her debut with the Philharmonic, Tár is investigated and her true colors revealed. She reacts to the news of the student’s passing dismissively, saying that the student was disturbed and obsessed, telling her distraught assistant to “forget about her” because she was not “one of us”. This callous response only adds to the stereotype that musicians are so committed to the dramatic that we are immune to the tragedies of life and can go it alone without considering anyone else’s feelings or circumstances. We will abandon our friends and colleagues once we have gotten what we needed from them, and so we have no true friends or sincere professional relationships. Despite the relentless pace of a life in the performing arts, we in the music world are indeed friends with each other! Yes, we’re all solitary to some degree; it’s a byproduct of being alone for hours on end practising, but we find ways to work together to make the music happen and certainly care about what happens to those around us. Another part of the story that really bothered me was the assumption that, in classical music, there is always an older, famous musician in power giving preference to a younger musician and expects favors, usually those of a sexual nature, in exchange for professional opportunities. They show nepotic favouritism towards the younger artist in question, giving them solo opportunities or finagling the system so that fortune goes their way. This trope is depicted in the relationship between Tár and a new cellist in the orchestra named Olga. Tár is immediately sexually attracted to Olga (much to the concern of Tár’s wife Sharon, also the concertmaster of the orchestra) and in hopes of romantic reciprocation and admiration, gives Olga the unearned opportunity to play Edward Elgar’s Cello Concerto. This type of inappropriate conduct certainly happens in classical music, as was underscored by the #MeToo movement, along with the exposure of sexual abuse and harassment within the classical world. But, for the record: not all classical musicians want to cheat on their partners or spouses because the music compels us to. We admire each other’s playing and performance abilities, of course, but hearing a well-played phrase or beautifully executed melody does not launch us into throws of passion that make us want to abandon common sense and jeopardise long-standing relationships. Yes, this is a film and we want to see life’s triumphs and troubles taken to the extreme, but they could have easily found another way to add romantic intrigue to the plot. Perhaps the most nefarious stereotype of classical musicians is that we have “fragile and precarious mental states.” While Tár is being investigated as part of the court case involving the aforementioned student suicide, her personal life unravels due to the budding relationship with Olga, and the pressure is mounting for the upcoming performance of Mahler’s Symphony No. 5. The stereotype is that when the going gets tough, when things don’t go our way, classical musicians completely break down and we are incapable of being rational. This stereotype culminates in a scene during the aforementioned Mahler 5 performance that is completely outrageous, totally improbable, bordering on sociopathic and would have resulted in Tár being carted off to jail instead of just escorted off the stage. With the amount of rejection we face in the arts, sometimes on a daily basis, musicians are some of the most resilient people out there. We know how to take a hit and get back up again because we do it so regularly, and this important skill does not immediately vanish once someone has made it to the level Tár has. Her reaction kind of made me want to shake her by the shoulders, tell her to go talk to a professional, and focus on getting the job done as a true musician would have, regardless of what may be happening in her personal life. This two-and-a-half-hour long film attempts to squish all the intricacies and eccentricities of a life in music into one storyline. I understand that the director, writer, and yes, Blanchett herself, were trying to give the viewer as complete a picture of this character and her situation as possible, but in a film about music, there is not a whole lot of meaningful discussion about the music at all. There is instead an attempt to make an edge-of-your-seat drama out of the small and, in this case, inaccurate details of how classical musicians supposedly live and work. Our lives are not psychological thrillers, far from it, unless one considers hard work, dedication, and intense study the precursors of a dramatic and sensational existence worthy of a movie. What this film tries to explain through the character of Lydia Tár is that classical musicians, by virtue of what we do and how we do it, can’t help but be overly dramatic, unreasonable, irresponsible, and bizarre. Inevitably, these unavoidable traits lead us to being knocked off our self-awarded pedestals - or, in this case, conducting podiums - into reality, and this couldn’t be further from the truth. Go ahead and rhapsodise on what it’s like to be a misunderstood genius in classical music, Lydia - I have a rehearsal to get to.

Attention to detail manages to bring fresh perspectives to a classic October 20th, 2022 | Four Seasons for the Performing Arts | Toronto BY DR. JANE FORNER The Canadian Opera Company (COC) revival of their Carmen production presents a captivating performance, offering a superb ensemble that brought real emotional energy to the canonic opera. Starring as the ill-fated central couple (Carmen and Don José), Rihab Chaieb and Marcelo Puente brought a convincing flair for sensitive acting and vocal flexibility. This was complemented by a well-rounded supporting cast and chorus and a lively orchestra under Jacques Lacombe’s baton, who consistently brought out subtle contrasts in colour and tempo. After a storming prélude, everything came together stronger with each act, gaining as it went along. By the end of Act II, the ensemble had blossomed, offering a depth that had been lacking a little at the start. The children’s chorus, for instance, were very sweet, but too well-behaved – lacking a little in the adorably chaotic energy that “street urchins” are bound to provide. After their excellently choreographed line-march at the front of the stage, they somewhat meekly surrounded the adults. Whereas the women’s factory fight fizzled with confrontation, the children weren’t quite bothersome enough. Then again, I am biassed from happy memories of my first operatic experience, which, as for many singers, was being in the children’s chorus in a production of Carmen, in my case at the Grand Theatre in Leeds, England, with West Riding Opera, when we would run around the actual streets to smear ourselves with mud and moss as a prelude to causing often genuinely violent havoc on the stage – thoughts and prayers to all operatic chaperones the world over. Especially well-controlled on their entrance in Act I, the choeur des cigarières impressed: Lacombe took the 3/8 andantino slower than expected, yielding a mesmerising effect from the chorus who presented a striking control on Bizet’s seductive ascending lines, mimicking the swirling of rising smoke that entrances them (la fumée qui vers les cieux monte) just as the soldiers fixate, voyeuristically, on the women. As an aside, I was curious about the decision to translate bohémien[ne] as “Romani” throughout. To be sure, what has typically been used in English is generally considered an offensive slur. I wondered if this has become common practice, rather than simply using the Anglicised “bohemian,” though the latter wouldn’t capture the more multifaceted implications of the French. I won’t recount here the long historical rabbit-hole I descended down over the past week tracing the etymologies and nineteenth-century literary uses in both languages. However, it does call attention to the politics of translation that we might not always think about as audiences, but which those in the surtitle (and musicology) game confront regularly. Regardless, it’s a welcome change of direction – it’s certainly not my experience that omitting “gypsies” altogether has become mainstream (I noted the continued use in the Met Opera’s 2019 Carmen, for example), but it is certainly a topic that would benefit from further consideration. Chaieb’s “Habañera” was confident and assured, although even more rubato would have been welcome at times. It struck me as really quite a casual scene, staged to downplay rather than emphasise any seductive implications, with Carmen positioned very much among the crowd of cigarières rather than distinct from them; there are no excesses of choreography, and Don José is not spotlighted (figuratively speaking) as the “recipient” of her advances. Productions quite often stage it like that, similarly to Musetta’s “Quando m’en vo” in La bohème – as a diva’s sensual showstopper, where surrounding action pauses and all focus is on the female character’s body and voice – but that tends to misread the context of Carmen’s song and dance here, as Susan McClary points out in her classic study of the opera: Although a few soldiers look on, the women do not dance for their benefit: they are intruders, tolerated only because of the power they wield. Consequently, when Carmen enters it is not as a femme fatale, but as a member of this community… Unfortunately, Don José witnesses her dance and systematically misreads all its signs. (1992, 144) I found Chaieb’s acting captivating throughout, but especially so in portraying the nuances of Carmen’s emotions, her signature mix of confidence and fiercely guarded sensitivity that causes her to feel love, betrayal, and jealousy so deeply. In the séguedille, she did a good job of coming across simultaneously bored and sexy – again, like in the “Habañera”, not an overblown performance, preferring to play with the elasticity of Carmen’s alternately scale-like and disjunct melodies. At times I simply wanted more volume and heft behind the sound, but as Act II progressed, this developed to match Puente’s strong tenor, whose powerful and rich voice impressed consistently, particularly shining in the Act III finale. As was the case with several of the cast, I raised a slight eyebrow at some of the French diction in the spoken dialogue, but that aside, Puente gave a splendid performance. The word that was at the front of my mind throughout the evening and in the days following was realistic – not operatic verismo, but that Chaieb and Puente suggested an authentic couple in turmoil; their duet at the culmination of the second act was deeply moving. I enjoyed Joyce El-Khoury’s Micaëla, finding her a stronger presence that didn’t play too much into the stereotype of the meek, virtuous country girl, though vocally she shone much more in the latter half, receiving deservedly rapturous applause for her rendition of the Act III aria (Je dis que rien ne m’épouvante). Alain Coulombe was a convincing and solid Zuniga, while replacing Arianne Cosette, Midori Marsh absolutely sparkled as an energetic and playful Frasquita, her high notes ringing especially well through busy textures with a crystalline timbre, and she showed an impressive control and power that brought this secondary role alive. Along with Queen Hezumuryango, replacing Alex Hetherington as Mercédès with equal aplomb, the two made a delightful pair onstage, and I hope to see a lot more of them both in the future. A memorable highlight was Lucas Meachem’s almost parodic performance as Escamillo – a wonderfully funny stage presence that, after a while, had the audience laughing even at the faintest strains of the Toreador March, which ended up functioning as a kind of comic leitmotif (that is, up until its haunting echo as the chorus sings while Carmen is stabbed). His entrance in Act II was a suitable nod to the 1930s Hollywood associations of the production, though sauntering onstage amid adoring fans in sunglasses and a glittering jacket, I would have placed him a couple of decades later, more as Elvis than an off-duty Toreador; indeed, it’s only in Act IV as he entered for the bullfight that he really took on the traditional matador guise. I could have done with far fewer blinding camera flashes in the café scenes, though – the first minute or two achieved the desired impression of paparazzi adulation, after which it became more agonising than effective. Meachem offered a self-satirising performance of the macho tropes that dominate in Carmen, and swagger was complemented by rich and assured singing throughout. Perhaps a little more attention could have been paid to stagecraft – especially given the dramatic weight that both Puente and Meachem lent to their characters throughout, their “duel” was underwhelming, Don José’s knife seeming more appropriate for peeling potatoes than stabbing… I found the second and fourth Acts the most impressive from a design perspective, particularly the attention to small details in Act II, where some non-singing roles at the beginning weren’t just plonked anywhere on stage as decoration but placed strategically – a woman languishing in a dark alley in the corner, lit only by a warm halo, an almost cinematic focus which helped to bring the whole scene to life. I did wonder about the setting, however: not being already familiar with the COC’s production, I was confident after a while that it was set in roughly the 1920s or 1930s – it’s all in the hats! – but it struck me as odd that there was no mention or discussion of this in the program. Moreover, I certainly didn’t pick up on the Cuban setting; a pre-performance video with Joyce El-Khoury (singing Micaëla) on the COC website offered some explanations, but I wouldn’t say there was all that much that screamed Cuba rather than Seville or Andalucía. The stage screen, its array of marbled warm colours imitating something between faded walls of once-grand golden palacios and a Rothko painting, was completed with graffiti in its lower segment, but this modern touch seemed out of place; when the graffiti was transferred to the stage itself in Act IV – adorning the walls of the bullring – it was good to see it had some use, but it implied an urban grittiness that didn’t match the rest of the production aesthetic. Act IV brought a juxtaposition of spectacle and starkly effective simplicity; the former, from the staggered procession of the chorus – as city folk, toreadors and their assistants – through the audience, eventually forming a cheery crowd. Sitting quite far forward in the stalls, and focused on the jolliness on stage, I didn’t notice, until my seatmate nudged me, that Don José was flailing around in the aisle right beside us. Putting actors among the audience can go either way, sometimes clichéd, but the decision here worked very well to place us inside Don José’s perspective: with the tableau disrupted, I watched the stage differently, seeing the effect of his possessive watching of Carmen more immediately (it helped, of course, that he was so physically close), if not quite through Don José’s eyes, because there isn’t all that much that could convince me – even in Puente’s moving portrayal – to sympathise with the predicament of his own making. Contrasting with the excitement of the chorus’ appearance was the set design for the final act, whose undoubtedly impressive feats of construction were masked by a remarkably un-busy aesthetic, dominated by clean lines, bold streaks of colour, and bifurcated into two levels by way of a raked spectator stand that had the chorus high up and almost out of view watching the bullfight. I found this an extremely successful use of depth and line: filling up the dead air conversely created the impression of more space. Dividing the stage diagonally, moreover, meant that Carmen and Don José’s final altercation plays out underneath, away from anyone else to see. It’s a visible and painful reminder not only of domestic violence hidden out of sight behind closed doors, but also to society’s complicity. While this isn’t necessarily unique to this production, something about the fact that the chorus are not actually offstage but so visibly close to Carmen and Don José, sitting merely a few metres above, drives home their blissful ignorance of the crime going on below their feet, while the audience witnesses the full escalation throughout, from tugs and shoves during an arrest to Carmen tossed across a table, to a slap, to the inevitable ending. l’ll never not want Carmen to turn the tables on Don José at the end, particularly with my feminist musicology hat on, but failing that, this production’s attention to detail at key moments still manages to bring fresh perspectives to a classic. Carmen is playing at the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts until November 4. Dr Jane Forner is a musicologist and opera scholar researching the politics of gender, race, and language in contemporary opera. She is currently a Postdoctoral Fellow at the University of Toronto. jforner20(at)gmail.com | Twitter: @FornerJane

Hella Feminist imparts a holistic, fresh, and community-focused approach to understanding feminism and gender 29 July 2022 - 08 January 2023; Oakland Museum of California BY NAVYA POTHAMSETTY The Oakland Museum of California (OMCA) launched Hella Feminist in late July, an exhibit exploring the fight for gender equity with a San Francisco Bay-Area focus. By incorporating perspectives often excluded from knowledge production and preservation, the exhibit challenges dominant historical and cultural conceptions of feminism. From the show’s curation to its creative partnerships, Hella Feminist imparts a holistic, fresh, and community-focused approach to understanding feminism and gender. “There’s some really incredible artwork in this exhibition,” said Hella Feminist co-curator and OMCA Curator of Art Carin Adams. This includes portraits by Los Angeles-based, Bay Area-raised Shizu Saldamando, who paints her friends and creative peers. Her subjects are often from Latin-Punk and queer communities. The Western canon’s influence on our education limits what most Americans consider “appropriate” for fine art galleries. By painting identities that aren’t typically seen in fine art museums, Saldamando hopes to broaden our conception of who belongs and creates art and culture. In addition to thought-provoking art, the Hella Feminist exhibit forces us to question the dominant historical narrative of women’s rights. For example, a White protester in a 1976 Women’s Suffrage sign holds a poster reading: “American ladies will not be slaves.” A reinterpretation of this graphic, and of historical materials like this, is necessary to qualify the narrative of feminism—rights were won, but not for everyone equally. “There’s always been schisms, there’s always been tensions within feminism,” explained consulting curator Erendina Delgadillo. “This reminds visitors that there’s always more perspectives in your moment than your own.” The contemporary, social justice-focused re-interpretation of historical artifacts is just one way that the Hella Feminist curators emphasize that true femnism is intersectional. Intersectionality describes how different forms of inequity and discrimination—such as racism, sexism, and ableism—overlap in a person’s lived experience. People may not see the world through an intersectional lens, explained co-curator Lisa Silberstein, but it’s part of the whole exhibition—and viewers will see that in what we and our collaborators chose to present. Hella Feminism’s intersectional paradigm goes beyond identity. To demonstrate the different ways gender affects us, the curators organized the exhibit into three realms: mind, body, and spirit. In the “Mind” section, viewers are introduced to an intersectional re-interpretation of feminist history. In the “Body” portion, they’ll explore how gender equity affects one’s health and bodily autonomy. Lastly, they’ll reach the “Spirit” section. It’s what Adams refers to as “Hella Feminist’s emotional arc”: a space for viewers to process and reflect. It features a massive, collaborative art installation called Museuexclusion Excorcism, a crowd-sourced tapestry curated and assembled by Tanya Aguiniga. By including non-traditional media, like a breakup text screenshot, the amalgamation challenges our ideas of what “belongs” in museums. It also prompts a reconsideration of our relationship to emotion: feelings are often invalidated and relegated to the realm of irrationality. The “Spirit” section of Hella Feminist challenges that. In addition to fostering reflection, Hella Feminist encourages community-building and solidarity. Collaboration is integral to the gender equity fight. With multiple interactive components, visitors can learn from and contribute to others’ understanding of feminism. “There's an opportunity for people to release what they’ve been carrying over the past couple of years,” explains Silberstein, “and find camaraderie or community in the exhibition.” In one room, visitors are met with a wall full of East Bay feminists’ portraits. These figures range from well-known individuals like Angela Davis to local groups like the Radical Monarchs, an activism organization for girls of color. Not all them are celebrities—and that’s the point: to recognize how our friends, peers, and neighbors are fighting for social justice. Of course, political and large-scale change is important: but the strength to do and support that comes from strong, passionate, individuals. Visitors who see themselves in those fighting for feminism are more likely to feel emotionally connected to gender equity—and more likely to act. Perhaps the most direct way that visitors can connect was added to Hella Feminist after the Roe v. Wade decision. Accompanying a video of interviews with people who offer pregnancy termination services, the exhibit features a phone number that visitors can call. “People can share their support, or share their own stories about reproductive health and abortions,” explained Delgadillo. In addition to reading about the threat to bodily autonomy, hearing another human voice on the line connects people to the emotional weight and implications behind the Supreme Court Decision. This is crucial especially for visitors who have never grappled with the risk or trauma of pregnancy, It’s just one of the many ways that Hella Feminist connects people: not just to the knowledge of the past, but to the emotions of the present and the potential of the future.

Catch this exquisitely slow collection for Images Festival July 9, Gallery TPW BY MILES FORRESTER Watching Eve Tagny's video triptych at the entrance of Gallery TPW, it takes a minute to decide where the eyes will rest to catch the three wide screens in their totality. This is before you realize it's infinitely variable, and that kind of passive rest is impossible. From June 29 to August 6, Curator Jaclyn Quaresma presents Tagny, and four other "so-called Canadian artists," for a soft landing as part of the 35th Images Festival, hosted by Gallery TPW in partnership with Scotiabank CONTACT Photography Festival. In keeping with the festival's ‘Slow Edition’ this year, Quaresma has assembled works that explore a reparative and reckoning kind of slowness. When I check the durations for English Rose, Body Landscapes, and Labouring bodies (eulogy for the soil), I can see that their separate durations, 15:19, 17:15, and 26:30 minutes respectively means the same constellations of moments will never recur. Three wide screens, spaced a body's width apart in the little half-hallway in front of the gallery's counter, require a decision on which video gets your full attention while the other two play at a canted peripheral. Each video approaches an angle on the production of roses: as a material result of physical, often exploited, industrialized labour; as a mannered emblem of the pastoral ideal; and as a subject for artistic works. The first two share a quartet of dancers: Labouring bodies has them performing pantomime motions of horticultural workers; Body Landscapes depicts scenes of placid frolic as they make mannered statuary poses and contemplate the smelling of flowers. English Rose features Tagny working alone, preparing for a portrait in her studio by cycling through still lifes, balancing her body over every object of the composition, as if to weigh it. It makes sense that I can't take every video at once; it depicts a system contingent on alienation. Quaresma gathers a consistently robust conception of slowness throughout the show. Slowness is sold nowadays as the alternative to work, which at the same time makes work possible, like a temporal calorie. Erika DeFreitas' The responsibility of the response (in conversation with Agnes Martin), is 31 squares, a month of pen drawings in the style of Martin, Saskatchewan's abstract expressionist. Each square has immaculate corners, but the horizontal lines contort in the strain of making them. You get used to a rhythm of lines, and then it changes, widening or tightening, turning more in a corner to catch your eye. It creates a lovely conversation with Alyssa Alikpala's In between; another grid piece pasting foraged local grasses into the corner of the wall. Throughout TPW, you can hear Rihab Essayh's (الشوق لجوقة العصافير عند الغسق) Longing for a choir of sparrows at dusk and Alize Zorlutuna, Practice Softening. Essayh's bird songs complement the beautifully hand-dyed tent we're invited to sit in. Through its canopy, the high ceilings are stained. Similarly spiritual, Zorlutuna's projection high overhead archives ephemeral moments in nature in her phone's narrow aperture. Like a stained-glass window, gazing up takes you from your body, turning its rhythm to the wider world. a soft landing runs till August 6th at Gallery TPW.

Three great sets on the final night of Tone Festival July 6, The Baby G BY MILES FORRESTER The tall man with turned-up pants and an alto saxophone takes care, adjusting the neck and reed of his instrument. Its open case was tucked under a table arrayed with pedals, samplers, and a tambourine angled on another module. There's one projector and eight hexagonal lights made of every primary colour. Two drum kits sit behind and beside him, and one open can of a session IPA at his feet. His name is Jeremy Dennis. His bandmate Cyril Penney joins him. They're SurrealSurreal, from Toronto, playing their first gig as a duo. We're at the Baby G, and this is the last night of the TONE Festival's first year returning from the pandemic. The still life I described earlier encapsulates the entire show. As with most noise shows, every band's instrument is just there. When SurrealSurreal takes the stage, Penny gets behind his electronics, and Dennis picks up some drumsticks. An old sci-fi film sample pipes in from somewhere, and they build a bed of churning organ drones under very insistent drumming. Dennis plays a kind of oompah polyrhythm, and when he drops a stick, he hits the hi-hat more intently in his recovery. And they switch. Penney takes the kit, playing with a more liquid delivery while Dennis improvises on his effect-pedalled-Saxophone. It's an excellent debut for this duo, and I'd be excited to see them again. Next, jamie branch and Jason Nazary of Anteloper take the stage next. They're the headliners, playing partly to promote their new album, Pink Dolphins, available on Bandcamp. branch makes loops with vocal coos, and Nazary plays the drums conversationally, ever present, ever complimentary to the aqueous rhythms inherent in sampling. They're the ones that the projector's for, and there's something new for the whole hour: 70's carpet patterns, an ibex, a kiwi-bird, and a tortoise in tie dye. Anteloper themselves are silhouettes; we only see the shadow of branch's trumpet bell as it envelops the microphone. branch plays the trumpet in various ways: hard bop flourishes, fusion-era Miles Davis explorations, staccato jabs which she samples and stretches as she modulates the playback; the music feels densely populated. Their extensive synth palette splashes organ patches against Sonic the Hedgehog's power-ups that cascade and cascade till we're in the middle of the kind of climax one finds in minimalism. That climax is a whorl of an angular arpeggio surrounding a spoken sample: "I really don't know if there's time to do what we need to do, I mean it's possible…" As the last act of the trio, Chiquita Magic's music gets a lot of drama from a simple setup, two small synths turned all the way up and an ancient Casio Latin-rhythm with which she conducts the crowd masterfully by dialling up and drawing back the tempo. Still, we're all so happy we keep a sure footing as her soprano voice explores the boundaries of some lovely, crunchy jazz changes. Wrapping up a set that closed the night and the festival, she chuckles, "this is the TONE Fest afterparty." The organiser, Karen Ng, dances triumphantly in the centre, and everyone joins in. "This is a Cumbia," she acquiesces when the audience demands an encore, and we keep dancing for the first time in a while.

Following Fringe’s First Weekend, I Recommend Everything BY MILES FORRESTER As I was leaving the Factory Theatre after seeing Between Root and Bloom, someone behind me said how refreshing it was. It was two o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, and the sun was beating straight down on a shadowless Adelaide. The music was beautiful, but also there was air conditioning. Going off of something that I noted in Between Root and Bloom: the contract between the performers and the audience. The beginning of a performance sets the terms for how we move through this sequestered moment in the world. In the case of this journal, that “first performance” is the thing I wrote six entries ago. That's the deal I made between me — as the reviewer I wanted to be for this — and the reader, being you. Fringe is behind me, and I can't say that I saw what I anticipated I'd see, which is as definitive as I’ll get about it now. Fringe is nowhere near done. There's time to see way more than I have. What are you waiting for? Toronto in ruins? Toronto doesn't have time for ruins; it keeps building new, sometimes ugly things. Do you know where I am right now? Belleville, Ontario: a small city where I was born, where my parents live and need me to help out sometimes. Do you know what Belleville, Ontario, doesn't have? A Fringe Festival! What can I say I saw at Fringe, aside from beautiful contemporary dance pieces I'd been waiting three years to see again live? I saw dedicated staff who answered complicated emails faster than I ever could. I saw volunteers: wonderful people sitting in this horrible heat I'd been swimming through, giving tickets to strangers, and asking for tips from people who got complimentary tickets, like me. And these aren't tips for them. They're tips for us. Those tips are so that there will be a budget for this for the next year — those tips are for children. All the actual ticket sales go to the artists, memorising lines and throwing themselves on the stage, over and over again, for us. And I saw an outlier. The Garden of Alla wasn't a dance piece; it was a play I selected because I guessed it would be more about the Salomé who danced the "dance of the seven veils'' than what it was, which was wonderful. I was wrong, and the play was all the better for it, even if it foiled what would have been an easier thesis for me to write from. If I have a suggestion for anyone who can see something for this last week of Fringe, it's to go afield from the thing you came to see. Either roam, truly roam, or stay in place and see the next thing that takes the stage. This is part 7 of a 7-part journal – click for parts one, two, three, four, five, and six.

The International Arts Festival Makes a Post-Covid Comeback WORDS AND PHOTOS BY ANQI LI Postponed from 2021 due to lockdowns, the 59th International Art Exhibition of the Venice Biennale The Milk of Dreams finally opened on April 23, 2022. Curated by Cecilia Alemani, this edition of the most prestigious art exhibition marks several milestones: it’s the fourth Biennale Arte curated by a woman in its 127-year history, and for the first time, by an Italian woman. It is also the first time since 1895 that women and gender non-conforming artists represent the majority of the presenting artists, an intentional choice by Alemani. Exploring recurring questions and blurry boundaries of sciences, arts, and myths, 213 artists from 58 countries exhibit 1,433 works and objects focused on three themes through November 27, 2022: “the representation of bodies and their metamorphoses; the relationship between individuals and technologies; the connection between bodies and the Earth.” Moved and motivated by this slow but steady progress, smART Magazine is thrilled to announce that we will bring you a five-show journal review to celebrate some of these great artists and their intriguing artworks. First selected by Okwui Enwezor for the 56th Venice Biennale, the U.K. artist Sonia Boyce won this year’s top prize Golden Lion. Reflected in her iconic tessellating wallpapers, Boyce expresses her feeling “as a fragment” of “the weight of all Black artists, Black people.” With Feeling Her Way at the Great British Pavilion, Boyce poses the question: “As a woman, as a Black person, what does freedom feel like?” smART Magazine will also review several other exhibitions, including the architectural interventions at the German Pavilion and the Spanish Pavilion; The Fountain of Exhaustion. Acqua alta at the Ukrainian Pavilion; the Chinese Pavilion’s hybrid META-SCAPE in the human-technology-nature context, Black Star – The Museum as Freedom presented by Ghana, and other shows that effectively engage the audience in conversations around arts, sciences, and myths. As Curator Cecilia Alemani concludes in her statement, “the Biennale sums up all the things we have so sorely missed in the last two years: the freedom to meet people from all over the world, the possibility of travel, the joy of spending time together, the practice of difference, translation, incomprehension, and communion.”

ZESTcreative delivers on intimacy and spontaneity June 11 at Factory Theatre Mainspace BY MILES FORRESTER When the audience enters, they’re already there: five members of ZESTcreative are casually getting ready under three cascades of indigo-hued light. Hannah Barstow can be heard from the staircase doing ascending scales on her KORG stage piano as she warms her voice. Eva Connelly and Carman Chan are on the floor doing deep stretches, and Julien Bradley-Combs is in a corner, tuning a guitar. Somewhere in the audience, Racha Moukalled, the one whom we can presume plays the unattended vibraphone, is conferring with a member of the audience. When she returns, the ensemble assembles into a loose trapezium: the musicians line the back with the two movers before them. Moukalled hands a clipboard right to Barstow. Barstow laughs, “I guess this is my question.” The clipboard gesture is a contract with the audience. Much of this is improvised. Not all improvised; there are moments when movements and music are completely synchronised. But things happen conversationally between the players in questions and half-answers. Barstow follows the prompt and tells a story about the first time she can remember being in nature. A lightning storm, not violent but a little overwhelming, maybe, for a child. The musicians catch the ambiguity and make impressionistic washes of jazzy post-rock. The dancers don’t attempt to reenact the scene but make their own contributions to complete it. Connelly and Chan work beautifully together, instilling the same responsive approach to composition as the musicians. There are songs. They may be written on the spot, or prepared. They strike a balance where it doesn’t make a difference to their quality either way. They’re adventurous and confident, always landing with incredible accuracy, even when it’s in a strange land. It’s evident that Bradley-Combs and Moukalled are excellent listeners and could easily create an accompaniment to match the inquisitive melodies that Bartow weaves. Barstow sings about questions: about who she is in the community and what makes her happy. It turns out that being in a community with a common purpose of care makes her happy. How wonderful that she’s in this ensemble. The closing piece is a lovely tableau where all five share questions with each other – the little intimate questions we ask to pass the time – cradled together head to shoulder as an ascending hill. This is the first show they’ve been able to perform for this year’s Fringe. All the performers on stage wear PPE for their protection, like us in the audience. I’ve had three years to catch on to the intricacies of emotion that are definitely apparent underneath a mask, including this kind of tenderness. I appreciate it. It’s a reminder of the world outside this theatre, which imposes itself in little vicissitudes and deeper pains in every community. I’d be excited to see ZESTcreative again, on another afternoon, at another festival, as another permutation, or even see the exact same thing I saw a second time. This is part 6 of a 7-part journal – click for parts one, two, three, four, and five.

Rapley Dance Projects creates the space it confronts July 9, Al Green Theatre BY MILES FORRESTER Whereas I only just made it in time to see The Occasion, I showed up at the Al Green Theatre for Confronting Space, obscenely early. Standing in line, there was a little moment of panic when they couldn't find my name in the directory. That was because it was, it turns out, the line for Phantasmagoria. Confronting Spaces wouldn't start for another two hours. Dejected that I didn't have a ticket for that show or really anything I could do to kill time, I wandered the Annex, listlessly weaving around the bookstores and wishing for the appetite to eat a second dinner. When I found myself next to the Postscript Lounge, a lovely shanty town of Fringe artists and volunteers smiling under the low moon in the Tranzac parking spot, I killed all shyness in me and ventured in to buy a beer and take every survey they had. I sauntered back to The Al Green with bird song in every alley. With seven dancers, an elevated stage, and fantastic lighting by Theodore Belc, Rapley Dance Projects' Confronting Space feels like a big show, especially for contemporary dance, which I've usually encountered in little rooms around the city. Considering the title and short missive I read before selecting it for review, it's really a surprise that there's so much space. I was anticipating something quite cramped, but this is on an expansive stage, and the dancers use every inch of air and surface there is. So what is it? It turns out that the space is something the dancers create themselves, in order to confront it. Choreographers Lilly Giroux, Emily Rapley, and Paige Sayles have created many beautiful tableaus, full of tension and tenderness in turn. One captivating moment of them holding hands extended in a diagonal slash across the stage, undulating as they strain to maintain their balance, realising that they're activating a cliff edge and a cliff face in the mind's eye; it's spectacular stuff. Conversely, they also form piles by slowly building layer upon layer of draped limbs and curled legs till they make an intimate hill, with another figure stands on top to tower over the stage's lip. It's a treat to see multiple contemporary dance pieces in a weekend, even if it leads to essayistic thinking. Femmillenial and Confronting Space share a milieu (including Kylie Thompson, who created the former and dances in the latter) and lexicon of certain gestures, but the shows themselves are distinct in ways that serve both of them. What interests me, though, is how differently each show treats persona. As opposed to Femmillenial's archetypes, Confronting Space is entirely abstract. The dancers wear earth tones under warm light, almost as extensions of the wooden stage. Any figure could emerge from its landscape to become an agent, do something heartbreakingly relatable, and then return to the throng. It pops the world open when Kendra Epik starts knocking at a door that isn't there, and the three figures shudder together in time; simple resonant gestures like this happen to strangers all the time; it's quaint when it happens and wonderful to see it here. This is part 5 a 7-part journal – click for parts one, two, three, and four.

Jeng Yi Ensemble returns to the stage after 2 years Ada Slaight Hall at Daniels Spectrum BY MILES FORRESTER I didn’t really have time this morning to follow through on the flâneurie path I had planned as the overarching theme for this series. I had only finished writing the review for The Garden of Alla when I realized I had a little less than an hour to get back down to Daniel’s Spectrum. So this journal entry will be without the usual estrangement and, at the same time, entanglement with the urban surroundings. Instead, I’ll use this as a message to the people taking the wooded route by Brickworks: please don’t walk in the middle of the path. You’re hard to manoeuvre around. While you’re having a forest bath, I’m racing to get a good seat. I had to throw my bike over a fence to get onto Bayview Avenue. I was that mad about it. And to cars taking Bayview: Slow down! You’re going to kill someone! Now, I’m not an elegant cyclist. My posture is terrible; I expend too much energy on the wrong gear, and most of the time, I’m standing. It looks like I’m trampling a sad and noisy broom. I appreciate this better after seeing the Jeng Yi Ensemble perform the “P’yong (the ribbon hat dance).” Set to their own percussion, the dancers draw interlocking circles in the air with their beribboned Sangmo hats, at times galloping around the room with these white wisps in their own orbit, its motion separated from the deft yet subtle neck-work by a black whip. It’s incredible to watch. Artistic director Charles Hong choreographed and composed music for most of the pieces with contributions from the ensemble. After two years, this is their first show indoors in front of an audience, and I really want to thank the Fringe lottery gods for letting me see it. The suite of pieces includes a feature performance by Joo Hyung Kim on the Korean zither for the affecting “The Empress Dowager (she enters the room and fondly remembers her youth)”. That’s followed by the title piece, “The Occasion”, with guest choreographer Soojung Kwon who, starting from a crystalline stillness, proceeds to wind around the whole stage in ever-faster yet elegant turns. The duet between her and a solo drummer incorporates a silent strike into its rhythmic matrix, bringing the stick to the drum’s rim without actually making contact, denying everyone the anticipated ‘tok!’ The concluding eleven-minute three-movement “Suite for Korean Percussion Ensemble” is what stole the show. I know this because this was the most receptive audience I’ve ever shared a room with, cheering multiple times when the rhythm became too much, clapping in time but never overpowering the massive sound of the drums. It was thrilling to watch duelling gong-players laugh as they challenge one another to see who can turn their hammers into a blurred figure-eight.

Kylie Thompson presents a hyperphysical and hilarious feminist dance piece. July 8 Native Earth’s Aki Studio at Daniel’s Spectrum BY MILES FORRESTER Where Kylie Thompson's Femmillenial begins depends on where you're seated. Kiera Breaugh is giving an apprehensive smile directly to my section of the audience, like one of us is there for a job interview though it's unclear who. The other cast members smile from their seats at their corners of the audience; Dana Macdonald has a goofy Cheshire Cat grin, while Claire Whitaker is seated furthest from me, with her focus directed internally. A projection is cast, and in the time it takes my attention to recalibrate, the three have begun to melt from their chairs. They snap back into the first posture for a sustained moment before Dana makes a retching noise, and they start a flurry of collapsing and retreating gestures in their seats and then to the floor itself. Thompson cleverly deploys multimedia elements throughout, complimenting the disquiet that emerges under the auspices of an ageing patriarchy. The young women that these dancers present are aware of it but still stem one another's movements as quickly as they begin them. It's difficult to find solidarity when alienated from one another, which makes it so satisfying when the dancers click together. Native Earth's Aki Studio is a wonderfully intimate space that serves contemporary dance very well. You can feel it through your seat whenever a body makes contact with the ground or another body. Feet rubbing on the floor and heavy breathing resonate in the space, while the silence accompanying a throwaway flip shows just how powerful these dancers are. As an ensemble, they form knots and daisy chains, leap and tug at each other, carry each other into the air while still inhabiting the archetypes we meet at the beginning of the performances. It's very satisfying seeing how the relationship between the dancers develops through these full ensemble, duet, and solo moments. When Whitaker pokes her head from a standing pile, she's in formation with the other dancers and declares, "I'm Claire!" Macdonald and Breaugh recede. Whitaker then breaks down weeping before removing and recovering her shirt. The 90s couch-patterned blouse each dancer wears function as a tool throughout the piece to constrain movement. With the blouse removed, Whitaker can flex her muscles and play with the space. When Macdonald returns, she stalks around the stage, a hilarious agent of chaos that throws mean mugs at the audience before lunging at the other dancers. Breaugh and Whitaker's duet after a beautifully lyrical solo by Breaugh is an excellent climax to the piece, a chance for the more sublimated characters to work through some well-earned rage in a web of almost automatic middle fingers. Following the show, Thompson asked if there were other Fringe members in the audience. There were people from Iphigenia in Splott, Neverwonder, and Between Root & Bloom, which I'll see on Sunday. When I arrived at Daniels Spectrum, the sun was setting behind the silhouette of an unfinished condo, its cladding catching the rays and threading it to where I stood. Post-show, the sun is gone and the sky is exhaling its last gasp of blue behind pink clouds. On to the next one.

An urgently relevant queer history by Minmar Gaslight Productions Factory Theatre Mainspace, July 8th BY MILES FORRESTER The Factory Theatre is nestled in the intersection of Adelaide and Bathurst, behind a line of trees which insulate its garden bar and box office from the heat and noise of the bustling block. Internet and phones are out all over Canada, so everyone is out in full force. It's the type of summer day that we wait all year for in Toronto: almost too hot to do anything, so everything must be done. But inside the theatre proper, after the garden and modern glass extension, Toronto becomes cool, dark, and carpeted. Writer Steven Elliott Jackson's portrait of silent film star Alla Nazimova (Rebecca Perry) draws the narrative around Nazimova's adaptation of Oscar Wilde's symbolist tragedy, Salomé. Self-produced and never distributed, all the audience sees of Salomé is represented by an emerald robe with orchid petal sleeves made for Alla by her designer and lover, Natacha Rambova (Neta J. Rose). Shawn Lall plays Charles Bryant, who occasionally directs for Alla and plays her husband for appearances. These three artists set out to make something incredible despite the looming reign of the religious lobbyist William B. Hays threatening the possibility of these three queer artists ever working again. Though their doomed production was a famously dreamlike art film, Garden of Alla is a decided realist end-of-an-era drama set in Alla's sprawling Hollywood estate. Director Andrew Lamb uses the whole stage and some dynamite antique pieces to make the minimal Fringe set seem palatial, with ferns in bamboo planters acting as synecdoches for the titular garden. Bottle green lighting gives an air of decadence, and its eventual absence subtly implies decline. Jackson's script delights in showing his erudition; many names are dropped. Still, they all work well at building the argument that this is an era with precarious freedoms for LGBTQUIA2S+ people, and it's especially relevant now. It helps that it's delivered so well by the performers, an early scene between Perry and Rose blends exposition and seduction wonderfully. The charming Shawn Lall injects anxiety into the threesome as the bearer of bad news, pointing out how a recent murder in Hollywood will bring undue attention to them as repressive forces take every opportunity to conflate queerness with the violence that also can exist on the periphery. He also points out that adapting Salomé is dangerous, with Wilde, 30 years dead, being willed into a memory hole by the straight world surrounding them. Being the tragic heroine, Alla chooses to pursue art and love against all odds, and Perry is excellent at playing her. Bridging delusion and courageousness, Perry uses Alla's mannerisms for great comedic effect while keeping her desire and tenderness at the centre of her performance. Withstanding an ongoing history and personal betrayal without contradiction, Perry's Alla loves prismatically and without contradiction. The players took the opportunity to recommend three shows also playing at Fringe, which I feel compelled to share with anyone else who's attending Fringe: Bubble Babz: Songs from the Tub Joan & Olivia: A Hollywood Ghost Story Gay for Pay with Blake & Clay Correction: Andrew Jackson, here correctly credited as the writer, was misidentified as the Director of The Garden of Alla; this error has now been rectified and we apologize for any confusion it may have caused. | 12/07/2022 – 2:19pm

The Toronto Fringe Festival returns to theatres this summer BY MILES FORRESTER From July 6 to July 17, Toronto's Fringe Festival is returning to theatres, and so am I. For me, it's going to be a whirlwind weekend. Across three nights, in three theatres, for five performances, I'll be crisscrossing by bicycle a little constellation of Toronto's downtown to see a small selection of the over-eighty shows playing throughout the city. Fringe's mission to present a diverse spectrum of artists through its lottery program – which places emerging and established companies on equal footing – makes it an exciting chance to catch a rising star and see something truly singular. It's also an opportunity for many performers to regain creative footing after the pandemic. Friday night (July 8th), I will be heading to the Factory Theatre. There I will see Minmar Gaslight Productions' The Garden of Alla by Steven Elliott Jackson, a look at the creation of the queer silent-film pioneer Alla Nazimova's production of Oscar Wilde's Salome amidst the rising tide of sexual repression in 1920s Hollywood. I will then catch Femmillenial, a hyper-physical dance trio choreographed by Kylie Thompson, at Native Earth's Aki Studio at the Daniels Spectrum. I'll be returning to the Daniels Spectrum Saturday afternoon to see Occasion, an exhibition of traditional Korean dance and drumming produced by Second Sleep Stage Creations, a triumphant return to the stage for the company after two years. Later in the evening, I will head to the Al Green Theatre in the Annex to see Rapley Dance Projects' Confronting Space, a meditation on movement within confined spaces choreographed by Lilly Giroux, Emily Rapley, and Paige Sayles. I’ll wrap up my weekend with Between Root and Bloom by ZESTcreative, again at the Factory Theatre Mainspace. This collaborative dance explores growth through personal histories, "based on questions without answers about who we are and where we've been." Before the pandemic, seeing so many shows in so little time would hardly seem like a thing. But returning to live performances, particularly in the hyper-concentrated festival format, I can't help but feel nervous. Not so much for obvious reasons — I'm very comfortable with the quotidian strategies we use to keep each other safe. I gladly wear a mask and keep my distance, and Fringe's mask mandate certainly puts me at ease. What unnerves me is returning to something so familiar in an unfamiliar world. A theatre is a static fixture in the urban landscape — until you go in. On exiting, day can turn to night. The weather or traffic can be completely different, as can the viewer. It's wonderfully defamiliarizing. Tentatively returning to the creative core of a city that has been aggressively developing for decades – and has continued to do so through the pandemic – I see endeavours like Fringe as a reminder of how important it is to protect accessible spaces for creativity. The play, and four dance pieces, that I'm attending all seem to engage with how creativity exists within a massive and ongoing change.