Only the Stars Know Where I’ve Been is an ode to questions of youth and tangled webs of being. The work reimagines becoming as an un-linear and diffractive queer goo. Strange imaginings, otherworldly atmosphere, and dream-like remembering’s punctuate its fabric. The dancers enter from the house as if one creature, stalking hauntingly and inhumanly, then methodically unravel from their collective beast. One dancer disappears behind the ominous doorway that is obscured with a velvet curtain.

Choreographer Jake Starrs carefully builds the mystique of the unseen space beyond the mysterious doorway. Hands in black gloves extend like tendrils to pull props in or out, dancers disappear to reappear transformed by their unseen and unarticulated experiences, and large gray trench coats that present the idea of regulation and normalization appear from its velvety depths. What exists beyond the door feels normal, upsetting, restricting, and grown up, while what exists on stage is expressive, dreamlike, liminal, and just childlike enough. 

Sydney Magnus dawns a grey jacket (pulled from behind the magic doorway). The jacket has been modified into a puppet and creates the illusion of dancing with a partner when worn. One of her arms manipulates the jacket/puppet, and the other is still her own. Magnus beautifully and skillfully performs two simultaneous characters, the authoritative and invasive suit-hand that presses and pushes against her autonomy, as well as the white clad protagonist curious and uncomfortable. In the hypnotic ‘duet’ it is easy to lose track of reality, as the “suit hand” manipulated her “real hand” and the “real hand” began to feel more like the true puppet. This was a standout moment by Magnus and choreographer Starrs!

During the artistic process the chosen score could have been useful for creating the right atmosphere. The repetitive echoes were referential to the liminal space-y ness of the work, and at points provided necessary reinforcement, but they turned monotonous and apathetic in their continuous use. I would be interested to seeing how a more dynamic use of sound could still maintain the atmosphere of the current score while producing greater intrigue.

Frequent transitions in blackout wittingly and willingly took away the liner building of ideas. A solo full of nervousness with slow meditative questions punctuated by jittery anxieties, then transitions in blackout to a duet, both dancers rhythmically dragging themselves from stage right to left. This is a clever device that encourages the audience to witness the choreography through a queer temporal lens and see each section as a distinct-yet-connected moment. 

I wonder if the queer structure might be easier for an audience to grasp if some images had continuity throughout? Like the return of the ribbon that originally appeared (strikingly & stunningly) laced down the back of performer Stella Grace Seawright? It was clear Jake Starrs was already thinking about refrain from a choreographic place, as movements reappeared in different contexts to build the language of the work – but extending that to more images, props, and situations could prove useful. Nevertheless, I urge the audience to enjoy the process of pulling themes, patterns, and inferences from across the joyful tangle presented. There is an intentionality and thoughtfulness to this work that directs your gaze to disparate ideas and pulls them together into a larger conceptualization of our many past selves and relationships. 

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