Raven Spirit Dance reflects Indigenous world views in new Confluence
The collaborative piece has its world premiere at Vancouver’s Dancing on the Edge Festival
Raven Spirit Dance, Confluence. Photo by Erik Zennström
Dancing on the Edge Festival presents Confluence by Raven Spirit Dance on July 8 at 7 pm and July 9 at 9 pm at the Firehall Arts Centre Theatre
INDIGENOUS WAYS OF seeing the world flow throughout Confluence, a new work by Raven Spirit Dance that will have its world premiere at the 2022 Dancing on the Edge Festival. The body carries histories and legends that go back to time immemorial, says Michelle Olson, Raven Spirit Dance artistic director and member of the Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in First Nation.
“Dance is a way of tapping into images and imagery and how our bodies carry our world view, carry our stories that are passed down from grandmothers and grandfathers and mothers and fathers,” Olson says in a phone interview with Stir. “There is something powerful about being able to drop in and listen to the body…and recognize you're part of this whole chain of legacy, of ancestors past and future. Your spirit takes the form of this body to carry the stories forward.
“That is something you can tap into as an artist,” she says, “accessing that wealth of knowledge in your body, in your blood, in your bones, and in your muscle tissue.”
Confluence speaks to the resilience of Indigenous women. It is a collaborative piece created by Olson, Raven Spirit Dance artistic associate Starr Muranko (Cree [Moose Cree First Nation], French, and German ancestry), Kristy Janvier (Dene [English River First Nation]), English/Irish, and Ukrainian descent), Emily Solstice Tait (mixed settler and Ojibway heritage), Jeanette Kotowich (Nêhiyaw, Métis, and mixed settler ancestry), and Tasha Faye Evans (Coast Salish, Welsh, and European Jewish ancestry).
The creative team draws upon images of nature, such as water, mountains, rivers, and birds in their choreography. Their physical language reflects the perspective that, by aligning themselves with the direction of the water in a river or geese in migration, they acknowledge that their lives are always in process, ever creating new forms, rhythms, and stories.
Tasha Faye Evans, Raven Spirit Dance, Confluence. Photo by Erik Zennström
The piece has been years in the making, going back well over a decade when the team gathered Indigenous women together to support each other professionally and personally. Working with Margaret Grenier (executive and artistic director of the Dancers of Damelahamid), Carlos Rivera, Yvette Nolan, Kristy Janvier, Salome Neito, and Tin Gamboa, who are credited as Confluence’s artistic lineage, the members kept wondering if their sessions were more of a lab or in fact the makings of a performance. It became clear about five years ago that there was a dance piece just waiting to be brought to life, and things began to fall into place from there.
“Over the years what’s really stood out for us is the collective gathering to support the process,” Olson says. “For myself and others, how we understand our place in the world is in relation to our bodies. Our bodies are the land, the land is our body. When we allow ourselves to transform into different elements, we’re given the gift of that element, that spirit, or that animal to help us face our own human lives and challenges.”
Confluence features a melding of traditional and contemporary dance. Composer Scott Maynard, executive director of Music Yukon, created the work’s original sound score, which also features pieces by Diyet and the Love Soldiers, from the Yukon Territory; Iskwew Singers, a trio of Aboriginal women who create and perform songs in the plains tradition; Métis Nation singer-songwriter Andrea Menard; and Russell Wallace, composer, producer, and traditional singer from the Lil’wat Nation.
At its very depth, Confluence is about community.
“Everyone has a place, and there is such a strong connection to lineage and ancestry,” Olson says. “The connection between past ancestors and future ancestors: each moment is tethered by those two places in space, what's behind us and what’s ahead of us. There is grief and joy.
“I hope people are able to see themselves in the work and feel the work working them in a way,” Olson says. “The dance becomes a portal of release or understanding or connection and also becomes a place people can make connections for themselves. I never find it an intellectual process; it’s very much a visceral, somatic process. That is what I hope that we can evoke when we do this work.”
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