An essay I wrote about the short video, Hallberg At Work
Music
composer Ólafur Arnald and dancer David Hallberg create a dreamlike landscape
in Hallberg At Work, directed by Erik
K. Yue and choreographed by Marcelo Gomes. Bustling urban music plays in a
plain high-rise studio as the world famous dancer shares this intimate
experience – someone who is used to being on a stage with others in a vast
theater filled with people; now solitary in front of a camera taking a closer
look. Through the dance between Hallberg and the lens, we are instantly
magnetized and can only watch the photography follow his lead, like how a fumbling,
yet talented novice would follow a master.
The
camera starts at a distance and in a sweeping motion that seems almost like a
dance move itself, it comes close and lingers, hanging on Hallberg’s every
move. With slippery, shifting angles Hallberg’s joints seem highly lubricated,
and the camera appears tentative, nearly insecure, in contrast to the dancer's
smooth agility and confidence as it attempts to keep up, capture and understand
this coryphée.
There
appears to be natural light pouring in from outside, filling the studio with
quiet dusk, which lends to the picture an affected lonesome quality and makes
the dancer seem more isolated. The studio is deserted and Hallberg strives
mightily to trip the light fantastic by filling the void with his body.
As
the dancer relishes in his introversion, forgetting the camera in general, the
energy shifts from somber and melancholy to a kind of determined force, the
music and dance expressing a sense of exhaustion with the motivation to
overcome.
This
may be why the framing appears careless in places. I find it hard to understand
why the photographer would shoot Hallberg
with such sincere interest, taking the time to idle in the dancer’s pause, it’s
focus suspended on the tip of a finger, or the distant look in the eyes, and
yet cut off his feet. I must assume that there is intent and not dismissal;
that we should see that the camera just cannot keep up with the master dancer;
that in its desperate attempts to preserve a sense of complimentary pacing, it
loses track altogether.
Nevertheless,
I want to fall on the tip of the toes and follow a kick and the swoop of a
heel, but the movements are cut off from the inattentive lens. On the other end
there is seemingly endless headspace, filling the void between our dancer and
the ceiling. The oddly placed negative space is distracting, as would a
neophyte dancer be in the midst of an expert.
The
spinning blur is effective as Hallberg is lost in the circular gesture, his
arms raised in release; the loss of focus expresses this discharge of energy. As
if we are caught up in the dancers relief, the camera snaps to attention when
he rushes from his spot; and in a whirlwind of continuous motion the dancer
unwinds, almost unsure himself of what to do next; lost in a momentary
distraction, a thought we are not invited to see. The camera seems to reflect
that disorientation, and in respect for Hallberg’s privacy, the lens turns away
with no particular interest in anything else.
As
the dancer becomes adrift, absent-minded of its partner, the camera, too, loses
itself in deliverance from motion. The two separate after the climax, like
intertwined bodies no longer clinging to each other; leaving the dance and
lengthening the space between; the camera now in the afterglow of this
captivating experience.
