Triskelion Arts
June 1, 2024
Concept and Choreography: Malia Lam
Performers: Malia Lam, Joey Mattar, Stephen Orrego Upegui, Alex Schmidt
I may be biased, but I think dance has a singular ability for profound communication. Movement bypasses the thinking brain, is not dependent on words or linear storytelling, and is unencumbered by the limits of language. It goes right to the feels. Watching people move elicits a visceral response and invites a deep connection. Whether or not you understand the choreographer’s exact intention is inconsequential. In the case of Depth Deception, choreographer Malia Lam’s first evening length work, her intention is clear but the works real power lies in its emotional impact. Born with a rare cancer in her left eye that resulted in its removal, Lam takes her audience on a journey of shifting perspectives and discovery based on her experiences navigating the world half blind.
Autobiographical dances can sometimes be cloying or too personal to be relatable. Not so with Depth Deception. Lam connects with viewers from the start as performers Alex Schmidt and Stephen Orrego Upegui play the child’s game “I Spy”, including the audience after a few rounds. When Lam joins the game, she cannot spy the very obvious red-lit exit sign stage left, introducing Depth Deception’s main theme. After the performers wipe the lenses of the dark glasses they are wearing and try again, Lam still cannot see the target object- this time a small grey cylinder hanging from a string downstage left. She takes off her glasses completely, searching in vain for the container, and although the stage is quite dark, soon we see that Lam is searching with only one eye, her right eye covered with a patch. Her searching morphs into a repetitive, propelling solo as she tries to make her way forward- swipe, turn, reach, slide- dodging the other dancers who walk briskly left to right across the stage. Lam successfully avoids them, until they come from her left. She is repeatedly knocked back, forced to readjust and start again, vigilant as she battles her way through pedestrians who are focused solely on the cell phones in their hands, oblivious to her struggle. But Depth Deception is not a look-at-me story. It is not self-aggrandizing or boastful in any way. Rather it is an illuminating rumination on outlook, adaptation, and community.
Dancers Joey Mattar, Upegui and Schmidt sometimes serve as personifications of the challenges her disability presents, at others as antagonists to illustrate the contrast between full and partial sight. When dressed in black pants and black hoodies on the dimly lit stage, they embody the void that comprises half of Lam’s vision. Later, their sweatshirts replaced by smoke colored mesh tops, the trio represents everything that Lam cannot see and has never seen. Executing fast paced, athletic movements that takes them into and out of the floor like cresting waves, Upegui eventually makes it to the grey cylinder Lam is still searching for and snatches it from its string. His victory and smug triumph are unbeknownst to her. This feels like a blessing.
Lam guides her viewers to derive meaning from her movement using symbolism and repetition. Performers circle their right eyes in an “ok” gesture. They swipe over their left eyes as if trying to open them wider and occasionally cover one with a palm. Movement phrases reappear in varying contexts. When Lam repeats segments of her opening solo, abruptly arresting at various points, we get the sense that she is unsure of where to place her body in space, unaware of how far from her reaching hand the floor is. Depth perception, our ability to see objects in three dimensions, including their size and how far away they are, is made possible by many parts of our eyes and brain working together to process information, estimate location and create images. With only half of that relationship working, Lam expresses anxiety and frustration as she apologizes nervously and starts over again and again, pushing herself to go faster.
A turning point in the piece, Lam, Schmidt and Upegui meet to discuss the “I Spy” game and why it is not going well. “All you have to do is look with your two eyes,” Schmidt instructs. “Wait, you see with two eyes?” Lam responds in disbelief. “How do you see?” Upegui asks. Lam hands them each an eye patch and tells them to face one another. Upegui puts up one finger and Schmidt is directed to touch it with her finger. She cannot. When they repeat “I Spy” again, the result is congruent with Lam’s earlier experience: Upegui and Schmidt are blind to the target objects on their left. Schmidt ensuing solo is rife with angst and rejection. She physically struggles with her eyepatch and uses her pointer fingers to deliberately define the space around her as she attempts to come to terms with this new way of perceiving the world. At the same time, Lam takes Upegui aside and plays the finger game with him again, this time removing and readjusting his eye patch as she teaches him a new way of understanding physical depth, creating community in the process.
When Lam meets Schmidt again, she gently reapplies her eye patch and removes her own. For the first time, Lam reveals her disability in vulnerable nakedness. They guide each other in a soft duet, providing points of balance and directional shifts that encourage rather than reject. Their floorwork is smooth and spiraling, no longer combative but flowing as the two performers develop an understanding of one another and the obstacles they face. But it is her duet with Mattar that brings the most complete acceptance. She watches his sculptural solo with curiosity. When she joins him, their movements convey the softest and most sinuous aspect of the evening. They mirror one another in playful investigation and Lam moves with a willingness and freedom not seen before. Mattar, personifying a teacher or the part of herself that is ready to learn, guides her through cradling lifts, weight shares and movement phrases that define her boundaries in space while supporting her in taking risks. Trust, inquisitiveness and joy replace anxiety, refusal, and irritation.
While some of the dialogue sections could use editing and tightening, they serve as an important throughline in making universal emotions specific to Lam’s experience and help maintain a non-linear story line. She affirms “No two people see alike anyway,” and takes the glass eye she normally wears out of the small grey cylinder that was such a coveted object at the start of the evening. Although the piece continued for a few more minutes, this false ending could be the best one. With wonder, curiosity, and resolve she puts her eye in, symbolizing the fractured parts of herself now aligned.
As a fully sighted dancer, Depth Deception inspires me to consider things I take for granted. I remember learning concepts of balance, rotation, and the skills of contemporary floorwork. Those skills were challenging enough with both of my eyes! What would it be like to purposely alter my perspective and experiment with limitations in my dance making? What would be the result? In this way, Lam does not separate herself from her audience but invites us to consider both the limitations and enhancements a disadvantage can provide. What is remarkable about watching Lam move is her fierce physicality, athleticism, and command of her body as she executes challenging and complex patterns without hesitation, reminding us that we can access this perspective in our own lives whenever we choose.
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