Yara Travieso’s Sagittarius A. turned EMPAC’s Concert Hall into a human-scale abstraction of the supermassive black hole at the center of our galaxy. At least, that’s a concrete interpretation of the last chapter of the performance. As the performance started, I assumed that it would simply be a dance- and music-focused event. A few minutes later, however, I was proven wrong. Well, it was dance- and music-focused, but it also involved cinema, live video, elaborate rigging, projection, and audience participation. Simultaneously, it presented overlapping stories about a feminine being crippled and consumed by a stalking wolf, a lecturer late for her talk about the origins of the universe, and a woman dancing in the woods—but not alone.
From a technical standpoint, I was in awe of the synchronization and coordination of the musicians. Several were placed on the left side of the Concert Hall, and the rest were on the right side, totally opposite. But they overcame the challenges related to making music across a void of open space—avoiding phasing and actively fighting the temptation to slow down, maintaining a common understanding of time, and even not being able to see the other musicians due to the distance and darkness.
The audience was made to feel as a primary character in the production. Initially, we were passive observers. Then, we had to turn around as Dr. Amalia asked us if we were sure we were all in the right place, because this was where she was supposed to give her talk. Cameras followed Ana around the Concert Hall, projecting the audience onto the wall along the way. During the video sequences, we observed Ana from the camera’s perspective, which gave us an enormous range of view as she danced. The camera, or the eye of the audience, was as much a participant in her dance as Ana herself was. Dr. Amalia invited the audience to take their phones out and ignite their flashlights as a camera zoomed out to show our hundreds of dots of light as stars in the galaxy. The audience became the galaxy.
As for my personal reaction to the performance: I cried, and I am still not sure of the words I should use to describe the emotions I felt. My eyes watered and I kept blinking to keep my vision from going completely blurry during the climax. The sheer beauty of the swirling lights, of the breathing human-powered drapery, and of the overall emulation of the birth of our reality was overwhelming. I found myself holding back tears as I walked up the stairs back to the lobby. I wiped a few away as I got in my car and just sat there, attempting to figure out what exactly I was feeling. What should I do next? What song do I put on before I get on the road? I was so desperately fighting to get back to my normal, but then I realized—it doesn’t matter. While in the Concert Hall, I simultaneously felt so insignificantly small compared to the size of the universe, but I became larger on a spiritual level. Before tonight, I didn’t know that it was possible for me to be so emotionally moved by a production. I have often walk out of EMPAC confused, but not emotionally overwhelmed. That was the most powerful experience I’ve had in that space, if not the most powerful performance I’ve witnessed in my life.
I also was moved by this piece. I thought it was beautiful and thought-provoking. I found myself entranced throughout the entire performance, especially with the way they artist incorporated the giant pieces of cloth into the performance. When it ended, I was upset that it was over and I couldn't stop thinking about it to try and fully understand the meaning behind it.
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