The following article discusses the process of writing a poetic description of Amy Greenfield’s short experimental screendance, Transport (1970). Describing one’s understanding of what occurs within a film may serveas a form of framing, in acknowledgement of the singular perception that each individual brings to a work of art. As John Berger reminds us in his book,Ways of Seeing, ‘We never look at just one thing: we are always looking at the relation between things and ourselves…constructing what is present to us as we are’.[1] The last pages of thearticleare reserved for excerpts from the poetic descriptive text, accompanied by screenshots from the film Transport that illustrate key visual concepts discussed in the writing.
Initiated during the writing of my doctoral thesis, entitled Transforming Through Cinema: An Interdisciplinary Approach to Reading Amy Greenfield’s Films, I discovered that by describing in detail what I perceived to be happening on screen, my observational skills were sharpened and supported the development of identifying connections across a wider web of aesthetics, techniques, contexts, and themes in Greenfield’s work. Whilst viewing moving images, it is easy enough to overlook details due to human error, whereas actively writing a description shot by shot requires a different form of committed concentration. The process of image reception thus differs, transitioning to an intensely active form when considering how best to break down the sequential art of moving images and convey it through language. French film scholars Jacques Aumont and Michel Marie discuss this process in their book L’analyse des films, contrasting the experience of seeing a film for the first time in its entirety versus the context necessary for studying a film through active viewing in increments, by starting and stopping and ‘taking the time to consider elements of the film’.[2] For them, analysing moving images results in the ‘back and forth’ between seeing a film as it is intended to be screened ‘from beginning to end’ and gaining intimate knowledge of a title by engaging with it ‘broken down in small parts, [using] multiple freeze frames, [and] going back’.[3]
Although my written descriptions may appear to sit outside the realm of traditional academic writing and analysis, art historian and specialist of art education Yves Baudry asserts that description’s underlying observation ‘is analytical contemplation’ that ‘summons the perceptive function of the gaze’.[4] In his book, Images de la pédagogie, pédagogie de l’image, Baudry outlines three components at work while describing an image based on observation:
- Perception: the multi-sensoriality of the five senses
- Measuring: estimation of dimensions, depth, intervals, distances, scales…
- Representation: lines, forms, colours, structures…[5]
While my own poetic description leaves room for additional elements of observation and reflection, Baudry’s list provides a glimpse of how description may begin by stating the obvious (‘Performer A is wearing red trousers’, an example of Baudry’s ‘representation’) and quickly shift into the realm of the sensorial (‘The red trousers lend a heaviness to the dancer’s leg movements in contrast to their sheer top’), the technical (or what he refers to as ‘measuring’: ‘The camera focuses on the dancer’s red trousers in an extreme close-up filmed from a low angle, the latter contributing to the sense of weighted limbs’), and other strains of thought triggered by methodically documenting and connecting what is perceived on screen. As a result, written descriptions may become a conduit for developing analytical explorations of images in a writing process that is not only intended for communication, but as a method of research in itself.
Dance criticism has traditionally relied on the descriptive method to both document and evaluate live performance. Alongside photographs, prints, and other representations of live performance, dance criticism provides an invaluable record of historic stage productions, whilst maintaining problematic elements linked to its subjectivity.[6] In an essay dating from 1949, influential American dance critic Edwin Denby (1903-1983) notes that the enjoyment of reading dance criticism derives from ‘the illusion of being present at a performance, of watching it with an unusually active interest’[7] and that many readers expect a critic ‘to give a clear picture of the event and to place it in relation the art of theatre dancing’.[8] Like many of his predecessors, Denby was a poet as well as a critic, with links between the two types of writing apparent from the 19th century onward, particularly in the prolific ballet criticism produced by writers Théophile Gautier (1811-1872) and Paul Valéry (1871-1945) in France, alongside what are thought to be the first critical texts that explore Flamenco dance and music penned by Spanish playwright and poet Federico García Lorca (1898-1936), as well the Noh dance drama criticism that W.B. Yeats (1865-1922) published in Ireland.
The dance writing of the aforementioned authors is imbued with a strong poetic tradition in the sensorial qualities they describe, a result, at least in part, of the ongoing heritage of ekphrasis, a term from Greek antiquity for the literary description of a work of art, or ‘a verbal representation of a visual representation’.[9] In other words, one might describe ekphrasis as the writing on, from, about, or after various forms of art, an important concept for the branch of present-day dance criticism. From the outset, Greek ekphrastic writing in antiquity often included dance as its subject, and just as ekphrastic poetry remained influential in shaping the field of art history and art criticism during its institutionalisation in the 19th century,[10]ekphrasislikely played a similar role in the development of western dance criticism, although the topic remains woefully understudied.[11] Several of the writers cited above actively practiced ekphrasis prior to or during the period in which they wrote dance criticism, notably Yeats with his celebrated ekphrastic poems that include Lapis Lazuli and Leda and the Swan, while Gautier’s fiction, poetry, art criticism and ballet dramaturgy, all feature clear links to ekphrasis, characterised by a life-long interest in the exchange between the written word and various art forms. Mihály Benda, commenting on Gautier’s art criticism, considers a transposition in his writing of relations between the visible and the readable, ‘rendering the visible, readable’.[12] Gauthier qualified his relationship to the works of art he wrote about as ‘empathetic’[13], which Benda contends was:
based on understanding a work to be analysed and not on looking for its faults…In this sense, Gautier questioned the classical rules of evaluation and sided resolutely with diversity, with Romantic individualism. This attitude allowed him to approach the new without prejudice or hierarchy, but to recognise the originality of every artist.’[14]
A spirited example that combines poetic description with evaluation can be found in the following excerpt of a review published in La Presse, which attests to Gautier’s enthusiastic reception of two Andalusian dancers Dolores Serral and Mariano Cambrubí, appearing in Paris at the Théâtre des Variétés in April 1837:
If you made the dreadful mistake of not booking a stall or a box at the Variétés when those two sparkling butterflies were brushing the tips of their wings in a burst of sequins on the dusty boards that had nearly given way beneath the heavy clogs…you can only beat your breast with a rock like Saint Jerome as a sign of repentance…for you have missed one of the most ravishing and poetic performances in the world… It is a charming poem written in twistings of the hips, sidelong expressions, a foot advanced and then withdrawn, all joyously accompanied by the chatter of castanets and having more to say on its own than many volumes of erotic verse. There is one position that is ravishingly graceful. It is the moment when the dancer, half-kneeling with back proudly arched, head thrown back, a large red rose unfolding in her beautiful half-loosened black hair, arms dreamily extended and only gently shaking the castanets, smiles over her shoulder…[15]
Beyond Gautier’s avid recommendation of the performance, he attempts to transmit his perception of the choreography to readers through observations and analogies, including poetic and sensorial descriptions that convey his experience of the intensity of the dancers’ footwork (boards that nearly ‘gave way’) and evoke his reception of the choreography’s sensuality. While today’s dance criticism tends to be far less decorative than Gautier’s, his approach to the work itself (in lieu of judging art according to the classical criteria espoused by institutions during his lifetime) underscores what Denby described as a ‘discovery of an unexpected aspect of one’s own sensibility’.[16]
The above research led me to approach writing about Amy Greenfield’s films in an exercise of poetic description that interfaces with my own sensibilities, before analysing any specific political, cultural or aesthetic dimensions of their choreography and images. The exercise, which became an entire thesis chapter, proved to reveal various details related to the choreography, use of space, environment, editing and camera work that have become essential components of my research on Greenfield.
Excerpts from a poetic description of scenes from Amy Greenfield’s Transport(1970, colour, 16 mm., 5.5 minutes)
Transport opens in silence to reveal a sole performer (Lee Vogt[17]) struggling to move upwards. The sandy slope upon which he stands draws him downward into the earth. In order to ascend, he must first descend, arms lowering to the ground, two extra limbs that assist with the climb. Folded in half, he propels himself forward using the weight of his upper body while simultaneously dislodging his feet from the surface. Momentum. Gravity. Weight. All tangled together in a knot that risks becoming a contentious game of physics or a gently cooperative one, depending on the performer’s next steps. The ensuing gestures prove laborious. The camera invites us to partake of Vogt’s efforts from a low angle, amplifying the weight of his body and the steep incline upon which he advances. Viewers observe the action from behind the dancer’s body as if next in line to complete the task, participating in the climb. What does it mean to move against the earth? Or against gravity? Is inhabiting a body on earth not a delicate balance of groundedness and elevation? A tension between directions, to find that sweet spot in between? That is, if one is seeking equilibrium…
…
The group is pictured at the centre of the image with a generous foreground that occupies two thirds of the frame, offering a detailed view of the sandy dirt and its patchy surface. Greenfield is now being Greenfield; her body forms a horizontal line save her arms dangling loosely towards the ground. How did she get there? Is this a funeral procession? Or an act of care for the living? The group has been established without our knowledge, a mysterious community that has sprung up somewhere in the space between frames. For a brief time, the spectator is outside the group looking in. We don’t know how they initially came together or began moving as a cooperative unit. Yet they look well on their way, solemnly advancing towards an unknown destination.
…
The higher Vogt’s body sails into the air, the lower the camera sinks as the ground of the hilltop crest comes into view. All the while, the camera continues rotating in rapid and unstable circular panning shot. While the lifted performer appears to fly, the camera person is sinking back down the incline, which begins to cover a portion of the screen.
It’s a dizzying effect that recalls the mind’s confusion at viewing Hitchcock’s old trick, the ‘dolly zoom’.[18] Only in this example, it has more to do with the physical movement of all bodies concerned, those of screen performers and the camera person, than with in-camera effects. Unlike narrative cinema, Greenfield isn’t prescribing emotional affect through camera work, but rather facilitating experiences that allow us to feel and experience movement in all its sensorial complexity. A felt body. Spatialised feeling.
Another jump cut then transports us from one lifted performer to another. This time Greenfield, already elevated high in the air, forms a wide V shape over the chest and shoulders of another performer who is only visible from the mid-torso down. She has given her weight so completely to the performers holding her, that Greenfield’s back and neck are slung entirely across a supporting body as the group begins to turn in place, just as it did with Vogt. Together, the two rapid sequences of turning bodies create a spiral effect, which is nearly impossible to identify when viewed only once at the film’s normal speed. But it may be felt at a far more visceral level. When slowed down and watched repeatedly, these movement patterns become clearer to recognise and name. A spiral. Evolution? Consciousness? Rebirth? A tuning score[19] by twisting?
…
Still oscillating between Greenfield and Vogt, the final images of Transport depict the performers rising up and over the hill one final time, filmed upside down and from underneath. A transformation occurs when the cameraperson shifts from a low angle to filming at standing position or higher. As a result, the bodies acquire a lightness, gliding through the air as the lifters continue their forward motion. As the body sails through the air and dangling feet disappear beyond the frame, a white sky fills the image. Where little to no horizon presented itself before, the space now feels boundless. Ma, a Japanese interval. The negative space between the notes. A promise. Leaving us with an emptiness of possibilities. The word ‘end’ appears on screen, still using the same white font, but the text is now situated along the upper right diagonal, falling downwards, a shifted gaze from that of the centred horizontal opening title. Another reminder of the transformation we have undergone alongside the performers?
**
Notes
[1] John Berger, Ways of Seeing, London, Penguin Books, 1972, p. 9.
[2] Jacques Aumont & Michel Marie, L’analyse des films, Paris, Armand Colin, 2020.
[3] Idem, p. 53.
[4] Yves Baudry, Images de la pédagogie, pédagogie de l’image, Paris, Archimbaud, 1998, p. 210-211.
[5] Idem, p. 211.
[6] For further consideration of dance criticism’s omissions and problematic framework(s), see Kate Mattingly’s Shaping Dance Canons: Criticism, Aesthetics, and Equity, University Press of Florida, 2023.
[7] ‘Dance Criticism’ in Edwin Denby, Dance Writings, ed. William Cornfield & William MacKay, Gainseville, University of Florida Press, 2007, p. 539.
[8] Idem., p. 533
[9]James Heffernan, Museum of Words: The Poetics of Ekphrasis from Homer to Ashbery, University of Chicago Press, 1993, p. 4.
[10]Jás Elsner, ‘Art History as Ekphrasis’, Art History: Association for Art History Journal, Volume 33, issue 1, February 2010, p. 10-27.
[11]Centralised information on this subject appears to be lacking due to poor documentation of dance criticism’s history in general, a fact lamented by the editors of a special issue of the research journal Dance Chronicle on ‘Dance Critics and Criticism’, Vol. 37, No.2, 2014.
[12]Mihály Benda, ‘Sur les « expressions Macaroniques » de la critique d’art de Théophile Gautier (Dialogue entre peinture et littérature)’, Verbum Analecta Neolatina, XI/1, 2009, p.63.
[13] Idem., p. 73
[14] Idem., p. 73-74
[15]Théophile Gautier, ‘The Spanish Dancers’ in Gautier on Dance (translator Ivor Guest), Noverre Press, p. 5-8.
[16]Edwin Denby, quoted in Joellen A. Meglin and Lynn Matluck Brooks, ‘The Nature of the Beast: Dance Critics and Criticism’, Dance Chronicle, Vol. 37, No.2, 2014, p. 151.
[17]Greenfield’s collaborator is credited as a dancer in Transport and as an actor in a later film directed by Sara Millman entitled Robin’s Hood (2003). Aside from these two film credits, no biographical data on Vogt has been located at time of writing.
[18]Zooming while dollying the camera in the opposite direction, an effect credited to Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958) that is often used to denote psychological instability in narrative cinema by featuring a stable subject with a shifting background that expands or contracts depending on the direction of the zoom/dolly movements.
[19] An improvisational composition method developed by Lisa Nelson within a contact improvisation community.
***
All translations from French to English are my own, unless otherwise noted.
Photos: screenshots from Transport by Amy Greenfield.