The Brooklyn Rail

Inside a miniature Greek amphitheater, a woman draws out a melody from water-filled glasses on a serving tray. Her voice is as effervescent as the sound she makes by rubbing the glass rims. A dancer shuffles her feet in gravel, the crunching sound naturally amplified by the acoustics of the stone space. She scoops some gravel up and washes her hands with it, then spreads her fingers and allows the pebbles to dribble through like rain, asking “what is soft? what is loud?” And Then, Now is an hour and forty-five-minute walking tour of Brooklyn’s Green-Wood Cemetery led by choreographer Jody Oberfelder, four dancers, and three musicians of the Glass Clouds Ensemble. On a chilly and gray Saturday afternoon, some forty viewers trail behind them to discover performance vignettes such as this one along the route.

Oberfelder often makes dances in surprising places. Her company has toted vintage suitcases across bridges in Amsterdam and Berlin, and splashed in public fountains in London. The performances seem to spring spontaneously, yet they are fully considered works of art, and intimate as a personal conversation. Green-Wood is both a national historic site and functioning cemetery: 478 lush acres where eight thousand trees and shrubs are mapped and preserved. In early May, the leaves are just reaching peak green, and the blooming azaleas pop like hot pink lipstick. The garish translucent fabric of the dancers’ costumes (designed by Reid & Harriet) suggest the iridescence of insect wings.

At a double crypt, we encounter Michael Greenberg draped over a ledge like a vine, as Mariah Anton Arters begins dancing on the grass below to solo violin. Greenberg’s character is taken with the sight of this sylph-like creature, and he stumbles down the hill, rolling toward her feet. Is it meant to be playful, or comic? He lands heavily and incurs grass stains on his white leggings. A nice synchronicity occurs when the violinist plucks a chord just as Anton Arters raises a fist to the door. When Greenberg goes into a handstand, it’s quiet enough to hear a bird chirp. He grabs at Anton Arters’s ankle, then scrambles up the hill after her. At the top, she points to an adjacent hilltop, where Oberfelder stands with her arms in the air, an ethereal figure making a proclamation.

Some of the best elements of And Then, Now are small moments encountered as we walk between performances. Justin Lynch, for instance, roams between gravesites, sometimes lounging on a ledge or leaning against a wall. You might catch him out of the corner of your eye, his striking periwinkle harem pants and peach tunic rendering him bright as a hummingbird.

We sit on the grass to watch the most fully formed dance of the afternoon, accompanied by violin (Raina Arnett) and viola (Noémie Chemali), with vocalist Marisa Karchin perched in the alcove of a spired crypt. Anton Arters seems to be an archer in this bit. She cartwheels, then becomes wounded, needs the support of the wall, then drops to the ground. Andrea Farley Shimota and Greenberg enter and take up a flirtation. Their partnering work is ambitious—I admire what it takes to be precise when dancing on the uneven ground—but their running shoes weigh down an otherwise lyrical effect. Certain athletic moves seem better suited to the outdoors—for instance, when the two cartwheel in tandem. Also when Greenberg jumps vertically/upright into Farley Shimota’s arms and she stands her ground to take his full weight, then lets him drop.

At this point of the tour, I can feel the temperature drop—and I’m hungry. I look at my watch. Under the branches of a weeping birch, our guide suggests, “Invite someone you’ve lost to walk with you,” and here, more than an hour in, the energy of the performance amps up. In the distance, I can hear a knocking and creaking—it’s a creepy sound made by amplified string instruments. I spot Lynch with his ear at the door of a crypt. He moves from crypt to crypt, trying each door, looking in. Is he gathering the inhabitants, or warning them? I can hear church bells in the distance.

Oberfelder waits for us to arrive at the door of the catacomb: “This is a spiritual place,” she says as we enter, and asks us to find a place to stand completely still for two minutes. The dim hallway tunnels toward an alcove, where the musicians perform. Some of us hug the wall, some venture into little adjacent rooms. I can hear the dancers racing in the hallway, their motion creating a breeze, and the sound of fleeting footsteps. After a minute or so, I feel a hand on my back and turn to see Oberfelder standing next to me. It’s a haunting encounter.

Greenberg, Anton Arters, and Farley Shimota take their running to the ground atop the catacomb for the finale. They could be any of the many statues of the cemetery come to life. A bird trills, the wind picks up. The three turn their backs to us. With arms in the air, they slowly walk to the outer edge of the hill and disappear.