Man-made and natural

Waterways
Susurrus
Sept. 30-Oct. 2

Susurrus Performance Group and the Indianapolis Women’s Chorus add a unique dimension to three blocks along the downtown canal. On a rain-impending evening, foot traffic along the east greenway path is sparser than along the west residential side. The runners and walkers of the Fayette Street Neighborhood brave all weathers and don’t much stop for distractions.

Susurrus Performance Group and the Indianapolis Women's Chorus performed 'Waterways' on the downtown canal over the weekend.

Those of us following along during a Wednesday dress rehearsal get a half-hour new look at what’s possible along the canal. What you take away is a personal thing, depending upon where you are coming from. This reviewer first stopped at the USS Indianapolis Memorial. Reading down column after column of names as the wind whips the three flags, watching the flagsmove, studying the image of the ship frozen in time on a shimmering space of ocean — this affects how you interpret the four distinct parts of the performance.

White-clad dancers in poses along the bank have a feel of Plaster of Paris statuary. As the circled chorus chants, the dancers disassemble, run up the hillock to command a stream of light. Standing bodies bend and extend and eerily resemble the memorial’s flags’ lapping, licking, cracking. When the dancers tumble, they billow like waves. They hit pavement and run to their next post.

The chorus sings under the bridge, sounding lusty because the acoustics are changed from open space. Lights reflect and refract on the water; the encircling cityscape is misted; traffic sounds melt into the music.

Five actors command your attention. Their props are water-tied, their stories are of loss, lust, loving memories.

The chorus moves onto the terminus. Dancers climb what appear like waves in the moonless dusk. As they move you feel compelled to look back at the flags and the downed ship and you think of water and its nature to destroy as easily as it connects, to drown as lustily as it quenches thirst, to turn hateful as quickly as it promises joy.

It begins to rain, but you stay for the curtain call, realizing in looking back you missed all but one of the dancers having melted away because one-by-one they reappear, looking like bubbles where fish breathe. Your final image is of the algae and leaves clustered along the circular canal wall, heaving gently with the flow, ember red, speckled green. It’s all as it never was before this night, and never will be again. Such is the art of dance and music and story. Such is the sense of place, man-made and natural.