TeenTix Blog Reviews

“A window to the see, a spirit star chiming in the wind of wonder as you crown me with your iron, aid me on my flight…” it began. It felt like eavesdropping as I listened to the poem be read aloud by the artist himself, Raúl de Nieves, just as I had wandered into the gallery. It was a perfect illustration of de Nieves’ theology: an eclectic blend of spiritualism, Catholicism, self-expression, the cycle of rebirth, life, and death, and the belief that there is wonder to be found in the everyday. I was entirely enchanted by the small fragment that I had seen of de Nieves’ world, enamored by how exuberant it all seemed. The gallery demands that you see it in its entirety for you to see “a glimpse of infinity,” the “foliage of the light,” and “the unreality of the unseen” as the poem outlines.

A Window to the See prompts you to walk through the gallery circularly. Following the 21 stanzas lining the walls leads you in a full circle encompassing the gallery, past each of the three sculptures, beneath the arches of stained glass, with the final stanza leading back into the first seamlessly. The way that the curation plays into the themes becomes even more clear when considering the placement of the three sculptures. Following the poems in order takes you past “Deaths of the Everyday” first, followed by “The Gift” in the middle and “Celebration (Mother)” on the opposite end, nearing the last stanza. The three sculptures are representative of the three stages of life that de Nieves has identified: rebirth, life, and death, and they are presented in that order. This is yet another subversion of commonly held beliefs in Western canon. De Nieves skews this idea by presenting a nonlinear journey through the stages of life, beginning with rebirth and ending in death. Raúl de Nieves: A window to the see, a spirit star chiming in the wind of wonder… [Installation view, Henry Art Gallery, University of Washington, Seattle. 2023]. Photo: Jonathan Vanderweit.

Let me welcome you, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to say hello, Are you ready for some entertainment? Are you ready for a show?

The screen is dark. A faint glow stretches from the corner of the screen.

When second-year UW graduate student Nick O’Leary pitched a show for the UW School of Drama’s 2023-2024 ticketed season almost a year ago, he was looking for a play with a unique form and relationship between performers and audience, and he found that in A Thick Description of Harry Smith (Vol. 1). To explain the show, O’Leary quotes the notes of playwright Carlos Murillo, with whom the cast was able to work during the first week of rehearsals: “This is less of a play, and more of a performance.” The play—or, rather, performance—is part of Murillo’s trilogy of Javier Plays, three scripts that draw from the work of little-known Colombian-American playwright Javier C.

The show, which incorporates live music and a chaotic, omni-surprising set, is difficult to describe, says O’Leary. “This script has its own rules, and Carlos has not followed any kind of template.” To bring a semblance of unity to this inherently unstructured show, he took inspiration from the medium of collage. When watching, audience members get the sense that there is no real end, and new pieces are added on, complicating the image.Photos by Sunny Martini, permission granted to use by the University of Washington, School of Drama.

Tsai Ming-liang has a knack for filmmaking. The Taiwanese film director knows just where to place the camera to get the perfect frame. He knows when to cut a clip to achieve the maximum effect of its weight and emotion. But most of all, he understands how to craft a compelling story with engrossing characters and little to no dialogue or music. He sets his films to a backdrop of ambient rain and city noises, achieving a feeling that is sometimes calming and sometimes tense the whole way through.

Rebels of the Neon God, which screened at Northwest Film Forum from January 10 to January 14, has some of the best-composed shots of the past few decades. It is both minimalist in its plot, characters, and sound design, and complex in its depiction of the ambiance of the city. The title of the film translated means: “Adolescent Nezha,” referring to the Chinese deity. At the beginning of the film, young student Hsaio Kang’s mother decides that her son is a reincarnation of Nezha, the “Neon God.” Throughout the film, we see Hsaio Kang through the lens of his relationship with this deity. Hsaio Kang, portrayed by the talented Lee Kang-sheng, does not think quite so highly of himself. Instead, after quitting cram school to collect the refund, he slinks around the city, stalking the petty crimes and romances of Ah Tze and his friend Ping. He never directly intervenes with any of the people he is trailing, but their interactions (either subtle or overt) leave lasting emotional effects on him. Still from Tsai Ming-liang's Rebels of the Neon God (1992), courtesy of Big World Pictures.

At the end of each year from 1998 to 2012, a staging of Black Nativity by playwright Langston Hughes was produced by Intiman Theatre, captivating Seattle audiences with a poetic celebration of Black joy and talent. Despite Black Nativity’s 10-year hiatus, fans inquired about tickets to the show each winter. This past December, director Valerie Curtis-Newton answered prayers for a Seattle revival with a reimagined production, adding a new act that embraces Black Gospel culture to bring warmth, exultation, and connection to Seattle audiences. The 2023 production also features choreography by Vania C. Bynam and music direction by Sam L. Townsend Jr. It is presented in partnership with The Hansberry Project, a professional African American theater lab “dedicated to the artistic exploration of African American life, history, and culture” led by Curtis-Newton. Founded in 2004, The Hansberry Project aims to provide the community with “consistent access to African American artistic voice… rooted in the convictions that black artists should be at the center of the artistic process, that the community deserves excellence in its art, and that theatre’s fundamental function is to put people in relationship to one another.” Their motto, “Where ART meets SOUL!”, is magnificently reflected in Black Nativity.

The show was first produced off-Broadway in 1961 with a cast of over 160. Since 1970, it has been performed yearly as a cherished tradition in Boston and continues to move and delight audiences nationwide. The show includes an all-Black cast and features design elements that incorporate African and African-American culture. The play, written as one act, is divided into two acts in this reignited production. The first part follows the Christian nativity story of Mary giving birth to Baby Jesus. Black Nativity adapts the classic tale with humor and regard. An incredibly talented gospel choir accompanies soloists from the group as well as a featured cast of five. The choir is clad in classic choral robes, sits around a lively band. Both choreography and choir-ography by Bynam accompany the production. The dancers move in individual spirit; their movements aren’t synchronized, but they’re aligned in their verve and emotion. Solos and duets enhance both sung and spoken passages, and technical vocal talent connects strong feelings with expressive dancing. The costumes by Dannielle Nieves, worn by dancers, featured characters, the five-person cast, and the onstage music director, provide vibrant texture and color to the show. Highlights include a pleated gold cape on an angel, beaded and frilled headpieces, and a blue, tie-dyed wrapped dress around the dancer Mary. Radiant lighting, by designer Robert Aguillar and assistant designer Chih-Hung Shao, masterfully shifts in tones with the story’s spirit. The set, designed by Jennifer Zeyl, consists of stained glass windows hanging above the stage. An upper platform allows for engaging cast movement that enhances this first act. Choir and Dancers, Photo by Joe Moore 2023

With little candles atop wooden coffee tables and the soft murmur of voices from people, as they filed in, Town Hall Seattle was the perfect place to spend a cold December night. But as the audience settled into their seats to see ¡Navidad! The Mystery of Mary, the room was transformed from the streets of Seattle into the rainforests of Latin America with the sounds of various rain shakers and whistlers.

Hosted by Pacific Musicworks, ¡Navidad! The Mystery of Mary is a collection of music entirely dedicated to the “Feminine Divine” of an otherwise predominantly patriarchal church, Mother Mary, by focusing on the bodies of art, poetry, and music that blossomed from Marian traditions on both sides of the Atlantic. This ambitious goal manifested itself in 15 songs, split into 4 respective sections. The show’s program acknowledges this: “These works explore truths far too universal to limit to one creed: the humanity and wonder of motherhood, the desire for comfort in difficult times, and our hope for redemption and healing in a broken world.”

The Mystery of Mary, which sought to showcase the “dynamic blending of European, African, and Indigenous beliefs that characterized Christianity in colonial Latin America,” ultimately accomplished their goal in a way that didn’t comprise the authenticity of any one period or style. Part of their success in doing so came from the compositions themselves, constructing a story chronologically: the audience wasn’t simply observing a musical ensemble but taking part in a series of stories with instruments as the method of narration. Like most stories do, The Mystery of Mary starts at the beginning. Mezzo-soprano Cecilia Duarte, spotlighted in the center of the black stage, sets us up for the performance to come not with singing, but by describing the 1531 Marian apparition of the Virgin de Guadalupe in Mexico City. As the Virgin Mary appeared to Juan Diego on the Hill of Tepeyac to ask him to construct a church in her honor, Cecilia posed to her audience the same question Juan Diego wondered a little over 500 years ago: “Am I worthy of what I’m hearing?”

As the doors of Town Hall finally closed, the rest of the musical ensemble’s eight members readied themselves on the small stage. As Stephen Stubbs turned to the Baroque guitar, Maxine Elainder to the harp, and Antonio Gomez to percussion, the rest of the ensemble picked up on the storyline where Cecilia left off. As we saw a change from polyphonic choral compositions to more homophonic and expressive pieces, we were experiencing in real-time the changes that the music world encountered as it shifted from the Renaissance Era to the Baroque period, and the focus from “exquisite Renaissance motets to boisterous folk dances” that took place in Mexico, Cuba, Guatemala, Brazil, and Peru. As the guitar grew from playful and lilting in one piece to a sorrowful and slowed tune in another, the four acts—Rosa Mistica, Made de Dios, Estrella de Mar, and Reina del Cielo—held our hands as we walked through the changes in historical events and Marian apparitions that accompanied each piece. Throughout each piece, the beauty that emerged from the clarity and power of Duarte’s voice and the ensemble’s playing was undeniable. As I looked around to the rest of the audience who now sat spellbound in their seats, I knew we were all asking ourselves the same question Juan Diego did back in 1531: Am I worthy of what I’m hearing?

Many of the pieces performed, having emerged from the mixing between indigenous, African, and European identities in 18th-century colonial Latin America, were most likely never imagined to be played in 21st-century Washington state. The Mystery of Mary certainly achieved their dedication to past stories and history through traditional percussional elements and the use of the recitative and aria in Duarte’s opera, both defining characteristic features of the Baroque age. Nevertheless, what I found more impressive was how much The Mystery of Mary felt relevant, and most importantly close, even though the pieces were written so long ago.

Part of this was due to the feeling that by the time intermission rolled around, there was no longer an unspoken barrier between the edges of the front row seats and the stage: nothing was separating the storyteller and audience members. We laughed alongside Henry Lebedinsky when he took a break from Harpsichord to unveil a tambourine and mirrored the expressions shared between Baroque violinists Cynthia Black and Tekla Cunningham after each intimate and vulnerable number. There was no music played during intermission but there is something to be said about the artistic nature of the community I found myself fortunate to observe that night. Through commendable storytelling and interaction both in and out of their playing, the audience was not only able to learn about the often under-shown history of colonial Latin America but experience and physically listen to the changes of time through depictions of the Virgin Mary as well.

Perhaps the point of the composition wasn’t meant to force us to question our worth like Juan Diego did in 1531, but instead to appreciate the opportunity to listen to history and acknowledge the beauty and the role of the Virgin Mary in Latin America together one cold December night. image credit: Pacific Musicworks

Lead Photo Credit: Cecilia Duarte, courtesy of Pacific Musicworks

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Steinunn Þórarinsdóttir: Wayfinders, showing at the National Nordic Museum until January 28, is an abstract exhibition about humankind's connection with nature. It features aluminum humanoid statues scattered throughout the museum; some are on the second-floor bridges, surveying the entrance like sentries. Some are worked into other exhibitions, hidden in plain sight; others are secreted away in alcoves, and others still are out in the open or bracing themselves on the wall, waiting for viewers to notice them.

The exhibition also includes a collection of rough watercolors and the artist's summary of what these figures are meant to show. This summary and the watercolors add crucial context; without the information in the overview, the sculptures would still be beautiful, but their intended message wouldn't be as clear. The watercolors depict the statues interacting with invisible forces of nature. photo credit: @photobakery

The concept of “positive fragmentation” existed long before the exhibition at the Bellevue Art Museum. The term was coined by the feminist art critic Lucy Lippard, in her 1978 essay, Making Something from Nothing. Lippard’s essay dissects the disparity in male and female representation in high art. Lippard notes that art produced by women tends to be labeled as hobbyist and nothing more by those discussing high art. She goes on to state that the same can be said for certain art mediums, specifically printmaking, as it is seen as replicable and, thus, less rare or valuable. With Lippard’s idea here in mind, there is a clear intersection for female artists whose primary medium is printmaking, who have gone almost entirely overlooked because of this. Enter “positive fragmentation,” a term Lippard uses to describe the aesthetic of these artists and what their work accomplishes. “Positive fragmentation” is described as eclectic, bombastic, the “collage aesthetic,” and Lippard posits that it lends itself incredibly well to marginalized artists because of its inherent willingness to deconstruct and then reconstruct the notions of high and low art. The exhibit Positive Fragmentation, bearing the same name as Lippard’s theory, aims to the ideas she had outlined, showcasing over 200 prints by 21 contemporary women printmakers that demonstrate the sheer power of the medium, totally averting the preconceived notion that prints are incapable of being expressive and unique.

The exhibition is found on the third floor of the Bellevue Art Museum (BAM), a sprawling space lined wall-to-wall with prints from remarkable artists such as Betye Saar, Wendy Red Star, Louise Bourgeois, and many more. Exhibiting so many pieces in a relatively small space is a difficult task. For many other gallery spaces, the exhibition would have felt confusing and hectic, yet the BAM handles it incredibly well. There is a good flow to the gallery, with the pieces displayed in groups of several smaller subcategories: time, bodies, art history, meaning, subtext, and critique. With this method of display, the viewer feels a sense of cohesion, and it makes the task of displaying such a sheer number of pieces much less daunting. BAM is a smaller space, but this is by no means a negative quality. To an exhibition such as Positive Fragmentation, such a small and intimate setting lends itself well. It makes the exhibition feel all the more personal like the viewer has a greater opportunity to connect with the art, and it neatly avoids the hollow or empty feeling that certain larger spaces often have. Photo courtesy of Coco Allred

Upon entering Seattle Rep, the first thing that caught my eye was the small fireplace on the stage, plumes of smoke coming out from the top. Feeling like I was almost at home on an early Christmas morning, a soft flurry of snow descended upon the stage, delicately pirouetting in the air as the sisters called out for one another without being seen. Like cracking open a book, Seattle Rep's rendition of Little Women created an atmospheric marvel and a sincere retelling of the beloved story.

Through its many variations, I have fallen in love with the purity and innocence of Little Women, with its characters, setting, and timeless meaning. Rebecca Court, playing Amy, and Amelio García, playing Jo, both portray their characters flawlessly, captivating the entire audience. Their onstage chemistry is a testament to the intricate relationship between Jo and Amy, the constant bickering mirroring many sibling relationships. Being a focal point of the play, relationships, and connections are prioritized, yet the spotlight that was put on the sisters' relationships far outshined the one placed on Jo’s and Laurie’s intricate romance. Without any discernible connection between Laurie and Jo, it was difficult to feel any sort of actual heartache upon seeing her reject him. Their connection was more than just fleeting, and their knowing each other since childhood should have been something more time was spent on. This moment was to display a loss of innocence, and the stark reality Jo had to face in the ‘real world,’ where love did exist, where she had to make decisions concerning these issues. Katie Peabody, Rebecca Cort, Cy Paolantonio, and Amelio García in LIttle Women. Photo by Bronwen Houck.

Katsuhika Hokusai’s The Great Wave off Kanagawa (known more widely as The Great Wave) is an instantly recognizable icon of pop culture. Everyone knows the deep Prussian blue waves, crested with curling white seafoam, standing stark against a tan-tinted sky. In the nearly 200 years since the 1830-‘31 production of the piece, it has been studied, recreated, and studied again, with The Wall Street Journal even calling it “possibly the most reproduced image in the history of all art.”

But there is infinitely more to Hokusai’s legacy than this 10-by-15-inch woodblock print. Katsushika Hokusai, Under the Wave off Kanagawa(Kanagawa-oki nami-ura), also known as theGreat Wave, from the series Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji (Fugaku sanjûrokkei), about1830–31 (Tenpô 1–2)Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, William Sturgis Bigelow Collection, 11.17652Woodblock print (nishiki-e); ink and color on paper

When the faux snowflakes drift into the audience during the finale of Irving Berlin’s White Christmas from the 5th Avenue Theatre, it’s impossible to deny the magic of this show, the cable-knit sweater coziness of it all. Unfortunately, the chances of it snowing outside are slim to none, but you walk out of the theater convinced that life leans toward the magical, expecting a blanket of white to cover the city streets.

White Christmas, a stage adaptation of the 1954 movie musical of the same name, features holiday classics and angsty love songs alike. In the show, World War II veterans-turned-star singing duo Bob Wallace and Phil Davis decide (well, Phil decides and Bob is reluctantly dragged along) to follow another singing duo, the Haynes sisters, to Vermont.

Amid the sublime paintings of Frye Salon, instruments wait in the middle of the room. They cast a poignant presence on viewers, the silence of the room awaiting the cacophony of their mellifluous sounds. Until March 10, 2024, visitors coming to the Frye Art Museum will get to experience LINEAJES, an exhibit focused on the dynamic histories and rhythms of these instruments around the world, taken directly from the collection of Antonio M. Gómez. The exhibit juxtaposes the past and the present, and how the upholding of timeless methods continues to evolve and influence how those instruments are played today. LINEAJES brings to light the artistry behind the design of the instruments, their undeniable impact on the unification of cultural traditions, and the distinctive sounds that have become part of our own identities.

Frye Salon is an ideal setting for the art found within. This venue consists of white walls that are adorned with beautiful paintings, mostly by European artists. These artworks cast a golden shine with their elaborately-crafted frames.

A Classic Game of Chess

Review of WarGames screened at SIFFWritten by Teen Editorial Staff member Daphne Bunker

At On the Boards’ show Make Banana Cry, the audience is part of the stage. It is an uncomfortably post-modern, avante-garde performance disguised as a simple dance and fashion show, set on a runway stage. Performers strut down paths patterned with Buddhist swastikas, in various states of dress and undress, holding a collection of props and using them in different ways. Sometimes they march slowly—sometimes to the point of unmoving—and sometimes they are explosively radiant in their color, movement, and expressiveness. Under the helm of producer/performer power duo Andrew Tay and Stephen Thompson, the six performers are accompanied by an ever-changing set of soundtracks, consisting of everything from Miss Saigon to frantic pop songs to what seems to be the rhythmic beating of helicopter propellers. This collection of sounds and cues is not random but very intentional, for the show is meant to be an out-of-the-box method for paralyzing a largely white audience with symbols and themes commonly associated with the appropriation of Asian cultures. The auditory design and wild costume choices enhance the discomfort put upon the audience. However, as the show experiments with imagination, it also discovers that entertainment and creativity do not always go hand in hand.

Upon walking into the theater, audience members are handed plastic foot covers so their shoes don’t scuff the stage; these remain on for the entirety of the performance. Then, the audience examines various items such as Chinese checkerboards and towering sculptures of oversized cup noodle packages before taking their seats. The audience then sits in silence as the performance slowly begins, and then rapidly escalates. The performers march, run, or crawl down the runway toting a variety of different props and wearing strange costumes that bend the definition of clothes. The costumes are continuously weird and eccentric—sometimes coherently so and sometimes like a jumble of the strangest outfits ever worn. The actors confront, speak to, and hand things to audience members, who are scattered around in clusters of rows throughout the stage. The goal of the actors throughout these interactions is to challenge the audience’s beliefs and ideas via motifs. However, the boldness, force, enthusiasm, and nakedness of the performers often serve less as vehicles for metaphor and more so as a visceral shock to the “universal Western prejudice” mentioned by the show’s program. As the show veers off the rails, the performers’ goals are put on display: to illustrate a history of racism against Asian cultures and to boast their own Asian-ness in pride. The show’s themes are pleasantly startling but the execution of them is ultimately unsustainable.

In America, gun violence has been rising since the 90’s, taking tens of thousands of lives in the process. It is undeniable that this has become a crisis; some have even called it an epidemic. Gun death has become so common in our culture it’s hard to find the motivation to create change. With another tragedy sweeping through the nation every month, how can there be hope for a better future?

This is especially prevalent for youth. This generation has grown up in a country plagued by gun violence, living with shooter drills, teen suicides, and accidental deaths, making this their everyday life. This makes youth voices critical in the discussion of gun violence.

The loud and constant sound of highway traffic plays over speakers at the Nobody Lives Here exhibit, but they aren’t the first thing you’d notice. After all, the sound is just a continuation of what’s heard through the entirety of the Chinatown-International District (CID): I-5, drowning out conversations across the street, live music, and storefront doorbells.

Multimedia artist and historian Tessa Hulls worked with the Wing Luke Museum (which was established shortly after I-5 was built through the CID in the early 1960s), to create an engaging and extensive collection. Her countless photos, newspaper articles, and interview transcripts explain how the highway fundamentally altered the CID and its residents’ lives. Tacoma Hotel being town down c 1960 Photo courtesy of Wing Luke Museum

Danish sculptor Thomas Dambo dreamed big for the Pacific Northwest—but his dreams took giant, trollish form. His public art project Northwest Trolls: Way of the Bird King seeks to both highlight indigenous Coast Salish cultures and foster connections with his native Denmark. The project features six giant handcrafted sculptures across the region, each with its own pleasantly peculiar presence. From Vashon Island to Portland, Oregon, each troll invites viewers to appreciate the whimsy and beauty nature offers.

In West Seattle, a troll named Bruun Idun stands ready to serenade our resident orca families. This wooden giant has clearly been crafted with intention: everything from the flowing curves of her fingers to the roundness of her face demonstrates proof of Dambo’s artistic prowess.

Anna Jadowska’s 2022 film Woman on the Roof is a movie with a very enticing premise: an elderly woman decides to rob a bank. It’s a simple idea that holds considerable potential for a story. Woman on the Roof proves you don’t need a big plot to tell an effective story. It uses its resources conservatively to weave a deeply impactful narrative teeming with commentary on challenging topics, such as depression, domestic norms, life, and the Polish mental health care system. With its various accolades, stunning washed-out color scheme, and intriguing story, I went into the film with high hopes. Woman on the Roof transcended them in almost every way.

Mira (Dorota Pomykała) is a 60-year-old midwife leading a mundane life. She struggles with deep, existential sorrow, finding little happiness in her relatively stable life and feeling alienated from her family and society. The world shows her the bare minimum of care, keeping her alive but not allowing her to truly live. This is seen on both a personal scale, in her home, and in the systems of her society. She is desperate for connection but is shown only indifference. She feels alienated in her home life and burdened by housework. Out of desperation, she robs a bank with a kitchen knife but runs away. The consequences begin to spiral, and she must reconsider how she lives her life as she grows distant from her family and society.

What appears to be an endless array of people is an ocean of film lovers lined up at SIFF Cinema Egyptian. Cultural Chinese ornaments decorate the theater, and as you enter, you’re welcomed by Chinese Drill Team members. They greet you with respect and friendliness, dressed powerfully yet elegantly. The intricate uniforms are designed with red and gold accents and an elaborate headpiece. Walking around the theater, you’re immersed in a vibrant community. The diverse audience converses with one another, expressing their admiration for and acquaintance with the renowned Chinese Drill Team. They all gather to watch the documentary She Marches in Chinatown, whether they have seen the drill team at festivals and parades, are former members, or simply want to enjoy a film about local culture. She Marches in Chinatown, directed by Della Chen, produced by Amy Benson, and edited by Dina Guttman, is a magical documentary entailing the story and 71-year history of the Seattle Chinese Community Girls Drill Team. The film showcases how the team was brought together and how the organization has empowered a group of young Chinese women. It beautifully tells the story of the team while tying together themes of community and women empowerment.

As the movie starts, the lights dim and the chants of their practice take focus. In unison, they march as the team captain leads. You are automatically allured and intrigued by the cinematography, the flashing fabrics, the vibrant colors, and the precision of their march. This film uses wonderful cinematographic techniques such as birds-eye views, worms-eye views, and slow-motion videography. The combination of birds-eye views and different perspectives makes you focus on their movement. The beginning of this film was aesthetically beautiful. The camera then goes on to show the girls of the team in a Chinatown playground, having fun after their practice, and talking amongst themselves. You are shown how well-bonded these girls are, as they’ve found their community through the team. You feel like a part of them like you’re there with them.

The stage is dim– lit only by a soft white glow. Nine actors breathe in a haunting, rhythmic chorus. Their bodies sway to the chugging of the train. The rise and fall, the side to side, calls to mind deep-seated nostalgia, the feeling of travel that, as a child, felt never-ending. As Passengers progresses, the Seattle Repertory Theatre stops feeling like a theater. The acrobats stop being just actors, their daring stunts transform from just circus spectacle. The audience is pulled into a heart-wrenching and deeply human story, told masterfully with the bodies of the performers. Circus is used as a creative device, where the stunts come second to the story. Passengers is one of the most uniquely beautiful things I have ever seen.