LED’s choreocinematic project Ruin (2022), directed by Aidan Brezonick and written and choreographed by Lauren Edson, insinuates presence through absence—what author Raymond Carver once poeticized as “the white shadow”. The theme is further enhanced by a protean score by composer Andrew Stensaas that borrows hints from Bernard Herrmann, long-time collaborator with Alfred Hitchcock, who in several of his films addressed the presence of absence, most notably in Rebecca (1940) during a key scene where “Maxim” deWinter (Laurence Olivier) conjures the image of his deceased wife Rebecca by describing her movements across a room while cinematographer George Barnes’ camera pans through empty space. In Hitchcockian brilliance, you can “see” Rebecca, even though she’s not there.
With Ruin—filmed during the height of the COVID pandemic—the empty auditorium, lobby, catwalks and restrooms of the Morrison Center on the Boise State University campus conjure the ghost of an audience and serve as their memory. That absent audience stands in for the collective ghost of the theater and articulates that the spiritual crisis for dancers, performers, becomes: who are they then to dance for?—perform for?—when there’s nobody there? Ruin suggests they dance for each other and at times even for oneself, appealing to a mirrored audience of one.
In the post-screening discussion following the revival screening of Ruin on the closing night of LED’s “Moves + Movies” festival, the cast and crew of Ruin reminisced on how their collaboration on the project helped them survive the isolation of the pandemic, allowing them to anchor themselves passionately and playfully in the present moment, purposely to ward off an uncertain future. One could aptly describe it as love among the ruins.
Despite Lauren Edson confessing that she never really thought anyone would ever see the film, the film has insisted on being seen, first at its premiere at the Egyptian Theater four years back and now in a revival screening at The Dixon, present after a long absence. In effect, a present (a gift) after a long absence. The years have saved us from the pandemic, though we lost too many, and Ruin documents the resilience of art, the practice of turning disadvantage to advantage, and pivotal points in the maturation of the artists involved. As someone who barely survived the AIDS pandemic, I very much appreciated Cydney Covert’s astute observation that the ticking clock demands passion and authenticity. The AIDS pandemic gave fire to my voice, which burns to this day. The greatest absence of all would be to allow life to collapse into a passionless inauthentic life and I stand in solidarity with the LED crew in their refusal to permit that to happen.
Although I was not participant in the creation of Ruin—other than to be the silence of the auditorium—watching this poignant piece of choreocinema articulated my relationship with its creators rendered over the years. When I relocated from the Bay Area to Boise, Idaho in 2011, Brett Perry swiftly captured my imagination through his sinuous work with the Trey McIntyre Project. I first knew Andrew Stensaas’s music through his Treefort appearances as the duo Edmond Dantès, and Ruin's production designer Elijah Jensey-Lindsey as With Child, and Daniel Ojeda became my friend because I deeply admired his ability to shift from street theatricals to main stage performances. I even appreciated it when I was lucky enough to have Daniel wait on me while dining at the Modern. I was one of San Francisco’s first economic exiles and was, admittedly, depressed when I moved to Boise; but that mourning rapidly dissipated as I was drawn into Boise’s creative hub of dancers and musicians and installation artists. Like diarist Anaïs Nin, all I have ever wanted is to be at the creative hub of things and I feel so fortunate that the artists who created Ruin have invited me—have invited all of us—into that creative hub.
The mysterious truth remains: a storyteller cannot tell their tale without a listener to receive it. Ruin proves that the mystery must remain.
