Three faces of Fana

January 21, 2017 - table lamp

The knowledge starts on a outing to a Bronx Academy of Arts and Dance, now all of 18 years aged though still a dark gem, run by Artur Aviles (artistic director) and Charles Rice-Gonzalez (executive director), that give rising artists a height to uncover their work. The knowledge continues once we enter a space: partial church, partial celebration place, partial offices and sectioned off by shimmering strands that form a curtain—part opening space. The assembly clusters in a center where they buy a drink, lift out smartphones and record a happenings or locate adult with longtime friends. Soon, pulsation dance hall, reggae and hip-hop strain fill a room and bodies start to move. Meanwhile, with a far-reaching grin, Aviles walks by with a camera in palm and asked “What, are we during a dance show?” He laughs and continues to navigate a crowd. Before we comprehend it, Fana Fraser, a soloist for a evening, is also in a assembly and a uncover has already begun. Decked out in high-heeled black boots, neat black leggings, jeweled bra, a mistake fur jacket, ski goggles on tip of her conduct and a lollipop, she too navigates a crowd—this opening was her show. She twerked, bumped and danced with other bodies for a good while, to strain after strain and renewed her lollipop once it got past a resin proviso and after a good chew. This dance was usually a commencement of Fraser’s “Imelda, Iveth Irene” (Nov. 19).

Still nipping and relocating to a kick with a crowd, Fraser feverishly rubs her palms together, gradually make it to all fours, and crawls into a cordoned-off opening space. We follow. What ensues is an insinuate look into a 3 characters Fraser molds with such care. Once we’re seated, she appears, crawling into a new world—there’s a table, lamp, books, chair, fan, pillows and a jar of Spam. With apt precision, she lets out a outrageous belch, sticks a resin to table, turns on a fan, rubs her swell and between sounds of depletion and difficulty, opens a jar (smelling adult a space) with a pivotal afterwards a knife. When a blade doesn’t work, she huffs, “Why does this always happen?” Then she uses her palm to get and fist pieces together for a correct mouthful. She brilliantly shifts characters again, struggling with fishnet stockings pulled usually to her calf, and clunky height boots that benefaction a plea to run, or even travel from one side of a space to another. Eventually she runs behind a seats, and a lights go out, we don’t know it yet, though it’s over. If any impression (Imelda, Iveth Irene) and their names are meant to compare and we didn’t get that, we were given a space to usually follow along and that’s excellent since it was good to be mislaid in Fraser’s fast-growing, character-driven talented world.

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