Some messages bear repeating, over and over until everyone has heard them. The centuries-old systematic, lawfully allowed, and relentless (in one form or another) maltreatment of black people is a story that needs to be told, lest anyone come close to forgetting.
So although a little more abstraction would be welcome here, dancer and choreographer Oulouy is forgiven for traversing a well-worn path. Nina Simone’s evocative Strange Fruit fills our ears, images of enslavement, apartheid and police brutality burn our eyes, and Maya Angelou’s well-loved poem, And Still I Rise soundtracks a moment of poignant shadowplay.
Oulouy’s movement is mesmerising, his bare chest glistening with sweat as he uses myriad street dance styles to convey work, celebration, oppression and violence. Portraying both victim and victor, he holds up his hands in terrified defence at an invisible gun-wielding adversary, but by the end he’s grinning triumphantly (although this, too, suggests the life-preserving smiles of more sinister times).
There are undoubtedly alternate ways to capture the embodied trauma of black experience, but Oulouy’s approach still strikes a chord, and his stage presence is undeniable.
Kelly Apter
Bang – a black man falls dead. Oulouy lays supine as Nina Simone’s Strange Fruit fills the room with a glimpse of what is ahead.
Inspired, the dancer resurrects and two storylines begin to unfold. One reveals the choreographer’s ambition to span black history, from apartheid to today’s cries of ‘I can’t breathe’, in documentary-ish short clip moments. Street dance, pieces of ancestral clothing, and songs by black artists enrich this narrative.
But the second story sits awkwardly with the first: Oulouy, smiling and detached, sells a vision that ‘everything’s okay’. Using his well-trained instrument and aesthetically pleasing African body rhythms, he code-switches ironically for the predominantly white audience. Though the dance and music fit, their tone undermines the weight of the story he aims to tell. The violence and abuse against black people surfaces, embodied by pistol-fingered gestures and silent screams, but the deeper meaning never materialises.
For some, Black will feel predictable, but for others it may be new material ripe for discovery.
Dmitrijus Andrušanecas
A single performer dances onstage to rhythmic and engaging beats. Three times, the scene halts, staging a stop-and-frisk situation that escalates to the character’s death at the hands of police.
Oulouy is a strong performer, mesmerising to watch. Many questions arise after the final steps conclude. At one point, he stops dancing for a long time to show archival footage of Black people being harassed and persecuted. A solo danced to Strange Fruit by Billie Holiday and another to Maya Angelou’s Still I Rise feel closer to the artist. Street dance values homage, but also demands owning your experience and embodying your unique point of view. Much of what is presented feels part of a broader conversation on race, yet the artist’s personal hopes, fears, and positions remain elusive.
How can the artist draw deeper from his life and psyche to bring us into a more intimate conversation about exclusion, persecution, fear, and race?