Smuin Contemporary Ballet - "French Kiss"

Smuin Contemporary Ballet
French Kiss
Cowell Theater at Fort Mason, San Francisco
October 9th, 2026

Pictured: Terez Dean Orr in Seiwert's French Kiss
Photo Chris Hardy

When I saw the premiere of Amy Seiwert’s French Kiss a few years ago, I wrote this: “French Kiss was a hit. I’m sure it won’t be every long before Smuin’s audiences see it again.” Sure enough, Artistic Director Amy Seiwert’s enchanting suite is back on stage, the final work on Smuin Ballet’s Fall program, which opened Friday night at Fort Mason’s Cowell Theater. This company has a number of superpowers, and one is its programming. Heading into any Smuin production, you know that you are about to witness variety, creativity and boundary pushing artistic pursuits. Fall 2026 is no exception – a stunning mixed triple bill. In her opening remarks, Seiwert encouraged the packed house to consider the idea of legacy, and for me, Smuin’s commitment to scope and range is a clear and lasting throughline. Something that has been true in the fifteen years I’ve written about the company. Something that is steeped in their DNA. 

The program opened with Stabat Mater, Founder Michael Smuin’s 2002 choreographic reflection and response to the horror of 9/11. A haunting, somber ballet for five couples, the piece drips with emotion – sorrow, grief and desperation. Dramatic poses evoke lament and elegy. Palms stretch and splay out in silent screams. Dancers continually sit on the stage’s surface in 4th position, both legs at ninety degrees. This posture feels inherently twisted, akin to the feelings of deep despair and heartache. Smuin injected many moments of unison physical vocabulary – jumping, leaping, turning and gliding through space with outstretched arms – speaking to a collective, shared experience. And Antonin Dvořák’s evocative, operatic score was an ideal match for the intense scene. Though, at times the music was too loud. I’ve noticed this at other Cowell performances – it’s almost like any high, forte levels (of which there were many) are too ‘hot’ in the sound system, which ends up leading to some distortion. 

Danced Friday night by Katherine Deuitch and Ricardo Dyer, Stabat Mater’s featured couple brought another tonal element to the table: solace and comfort. Their duets still conveyed anger and loss, but through the twenty-minute ballet, we also saw them supporting each other, caring for one another and becoming a safe space to express whatever was on their hearts. As Stabat Mater concludes, Smuin leaves the viewer with an indelible image. Dyer slowly walks upstage and disappears into the darkness. An overwhelming force throughout the entire work, he’s suddenly just gone. The moment is poignant, poetic and so, so powerful. 

Again, with a gaze fixed on breadth, the evening’s debut piece brought an entirely different quality and dynamic to the Cowell Theater stage. The choreographer’s program notes shared that something quite unique was in store. Narrative would not be center stage. Nor would emotive shades and tones. My’Kal Stromile’s I-SCRIT-AH-SCREE-TAH-SKRATT was going to venture into the land of form, structure and compositional process. The premiere for eight dancers also highlighted two parallel unions. The first was the marriage of textbook ballet vocabulary and a glorious 2026 choreographic vibe. Pristine positions of the body met with pedestrianism and extreme flexion. Stance and gesture played against forward motion. There was whimsy. Entire variations evolved in risky silence. There was a stunning recurrence of 4th position port de bras, which almost seemed to act as a cadence point or a brief moment of repose. And Stromile was not afraid of the back line of the body, opting to have the dancers facing upstage during a variety of sequences. 

A second union cleverly mirrored the choreographic union unfolding on stage. Stromile opted to use a score by Wilhem Friedemann Bach, the second child and first son of J.S. Bach. W.F. Bach lived from 1710-1784, which meant that he likely gained influence from two major musical eras, as he lived during both (specific years vary from source to source, though the Baroque period is often cited as 1600-1750 and Classical from 1750-mid 1800s). In the composition Stromile picked for I-SCRIT-AH-SCREE-TAH-SKRATT, one can hear the independent/interdependent complexity of the Baroque dance suites. How different lines of music converge and interweave, yet are completely able to stand on their own as well. At the same time, there are nods to the Classical Sonata structure, with its formula of exposition, development and recapitulation. Brilliant choice of music!

After the second intermission, the curtain opened to reveal a large ensemble costumed (by Susan Roemer) in gorgeous, vivid, solid colors. At last, Seiwert’s French Kiss (2023) had returned in all its charm and refinement. In the first of six chapters, set to music by Pink Martini, the dancers cycled through a series of elegant, chic, flirty gestures comporting themselves like live models in a luxurious department store window. But as I continued to watch, I realized that the colors and motions were making me think of another type of Parisien store, a patisserie. Maybe I’ve been watching too many baking shows, but suddenly these fifteen artists had made a French macaron case come to life. The specificity of positioning and the precision placement felt right in line with that delicious creation, which at first glance looks simple, but is incredibly hard to execute.

French Kiss is fun. It’s entertaining. It’s feel-good. It’s romantic. It’s grounded in solid ballet technique, while also being a dissertation on inventiveness. And the encore is incredibly moving. A unison statement from the entire cast, scored by Pink Martini’s version of “Could We Start Again, Please?,” Mary and Peter’s duet from the second act of Jesus Christ Superstar. 

"Clara Gibson Maxwell - Dancing on the Edge"

Book Review
Clara Gibson Maxwell – Dancing on the Edge
by Larisa Oancea
published 2026 by The Film Gallery, Paris

Every now and then, I come across writing that acquaints me with a new character in the dance ecosystem. And as I delve further into the chapters, I am both surprised and a little shocked that up until now, this person was unfamiliar to me. In her recent book, published by The Film Gallery, Larisa Oancea introduced me to one such dance artist, Clara Gibson Maxwell. Over 150+ pages, Oancea’s Dancing on the Edge mines the personal and professional life of this consummate mover and creator, who began her journey in the States and later relocated to Paris. Maxwell’s dance lineage reads like a who’s who of late twentieth century American contemporary dance. There are connections to Judson Dance Theater, Anna Halprin’s RSVP cycle and numerous somatic disciplines and traditions, including Alexander Technique, a personal favorite of mine. Her extensive performance and choreographic CV includes site-specific, immersive work, multi discipline compositional structures and urgent, topical narratives. In her introduction, Oancea refers to Dancing on the Edge as a monograph, and there is no more fitting description for her incredibly detailed dissertation. And probably most important for this reader is that the material is easily digestible, which is definitely not a given for a more academic title. 

As Oancea launches into her rigorous study, the reader quickly learns about the many forces that have and continue to inspire and guide Clara Gibson Maxwell. Her fascination with the connection between immersiveness and dialog. Her early formative training years where she learned that institutional and pedagogical rigidity were no match for creative artistic expression. How Pilates was a physical game changer. And that dramaturgy is an unparalleled tool for building compositional cohesiveness. 

As Dancing on the Edge reaches its mid-point, Oancea’s highly-researched prose continues to unpack its complex and fascinating subject. We learn how her work was steeped in philosophical source material and in listening to its living, breathing spatial containers. How her eye and lens were always pointed towards collaborative practice. That dance, movement, physicality and choreography cannot and do not exist in some kind of rarified vacuum. 

If you are a little fatigued by dance writing that always seems to focus on the same, limited cast of characters, check out Larisa Oancea’s Clara Gibson Maxwell – Dancing on the Edge. It’s a riveting read about an equally riveting artist. It’s academic, yet approachable, and not too long. So many books (in any genre) are overwritten and in desperate need of editing. This one hits all the marks. 

The Australian Ballet - "Oscar"

Cal Performances presents
The Australian Ballet
Oscar
Zellerbach Hall, Berkeley
September 25th, 2026

There’s a drawing in our home of five historical figures – a collection of folks that my husband would invite to his ideal dinner party. One of those individuals is Oscar Wilde. I recently asked why he included Wilde in the mix and he answered that the Irish literary genius was known for his witty banter. A quip-ster if you will. Wilde’s writing was famously clever and sharp, and every social event needs a least one such personality. 

Those adjectives filled my mind as I headed to UC Berkeley on Friday evening to see The Australian Ballet in the American premiere of Christopher Wheeldon’s Oscar (2024). It’s been a minute since the company, under the Artistic Direction of David Hallberg, was back at Cal Performances and the evening did not disappoint. Oscar gave a two-hour narrative exploration of the life, work and imprisonment of Oscar Wilde - from his family to his writing to his romantic and sexual relationships with men. And the piece succeeds in a very balanced portrayal of Wilde. Winsome and charismatic moments were aplenty. Moments where you could see how Wilde was the much-anticipated guest - the consummate life of the party. Equally present were moments of desire (both hidden and realized), regret, torment and tragedy. But I couldn’t help but feel that something thematically deeper was happening on the Zellerbach stage. At its heart, Wheeldon’s ballet reads as a piece about remembrance. Wilde’s conviction and two-year detention for gross indecency in 1895 frame both Acts. And from there, remembrance begins. Act I recounts the various events prior to his arrest and confinement, while a more abstract Act II finds a broken Wilde, brilliantly portrayed by Callum Linnane, desperately trying to remember and cling to who he used to be. Different remembrances, surely, but remembrances nonetheless. 

Scored by a brief introductory narration from performer Seán O’Shea, Act I opens in the courtroom and Wilde receives his two-year prison/hard labor sentence. Transported to his cell, he lays on a cot, legs straight above him in the air. His left leg starts to tick like a clock moving in reverse; Wheeldon’s choreography indicating that the story is traveling back in time. The chapters that follow are a recollection of what had transpired up to this point. Early scenes brings portraits of family, parties and salons – Wilde living life to the fullest and holding court in society. Linnane’s solos in these social settings floated with exuberant buoyancy, witty tone and angular staccato gesture. At one such event, Wilde seems done with being alone and gravitates towards a man. There is flirting and seduction – stretched lines in the legs and arms reaching longingly towards each other. 

The Australian Ballet in Wheeldon's Oscar
Photo Kristen Loken

During Act I, Wheeldon frequently juxtaposes a starkly pointed foot against a completed flexed one, a beautiful comment on how two extremes can exist in the same instant. Taking that idea into this story, perhaps it is indicative of how Wilde was concurrently pulled to his wife and to men (there is significant debate and varying opinions as to whether Wilde was gay or bisexual). Also throughout this first half, many of Oscar’s themes are played out in the natural world - magical forests, with an array of birds and other mythical creatures. Obviously a nod to specific selections from Wilde’s vast literary canon, this was an opportunity for Jean-Marc Puissant’s costumes, Jon Goldman’s lighting and David Bergman’s video to shine brightly. All these theatrical elements were quite dazzling. Having said that, the number of different characters and dancers onstage during these otherworldly sequences was busy and over complicated the narrative. In fact, that actually could be applied to the entire ballet. Too many supporting characters led to a crowded stage and at times, it was challenging to know them and understand what they meant to the story. 

The Australian Ballet in Wheeldon's Oscar
Photo Kristen Loken

Act II again takes the viewer inside Wilde’s cell, and based on his startling appearance, years have clearly passed and taken their toll. This time, his remembrance is more of a fever dream, almost an induced mania, as Wilde remembers different forces in his life – his wife, his sons, his lovers, characters from his writing. As these images from the outside world infuse his mind, bits of past choreography recurs. He tentatively mirrors postures and phrase material, tortured by who he used to be, who he loved (and still loves), where he ended up and what his life has become.