I predict the future
Is where love
Meets science fiction

Not-neat plotlines

Found in folding laundry
Feeding
Bathing
Dressing wounds
Saying and not saying
Heartfelt talks and tea leaves
Driving distances
With and without maps
Not knowing
Not knowing
Not knowing

Going

A future as vagabonds
No bags packed
But the ones we
Came here with
By genome
And Soul process
Moving towards an astral light
Or a black hole

We don’t know

I believe the future will be terrifying
But not as scary as the past

I predict that unless we unburden our beasts
They will rule us
Drive the chariot into flames
And soul into the center of the earth
Where it will congeal as a hard, lifeless ball of rock
​

When I was in undergrad, there was a brief period of time where I made art like this: ​

In my first few years of art school, which coincided with my diagnosis and surgery for Crohn’s, I was deeply hooked into the idea of visibility, and invisibility... of my illness and the relational situations I found myself in. Crucial aspects of my identity were in a dance of hiding, revealing, “lying”, strategically informing, and crying for help and sympathy, much needed to beat the isolation of chronic illness. I toyed with different types of prosthetics, inspired by artists like Lisa Bufano who used their visible disabilities so honestly and poetically. I entertained distortion as a lens, to show the ways it shaped a world-view, creating sculptural screens. I shot videos of mundane life stripped of color, manually bending images in space to make the viewer aware of the physicality of perceived distortion. ​

The segway into the work I make today that both extends and subverts these expectations was a sculptural costume, nearly a wedding dress, cut from hundreds of circles of wax paper, stitched into beautiful scars with a resonant sound. This was my first step into dance and improv (a great sculpture and a naive performance) but it was an important marker, and one that nationally forced me into the “visible” category by way of a highly public show at the Smithsonian, through VSA Arts. At the time that I received this attention, I was not emotionally equipped for that kind of direct discussion of my illness. Quite frankly, I used art to talk about it without “talking” about it!! But so it was, this discussion was now a life-path. ​

There are many tricky things about invisible illness beyond just the physical, including nuanced psychological and emotional dynamics. To ground a recent example that highlighted this visible/ invisible barrier: I’ve begun wearing a respirator mask at my job to protect from environmental contaminants. No one else in my facility wears such protection, but I spent the first 3 weeks getting ill at work and freaking out about whether I could keep this job. As a highly-educated female walking into higher levels of production at a textile factory in the ‘hood in Philadelphia, I had both subtle and direct resistances to me coming on board. As soon as I started wearing the respirator, I watched these expressions and interactions soften. I will not try to quantify the psychology behind it, but it was noticeable.

This is a “positive” response in many ways, though I have experienced the opposite--direct rage and indignation from superiors who refuse to provide accommodations because they don’t “see” what I’m talking about when I say that I’m sick. I would invite them to observe my bowel movements, but then I think this would piss them off further. These situations have led to direct job loss, panic attacks, many sleepless nights, and any number of head-problems I’ve had to sort out with professional help. There are echos of these reactions in personal relationships as well, and it can be quite jarring to receive rage as a reaction to vulnerability, particularly in one’s inner circle. Sometimes these situations can be healed, other times not.

Something I will always grapple with is dignity and right to privacy when it comes to the very personal nature of illness and suffering. It’s a double-edged sword either way you pull it. Withholding information perpetuates isolation, while sharing it can traumatize the listener, revealing embarrassing, grotesque, or incredibly heavy details that neither may have been in the “right place” to digest at the time. These kinds of “reveals” can be quick ways to determine the strength of friendships you might have, but also may cut short the possibility of transmitting something important that both sides might be better off for facing. So in my life--and you can assume this for all other humans--I believe that each person has a right to their privacy and dignity, to choose NOT to discuss anything at all...

BUT THEN...

ADVOCACY!?!

How do we make the world a better, more informed and compassionate place that can include people of all different types of trauma and ability, when we can’t talk openly, for fear of not being able to control our (or their)  reactions? What do we share, and how? What if it’s messy? What if they judge? What if I judge? What if suddenly it’s all fucked-up and no one knows where to start the conversation anymore? Do we all walk away?

There are many things that I have experienced that I will never talk to you about. Never. Some of these things shape the way I interact in the world in significant ways. Still. Never. Sometimes to share is re-traumatizing for the victim. Sometimes it’s healing. Often the healing happens behind closed doors, and once healed, it’s better for that door to remain shut.

How do we care for and hold space, and continue to seek understanding of the invisible aspects of our experience?

I have no simple answers but time, reflection, persistence, and humility. To be honest, the only tangible technique I’ve found personally is to believe in art for this, which extends to my advocacy for social art programs. Among the powers that art has, its techniques are abstraction and translation through a medium, providing an opening for difficult, messy, or not-yet-fully-formed messages to be spoken and received. It allows us to draw, sculpt, morph, and phoenix-style rebirth our interpretations as we continue our journey of discovery without judgement, or the perception of judgement, by ourselves or others. If we can come to frame experience without the finality of gains or losses held by momentary reactions, then maybe we can all soften into greater understanding over time.   

Caption: 2016 personal bio piece

Arts Writing and Dramaturgy
Science Fiction Human Kind
Youth at the Center: Defining the Future of American Circus
Circus Bomb the Southwest
When Fairy Tale Meets New Circus: Eat Sweet Feet by Le Radiant
Wrapped in the Interstitial: Janine Antoni, Anna Halprin, and Stephen Petronio at the Fabric Workshop and Museum
CCAFT V4: Anchored in the Past, I fully commit to the present, Maintaining a future we will imagine
Changing Body, Changing Mind Series
Anandam Dancetheatre: Evolving Audience and Expectation
Spring FREEZE (Artist Book)
Relay Rewind: A look at the Process of CCAFT’s 2015 Creation Relay​
CCAFT 2015: Creating Context
Penasco Theatre Residency: Cultivating Creative Space for Circus Artists in the US
CINARS Biennial Provides Global Connections for Performance Arts and Industry
Wish For Spirit (Artist Catalogue)
Montreal Completement Cirque: Material Concept in Circus Arts


Invisible Disability Awareness:
​ 
2018 
Nuance of Invisibility
2017
Life is not a battle, it's a heartfelt surrender
​
Changing Body, Changing Mind
An indie alt-research project exploring the east/west and natural health considerations for Crohn's and autonomic dysfunction. 
Chapter One: Alternative Care for Crohn's
Chapter Two: One Week into Xiaolan Treatment Plan: Reflections on a lifestyle change
Chapter Three: Toronto Updates: Phoenix Path
Chapter Four: Things I am Learning about Crohn's, culture, food and healing
Chapter Five: Building Core Strength Through Chronic Inflammation and Scars
Chapter Six: Changing Body, Changing Mind: "Healing crisis", sleep, and dreams
Chapter Seven: The Floor is Ice
Chapter Eight: US-Canada Border Issues: Finding humor in unnecessary obstacles to care

​Full Story in reverse chronology >>

​There is a certain beauty and necessity in the imperfect now that I argue goes under-realized. This is the reason we’re in said meat-sacks in the first place, and how we’re going to get to the next level up. In the recent special issue of Time called, “Artificial Intelligence: The Future of Humankind”, AI pioneer David Gelernter talks about the differences between human minds and their tech counterparts. Unlike computer’s “high focus’, people move through a spectrum of clarity, from high to low, like the information we process psychologically and emotionally through dreams. Much of this information is taken in through the senses, and the mind alters as the body changes. These are not isolated parts, the human is a gestalt work. So is his art and vision process. 

In the “high and low” classification there is a natural positive/ negative, better-or-worse connotation that may have you thinking...Of course!! Higher processing is better! Do away with my messy brain, it causes way too many problems as it is!! 

BUT WAIT. 

What if the problems of the world are only echoed in the technology we create? What if we don’t learn the lessons that the body has to teach us in time to integrate them into a “higher” intelligence? I find myself losing faith in the future of pure technology because I still think the body has lessons to teach us about the world we should develop. Gelernter remarks on how difficult it is for humans to deal with long-term consequences, to cope with things like chronic conditions. Each one of us has stories buried in our flesh, in our genetics, that we can learn from… and if we don’t let the body speak, then we risk building repression into the system. I think the fetishization of science and the illusion that some benevolent tech genius will engineer us out of our worldly problems is far too “easy” to attach to. There is still more messy, gritty, shitty work to do. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE science fiction! For all the fantasies, the speculation, the drama, fear, and grandeur that it reveals about our current state and future possibilities. But the fact is, our current state is a mess, and if one of the earth’s super powers can’t help but elect a narcissist, then I’m doubtful that our human species has the capacity to engineer a future that is in touch with the soul potential of the human race. Not as we are now.

​It’s not often that one gets to step outside “normal life” and view the earth from a different perspective. This is why I am eternally grateful to share this vantage, hoping to inspire fellow earth-dwellers to follow trails. May enduring grace be bestowed upon my loving friend Jess Flying Yogi, and her family Terence, Tessa, and Geevee for their openness, generosity, and companionship on this journey.
--
We left early, stuck in traffic on our way out of town. We spent our extra moments in the car going over lists of things we may have forgotten… prescription drugs, food items, pillows and warm layers. A full day of driving landed us in a hotel room just into Colorado; the next day had us driving through a snowstorm in Denver. It seemed our first picturesque views were to be obscured in thick blankets of white dust.
 
Determined not to miss destinations due to weather, we persevere toward our first stop, Garden of the Gods. This land was bestowed on the city of Colorado Springs in 1909 through an incredible act of philanthropy. The children of Charles Elliot Perkins gifted it in his memory, with the agreement that it forever be free -- reminding us that freedom is land’s natural state.  

​The weather clears just as we arrive, and the view from the visitor center parking lot is stunning. We take a quick check-in at the nature center for Junior Ranger books for Tessa and Geevee [this parks program is a genius way to build curiosity and future stewardship of the land]. From here we find our hikes, and proceed happily into the land of the Gods. ​Greeting us is a happy melty snowman -- a message that even in the cold, there is beauty in playing outdoors. 

Later that day, we head to Great Sand Dunes National Park, one of my favorites to photograph. Sinuous peaks of sand rival nearby snow capped mountains in their grandiosity. To reach them, we must pass through an ice cold mountain stream. After mounting the first big dune, I lie in a basin to warm up and view the world upside down while considering the perpetual hill of sand.
 
I climb farther. The views are worth it. Even now, the surreal environment speaks of epic escapes and the test of human will to transcend barriers. Melting into nothing with each step, efforts dispersed in tiny grains of sand, the Dunes dare you to take in their true scale, to feel your insignificance. 

​As we travel toward Monument Valley on our third day, we pass Bears Ears National Monument, one of our country’s newest national parks. You may have heard of it due to speculation about its protective designation being revoked with the current administration. We have too many miles to go to our campsite, so we continue on hoping that someday we will travel back to see that it has remained protected. 

​As I mentioned, we are on our way to Monument Valley, the most majestic place I’ve been. We choose to stay at The View Campground on Navajo Nation land, and here we ask permission to set up our aerial rig to train. Permission granted. Happy Dance. We are told to rig in the day lot, since it is already close to sunset. The light and the Monuments’ still beauty make these shots, and our experience, one of the highest highs of the trip. I find myself at a loss for words for this place; all pales in comparison to simply beholding. Our images are a reminder that culture and nature can coexist in harmony, if only we work for it. I wake at sunrise to see the dawning of a new day, soft light, nascent forms. ​​

We stop briefly on our way to see dino tracks on Navajo land, evolution’s footprint, triggering limbic reminders of nature’s creation and destruction. ​

Then on to the Grand Canyon, an iconic view of US wild west grandeur, co-maintained by the Grand Canyon National Park, the Kaibab National Forest, Grand Canyon-Parashant National Monument, the Hualapai Tribal Nation, the Havasupai people, and the Navajo Nation. As far as the eye can see there are canyons [Approximately 277 miles long, 4 to 18 miles wide, and over a mile deep, carved by the Colorado River]. The view flattens at a distance so the landscape looks painted. I contemplate the heyday of panorama paintings, mid-19th century, and wonder if the awe they inspired is similar to how people perceive these sights. ​

​We choose dispersed camping just outside the park, and are happy with the serenity of our site. The next day we descend a few miles into the canyon at Hermit’s Rest, the far side of the red loop, away from attractions. Our afternoon and evening take us to Lake Powell and another low-maintenance, but highly beautiful open campground. We enjoy the sunset, the warm winds, and the morning light that follows. Once again, aerial commences with ease, surrounded by water, draped in silks. 

​Side stop at Horseshoe Bend. Handstands on the ledge. [This is nothing new… pretty much every site we visited, we took the time to shift our perspective and challenge our comfort with heights.] 

Forward to Zion National Park. Taking in the sights from the back seat of the Santa Fe, I see a group of big horn sheep on a ledge above us. Just as I mention them, we five scream “AHHHHHH!” in unison, bursting into nervous laughter as a big horn sheep (mistaken for a goat) jumps in front of our moving vehicle.
​
Feeling thankful to have averted disaster, we are enthusiastically on our way toward Angel’s Landing through Refrigerator Canyon, a trail that takes you up 21 of Walter’s Wiggles (i.e. switchbacks) toward an exciting climb that involves scaling and rock-hopping using chains bolted to the mountain’s path. The whole crew endures quite well, and Jess and I leave the girls with Terrance at a landing where the climb becomes quite challenging. We are happy to continue on to the top, and have both chosen to wear dresses for the occasion. We make it, in style, and Jess proceeds to handstand at the top. 

​The next morning we arrive at Bryce Canyon National Park, and commence our third day of major canyon hikes in a row. My calves are feeling it, but the hoodoos of Bryce are captivating!! We make it from top, to bottom, back to top again, feeling tough and challenged, and filled with light. 

​Utah. So many rocks, so little time. We spend two days in the vicinity of Arches National Park and Canyonlands National Park, first camping in Moab and then Dead Horse State Park. Arches is nature’s cathedral, the world’s largest accumulation of natural arches. Epic vaults, literal tons of rock suspended so delicately that it’s hard to believe they were formed over 300 million years from a salt bed. Arches, spires, sandstone fins, and eroded monoliths call to the human body, as if the earth is reaching its dirt hands out to grasp us, to point to the sky and say “BEHOLD, focus your attention on THIS, or risk losing out on details trying to grasp the vastness of space.”  ​We gaze. We juggle. We handstand. We venerate. We come back a second day.

​DEAD HORSE POINT STATE PARK and CANYONLANDS. The story behind Dead Horse Point’s name taps my tiny human desire for narrative. According to the story, wild horses occupied the North American landscape more than 50 million years ago. Wiped out by the last Ice Age, modern horses returned by way of the Spanish in the 1500’s. Fast forward 300 years, when wild mustangs ran free along the mesa tops... at a time when cowboys sought to profit off them. They used Dead Horse Point to trap horses and sort the healthy, marketable ones from the “broomtails”, those deemed less desirable. You can probably guess at what happens next. Legend has it that a band of broomtails was left corralled at the point, dying of thirst within sight of the Colorado River. The gravity of this tale stirs up deep sadness and anger, both past and present, at humanity’s casual lack of respect for natural life.  

I believe that the horses left some part of their unbreakable spirits here. ​Our campsite is magic. A kit fox greets us there. We rig aerials near the canyon ledge at sunset, and this is one of my favorite moments from the trip. 

We visit Canyonlands and see where a meteorite created a giant gorge of green silt. It seems one of the overarching themes of our trip is to be humbled by the power and strength of natural forces, as big as the cosmos, as small as a grain of sand. We traverse vast sheets of slick rock to more canyon views. We have many miles to go, and not nearly enough time to take in what this setting has to offer. 

By the next day we are in the Rockies, stretching our legs with a short mountain hike, much different than what we’ve grown accustomed to. The air is cool and crisp, the earth moist and covered with evergreens and snow. Bathed in forest light, we see our last views from high on the mountain. We are humbled. Leaving newly revealed parts of ourselves in mountains and canyons, we head east -- hoping to return soon.​

 Sarah Muehlbauer
www.lionorfox.com

What are the boundaries of “circus”? Is it defined by its apparatus, its history, a set of forms? Do we accept and demand a certain type of virtuosity or overarching structure? Can circus appreciate small moments on par with spectacle? Could it be framed as an outlook… a mission to transcend human limits?

Anandam Dancetheatre, Toronto’s cutting-edge collective entity under the direction of choreographer Brandy Leary puts the term “circus” to task, creating work that occupies disciplinary grey spaces. Rightfully so, with grace and force the company draws from a deep well of eastern philosophy and movement, earned through Leary’s significant intercontinental immersion in Indian culture. The company’s aerial rope-infused theater resists traditional classification, often assembling large ensembles and a minimalist aesthetic that connects ground and air, while experimenting with technology, light, and sound; site-specificity; and alternative audience engagement.

To understand the heart of this work one has only to look to its linguistic roots. “Anandam” is Sanskrit for “liminal bliss,” but more accurately this is a space prior to awareness, as Leary describes, “Before the brain makes any kind of rational or concrete judgment.” Operating out of Collective Space, an intimate rehearsal space and venue, the company recently co-hosted Toronto’s third Contemporary Circus Arts Festival withA Girl in the Sky Productions, manifesting a consciously broad-minded view of what circus is and can be. Polish is not always the goal, setting Toronto aesthetics apart from nearby circus magnate Montreal. While the latter puts youth and acrobatic athleticism atop its formal pyramid, it is clear from the scene in Toronto that virtuosity is an entirely different animal—deconstructed, layered, valued as heavily as concept and artistry, and evaluated by the communicability of its embodied form.

All involved, one would hardly argue that Anandam’s work is not spectacular. Recent project Cascade overtook the former site of the Toronto Circus School, The Globe and Mail Press Hall, installing 60+ independent rope artists in a duration based exploration of the slow act of falling, held for the length of festivalNuit Blanche Toronto. Featuring a unique disco-ball projection scheme by collaborator Eamon MacMahon and meditative score by composer James Bunton, the work cultivates a peaceful immersive space where one could get lost in the micro- and macrocosm of human form as it generates and harnesses mysterious internal force.

Just a month later, in collaboration with Ricochet’s Laura Stokes, Anandam debuted new work Seismology exploring the body and landscape through glacial imagery, creating seismic relationships that consider “states of density, collaboration, falling, collapsing, overpopulation, environmental disaster, mass graves, icebergs, and melting ice caps in an immersive theater environment.” (From Anandam's Website). One gets the sense that Anandam’s work reaches far beyond movement, using performance to transcribe human drives and universal phenomena. We are invited into the mythic, the spiritual and esoteric, led by shamanic emissaries crossing divides of discipline and culture.

One of the strongest threads in the company’s work is its enhanced, often participatory viewer experience. Beginning with Seismology and continuing through several new projects, Anandam has chosen to engage a unique “Audience in Residence” program supported by the Metcalf Foundation. This allows the company to evaluate audience relationship through continual in-process feedback, which in turn changes and shapes the piece. This should prove vital for the show Weather, to be installed at the Bata Shoe Museum in 2015. In this piece, new-media collaborator Jacob Niedzwiecki developed augmented reality applications, adding images and sound to live performance through the use of mobile devices. It’s a playful artistic hijack, welcoming the pervasiveness of modern hand-held technology and the attention-drift that accompanies it.

The Bata Shoe Museum installation continues Anandam’s expanded dialogue between architecture, the body, and public space. Here Leary speaks of the fluidity of working with site that initiates a change in expectation, an opportunity for intimate moments, and a different audience that ultimately gains access to the work. In relation to theater, she comments on the challenges and opportunities of re-visioning a space, that performance in “museums, streets, and warehouses have a different life or edge to them. There’s not this over-riding context that holds it in one place and time.”

Careful not to “put practices into silos,” Leary emphasizes the importance of cross-genre training and artistic viewpoint. Her education received in India was invested in the “experience of your body in the work”, rather than “viewing the body-as-machine, as a form to be exercised,“ says Leary. "This comes from a place of “ritual, myth, and spectacle, where the cosmology of the body is sacred.” Leary advocates around contemporary circus culture, while ultimately invested in the concept of a “post-disciplinary” environment. This orientation sets Anandam apart, allowing the company to occupy a unique space and presence. Adopting the tools of circus, yet going beyond perceived limits, Anandam creates work that reveres tradition while contributing to its evolution.

--Sarah Muehlbauer

"Things That Survived The Winter" is now a sponsored project of Fractured Atlas. Fractured Atlas is a 501(c)(3) public charity. Contributions for the purposes of Things That Survived The Winter are tax-deductible to the extent permitted by law. You can check out our sponsorship page here on the Fractured Atlas website:

THINGS THAT SURVIVED THE WINTER

“Things That Survived The Winter” is an interdisciplinary theatre installation exploring resilience in a dynamic and changeful environment. Through the union of circus arts, live soundtrack, and an immersive visual arts setting, audiences are led through a story where characters’ identities become malleable, intertwined and interdependent, breaking apart and combining to express subtle dynamics of life in community. Original music by Rexedog propels structure, resonance and fluidity between concepts and people. Dynamic acrobatics, aerial dance, and balance work by artists from across the US draw metaphors of risk, mastery, and absurdity parallel with those we take in our individual lives. Human-influenced nature shown through video and sculpture reflects the cycles of growth and change that forever construct experience. Together the arc demonstrates that the whole rises to be greater than the sum of its parts.​

Dear Listeners,

This is more of a watch than a listen! ;) Many things are rapidly evolving and changing in our country and around the world, and the uncertainty is enough to make any of us rightfully anxious! These topsy-turvy times make it even more important to invest energy in the things that bring us back to the moment, draw us into our intuitive, creative selves, and calm our bodies and brains. With those goals in focus, I'm teaching another 5-week rope series at Madison Circus Space, and I'm excited for all the determination and progress my students are making!! I'm also moving forward with creation for "Things That Survived The Winter", the collaborative show I've been developing with artists and musicians from Philadelphia, Madison, Toledo, and Oakland. Also, importantly, I'm taking the time to dance it out when life gets rough, and I encourage you to do the same—non-goal oriented expression is both catalyst and catharsis for all the complex feelings and thoughts that are coming to the surface. Here's a piece of the flow, and I wish you all the best feelings in dancing your hearts free. <3 Sarah

I was invited back this year to the Contemporary Circus Arts Festival of Toronto as Festival Dramaturge. Here's a link to a piece I wrote on the festival's intelligent growth, design, and evolution.

CCAFT V4: ANCHORED IN THE PAST, I COMMIT FULLY TO THE PRESENT, MAINTAINING A VISION OF THE FUTURE WE WILL IMAGINE published by Anandam Dancetheatre and the Contemporary Circus Arts Festival of Toronto

"CCAFT has taken an active role in supporting the cultivation of unique voices and the development of practice, which serves a different responsibility than what artists are often called to put forth in the economic spectrum. This choice is not to suggest a hierarchy, but to present a broad continuum of style and function instilled with a sense of awareness, purpose, and dedication to an audience in whatever context we present. It is less to define “what is circus?” but “what are we doing with it?” Here we find the space that allows for work to be “embodied, political, and full of failure”, fundamentals of socially conscious art."