Treat yourself to a well-deserved break as you soak up some of Montreal’s most noteworthy events
What better way to spend the holiday break than to explore some of Montreal’s unique art happenings? Our Arts Editor and Assistant Arts Editor have compiled a list of current and upcoming events that are sure to appease the senses and, hopefully, get you into a festive mood.
Film:
Sisters with Transistors : A film about electronic music’s pioneers, presented by Cinéma Public in collaboration with Suoni Per Il Popolo. Located at 505 Jean-Talon St. E on Nov. 26 and 28, as well as Dec. 1 and 4.
The Translation is Approximate : Zinnia Naqvi’s first major solo exhibition at Dazibao art gallery. 5455 de Gaspé Ave., until Jan. 15.
Conceptual Metaphors : Sorel Cohen’s solo exhibition at VOX art gallery. 2 Sainte-Catherine St. E (4th floor) from Nov. 18 to Feb. 19.
Theatre:
Awards : Theater piece mixing music and text from Collectif Tôle. 1345 Lalonde Ave. from Nov. 30 to Dec. 4.
Je suis un produit : A play from the Simoniaques Théâtre company. Located at 4559 Papineau Ave. from Nov. 23 to Dec. 18.
Antioche : Online theatre piece by Talisman Theatre. From Dec. 13 to 19.
Jonathan: A Seagull Parable: Surreal theatre piece directed by Jon Lachlan Stewart. Located at the Fred-Barry Hall of the Denise-Pelletier Theatre (4353 Saint-Catherine St. E) from Nov. 23 to Dec.11.
Dance:
Confessions Publiques: Solo performance by Angélique Willkie for the MAYDAY dance company. Located at 3700 Saint-Dominique St., from Nov. 29 to Dec. 4.
What Will Come : Dance performance by Julia B. Laperrière and Sébastien Provencher. Located at 1435 De Bleury St. from Dec. 2 to 5.
Pomegranate: Solo performance by Heather Mah. Located at 3680 Jeanne-Mance from Dec. 2 to 4.
Babel 7.16 : Online multidisciplinary performance choreographed by Belgian artists Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui and Damien Jalet. From Dec. 8 to Dec. 19.
Demonstrators dance at the Open Dancefloors protest in Montreal, Quebec October 23, 2021. ROBYN BELL/The Concordian
Employees of Montreal’s nightlife scene gathered at Mount Royal to protest the Quebec government’s continuing tight grip on the industry
On Saturday, Oct. 23, thousands of Montrealers danced the day away to protest Quebec Premier François Legault’s handling of the city’s nightclubs. The event was hosted by The Social Dance Coalition, welcoming frustrated nightlife employees and local party lovers alike.
As stadiums, restaurants, and bars see their restrictions loosened by the government, employees of Montreal’s famous nightlife scene are not seeing the same prosperity. On Nov. 1, bars and restaurants will have their capacity restrictions lifted, and alcohol will be sold until 3:00 a.m. The Bell Centre has also been permitted to reopen at full capacity. However, nightclubs have not been given the same grace, leading workers to take to the streets.
The Social Dance Coalition had originally planned the event to span from 2:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m., but Montreal police made the group shorten it by two hours. The protest took place in Jeanne-Mance Park, right by the Monument to Sir George-Étienne Cartier, where the primary objective was to dance free of any restrictions.
Several DJ booths were set up, swarmed by crowds of sweaty dancers looking to have the time of their lives. Out of hundreds of protesters, only a few wore masks. While there were barely any surgical-style masks visible, several protesters dawned Guy Fawkes masks instead; they are popular symbols of anarchism and government defiance. Signs saying “Laissez-Moi Danser (Let Me Dance)” were all over the park, and some dancers brought a selection of raised fist and anarchist flags. The protesters were crammed into mosh pits like sardines, chanting to the beat of early 2010s electronic dance music. The smell of sickeningly sweet liquor and cannabis filled the air as partygoers blew smoke into each others’ faces, while the temperature stood at around 9 C.
“Before the pandemic, I worked in a couple clubs downtown,” said protester Sara, who requested to not disclose her last name. “Now they really suck! If you can even get in, you’re forced to stick to your table. It’s like we can’t have fun anymore. I feel like we’re in Footloose.”
Another protester, Karl, who refused to share his last name as well, had some more colourful words for the premier: “You know what? F*ck Legault. All we want to do is go out and party like normal people, but he won’t let us. We’re vaccinated, just let us in the f*cking clubs already, my God.”
A fully masked SPVM Officer, who remained anonymous, was one of many police officers surveilling the event:
“We’re about twenty officers patrolling the protest. The party is supposed to end soon, but the park officially closes at 11:00 p.m. A lot of these guys are out of the job, so they might stay. We’ll make sure that they won’t be here past closing.”
When asked whether or not they thought this protest would affect policy decisions in Quebec City, about five officers began chuckling.
As of late October, the fourth wave of coronavirus continues to make its way across Quebec. Although it may be less dire than in other provinces, numbers are swiftly on the rise. The number of hospitalizations is increasing ever so slowly as well. The provincial government’s explanation for its hesitancy surrounding reopening the nightclubs and karaoke bars is that it is waiting for COVID-19 numbers to drop significantly. Many of the protesters who have worked in the nightlife industry remain unemployed, seeing as the industry’s drastic reduction resulted in an equally reduced workforce. The economic factors pushing many workers to take to the streets and dance in defiance of restrictions are hitting them hard.
While the debate still rages regarding the balance between a return to nightlife normalcy and security concerns, the rager in the park went on for hours — with dancing protesters having the time of their lives.
The Place des Arts Esplanade became an exploration space this weekend for performers in the dance creation titled Habiter nos mémoires by Caroline Laurin-Beaucage. The performance was part of Danse Danse’s outdoor program called Hors les murs kicked-off their fall season. On Friday and Sunday — Saturday had to be cancelled because of the rain — each of the eight performers spent an hour in an open cube that had been set up for them in the public space. The performances lasted from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. for passersby to watch.
This performance followed Laurin-Beaucage’s solo piece that was initially titled Habiter sa mémoire. The artist’s idea was to bring the rehearsal space closer to the audience. Laurin-Beaucage said that her goal for this project was, “to bring my dance studio outside, to give me a new challenge and to explore what it means to work outside while generating an authentic dance.”
For Habiter nos mémoires, the artist shared her process with eight women aged between 25 and 60. Carol Prieur, Brianna Lombardo, Angélique Willkie, Ariane Levasseur, Susanna Haight, Marie-Reine Kabasha, Claudine Hébert and Marine Rixhon wore red clothing and started each moment in the cube by recording their voice. The improvisation that followed aims for the dancers to connect to the way their bodily sensations inspired them to move in that moment. Each hour was concluded by recorded personal messages recalling what happened during the last hour.
Sound creator Larsen Lupin created a soundscape for the performances putting together the artists’ voice recordings. Visitors were able to access the soundtrack while watching. For Laurin-Beaucage, this was an important part of the presentation. She discovered that “the way we speak seems to fit the rhythm of our dance and it actually works, the soundtrack of our voice really accompanies our movements.”
Laurin-Beaucage’s process in the initial version of the project also included the same open cube and voice recordings. Laurin-Beaucage admitted that there is a kind of vulnerability that comes with presenting non-prepared movement propositions in front of an audience. She explored that vulnerability a lot as she presented the improvised outdoor exploration 32 times in the last five years in different locations and countries. Each event lasted approximately four hours, like a typical dance rehearsal would. She transmitted the knowledge she had gained in that process to the eight performers of Habiter nos mémoires when they were preparing for the event.
Habiter nos mémoires is one of the three dance pieces that are being presented by Danse Danse in the public space this fall. For Danse Danse’s artistic co-director and director of development Caroline Ohrt, the Hors les murs programming “gives audience members the freedom to wander […], it grasps the attention of people who do not necessarily come in the theatre.” The dance diffuser hoped to present an outdoor program last year, but the COVID-19 restrictions changed their plans.
Hors les murs started on Sept. 24,, with choreographer Sébastien Provencher’s piece Children of Chemistry presented in the windows of the 2-22 building on St-Catherine Street. Habiter nos mémoires followed on Oct. 1 and 3, alongside Sylvain Émard’s work Préludes, which was presented in the afternoon of Oct. 3. Émard’s outdoor presentation preceded his new show Rhapsodie, which is coming up in February 2022.
For more information on all of the pieces, please visit Danse Danse’s website.
For new Concordia students, especially those living in Montreal for the first time, navigating the city’s extensive nightlife scene can seem like a daunting, nearly impossible task. For many non-local first-year students, getting sucked into a night full of hopping from overpriced bar to sleazy nightclub around the downtown campus/Crescent Street area is almost a rite of passage. But, I don’t think it has to be. With a metro pass and a willingness to explore, you can escape the leering old men and shady promoters waving flyers on street corners for a much better experience.
Rockette Bar
Rockette Bar has what Café Campus Retro Tuesdays wishes it had. Located near Mont-Royal metro station, this bar and nightclub spins a mix of rock, funk, punk, and leans heavily into new wave. The bar has a back section of long tables as well as a space to play pool, and a dancefloor (well, pre-COVID at least). If you’re sick of hearing the same music every time you go out, whether it’s top 40 or the same tired “throwback” songs, this is the place to be. In my experience, Rockette plays the sort of music that will actually make you want to dance — but we’ll leave that for when it’s allowed again, I guess. For now, it’s still a great atmosphere.
Resonance Café
For a more chill night out, Café Résonance, located in the Mile End, is always a good choice. Not only do they have great inexpensive vegan food, but they recently brought back their live music. During the day, Résonance is a cafe that’s easy to bunker down and study in, especially because their drip coffee has free refills. But at night, the cafe turns into a live music venue with moderately priced beer, wine, and cocktails. They continue their food service in the night though, so you can enjoy some jazz and some vegan nachos at the same time.
Bar le Ritz PDB
Bar le Ritz is pretty well known by Concordia students, and for good reason. This Little Italy bar/venue puts on some of the most fun dance nights in town. In the past, they’ve thrown parties in honour of certain pop divas, like nights dedicated to Britney Spears or Céline Dion, but they’ve also thrown ones centering around a certain genre or era like their “World of Post-Punk” or “2009-2019” dance parties. Once regulations ease up, they have a “Dark Eighties” party in the works.
Bar de Courcelle
This Saint-Henri bar has been connecting with its patrons in creative ways throughout the pandemic. On top of indoor seating and a terrace, since the summer, Bar de Courcelle has been hosting outdoor concerts in Sir George-Étienne Cartier Square every Sunday evening. So, there’s something for every COVID comfort level. Bar de Courcelle has a neighbourly, inviting vibe, as is evident from even just their meme-filled Facebook page. With reasonably priced drinks and a decent-sized bar snack list, this spot, whether indoor or outdoor, is a solid bet.
Did you know that “Einstein” or “ein stein” means “one stone” in german? “Ein” is “one,” and “stein” is “stone.” Mileva Marić (say, Mil-ehva Marrritch), is a slavic name, with a less obvious meaning. Some search results show that “Mileva” means “favourite,” others show that “mileva,” or “милева” is bulgarian for “mile,” and “Marić” can be broken down into many things. “Mari,” in french, refers to “husband,” but in romanian, “mari” means “big.” “Marić” could also just so happen to be a common name in Serbia, like “Smith” or “Boucher,” which allude to the profession of the family’s ancestors. One particularly interesting website (kabalarians.com), states, rather negatively, that “Maric” is the name of an ambitious, work-oriented, introverted person who is logical, motivated, aggressive and uncompromising.
Mileva Marić (1875-1948), Albert Einstein’s first wife, seems to embody all of the above, or at least, the way Concordia’s theatre department portrayed her did. With the spotlight shining ever so brightly on the physicist who defined the theory of relativity, one of two pillars of modern-day physics, Marić fell in his rather large shadow. But, as they say, behind every man is a great woman一only popular culture can’t seem to define how great a woman Marić was.
There have been continuous, inconclusive debates about her potential contributions to Einstein’s work, which serves as the foundation for Marić at the Lake. The play, a collaboration across programmes in the department of theatre, is a reaction to the 1976 opera, Einstein on the Beach. Composed by Philip Glass and directed by Robert Wilson, this five-hour opera was epic and magical, though it focused entirely on Einstein’s genius. Concordia’s rendition to this painstakingly long number was equally brilliant, speculative, much more inclusive, and only 75 minutes long.
In director Cathia Pagotto’s notes, she writes, “despite Marić’s hardships, we choose to believe she may have observed the patterns in her life with poetic objectivity, that she would have seen the absurdity, tragedy, and poignancy of her surroundings, and embraced the beauty of a life that appeared to have fallen on the wrong side of relativity.” Pagotto, the cast, production and design team, did just that.
With a cast playing rotating roles, everyone got a chance to portray Einstein and Marić in their own way. The devised play was created through collaboration, improvisation and trial and error. Marić at the Lake brought together design, acting and performance creation students from across the department of theatre.
Design and performance creation come together in the fall for a six-credit class where they began to workshop ideas for a show that will take place in March or April. Once the script and storyboard are lined up, actors apply for a three-credit course that will select them for one performance or another. What made Marić at the Lake a particularly unique experience was the visual script. Ideas had to be represented in movement according to the actors’ own strengths, talents and abilities.
The actors, part of the theatre departments Acting for the Theatre and Performance Creation programmes, had the rare opportunity to perform non-verbal roles. Their storyline was carried instead through movement, similar to a dance or silent film. Some students in the Design for the Theatre program came together in a performance creation class to layout the visuals for the play, ensuring every element was striking enough to speak for itself.
Þórhildur Sunna Jóhannsdóttir designed the play’s many costumes, ranging from traditional Serbian-inspired garb, suits, dresses and giant bubbles. Not only did they situate the time and mood of the piece, but they added just an extra bit of humour, speaking volumes to a clouded story.
Jóhannsdóttir’s Marić claims the stage as her own, diminishing Einstein. This is Marić’s story.
The set design, by Anna Toneguzzi, was kept rather simple, with a slavic-inspired rug, symbolic of Marić’s ties to her family and culture, and clouds up in the sky, for Einstein’s air of importance.
Einstein and Marić work together, and at opposite ends of the room, furiously scribbling away. The two physicists met at a university in Zurich, and took to each other immediately. During school holidays they would exchange letters, some of which are the only proof of Marić’s role in Einstein’s discoveries.
In August 1899, Albert wrote to Mileva: “When I read Helmholtz for the first time, it seemed so odd that you were not at my side and today, this is not getting better. I find the work we do together very good, healing and also easier.” Then on 2 October 1899, he wrote from Milan: “… the climate here does not suit me at all, and while I miss work, I find myself filled with dark thoughts – in other words, I miss having you nearby to kindly keep me in check and prevent me from meandering”.
Whether the piles of books on Marić’s head were proof of her own commitment to mathematics or just a burden she was carrying remains unclear. Considering these debates, Pagotto gave justice to Marić’s story, telling it beautifully.
The LGBTQ+ festival stands out with its quality Canadian and Latinx programming
Turning 32 this month, Image+Nation is the oldest still-running LGBTQ+ film festival in Canada. Every year, they aim to explore new themes and ways of filming queer stories.
This year’s edition marks a special turn. They brought back their animation film selection after 10 years of absence, added a selection of Canadian short films, and put forward nine Latinx feature films – the most they have ever had.
“These are all films that center on self-acceptance,” said Kat Setzer, the programming director.
In today’s context of diversity and inclusion in cinema, one could think that a queer film festival in Montreal would have lost its necessity, political power and relevance. Charlie Boudreau, the director of Image+Nation, defended her festival at the opening night on Thursday Nov. 21. She said that this year’s films bring to Montreal exclusive screenings that embody the constant evolution of queer cinema, putting forward new directors, new parts of the world and new issues.
In that regard, Image+Nation helps redefine queerness and its relationship to national cinemas and their political ramifications.
For its opening weekend, it brought to the forefront surprisingly high-quality filmmaking.
And then we danced marked the opening ceremony last Thursday.
“This film is my love letter to Georgia,” said director Levan Akin, in a video directed to the Montreal public prior to the screening. It was shown in a Montreal theatre for the second time after its Quebec premiere at the Festival du Nouveau Cinéma (FNC).
The Swedish-Georgian film depicts the love affair of Merab, a dancer training in the National Georgian Ensemble, with a new rival in the team, Irakli. In a conservative Georgia and dancing ensemble, where masculinity is “the essence” of the dance, their relationship is fraught and forbidden. Their love is subtly and gently told, mostly unsaid but very much felt.
Filled with enticing Georgian music, warm golden lighting throughout the film, and dynamic choreography, it was a wise choice for the opening of Image+Nation.
And then we danced also very much connects with the political relevance of such a festival. When it premiered in Tbilisi, the capital of Georgia, on Nov. 8, it was welcomed by hundreds of anti-LGBT protesters, blocking the entrance to the film. Despite the scandal forcing Georgian theatres to stop showing the film after three days, it still sold an estimated 6,000 tickets.
Proving the necessity of queer storytelling worldwide, And then we danced was well received by both the public and critics, and deserved the spotlight.
Adding to the films that kicked off the festival, This is not Berlin and José, presented one after the other at l’Impérial on Friday Nov. 22, were particularly good. They were both part of the Latinx programming of the festival.
“This is one is superb, one of my top five of this year,” said Setzer, when talking about the Mexican feature film This is not Berlin.
Directed by Hari Sama, it tells the story of two high-school students as they dive deep into the Mexican underground punk arts scene. Because, as the title says, this is not Berlin, things get complicated when they try to make art and fall in love the way they want.
José, by Li Cheng, was probably the best film of the entire weekend and the most underrated. It was the first Guatemaltecan movie in the history of Image+Nation and turned out to be a naturalistic and poetic gem. Unlike many movies that tackle the hookup culture among some modern gay men, this film avoids clichés and touches people with its beautiful yet believable and relatable love story. It has to have more screenings in Montreal, or at least be available to stream in Canada.
With even more events coming in the course of this week, including short film programs of Quebec and Canadian films, as well as documentaries about LGBTQ+ issues and award-winning feature films, Montreal has not seen the last of Image+Nation this year.
The Concordian will follow their activities and review some of their featured films next week.
A contemporary and refreshing approach to the iconic ballet
The first time I heard Carl Orff’s interpretation of the medieval manuscript, Carmina Burana, was on the soundtrack of Oliver Stone’s 1991 film The Doors. My best friend and I were creating the Blink-182 logo with Hama beads, small hollow colourful cylinders that could be used to create designs on plastic plates covered in little pegs. The design would then be ironed, buffered by parchment paper, leaving it solidified. Before ironing, the design is quite delicate and any movement can cause pieces to fall out of place.
The Blink-182 logo was quite a difficult project, with its arrows and paint splatters, but we were ambitious. The moment we picked up the plate, that very intense part of O Fortuna came on and we quickly, but carefully, returned the plate to the floor before we buckled down laughing ourselves to tears.
O Fortuna is incredibly triumphant and epic. So very different than our childish crafting.
Outside of The Doors’ soundtrack, I wasn’t aware of Carmina Burana, even less so of the incredible power the verses carried.
“Carmina Burana” is latin for “songs from Benediktbeuern,” Benediktbeuern being a district in Bavaria, southern Germany. The original document is a collection of 254 medieval poems which was found in a monastery in Benediktbeuern, dating back sometime between the 11th and 13th centuries. In 1936, 24 of the 254 poems were reinterpreted as cantatas by german composer Carl Orff. These verses have since been performed in orchestras and ballets internationally.
This October, Les Grands Ballets de Montreal presents 150 artists (dancers, musicians, chorists and vocalists) to bring Carmina Burana and Stabat Mater to life once more, choreographed by Romania’s Edward Clug.
Stabat Mater , a 13th-century Italian-Christian hymn, opened the performance on Oct. 3. Forty dancers walked slowly onto the stage, 20 women and 20 men in matching uniforms. The men wore black shirts and pants, and the women wore beigey-pink long sleeve dresses. The fabric was light and emphasised their movements. I was immediately reminded of The Handmaid’s Tale, the young daughters wearing their pink spring dresses and the dark Angels and Eyes opposing them. Stabat Mater rejoices the Virgin Mary, recounting her suffering upon Jesus’ crucifixion.
Their first movements were almost silly, exaggerated head tilts while in deep, strong squats, stiff, total vibrations of their bodies. The two groups moved in conversation with each other, as if arguing. Mimicking each others’ movements in response.
I had expected something different from a ballet, not traditional organza tutus, but graceful, soaring leaps and strong men holding equally strong, but delicate women.
Clug’s choreography was so contemporary, so refreshing. Maybe I could move that way if I wanted to. Their movements were performative versions of rather relatable action; sharing an oversized jacket with someone larger than you, lying on your partner’s stomach, trying to melt your body into theirs, waiting in line.
In one moment, so much movement and noise would be happening on stage, and the next, complete silence, low chorus, each dancer frozen but a few. The others would fade out, and the story would continue, focusing on a new couple’s journey.
Orff’s cantatas, selected to represent quarters of the original manuscript, recite tales of romance, morality, spirituality and pleasure. Clug outlined an imaginary village, telling the stories of its occupants, stories of birth, love, loss and moving on.
In one memorable scene, the men and women were lined up on opposite ends of the stage. The men would fall slowly, drunkenly, and the women would chase across to lift them back to their feet. They did this in pairs, then all at once. Jetting across in their striking outfits, they had added thick black pumps and headwraps that matched their dresses.
The second half began with O Fortuna. I expected chaos, but there was none. Instead, there was an incredible synchronicity. The dancers were now wearing red and black ombre dresses and footed leggings, the costumes worn by women faded black to red and men wore the opposite. Over time, they removed their layers, their bodies glistening as if nude. The group moved with power. Supporting each other as one organism, it was mind-numbing and awakening at the same time.
Carmina Burana will be performed at Place des Arts until Oct. 19, tickets are 40 per cent off for youth under 30 all season long.
With files from Les Grands Ballets de Montreal and the public domain.
The Concordia Dance Club (CDC) is hosting their last two surprise dance workshops on April 10 and 11, concluding their first year at the university.
The club welcomes everyone who likes to dance. Ranging from experienced dancers to the dancing-in-front-of-the-mirror-in-my-room training, the members have no judgements. “The whole goal is to give people, students, a space to express themselves and let go of any stress they have,” said Yasamin Fawzi, the vice president of external affairs of the club.
The principle is simple, every session is a new dance style with a different teacher. The executive members are often choreographers as they are all experienced dancers. Moreover, other workshops are given by established choreographers.
Most students who attend workshops are interested in, or familiar with, the featured style, but they are always welcome to try new genres of dance.
A ballet dance workshop was led by Anna Krupa on March 20. Photo courtesy of the Concordia Dance Club.
Since the fall semester, various styles were presented: hip hop, high heels, Latin dance, freestyle, ballet, contemporary, afro dance, funk and much more.
On Sept. 20, 2018, the CDC held its first session. Prior to that, there were no dance clubs at the university.
Chelsea Foster, an exchange student from Jamaica, has been attending the dance workshops since day one. “I’m still in shock that it’s the first year because everything is so well organized,” said Foster. “The people here are nice, the executive team is very friendly, inviting. It’s been so good so far,” she said.
It all started when the executive team members were in CEGEP. Andrea Montes, the president of the CDC, created a dance club at John Abbott College, where the executive team met. When they started studying at Concordia, the group looked for a dance club to join,“but when we came here, there wasn’t a dance club,” said Fawzi. They decided to take the matter into their own hands and start one.
“We had a lot of ups and downs, but even with all that we had an amazing year,” said Montes. “We worked really hard every time for every workshop.”
The club’s success is partially due to the fact that it is free to join and accessible for Concordia students, and the club plans to keep it that way.
So far, the club has been hosting recreational workshops and plans to make future events more accessible. “People in the dance community can meet people in our dance community,” said Fawzi. Weekly workshops will be held alongside these new events, but with different teachers and new dance styles.
The CDC is planning an event to celebrate the end of their first year in May.
“I am really proud of all the work that we’ve done and [in] future years, I know it will be even better,” said Montez.
For more information, visit @concordiadanceclub on Instagram and Facebook.
From left: Chloé Soldevila, Samuel Gemme and Zach Irving. Photo by Simon New
The Montreal pop band was conceived in the west, born in the east
“I’ve been playing music all of my life, and I had friends who were doing music as a living,” said Chloé Soldevila, the creator and songwriter of Anemone. “I always had this weird conception in my mind that I couldn’t do it.”
The Montreal band came to La Sala Rossa on Friday, Feb. 15 to launch their debut album, Beat My Distance. Their sound is serene pop at its centre, with Soldevilla’s bright vocals enveloped in psychedelic instrumentation from her band. The group started with six members on stage, including an extra percussionist, and became more and more numerous throughout the night.
Soldevila was raised around classical music and formally educated in jazz, but held herself back from stepping into the scene herself. She had been travelling in California in the summer of 2015, tagging along to music festivals with friends who were in bands. Her conception of the music scene turned on a dime. “I remember being at a festival, in the artist space with all these people who are in big bands,” said Soldevila. “And in my young mind it was like ‘ah they are so special,’ and then I talked to them, and I hung out with them, and I realized, well, you know, we’re just all the same,” she said. Soldevila wanted to bring the sound and the sun back to her home in Montreal. “There’s not just sea and sunshine and positiv[ity] on the west coast,” she said. “It’s all over the world. It’s a genre of music that exists everywhere.”
Anemone was born after that summer, when Soldevila met Zach Irving at a show at Poisson Noir, a DIY venue in Mile Ex where Irving was playing organ. “It’s really been natural,” said Irving. They began working on an album as they recruited Miles Dupire-Gagnon, Gabriel Lambert and Samuel Gemme. “I was looking for people who had that do-whatever-you-want vibe,” said Soldevila. They were based in Montreal, making music tinged with the west-coast psychedelia that had inspired her during her Californian summer. “It’s a benefit that we live in minus twenty, cause all of the music that we made, we made it in the winter. Honestly, you’re so depressed, you need something to kind of pull you out of the water, so you really appreciate that music,” she said.
Irving going in on keys. Photo by Simon New
After four years of work, and their debut Beat My Distance just released, the band admits the tape doesn’t quite capture what it’s like to see them live. “The album has a bit of a red-light vibe where it’s like ‘recording!’ and then you get a little constrained in a way, because you kind of freak out,” said Irving. “You’re sticking to the formula. Live, we don’t have a formula.”
Lambert with equal parts shred and smolder. Photo by Simon New
When Anemone took the stage, it felt like a free-for-all in a musically triumphant way. There was camaraderie, shredding and champagne. Soldevila led the pack, but every single band member took the group in their own direction at one point. As if they had discovered something and wanted to share it on stage with their friends, the band’s sincere interconnectedness allowed them to trust each each other to explore uncharted territory. Soldevilla would be dancing or riffing on vocals and have the jam coalesce around her. You could see a deep smile come across her face when she discovered, as the audience did, a new and interesting groove. The crowd loved it, and the band minced no words about how essential they were.
Soldevila catching a vibe from stage right. Photo by Simon New
“Most people don’t realize that they’re part of the magic that’s happening around them,” said Irving. “Exactly, and that for me is so important to share, and I don’t know how to tell them,” said Soldevilla. “I’m terrible at talking on the microphone. So the only thing we can do is show them, and it’s tricky, so I hope they get it.” Indeed, she let her actions speak, save for a few moments in the act. “Thank you!” said Soldevila to the fixated crowd. “It’s all for you.”
SPHR Concordia is keeping Palestinian culture alive and atmospheric
During an evening of food, music and conversation on the 7th floor of the Hall building on Jan. 25, the Solidarity for Palestinian Human Rights Association (SPHR) at Concordia aimed to raise money to donate to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) for Palestinian refugees. Tickets were sold for $15 each and the group managed to raise over $1,000.
The event, called Eat Like A Palestinian, began with a buffet of traditional Palestinian dishes like fatouch salad, frekeh soup, and msakhan. The food was prepared by Om Ossama, a Palestinian woman dedicated to supporting Palestinian community events through her cooking skills. Many of the event’s attendees were learning about Palestinian dishes for the first time.
Eat Like A Palestinian, an event which sold out on Facebook, took place on the seventh floor of the Hall building on Jan. 25. Photo by Mishkat Hafiz.
Syrian-Canadian student Marya Akkad, who attended the event, said “it’s very atmospheric and cultural. Everyone is very welcoming, and the music reminds me of home.” She added that she was pleased with the strong cultural identity at the event.
After dinner, a live band played traditional Arabic songs with a combination of instruments; an oud, a saxophone and drums. Guests clapped to the music and sang along. A few got up to dance. After the band was done, people continued to dance to Palestinian songs played over projected images of Palestine and symbols of its culture.
Later, one of the team organizers started a Palestinian trivia game. The prizes were traditional Palestinian accessories, which were also sold at the event. The trivia game also provided an opportunity for people to contextualize Palestinian hardships through historical facts. The dinner party reflected Palestinian culture through the hospitality of the organizing team, and tales of endurance of the Palestinian people.
Many of the organizers believe this type of event keeps the Palestinian culture alive, instead of focusing on the political disputes surrounding the country.
President of the SPHR Concordia, Houda Kerkadi, spoke about the motivation behind hosting the event. “We were thinking of ways we can help, [rather than] simply [asking] people for money,” Kerkadi said. She also hoped to provide an interactive experience that combined raising money with a cultural experience.
“We asked ourselves, ‘What would combine people of all ethnicities and backgrounds together like food?’ Arabs don’t always agree on political leanings when it comes to Palestine, but we can all agree that we love the food,” Kerkadi said.
SPHR Concordia is planning a few more events this semester, including Israeli Apartheid week and an end of year celebration.
The founders of Watwero Dance Company, Ojom Martin (left) and Geoffrey Oryema (right) have been dancing together since childhood. They teach dance everyday to the youth in their community.
Two young choreographers use dance to help change lives in their community
Walking by the Straight Talk Foundation youth centre in Gulu, Uganda, you can hear loud dynamic afrobeats blasting through speakers. As you enter the gate, a group of youngsters drenched in sweat from the northern Ugandan heat are having a breakdance battle while learning new choreographies and teaching newcomers. These dance lessons are free, offered everyday and open to the entire youth community of Gulu. Among this group are the founders of the Watwero Dance Company: Geoffrey Oryema, who is often referred to as “Message,” and Ojom Martin, known as “Beep.”
“Through dance, I got a family,” Oryema said. “My family is the people I dance with everyday. When people come in large groups to dance, I ask them, ‘Do you want to learn?’ And I teach them.”
Oryema’s life as a dancer began in 2007 in Kitgum, Uganda, when a workshop called Breakdance Project Uganda was held to campaign for peace. “In northern Uganda, we experienced war for over two decades. I had never heard of breakdancing before,” he said. “I had never seen it anywhere; I had no access to TV. Since the war started, it was the first time I saw people come in great numbers together.”
From left, Ojom Martin and Geoffrey Oryema. “We are targeting youth and they love entertainment and that is exactly what we are giving them. Through dance we are giving them an understanding that we really need to revise our culture,” said Oryema.
The dance workshop only lasted a day, but it had an everlasting impression on Oryema. “It was the greatest experience and feeling to see people happy because of those dance moves,” he said.
When the workshop was over, there were no longer any dance activities in Kitgum. “I kept pushing myself with those steps I learned … just to keep reminding myself of that day, because I felt peace. That is how I got to understand what peace is.”
When I am dancing, these memories from the war, they go away,”
When Oryema dances, he forgets about the war. “When I am dancing, these memories from the war, they go away,” he said.During the war, Oryema was abducted by the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) at the age of seven. “I was in the bush for almost two years, and then I found my way back home,” he said. Upon his return, both his parents relocated to Gulu — without him. “None of them came to see me when I returned back home.” Oryema remained in Kitgum where he lived with his aunt. The arrangement was not well received by the community.
“They were calling me all sorts of names, like a war child, a killer, a rebel. Or sometimes they would say, ‘You need to be careful with this guy, he can kill you because he has been in the bush,’” Oryema recalled. He eventually left his aunt’s home to escape the torment, and ended up living on the streets. “I just started to live this wild life.”
In 2011, Oryema saw kids dancing once again at a playground in Kitgum. He asked them where they got their moves from, and they told him to go to the local Straight Talk Foundation youth centre. Oryema began attending dance classes there and never missed a day of training.
“It was as if I came back to life,” he said. “In a few months, I became a dance leader within the community because I gave it all my time. I wanted to be good so that I can make other people happy through my dance.”
Although Oryema quickly became known as a dance leader in his community, he faced challenges living in the small town of Kitgum. “I couldn’t support myself,” he said. “I couldn’t get 500 shillings in a day to buy myself any food.”
Oryema began searching for opportunities elsewhere. He went to Gulu for his first dance performance event, which was an outreach on malaria sensitization.
“It was a challenge when I was asked, ‘Can you do something that talks about malaria [through dance],’” Oryema said.
As he performed, people from Gulu noticed how good Oryema was. They began giving him more opportunities to host community dance workshops. The Gulu community began calling him “Kwena,” which means “message” in the northern Ugandan dialect of Acholi. When Oryema asked an audience member why they call him Kwena, “the woman said, ‘Because when you are dancing, we get the message. You are the message; you carry it within you,’” Oryema explained. Since then, everyone in the community calls him Kwena or Message.
The founders of Watwero Dance Company, Ojom Martin (left) and Geoffrey Oryema (right) have been dancing together since childhood. They teach dance everyday to the youth in their community.
In 2016, Oryema co-founded a community outreach organization called the Inspire Me Africa Initiative, where he would choreograph, teach and perform dance pieces in communities across northern Uganda. The organization presented dances that targeted the everyday challenges Ugandan youth face, such as malaria, early marriage, domestic violence and drug abuse. The organization was volunteer-based; they often visited local schools, hospitals and refugee camps to perform for the youth without compensation. “As much as we want to do things for free, we need to at least feed ourselves, maintain our health,” Oryema said.
Oryema began to dream about having his own dance company and saw it as an employment opportunity. In 2017, his childhood friend, Ojom, also a dancer from Kitgum, came to Gulu for the same reasons: to dance and make a living. “We want to live a life where you can always afford to pay rent and have a family. If dance can pay for all this, then it will be the best thing for us,” Ojom said.
“If one day I can at least be able to have land and feed myself daily, that would be the best thing I could ever have,” Oryema added. “It might sound crazy to many, but that has been my challenge.”
Ojom also said dance has changed his life. “I lost both of my parents; I lost my dad when I was seven years old and my mom in 2007,” he said. “My brother was the first one who began to dance. He stopped, but I continued. He was my inspiration, and now I inspire him.”
According to Oryema, they both realized they had been running away from challenges since childhood. “A lot of our youth and people in our community have these same challenges today. Why don’t we take a stand and face our challenges?” Oryema asked.
Together, they created Watwero Dance Company, which is the first of its kind in northern Uganda. Watwero is an Acholi name that translates to “We Can.”
“We have seen a lot of people dance, make money, travel. We looked at ourselves and thought, yes we can do this,” Ojom said. The name of the company is in the Acholi dialect because “we must start with our people first,” Oryema explained. “They need to understand that they can [do it]. Then, it will be easier for them to understand the reasons why we are running this company.”
Both Oryema and Ojom are artistic directors and choreographers who teach a wide variety of dance styles, such as the traditional African dances called Zulu, Gwara Gwara, Bakisimba and Durban Bhenga. They also teach afro-house, urban styles and contemporary.
This year, Watwero Dance Company participated at the Bayimba International Festival of the Arts, Krump UG and the Nyege Nyege Festival. They also featured a dance at the Kampala National Theatre. Oryema and Ojom won one of the battles at the Krump UG competition.
“We always had that sensitivity — a bond within us that we always wanted to share,” Ojom said. “Whenever we are together, we have that creativity to make art.”
“I feel that art is a universal language with which you can choose what you want to do and freely express yourself—it doesn’t cost you a thing to learn. All you need is your time and commitment,” said Oryema.
Their focus is to offer an educative platform where they use dance to express the challenges faced in their communities in northern Uganda.
“Everywhere you go, they talk about youth unemployment, drug abuse, early marriage — but nothing is being done about it. We realized that if we create a company, it will be a platform, a more organized form of art where we can work on our challenges,” Oryema said. According to Ojom, it has been difficult for their company to grow because of the community’s lack of support for the arts. Nonetheless, they refuse to give up on their dream to live a life through dance.
“As long as you are still alive, it’s not over yet. Giving up should not be something that a living human being should accept,” Oryema said. “You might try hard, but if you don’t win, it’s not a loss. If you don’t win, you learn. So next time you do it better and you don’t get to lose again,” he said.
Both Oryema and Ojom remain hopeful that they will be changing lives through dance, just as dance has changed theirs. “Dance saved me from the other part of me that has been in the war zone,” Oryema said. “I fought in the war, I’ve killed a number of people. But that was not what I wanted. When I got back home [from the war], I tried to commit suicide twice. But after failing, I realized that there is a reason why I am still breathing now.”
“Everytime I perform, people say that I’m doing something great,” said Oryema. “I don’t know if that’s the reason why I am still alive, but as long as I live, I will be fighting hard to find out.”
As dancers held both arms above their heads with hands balled up into fists, Veroushka Eugene yelled: “Now give me that attitude and drop it into a body wave!” to the dancehall class of 30 students. Eugene is one of the seven women who make up the dance crew Womanity currently competing on the show Danser pour Gagner.
“And one, two, three, four,” counted Jenna Abessolo, another member of Womanity, as the music started playing and all of the dancers repeated the choreography until it seemed they had memorized the steps.
Eugene is a dancer and a dance teacher in Montreal, with an expertise in dancehall and Afro-Haitian dances. Just like any other sport, dance takes its toll on the body. In Eugene’s case, joint weakness runs in the family, and dancing made it worse. Her left knee weakened to the point where doctors told her, in 2013, that she had to stop dancing altogether. Although she didn’t quit outright, she adjusted her approach by listening to the way her body feels during different movements and steps. Eugene’s warm-up turned into the most important part of her routine.
Born and raised in Haiti, Eugene started going to a dance school in her home country on Fridays and Saturdays at the age of three. “I haven’t stopped dancing since. I started learning classical dances like ballet and jazz with mandatory Haitian folklore classes,” she said.
While in school, kids loved to run around and play tag, but Eugene always kept to herself, her books and her dancing. Later on, she took salsa and tango lessons, and even explored the world of hip hop. Those who knew her in both school and the dance studio saw her switch from an introvert to an extrovert on the dance floor.
Veroushka Eugene described dancehall as a freeing dance, without strict movements. Photo by Mackenzie Lad.
“I would go from being this introverted girl to a confident dancer,” she said. Although she associated school with stress and bullying, Eugene felt comfortable on the dance floor. “When I was told I was a good dancer, which I’m not sure I was at the time, it kept me going. It felt like I was valued.”
When she moved to Montreal at the age of 18, Eugene wanted to start competing in Latin dance competitions, but the classes were too expensive. So, she turned to a cheaper alternative: urban dance, more specifically dancehall. After a couple classes, and her own self-teaching, Eugene stepped into the movements and music of dancehall.
“It’s a feeling. It’s not really something you have to think through,” she explained. “Of course you have to know the movements, but the way in which you feel the movement and relay it makes it special.”
By incorporating body waves and steps called “so fresh so clean” into the routine, dancers add attitude and sassiness to their performance, which is why Eugene’s classes are always very loud. You can hear all the dancers add a “Ha” or an “Aye” to poignant moves at the workshop Eugene leads every Sunday at the Amotion Dance Studio in the Plateau-Mont-Royal.
Eugene described dancehall as “a freeing dance, without many rigid and strict movements like classical dances. It allows you to express yourself physically and emotionally.” She interprets the style as if it were a release mechanism—after all, it did help her through tough times in her younger years in Haiti.
While the movements in dancehall makes it more of an art than a sport, Eugene explained that dance demands the same strategic thinking and training athletes go through. She compared dancers to tennis players who train their bodies to run in a certain direction. By the time the big game comes, they already know how to hit the ball, so they’re just focused on winning.
“Dancers do the same. We train our muscle memory so that when we perform we can focus on how to excel in the steps we do,” she added.
Eugene began teaching dancehall and Afro-Haitian dance as a freelancer until Studio Danse Montreal and Amotion Dance Studio hired her in 2012. Her choreography process happens in one place: her head. Unlike other choreographers, Eugene doesn’t rehearse every step, pop and drop in front of a mirror. Instead, she listens to a song, and plays it over and over as she visualizes the steps, the flow and the speed of the movements to the beat.
“I honestly thought every dancer created their choreography in their heads until students and other dancers around me pointed it out as special. It’s like a super power,” Eugene said. Then again, she added that it’s still all about the feeling. She chooses songs by considering the feeling she wants to relay in the dance, whether it’s partying or a more emotional performance. “I think, with time, I became more aware and conscious of my body and my movements that now I can visualize it all in my head,” she added.
Eugene learns more when she is teaching than when she is performing. “A performance is only a moment in time. It’s beautiful and I enjoy it, but teaching is a more continuous process where both the students and I grow,” she said. It took her awhile to become comfortable demonstrating the moves to her students, but Eugene has learned that there is a difference between “showing people and just showing off.”
A little over a year ago, she would have said that she’s more of a teacher than a performer. Now, as she’s competing on a dance show, she has become more comfortable on stage.
“It helps to be alongside powerful women who encourage me in my solo parts of the performance,” Eugene said. As she went back to practice with Womanity for next week’s show, the dancefloor went back to jumping up and down, and the “Ha” and “Aye” sounds echoed in the studio again.
