There’s something about Findhorn, with its sweeping bays, forests and big skies that fosters a sense of wellbeing regardless of what you do there. But this year’s RISE dance festival provided a basket-full of cherries on top, turning an already special location into a place of joy and contemplation. Not just through subsidiary events, such as a thought-provoking Health Circle with choreographer/dancer Kirstie Simson, workshops in origami, dance and movement play for families, and a festival party. Opportunities for reflection, self-care or simply pure, unadulterated fun were also laced into each of the professional performances. 

Taking place in the Universal Hall, Moray Arts Centre and various outdoor spaces across The Park, this small but perfectly formed dance festival attracted everyone from dance aficionados to people who happened to be camping nearby and were curious to find out more. And with a mix of international and home-grown talent performing over the weekend, all of whom offered an element of audience participation (of the non-scary variety), this year’s RISE had an impressively high smile-count.

When The Bleeding Stops

Lovísa Ósk Gunnarsdóttir’s deep-dive into the challenges and mysteries of menopause starts as a one-woman show but ends with virtually the entire audience joining her on-stage. With great comedic timing (both verbal and physical), Icelandic performer Gunnarsdóttir questions the lack of consistent information about this aspect of life affecting half the population. She shares her own story but then takes us in an unexpected direction by detailing an online experiment she carried out. 

Asking women she knew (and then through a general call-out on social media) to go for a walk and think of a song, she then suggested they go home and video themselves dancing to it. Did they feel better afterwards? You betcha. The results, replayed on the back wall, are utterly joyous, especially when some of them arrive on stage to dance in person. Beckoning us to join them, the audience is quick to respond and the Universal Hall stage is soon alive with dancing bodies and happy faces.

Club Origami

Instructed to take our shoes off and stand in the Universal Hall foyer, a noisy group of children and adults wait expectantly. The arrival of Makiko Aoyama, Takeshi Matsumoto and Robert Howat of Little Big Dance sees a hush descend, as they take out pieces of A4 paper and start to fold. Soon, an array of origami artefacts sit on a tray, and now it’s our turn to add to the mix as the tray slowly fills with unidentifiable but unquestionably cute attempts from the small attendees.

Once inside the theatre, Aoyama and Matsumoto start to cover the stage with paper of all shapes and sizes, lit by tiny lamps or bulbs on poles. Each move they make is accompanied by just the right sound, created in real-time by Howat on an electronic xylophone. Looks of wonder and squeals of laughter are emitted with each act of paper-wrapped silliness. But it’s the closing scene, when a mountain of crinkled, ripped and scrunched paper is strewn across the stage, and the young audience gets stuck in, that provides an unforgettable image. It’s a moment of sheer joy for the children (and, if we’re honest, sheer jealousy for the adults) as they romp and slide across the stage, throwing the paper gleefully in the air in an act of wild abandon.

Dance Makes The Floor: Keep The Fire Burnin’

The pandemic made most of us feel like the ground beneath us had fallen away, but dancer Mark Bleakley decided to do something practical about it: he built an actual floor. By 2022, he had constructed three panels of parquet dance floor using leftover wood from the changing rooms at Glasgow’s Govanhill Baths. Along the way, he created a community project that evolves with each performance, the latest of which was at RISE.

A coming together of dance, joinery and technology, Dance Makes The Floor sees Bleakley and two fellow dancers standing on his beautifully polished parquet floor and slowly starting to move. To build momentum and ‘keep the fire burning’, they need the audience to throw them ‘kindling’ in the form of short, individual dance moves. Captured by a webcam that feeds into an algorithm, the faster they move, the quicker the song gets until a slow, dirge-like tune becomes a recognisable floor-filler.

One by one, confident audience members join them on the floor, but at first it seems inconceivable Bleakley will encourage everyone to get involved. Yet that’s exactly what happens and by the end, we’re a large, joyous mass of moving bodies turning up the heat to Donna Summer’s ‘I Feel Love’. 

Subterranéa

Enveloped in yellow chiffon, Kirstie Simson sits on the stage. Every inch of her is covered, concealed, inaccessible; and given the subject matter of her solo, it’s no wonder. Diagnosed in 2020 with one of the most aggressive forms of breast cancer, Simson has lived through surgery and treatment, bodily trauma and emotional turmoil. Yet here she is, ready and willing to share her tale and impart a few words of wisdom from what she learned along the way. 

As the show unfolds, so does she. The chiffon is stripped away and laid along the floor like a magical yellow brick road. Outfits are changed, words are spoken and movement is made, based on Simson’s 45-year career specialising in improvisation. It’s compelling and poignant stuff, but perhaps the most impressive aspect of Subterranéa is ‘Ánima’, a short film she shares halfway through. Shot inside a cave replete with stalagmites and stalactites, the film finds Simson prowling among the rocks, a vision of vulnerability and strength in equal measure. Director/editor/camera operator Isaac Zambra does an incredible job keeping up with her movements and treating the camera like an occasionally hostile, sometimes tender, dance partner. 

On the way in, we’re all handed a sheet of paper with a single question: ‘if Life came to stand in front of you, what would you want to say to Life?’, and invited to share our answers with Simson, who will then improvise our thoughts. It’s a gentle denouement to the show, offering a point of connection to Simson herself and life in general.

FORGED (in the tender heat of your embrace)

Watching a performance, thoughts and questions often enter our head. What are they doing? What will happen next? What does that mean? The list goes on. But during Forged, a durational performance installation by disabled dance artist Laura Fisher, things go a little differently. Each of the four performances (To Hold, To Learn, To Listen and To Trust) is audio described, something visually impaired audiences are well used to, but slightly alien to everyone else. There is little space for contemplation when we’re being fed the answers to our questions which, it transpires, is both frustrating and fascinating. 

Sharing the space with seven sheets of copper metal in a range of shapes and sizes, Fisher’s interactions with the audio describers (Lynsey Gilmour and Ruby Worth) are as much part of the show as her actions. Without saying a word, Fisher conveys her desire for Gilmour or Worth to bring their microphone closer and capture the metal’s sound. Meanwhile, the soft flooring (created by designer Zephyr Liddell) changes colour from pink to white in response to heat generated by exertion. And, given that Fisher experiences chronic pain during most movement, this is about more than just discolouration. 

As with everything at RISE, we the audience are not just mere bystanders. Our seats are padded with the same textile as the floor, meaning we too leave an imprint. And as FORGED is an exploration of exertion and rest, we’re invited to use the various soft furnishings to replenish our own energy alongside Fisher between shows. So while we’re not always able to think for ourselves during the installation, there is still a huge amount to ponder in this multi-layered, multidisciplinary piece.

RISE reviewed at various venues in Findhorn; pictures: Alexander Williamson