To try to heal his injuries, Turner turned to martial arts. He did a lot of tai chi and also attempted different somatic approaches, like Alexander Technique and yoga. “And that’s where I started meeting lots of dancers.” He liked the relationship they had with their body. “I don’t know, just the way they envisioned their body, the way they inhabited it… And I found there was, like, a really sort of humble and straightforward way of looking at health.” Though he had seen a few dance shows here and there, it was mostly the dancers that he met and the lifestyle that fascinated him.

Andrew Turner's Now I Got Worry, photo by Warren Zelman

Maybe it’s his unusual background that is responsible for his approach to dance. With Frédérick Gravel, Turner is one of the few choreographers who manages to put out work with popular appeal that doesn’t suck. When I ask him if the accessibility of his work is something that merely comes out of it rather than a factor in its creation, he replies, “No, it’s something that I really insist on, on communication, in my work. … I sort of tailor the work so that anybody can come in off the street and get it. I think that’s important. Dance is at a place where it needs to build on its audience. It needs to welcome people in rather than excluding them, excluding somebody who’s never seen a dance performance before. … So that’s why I won’t hesitate to, like, stop everything and explaining it to people if that’s what needs to happen.” Spoken word is a common feature in his work. He feels that if you talk to the audience in a simple, “very relaxed way, you immediately break down, like, twenty barriers. … It puts you on a human level with the audience.”

Once more, Turner directly addresses the audience in his new work, Now I Got Worry, which opens at Tangente this week. He is presenting his piece alongside Tawny Andersen’s Uncanny Valley as part of the last week of the Idea-Based Dances series. So what is the concept behind Turner’s piece? “The idea of spontaneity versus inevitability, which are two opposite forces that exert an influence on our everyday lives. And I’m trying to figure out … to what extent do we have control over what happens to us, and how much of it has been predetermined or preordained by the natural laws of the universe. … the kind of premise of the piece is that if you look at the history of the universe from, like, the beginning of time up until now, from the Big Bang up until the present, there are so many accidental things that have happened, that could have gone one way, but went this way… When you add all those things up, say, like if you were to tell the story behind what’s happening tonight: OK, there was the Big Bang and then stars formed and a little while later the solar system and there was a planet that was at the right distance from the sun to create liquid water and life was formed and then, you know, there was the discovery of fire and [Turner pulls a "yadi yadi yada"] that goes along and then it ends with ‘and then Sylvain and Andrew had a beer at Bar Cherrier, you know, for 45 minutes.’ If you had the time to tell that whole story, anybody would laugh at you, at how completely unbelievable that story is, like, that all these things, all these accidents happened to bring us here. … basically, any moment is completely implausible… We’re, like, constantly tuning out extraordinary phenomena. They’re in front of us all the time. We get used to it.”

Faithful to himself, Turner’s exemplification of these concepts onstage is anything but esoteric. He’s cast fellow dancers Simon-Xavier Lefebvre and Manuel Shink as the sun and the earth, respectively. And he is, of course, the moon. “We actually do a history of the universe from the Big Bang until the present in, like, five minutes with three bodies and a whole bunch of props. We line up the whole history of the universe up until the moment that’s happening in front of the audience.” His sense of humour has not gone anywhere either: “It’s kinda done at a really five-year-old level.” He laughs. “We’re almost thinking, ‘OK, how would a five-year-old demonstrate all this? Oh, sparklers!’”

Though you probably shouldn’t let your five-year-old play with fire, attending a show by Andrew Turner is on the other hand highly recommended.

March 11, 12, 13 @ 7:30pm; March 14 @ 4pm
840 Cherrier, Sherbrooke metro
514.525.1500
tangente.qc.ca

Dinozord in Solid Gold, photo by Ula Sickle & Vincent Pinckaers

But Dinozord definitely dances in Ula Sickle’s Solid Gold. In fact, he covers the entire spectrum of dance from the African diaspora, from its roots to street dance styles performed in Congo today, passing through 20s Harlem, Broadway, the New York street dance scene of the 70s and 80s, and the more recent styles coming out of Los Angeles, like Krump. All of this in 30 minutes.

What makes this dance history lesson that much more compelling, however, is Sickle’s sound choice: no pop music. In fact, no music at all, in the strictest sense of the term. Again, very much in keeping with the practices of the Judson Dance Theater. Instead, what we get is the amplified sound from four microphones taped to the floor all around the stage, and (as we discover later) one right underneath Dinozord’s nostrils. His breath first sounds like a pen scribbling on a piece of paper. It is his, yet disembodied, marking the presence of two entities onstage: the physical and the electronic bodies.

We also hear his footsteps. Everything about his body and performance highlight their own being. Like much of the work that emerged from Judson, Solid Gold does not attempt to stand for something other than itself; it is what it is. As Dinozord’s breathing becomes heavier as his body proportionally drips with sweat, it becomes clear that the performance is about its own physicality rather than an attempt to seduce us with pleasing aesthetics. If the body is anything other than itself, it is (as many of the dances displayed here prove) a political tool.

There are a few moments that bring us in a surrealist realm rather than a hyperrealist one. The first is when Dinozord ceases to dance, yet the sound of his footsteps can still be heard over the speakers, creating a gap so wide between the physical and electronic bodies as to make the disembodiment complete. The second is caused by light in the only section not to use high-key lighting. Instead, Dinozord is backlit, the light drawing the countours of his undulating arms, which appear like waves.

The exercise is not without humour either, especially in the moments when the pop musicality of Dinozord’s moves is only met by the amplified sound of his breath, or in his witty use of pauses. Not to mention the cheeky ending, where he removes his sweat-soaked t-shirt and all the technological devices that were weighing him down, and performs an abridged version of the show that lasts but a minute or two before looking at us as if to say, “Yeah, that’s all I did. I don’t know why that looked so hard.” It raises important issues about duration, like what not everything is about content since the different experiences offered by each version are worlds apart. It’s a stellar performance by Dinozord in a fascinating work.

Ula Sickle’s Solid Gold is followed by Caroline Dubois’s duo Ne pas se réduire à des expériences d’admiration, a more theatrical work that is difficult but rewarding.

Solid Gold
Ula Sickle
Ne pas se réduire à des expériences d’admiration
Caroline Dubois
March 4, 5, 6 at 7:30pm; March 7 at 4pm
840 Cherrier, Sherbrooke metro
514.525.1500
www.tangente.qc.ca

Gina Gibney's View Partially Obstructed, photo by Anja Hitzenberger

Scenographer Lex Liang is responsible for this set, one of the finest features of View Partially Obstructed. He has also created the superior costumes, which replicate the black and white fragmentation of the video images, as if human beings are always partially hidden.

From a choreographic standpoint, View Partially Obstructed exists in a safe middle ground. As can be expected from an American choreographer, the dance is formal, but not even pushed in its formalism to the point that, say, José Navas pushes his. The straight lines are there. There is little to no theatricality, and yet there is a sentimentality to the work, the dancers looking at one another as if they were in a film adaptation of a Nicholas Sparks novel. As can be the case with such works, the simplicity and prettiness might be seductive at first, but when it has little else to offer and simple only turns out to be simplistic, the prettiness becomes aggravating. As it becomes impossible to come up with an answer as to what’s new or different about Gibney’s work, all that appears is its emptiness.

There is little physical interaction between the dancers at first, though this changes a bit as the show progresses. Still, View Partially Obstructed sports a poor use of number. Though it benefits from five dancers, most of the show could have easily been performed just as well by three. Also, they constantly look at one another as if to ensure synchronicity, which never quite appears anyway. It denotes a lack of confidence that lends the work an amateurish air.

Still there are a few good moments to be found, like when the dancers perform in a single file, each but the first one behind their own screen. They perform the same movement, but as a canon, so that those behind the screens appear as delayed shadows. This section unfortunately comes to an end before being fully explored. Luckily, the show ends on one of its best moments, static increasingly appearing over the video to such a degree that it breaks down the dancers’ bodies, who appear less like human beings than like electronic entities.

The strengths of View Partially Obstructed can mainly be found in the collaborators that Gibney has surrounded herself with: the aforementioned Liang’s costumes and set design, Joshue Ott’s video work, and Ryan Lott’s electronic music, which is more melodious than what we are used to hear at contemporary dance shows (though it could have been played louder). But by refusing to push the choreography too far in any direction, Gibney’s show turns out to be overwhelmingly underwhelming.

View Partially Obstructed is performed at Agora de la danse one last time tonight, February 27, at 8pm. Tickets are 26$, 18$ for students and those under 31 years old. For more information, visit www.agoradanse.com or call 514.525.1500.

Anne Thériault's La physique / épisode 1, photo by Simon-Xavier Lefebvre

So it’s not surprising to hear Thériault refer to Village of the Damned, Beetlejuice, Ding et Dong, or B movies based on Stephen King novels; she is one of the most cinematic choreographers out there. Any movie that sticks in her mind influences her work. “I’m compulsive. I watch them over and over,” she tells me. She even assumes the vocabulary of cinema, referring to her drawings as a “storyboard.” Before going into dance, she studied cinema, and some of her friends pursued that route. Their influence is still palpable.

Though she might be too humble to make the comparison herself, it might be more accurate to compare her shows to David Lynch’s movies than to any other choreographer’s work. His name does come up when she talks about how she likes to use the depth that the space at Tangente affords her. Her reliance on the image is so strong that she likes the audience to sit as far away from the action as possible, to take it all in. “I’d put two rows at the back and get rid of all the rest.” She tries to remember which Lynch film reminds her of such a use of depth: “Lost Highway! Never-ending shots where you always see the road… In my head, it’s like a shot of the road that unravels, as if from a moving car. I’ve been thinking, ‘Wow! It would be so great to have a piece on a country road where there’s nothing.’”

But the biggest link between Lynch and Thériault is that they both plunge us into worlds where seemingly unrelated elements find their cohesiveness in providing an experience that is deeply based in affect. Turtlenecks, motorcycle helmets, bubblegums; Thériault uses anything at her disposal just as long as it fits her vision. “For me, there’s a very clear link, but it’s not a link that’s intellectual. It’s a link based on texture, or the image, or colours…”

With her new work, La physique / épisode 1, Thériault is looking to empty her head of all her choreographic fantasies, all that she finds beautiful. She has called on physics to help fulfill these fantasies, hints of which were already present in her previous pieces. “It’s really for me to be able to go further with everything, with the world that I’ve created since I started. I always do the same thing; I just take it further.”

By going in this direction, the young choreographer is hoping that people who might think they have nothing to do with the arts will want to check out her show. “For me, those people [scientists] apprehend their everyday and modify it, adapt it. For example, you meet an engineer, you go to his house, and there’s always something… Like his mop is modified because it wasn’t working properly, so he changed something.” Their ability to resolve technical difficulties appeals to Thériault. “They’re all little geniuses that when you go to their place, they have a different way of seeing things, of seeing the everyday. I thought, ‘These are the people whom I want to come to my place, to come into my world.’ I want to show them that, even if they don’t know anything about dance, that’s completely fine. I just want to tell them, ‘You see, this is my world. I’m full of ideas, but I don’t know how to adapt them for my project…’ Because, in the end, I just want to adapt my world to scenic locations, by which I mean to build or modify things […] so that my shows will run better.”

With that in mind, Thériault surrounded herself with collaborators who could make her ideas a concrete reality. “There were objects that I had in mind that don’t exist, but that I wanted to have. So I asked someone, Stéphane Gladyszewski, to conceive objects. I asked him for an inflatable head. You know, my entities always wear helmets.” Thériault prefers this term to “characters,” which seems to imply too much of a narrative for her. “Big head, small body… I find that it’s like small torso, long legs. I find that it’s a striking image. I love the body’s transformation, I want to take it further, but the thing is helmets are heavy. So I was wondering how I could take it further, how to do it. What I wanted didn’t exist. So I talked to Stéphane and he built a prototype.”

Anything that could get them there was fair game. “We tried with garbage bags at one point. We would blow in them and were like, ‘OK, it modifies the body…’ Finally, he [Stéphane] arrived with some kind of plastic structure that inflates with a small motor from a tiny vacuum cleaner that’s attached [to the dancers]. It inflates their heads. It’s hyper experimental. After, I went, ‘OK, now we need to make a hoodie for this…’”

So does she think her show really might appeal to those who might not usually be interested in dance? “I met a guy who teaches physics in college and he’s the kind of guy qui patente ses affaires. He came in the studio because I wanted to show him what I do. He was like, ‘I really don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know how I can… But if you want, we’ll try.’ So he came in the studio and I showed him all my things and he was like, ‘Oh, wow, OK…’ And he would give me comments et je trippais. I was like, ‘He’s into it!’”

Anne Thériault’s 30-minute La physique / épisode 1 is presented as part of the Festival Montréal en Lumière along with Séverine Lombardo’s 50-minute Petites Pièces de Poche.
February 18, 19, 20 at 7:30pm; February 21 at 4pm
At Tangente
840, rue Cherrier, Montréal
Tickets: 514.525.1500
Regular: 17$ | Students: 14$ | 12 years old and under: 7$
www.tangente.qc.ca

Splintergroup's roadkill, photo by Jeff Busby

roadkill has moments when it almost succeeds in creating a climate of fear, but it ultimately always ruins it by being all over the place. It incessantly destroys the atmosphere it’s trying so hard to create. It’s simply too impatient with itself. If roadkill is a horror movie, it’s one with attention deficit disorder. In an attempt to mimic car movement, dancers run with roadside props in what would be the opposite direction. Not only is the effect humorous, but it destroys the feeling of isolation necessary for horror. To be horrified is to be unable to move in the face of impending death, or for one’s movement to become utterly trivial. Death is inescapable.

So how does dance fit in with all of this? Not very well, I’m afraid. When it finally comes in, it seems to be doing its own thing, independently from the rest of the show. How does it communicate horror, fear? It simply doesn’t. And I wonder why, even for someone as disinterested in stories as I am, it’s the dance that needs to fit the narrative rather than the other way around. Is it because roadkill’s narrative is the first to be laid out? Is it because the story falls within such a clearly delimited genre? Or is it simply due to the overwhelming power of the narrative? All interesting questions to ponder, and yet ultimately irrelevant; because if the dance doesn’t fit the narrative, it should go without saying that the narrative doesn’t fit the dance either.

Much like the genre of the show is clearly delimited, each dance section has a clear physical constraint: the two men dance with their hands in their pockets, still managing to lift each other; as can be expected, all three performers dance on and around the car; the woman stands on top of one of her male partners, never touching the ground; a man appears to float in the phone booth. Without a doubt, these are remarkable physical feats, but they lack coherence with the rest of the show.

Often, there are hints of potential that never get fully realized. Rather than in the narrative or the choreography, they are usually found in the scenography. Like when a slew of rocks fall on the metallic roof of the car, the harsh sound causing a most visceral reaction. Even though it doesn’t involve any human beings, it’s the most chilling moment in the entire show, and we are left wishing there were more like it. Many of the most horrifying situations are a result of Mark Howett’s dexterous lighting design, like when the light in the phone booth flashes on and off, revealing a man standing inside. The best moments emerge from uncertainty, when we’re not sure what we’re seeing.

In the end though, roadkill is anticlimactic; the proof that, even with impressive means, a show can turn out to be rather underwhelming.

roakill continues at the Cinquième Salle of Place des Arts until Saturday, February 13. Performances are at 8pm every day, with an added matinée at 3pm on Saturday. Tickets are 35$, 24.50$ for those under 30 years old. For more information, visit laplacedesarts.com or call 514.842.2112.

The show has now been added to Agora de la danse’s winter schedule, so it’s your chance to catch it… if you think you can handle it. Not that Suites cruelles is all about cruelty. It’s most definitely about that fine line between pain and pleasure. Where does one end and where does the other begin? Are they even mutually exclusive or are they rather dependent on one another? These are only some of the questions raised in the show; sometimes verbally as the dancers turn into actors to read excerpts from texts by the likes of Frederic Nietzsche or Marquis de Sade, but most powerful when explored physically. In those moments, the performers go well beyond the call of duty and make Suites cruelles a most visceral experience.

Blackburn also makes great use of technology to heighten feelings of discomfort. Live video projections blow up the performers’ faces and heighten our feelings of voyeurism, which we must ultimately accept if we want to gain access to the pleasurable aspects of the performance. Similarly, the stage is miked so that every sound created by the dancers can be amplified and heard by the audience. In such an environment, what might usually be enjoyable, like kissing, can to our dismay become quite uncomfortable.

The performers also consciously play with the technology as their bodies become musical instruments whenever they hit the floor or brush up against it. Here, it is the dance that spurs the music rather than the other way around. More conventional instruments are used too, two pianists and a drummer performing live onstage.

I’ve been told that the show is now even tighter than it was two years ago, as it has gone from 80 to 60 minutes in length. We can only hope that it will make for an even more intense experience. There’s something incredibly refreshing about a work that is so unapologetically adult, trusting that if people can endure a little bit of pain, they just might be able to discover at least as much pleasure.

Suites cruelles is presented at Agora de la danse from February 18 to 20, at 8pm. Tickets are 26$, 18$ for students and those under 31 years old. For more information, visit www.agoradanse.com or call 514.525.1500.

La Biche Lumineuse, sculpture by Pascal Lareau, choreography and photo by Annie Gagnon

In the first piece, “La Biche Lumineuse,” the luminous doe is standing tall at the end of a red rectangle surrounded by crumpled newspaper. Gagnon and Rancourt enter the stage decisively. Their expression is cold; their movement, mechanical. We sense a solitude between these two figures, a solitude that, as opposed to loneliness, inhabits intervals rather than internal spaces. Each looks at the other as if trying to understand, without ever succeeding. The other appears as an overflow of emotion, incomprehensible. Even in the sexual encounter, the other remains just that: other. Yet in the final moments, despite their blank stares, it seems there might be something more than mere physical proximity. Their bodies are so close that they overlap, forcing their movement to mirror each other. They appear as two beings who, from a common desire, walk together in the same direction.

Rancourt introduces us to the second half, “Le Lapin Samouraï,” by blindly and awkwardly mimicking the short but stout samourai rabbit at the back of the room. When Gagnon joins him onstage, he watches her fall repeatedly, more likely to pull away than to come to her rescue. His lack of action is less malicious than an apparent feeling of complete helplessness in the face of the world’s destructive forces. Her body lying on the ground, he takes her hand as if it’s the best one can hope for: to join oneself with a casualty of life or, more optimistically, with the other’s vulnerability. More simply, it might just be what must be done, the duty of the samourai.

Despite what the title of each section might imply, more emotionality emanates from “La Lapin Samouraï.” The dancers embrace and, on the other hand, shove each other. The contrast between the previous coldness and this sudden emergence of emotionality makes the latter appear cliché. So, for better or for worse, Rancourt loses his connection to Gagnon as his movement becomes robotic, a trauma caused by his inability to truly connect with the other. She is left blind, with red paint for eyes.

Gagnon might be a young choreographer, but her work is mature and courageous. She is not afraid to be serious in her art. She is also unafraid of choreographic silences. She understands that they are just as much a material as sound, that one can sculpt with them, that they are necessary for rhythm. They also provide contrast and build anticipation for the next movement: when? what? where? To reiterate, by blending dance, sculpture, and performance art, Gagnon and Lareau have crafted one of the best shows of the year.

La Marche Invisible is presented every day at Tangente until Saturday, February 6, at 7:30pm. There is also a matinée on Sunday the 7th at 4pm. Tickets are 17$, 14$ for students. For more information, visit www.tangente.qc.ca or call 514.525.1500.

Emmanuelle Calvé's Peau d'or, sors de l'ombre, photo by Elizabeth Delage

However, it does not remain so. The body undergoes quite a few transformations throughout the piece. Both performers’ eyes often remain closed or barely open, as if they were in a trance that allows different spirits to take over their body. But to speak of souls possessed would infuse Peau d’or with a violence it never exhibits. Here, spirits flow through the body and only leave behind their most positively transformative powers.

There is some humour to be found, like when Calvé is wearing a long cone for a beak but launches into a series of repetitive movements with an aerobic aesthetic. The disjunction between the way her body is presented — animalistic — and the way it moves — typically human — draws a smile upon our lips. The choreography is at its best when the dancers repeat movements as their limbs extend more and more into space, as if they could eventually reach the sky. At other times, most specifically in its duets, it flirts a bit too much with a So-You-Think-You-Can-Dance corniness. However, by the same virtue, it’s not without being seductive.

But what impresses me the most in Peau d’or is its seamless transitions. From the beginning, the mechanics of the show (when Albert-Toth pulls on a rope to bring down a screen, for example) become an intrinsic part of its scenography (it is his shadow from behind the screen we see, making the common dramatic). Even better is how Calvé deftly uses depth to shift the audience’s focus as the dancers slowly cross paths. One moment we’re looking at Calvé, only to realize a few seconds later that our attention has drifted towards Albert-Toth without even noticing it. This might be a good opportunity to mention that he proves to be a fantastic dancer with an incomprehensible body.

Michaël Cros’s Le Zoo “Chaleurhumaine” takes a different approach, but is equally fascinating. The audience is guided by a metallic voice through a human zoo where two performers, also male and female, interact with quasi-human-sized dummies covered from head to toe in black lycra. Some of them are suspended by ropes to the ceiling, triggering most disturbing images of lynching. While at first Chaleurhumaine works more on an intellectual level, it evolves into a haunting experience that still manages to raise important questions. Is pornography the modern zoo (and maybe more specifically non-conformist sexuality)? What is considered monstrous even today? Who is whose savage?

You can catch this double program on Friday and Saturday (January 29 & 30) at 7:30pm, and Sunday (January 31) at 4pm. Tickets are 17$, 14$ for students. For more information, visit www.tangente.qc.ca or call 514.525.1500.

Benjamin Read in Katie Ward's Rock Steady, photo by Thierry Francis

She is not the only one to demonstrate such child-like behaviour. As she dances, Allison Rose Blakley sometimes creates sounds with her mouth which are not without reminding us of the noises kids make when they play with action figures. Her body just happens to be her toy of choice. Later, Trosztmer and Benjamin Read fight over cleaning the floor (with spit) like children do over toys.

While they are too busy being playful to take themselves seriously, deeper issues still manage to spring up from their antics. There’s a sense that, by playing, we might be able to figure some things out, and not only things of a simple nature. More than once I was reminded of David O. Russell’s I ♥ Huckabees in Rock Steady’s attempt to work out philosophical quanderings in the most concrete ways by bringing them into the physical world. In a touching section, Juteau is tied to three of her comrades by elastic rubber bands. While she lets herself go, her connection to the others ensures that she never falls too far away from them.

But, for the most part, Ward is interested in getting her performers into awkward positions that cannot be held gracefully. We can see the physical effort required as their bodies shake and sweat drips off their forehead. Rock Steady is about something more important than looking pretty; it’s about being alive. Early in the show, Patrick Lamothe asks “Can we celebrate a bit more?” The answer: a resounding “YEAH!”

Though Rock Steady is a tad uneven and the transitions between sections could be smoother, time still flies in Katie Ward’s world.

You can catch Rock Steady on Saturday, January 23, at 7:30pm, and on Sunday the 24th at 4pm. Tickets are 17$, 14$ for students. For more information, visit www.tangente.qc.ca or call 514.525.1500.

Danièle Desnoyers's Dévorer le ciel, photo by Luc Senécal

The first half of Dévorer le ciel bubbles with the energy of the city. The overlapping movement of the six dancers is chaotic, and yet regimented. Despite their number, they are guided by individualistic pursuits. One of them looks around the others before pushing them back. They are not turned towards one another, but towards something outside that we cannot see.

Even when there is partner work, the connection remains only at the most physical level. Their interactions might be playful, but they remain cold, never fueled by concern for the others. They do not want to be touched. Human contact is something to be undone, to break away from.

And suddenly, halfway through, everything changes with a duet performed by Bernard Martin and Pierre-Marc Ouellette. For the first time, their pursuits are shared, and they physically support each other. Though this is not the first instance of partner work, it is the first time that it is fed by a desire to be together. With their connection, the work gains an emotional power that is all the more apparent in contrast with the first half of the show. The emotion is not even so much in the performance as it is in the nature of the movement itself. It becomes clear that movement is not just something that we ascribe meaning to, but that it truly has a quality that is all its own.

Ouellette particularly stands out as a dancer. The way he carries himself has an everyday quality about it, as if he were just walking down the street and brushing his hair aside, before turning on a dime and swiftly unfolding into the most beautiful lines and extensions. The contrast is compelling.

Unfortunately, Dévorer le ciel ends with its weakest section, which is made all the more conspicuous due to its position on the outer edge. Desnoyers brings back an element that only appears once before and that fails to become an organic part of the work, especially because of the clash it causes between music and choreography. Had the show ended with the previous tableau, a duet, it would have avoided both typical progression towards a climax and the cliché bookend.

Dévorer le ciel is performed at Centre Pierre-Péladeau one last time on Saturday, January 16, at 8pm. Tickets start at 25$. For more information, visit dansedanse.net or call 514.987.6919.