Thursday June 4, 2015 - The Bureau of General Services - Queer Division and The LGBT Community Center presenting dancer/choreographer/poet Ian Spencer Bell in a solo performance. The day before the presentation, photographer Nir Arieli and I watched Ian's dress run where Nir took the photos accompanying this article.
Ian Spencer Bell holds a unique place in the Gotham dance firmament. At a time when so much contemporary dance looks - and sounds - so much alike, Ian's solo concert was like a breath of fresh air. Performing at the recently-renovated LGBT Community Center in a white room spaced with slender columns, Ian's fluid and gently athletic movement and his beautifully articulated renderings of his poems combined to hold the standing-room-only crowd in a state of receptive focus.
GEOGRAPHY SOLOS are five rather short danceworks, each set to a poem reflecting on a particular time and place in the poet's life. These intensely personal vignettes forge a link with the listener, Ian's narration evoking memories of people and events in our own lives. The word "formica" for instance took me back to my mother's laundry room. When was the last time anyone mentioned Bobbie Gentry, and who today ever thinks about the Tallahatchie Bridge? (Ironically, Ian's dress rehearsal took place on June 3rd, the date of Billie Joe McAllister's mysterious death). Ian's experience at The Met parallels mine at The Frick.
As these memories loom up, Ian continues to dance; although the choreography is thoughtfully mapped out, it often seems spontaneous. Moving about the space, the dancer's hands carve the air gracefully or - almost unconsciously - explore his own body. Despite being in constant motion, Ian maintains his breath control, projecting the works at an ideal volume level which keeps the listener engaged.
The final GEOGRAPHY SOLO has transported us to San Francisco; as an interlude, Scott McKenzie's iconic flower-power hit "San Francisco" is played and there's another flood of recollections: of getting stoned, passing around a bottle of Boone's Farm, and wondering if I should surrender to Meme's husband: Houston was my San Francisco. As this counter-culture anthem wafts softly thru the space, Ian maintains his limberness with yoga poses.
Stepping out of his trousers, the dancer continues in his black briefs with HOLLER, a poem in which Ian recalls the first time he heard his mother yelling; I had the same jolting experience the night my mother uncharacteristically lashed out at my 'juvenile delinquent' older brother. HOLLER eventually turns from narrative into a simple listing of objects, animals, places, and events from the poet's youth. It seemed to me that with each word, fresh visions sprang up. Meanwhile the slender blonde dancer, now at his most vulnerable, drew us deeper and deeper into an elusive dreamworld.
In conjuring up his own past, Ian Spencer Bell invites us each to experience a similar journey. His words and movement become transportive. Watching and listening to him, I kept thinking of something Zelda Fitzgerald once wrote: "Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold."
All photos by Nir Arieli.