Feb. 29, 2020, 10:26 p.m.
There is no shortage of shows in this city. Jazz, ballet, comedy. Whenever I see something on stage I feel like they’re trying to say something about what it means to be human. Or what it means to be born. Something broader than the immediate message.
I buy a $30 to the New York City Ballet through a promotion for people under 30 appropriately titled 30 for 30. It’s a 3-part show: In G Major, Rotunda, and DGV: Danse à Grande Vitesse. The last dance is probably a play on the French TGV train, ‘Très Grande Vitesse,’ which I have ridden and can confirm that does, in fact, go at ‘Very High Speed,’ 300km per hour.
The last dance, DGV, caught me by the throat; I leaned forward in my seat. NYCB likes to innovate on the form. Hard angles and flexed feet.
I dabbled in dance but I was never any good. Really, I’m a pianist. When I was learning piano, they told me it was all about the notes. Not so: it has nothing to do with the notes, and everything to do with the intention.