Review: "House of Mind" evokes childhood wonders

Performance Review |

Rich in atmosphere, but not exactly kicking with momentum, "House of Mind" finds Seattle choreographer Pat Graney broadening her imaginative canvas in a major way, while reiterating where her interests lie as far as human body language goes.

What she creates isn't "dance" so much as movement theater. If you're seeking the adrenaline rush of dancers doing things beyond the capability of most Homo sapiens, Graney won't be for you. But if multimedia experimentation and meditative pattern grab you, her new show is a must. "House of Mind" — the title is perfect — is about memory: childhood memory, damaged memory in old age. Graney drew inspiration from her mother's struggles with Alzheimer's for some of the show's material (recordings of her mother form part of the "score"). But before you get to the performance portion of "House of Mind," there's an installation to walk through. And it's genuinely strange and enchanting.

In an old warehouse turned into a gallery/performance space, childhood wonders and sensations are re-created. A bed with video projecting onto it evokes the restless spirit of a young girl who can't quite get to sleep — perhaps because of the monster crawling under her bed. A walk-through "closet" filled with giant dresses recalls a scale of household geography familiar to any small child.

The audience is given half an hour to explore these and other childhood-evoking sights and sounds. Then Graney's five dancers perform their rites in a stage area composed of a living room, dining room, kitchen and bathroom. There's an "upstairs" reached by a staircase, with a closet that's a hive of hidden activity. And there's a knick-knack shelf that soars into the rafters.

In this setting, Michelle De La Vega, Sara Jinks, Jody Kuehler, Trinidad Martinez and Jenny Peterson intersect, interact and echo one another's actions, sometimes in seamless unison. The five dancers make no physical contact, partnering instead with five straightback chairs which serve as cages, springboards or even jungle gyms. Sometimes their limbs are as angular as the chairs themselves; at other moments their sprawling and slouching is in strained opposition to the unyielding dining room furniture. Kitchen drawers pulled from their cabinets also serve as deliberately unwieldy "dance partners."

All the while, we hear Graney and her mother discuss their painfully contrasting experiences with memory. This "score" of voices alternates with wistful recorded tunes by Amy Denio, while video footage illuminates whole walls of the warehouse.

The video-movement-sound combo is arresting at first. But Graney's movement vocabulary is limited: it proceeds, but it doesn't build. She seems to find climbing stairs, walking in high heels and the opening and shutting of doors more captivating than they actually are. Her dancers' interaction with those chairs — fussy leg crossing, wanton limb extensions, skittish skirt straightening — provides them with a greater challenge.

Still, it's the installation component of "House" (David Traylor's set architecture, Ellen Bromberg's video work) that steals the show.

Michael Upchurch: mupchurch@seattletimes.com