The Brooklyn Rail

When describing Ruri Mito’s ensemble work Where we were born, I reach for words more commonly used in nature documentaries than dance criticism, such as: oozing, slithering, roiling, and tectonically shifting. This shares a bill with the solo Matou, performed by Mito, which evokes terms such as rock formation, contortion, and hypercontrol. Both works stretched the audience’s awareness of the body’s vast capabilities, solo and collectively.

In Where we were born, total darkness lightens to a dim dusk. We see a mass of seven bodies with interlocked parts but no identifiable heads or faces. This pile, clad in earth-toned costumes, remains still for what feels like an eternity; it cannot be easy for the dancers (all female), nor is it entirely comfortable for viewers. Eventually, the mound heaves slightly, a seam parts, one leg moves, then others, and suddenly the performers unfold and form a circle, elbows and butts jutting upward. This flower shape breathes and inflates, reminiscent of an expanding, plastic spherical toy. Two figures stand, at last showing us the faces we didn’t know we were hungry to see until they appeared.

Two dancers climb atop others’ backs in a set of strategic quick moves, briefly creating a pyramid. What seems to be a chaotic massing of bodies is clearly the opposite—incredibly measured choreography, supported by rigorous practice and endurance. A few moments later, after seething and sliding apart in tiny increments, the group forms a line; all seven raise their heads and scan the audience in one of the first instances where we can see all of their faces. But it’s brief.

Matou, the solo performed by Ruri Mito, is a study in stasis and bodily distortion. We basically just see Mito’s prominent spine—upside down, as she’s in a shoulder stand. There she remains for minutes on end before somehow neck-rolling onto her sternum, floating her arms up like awkward wings, or walking fingers insect-like along feet and legs, which she raises to float above, feet prehensile. Silence yields to a high-pitched noise, followed by faint gongs and tinkly percussion. Mito achieves a standing position, legs wide apart; she bends in half, head forward, shifting weight onto her shoulders. She moves through a child’s pose, a deep V balance, and kneels, body hovering back, parallel to the floor, arms wafting like an anemone. These extreme postures must require endless training, yoga, and forbearance, and while they are fascinating on one level, it’s also an endurance test to watch. We almost never see Mito’s face; her ego is sublimated completely, and little of it seems human.

Mito studied in Japan. Her choreography summons the stillness and self-effacement of Butoh, the glacially-paced New York artists Eiko & Koma (who in past collaborations have taken inspiration from nature and often incorporate realistic motifs such as branches and water), and the kinetic experiments of John Jasperse, such as Fort Blossom. Mito has worked with German choreographer Sasha Waltz, who can form the body into abstract sculpture in addition to crafting fluid phrases.

The presentation of Ruri Mito by PS21 is yet another example of high risk-taking and a smart pooling of resources by this daring upstate cultural outpost, thanks to Elena Siyanko, the just-departed executive and artistic director of the venue since its opening five years ago. (Mito subsequently performed the group work at the Japan Society’s annual contemporary dance festival in New York City.) A search for Siyanko’s successor is underway, but clearly it won’t be an easy task to replace her. In any case, Siyanko has challenged hungry audiences with lexicon-expanding artists such as Ruri Mito.