The genius of Raphael Xavier

A thought experiment: If Beethoven had composed only his Ninth Symphony and no other works, would we still regard him as a genius? What if Orson Welles had shot only Citizen Kane?

To put it another way: How many works of staggering power must an artist produce to earn the title of creative genius?

I ask the question because until two months ago I had never seen any pieces by local choreographer Raphael Xavier. During last May's A.W.A.R.D. Show, Xavier presented an excerpt from Black Canvas. A few weeks later, he staged his 30-minute Un-Official Guide to Audience Watching Performance as part of Susan Hess's Choreographers Project. (Xavier's piece was the only one that could have challenged Meredith Rainey's winning A.W.A.R.D. Show entry.)

Derek Jeter syndrome

Xavier drew on his own life in both pieces, and he began each by talking directly to the audience in a long monologue that blended his thoughts on life and art with the choreography. His autobiographical Black Canvas featured the choreographer as his adult self, looking back on his own life as a 13-year-old boy trying to learn break dancing by skipping school and mimicking the dance styles an older neighborhood kid.

As the older boy dashed off a short routine, another dancer (playing Xavier's younger self) repeated the movement, albeit not as crisply or with as much confidence and precision, as Xavier intended. In between each dance scene, Xavier's monologues dealt with the sacrifices of youth, missed opportunities, joint pains and frustrations in the quest for artistic accomplishment.

As the pair of boys danced, Peter Jakubowski's lighting canvassed their shadows against the walls with a pair of floodlights. Xavier himself, now in the present looking back, danced between the shadows, which— like all memory— loomed large and menacing on the walls on both sides. The entire performance seethed with a sense of desperation and loss, but tinged with pride at the journey.

Though Black Canvas is autobiographical, it touched on broader themes. I could easily imagine Xavier replacing himself with any athlete or performer. Surely two decades from now Derek Jeter— by then comfortably ensconced in a baseball commentary job— will experience the same defensive pride and intermingled horror and longing when he reflects on his 3,000th hit while watching the next emerging crop of baseball players.

"'Where I feel most vulnerable'

Xavier's Un-Official Guide tackled similar themes. As the choreographer set up a street scene with props (a news bin, subway stop bench, etc.), a word song spoke of total commitment to a life— any life— spent living each moment in coherence with all those that came before it. Xavier then walked the audience through a progression of moves— falling onto his back from a handspring, freezing his legs mid-air while propped in a plank position— describing how each move fit not only into the routine but into his own mental state as a performer.

"Here is where I will feel most vulnerable," he remarked, adding later a description of the dance move that would pound his aching joints the hardest.

Between each section of narrative and dancing— depicted as taking place in a cramped apartment, a street corner and a stage— a poet declaimed verses that reinforced Xavier's themes of a life devoted entirely to one unifying endeavor. The piece burned with intensity that bordered on a religious fervor, and in its presentational style and subject matter it reminded me of Jerome Bel's autobiographical Cedric Andrieux at last year's Fringe Festival.

But unlike Bel's piece, which focused more on the technical demands of a Merce Cunningham dancer, Xavier's Guide explored the broader themes of artistic dedication as a total, almost ethical commitment across an entire life— not just one's tenure in a prestigious company of dancers. And in contrast to Bel's relaxed, almost laconic delivery, Xavier captivated his audience with the impassioned lyrical delivery of a hip-hop artist.

One more sighting

Even if both of these pieces don't yet add up to a description of "genius" per se, each exemplified the creative instincts that ultimately define genius. Both pieces have only instigated my desire to see more of Xavier's works, including any brief selection he presents this Saturday (July 16) as part of Rennie Harris's PureMovement event, Rhaw.

I won't go to see it if Xavier continues to build on this potential or falls short— that would miss the point of enjoying a genius already glimpsed. Citizen Kane is a work of staggering genius by itself.

No, the point (and pleasure) of seeing Xavier's new pieces after being overwhelmed by two powerful works lies in witnessing and understanding the innovation, motivations and— as Xavier's pieces argue— the coherence of a life devoted to a single passion that continually evokes the courage to put any possible genius forward for our evaluation.♦


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