The Brooklyn Rail

I arrive at the Marian Goodman Gallery in Tribeca for John Jasperse’s Wandering, prepared to follow seven dancers as they respond to the art of Julie Mehretu displayed throughout the gallery’s three floors. Mehretu’s abstract paintings for this exhibit are large-scale, rectilinear, and full of energy with vivid splashes of color and light. Jasperse’s postmodern dance sensibility will bring the human form into this nonrepresentational landscape. Follow and watch. But something more happens once I step inside.

The first-floor space fills with murmuring voices—a curious audience not sure quite where to stand; photographers with lenses like telescopes; more than one videocam operator. The sound of a metal pole pinging the floor startles. Composer Hahn Rowe is stationed in a corner, performing with a mixing board and a collection of handheld percussive instruments. I hear something drip, a tapping, a footstep. Mehretu’s paintings are themselves full of movement—in the center of the room is one of her series of “TRANSpaintings / Upright Brackets”—this one titled (the substanceless blue pour of tor and distances) (2025–26)—which are freestanding translucent works hung between aluminum brackets by Nairy Baghramian. Daylight from the gallery window beams through the blue and gray washed surface. A field of graphic patterns squiggled on the surface of this painting and others nearby brings to mind graffiti tagging.

Two dancers enter, stand a mattress on end, then disappear. Ever so slowly the mattress seems to melt, the top folding down over itself. Slam! It flips over and slaps against the floor to reveal dancer Andrea Soto sprawled atop (she’s been crouched behind). Soto pulls the mattress over her like a sea creature hauling its shell. She rolls it up over her until, slam! The mattress again flips. Meanwhile, Catherine Kirk and Mak Thornquest find shelter under large sheets of corrugated cardboard. I get the sense of urban public space inhabited by unhoused people forming around me.

Jace Weyant joins Soto on the mattress for a duet where they wrestle, legs entangled, while making their way through a doorway. I have to decide whether or not to follow them. I turn to see Thornquest scooting near the feet of two bystanders against the wall, who try to look unfazed as the dancer wedges in close and settles to stillness. Cynthia Koppe takes a solo in the center of the room, reaching out with one hand, the other on her heart.

The crowd follows the dancers up a stairway to the second floor, where the performers wander as if viewing the art, then fall into an entrancing pattern of concentric curves. To my right, three dancers travel along the wall in my direction. They pass within an inch, nearly knocking me out of the way. A videographer taps me on the shoulder to signal that I’m blocking his view. I back up and the gallery attendant warns me I’m too close to a painting. Competing pedestrian traffic, conflicting interests, people in a hurry. This could be a street scene in Midtown. Jasperse effectively creates an environment where we’re not simply seeing art; we feel it’s energy.

Jasperse and Mehretu have each garnered considerable acclaim in their respective fields. Jasperse founded his company in 1989 and has been commissioned by an enviable roster of international artists, including William Forsythe. He directs the dance program at Sarah Lawrence College. Among other recognitions, Mehretu has received the MacArthur Fellowship. This match-up of their talent was initiated by Mehretu, who selected Jasperse from several suggested candidates.

As I compose myself, I notice a duet—Koppe, in vivid purple, and Thornquest, in deep blue, quietly moving side by side at the wall. It’s like discovering a secret. One goes upside down while the other squats. They curl into opposite facing back bends. Their precision contrasts with the more slapdash Weyant (in maroon) and Maria Fleischman (in olive) pushing and pulling each other a few paces away. When a quartet forms at the center of the gallery, where dancers whirl, flinging their arms, it feels a tad risky for close viewing. But these are seasoned performers who can control their abandon. That said, partner work in Wandering stays low to the ground, lifts are rare. So when Zo Williams slings Soto over a shoulder, heads turn.

The dancers’ costumes for Wandering by MX Oops are made of transparent mesh that mimics the open grid surface of “TRANSpaintings / Upright Brackets.” You can see skin through the costumes and shadows through the paintings as people pass behind. The light catches Kirk as she performs near a window, casting the fleeting shape of a bird’s wing onto the back of TRANSpaintings (Angelus Novus) / Upright Brackets (2025–26). No viewer is likely to see everything of this show. As I watch, I’m acutely aware of what I’m missing somewhere else.

Stepping out of the elevator at floor three is like entering a dance party. I hear the lyric, “follow me,” repeat as composer Will Johnson plays DJ with a set-up near the doorway. Each painting here takes up nearly a full wall, with black backgrounds on which abstract patterns swirl like smoke. Weyant and Fleischman continue their duet, the movement liquid, the two always touching with at least one body part. I recognize a gesture from earlier: a hand reaching to grab the other’s neck. Jasperse deftly threads an action through from one sequence to another, one floor to the next, as a way to form a cohesive whole. Mehretu’s art has a similar quality. Her pieces each have their own personality, yet together bear a family resemblance.

The high point of Wandering is when a trio of gold, blue, and seafoam (Kirk, Thornquest, and Koppe—I’ve begun to track the dancers by their vivid costumes) take to a wall of third floor windows for a unison sequence. With a turn and kick, they each rest a foot against the wall at chest height. They shift in a row as if on a conveyor belt, and move out into the center of the space. I am charmed when they open their arms and dangle their hands from limp wrists—it’s an inviting, devil-may-care attitude. Happily, we get to see this bit again. Just as they seem to launch it for a third round, the dancers instead disperse.

Messy, annoying, and wholly original, Wandering is a kinetic experience that sweeps up the audience. We share space in this world, like it or not. In one moment I’m watching intently, engrossed in taking notes for this review, and then I turn to see that I am alone in the middle of the room. Everyone else had stepped back to the wall to give the dancers space. That I feel uncomfortable is part of the deal. Wandering continues for seven additional shows. I doubt it will look exactly the same way twice.

The final scene involves two mattresses slamming—mirroring the opening move forty-five minutes earlier—the performers pushing and flopping. Soon all seven dancers begin rolling on the floor like logs—or maybe, synchronized swimmers. They rise on forearms into a cobra position, and curve to side-lying. Each time they roll, one of them stands and exits until all have left.