After attending The Quartet, I drove home with a friend and we talked about the show. Our discussions touched on vulnerability, narrative, hopelessness, and desire. The sparse and repetitious performance left room for a lot of self-reflection, and I was left questioning the worth and value in production.  What is pushing me to continue the never ending cycle of art production?  Is all the exhaustion worth it?

To say that I enjoyed watching the quartet, a minimalist ballet from Heather Kravas that ran at On the Boards this past weekend, is perhaps not fully accurate. I did enjoy the show, it's just that I also cringed, squirmed on the uncomfortable bleacher seating, craned my neck, plugged my ears, and nearly fell asleep. Though it did make an impression as I still found myself talking about the show two hours afterwards. Perhaps it is best said that it was both beautiful and painful, much like most things in life. 

"The nail that sticks up will be hammered down" is a Korean proverb that ran through my mind while watching Heather Kravas', the quartet, last Thursday. It was unforgiving, unrelenting and punishing. I was anxious and tense the entire time. I wanted to cover my eyes frequently. I loved it. 

"the quartet" illustration by Edwin Fotheringham

"Ms. Kravas' creations conspired to undo any normal possibility of remembering exactly what happened last night."

"The music shifted the viscosity of the air creating an illusion of the performers hovering slightly off the ground the whole time. Heather's work made me hopeful for the future of dance..."

"Heather Kravas’ dance-work the quartet is, in part, about making you wait.

Cool, concise and sometimes fascinating, it’s minimalist fare that keeps its viewers guessing.

Those endlessly repeated movements … is there an off-kilter pattern emerging from them? That long-held pose … is it a statement unto itself or the start of something?"

Invocation arrests. Prayer states. Chant repeats. All are spiritual. The spirit is the theme. The body is the means.

There are the instruments. Two violins: one redhead, decorative yet brittle--the Stradivarius; one brunette, leaner more aggressive--the Guarneri. The viola: taller, more lush, as refined as a Maggini. The cello: the only masculine voice in the fray, supportive but never virtuoso; not classical like an Amati, but modern yet folksy--more of a David Burgess.

There is form. Allegro. Adagio. Scherzo. Allegro.