Wednesday, July 1, 2020

A scaffolding of metal pipes, in what might be the shape of a geodesic dome, surrounds the stage and seats in the plaza outside the Dance Center. I arrive early, as usual. I wait outside the dome. Inside it, a worker rakes the red dirt that covers the stage. Three other workers move slowly along the two circles of seats surrounding it. One reads from a clipboard: "47 and 48, a couple. 49, alone. 50 and 51, a couple. 52 through 55, a family of four, together." The other two cluster and separate the numbered chairs accordingly. Two of the dancers step onto the stage. A worker points his phone at them. They record several takes of a plea for funding in well-rehearsed English. Other people standing outside the dome with me call out to them. They also want to take pictures. The dancers strike goofy poses then leave. The man with the rake smooths the dirt where they stood. When the gates open, workers check the tickets on our printouts and phones and guide us to our seats. The man and woman seated together to my right each carry cameras with huge lenses. The man tries to move his chair closer to the stage. A worker stops him. "I'm sorry. You can't. Corona. Dying is forbidden in the palace of culture." In Hebrew, that rhymes and sounds like a humorous slogan, akin to “Savoir faire is everywhere.” I sit and wait, watching the three-quarter moon rise between the pipes of the scaffolding. The house lights dim. The choreographer walks along the edge of the stage, mic in hand. She guides us in a seated meditation: feet flat on the ground, backs straight, hands high in the air then down along our faces to our hearts, out toward the center of the space then back and down to a rest position. She thanks us. The stage lights dim. Five people enter, dressed in red. The dance begins.