I’m back on an SAS flight returning home from a short weekend in Copenhagen. Accompanied by two patrons from Seattle, I attend Silk and Knife, the Royal Danish Ballet’s all-Jiri Kylian evening. During my brief afternoon meeting with Frank Andersen, RDB’s Artistic Director, I was advised to arrive early in order to avoid congestion in the theater lobby.

    At twenty to eight we joined the packed crowd awaiting entry. Groups of twenty-five audience members at a time were led from the lobby to the bowels of the old opera house. We stepped cautiously down a dark staircase to a narrow corridor. My companions were tall and had to watch for low ceilings and pipes. To our left a drummer rocked forwards and backwards on a small swing while pelting his snare. His appearance was more surreal than alarming. Thus began a fascinating subterranean creep through the passageways of the theater. One by one, musicians and dancers startled and intrigued the curious members of the audience. We could glimpse Fleming Ryborg applying make-up if we looked through a doorway into a mirror. An overweight horn player farted on his horn, causing a passing Dane to scream. Dark red roots emerged from the walls, mildly threatening us and the artists. The mystery was temporarily broken when I spied Christian, our summer exchange student, in a cage, dressed as a wizard of some sort. I resisted the urge to shout a greeting. The dancers were mute with the exception of Mogens Boesen, who shouted words I could not understand, with silences long enough to make each new word startle.

    As we climbed a final stair leaving the world of Hieronymous Bosch, we found ourselves in the wings. The stage held red root tips which seemed to poke through the marley. A black-and-white film of rehearsal footage played on center as we crossed the stage before a half-filled house. Were we the entertainer or the entertained? Each of us assumed the former and either hurried across, stopped to wave, or in one case chose to execute a crude version of a ballet step. After a glass of wine, on the theater’s balcony overlooking the king’s square, we took our seats to watch the last audience members cross the stage. We realized that the film’s intrigue outweighed that of the pedestrian crossers, a lesson for all of us who had assumed the role of entertainer. And the dancers in the film were rarely dancing. We watched grins and mistakes and negotiations as they struggled to digest new movement. They too were only human and intriguing in humanity.

    Jiri Kylian proved himself the great challenger of preconceived notions that he is. I was excited to see Petite Mort and Six Dances, which I hope PNB will one day perform. I was less impressed with Untitled #2, which offers dozens of dancers racing to the stage from wings, pit, and house. Each was clad in orange silk outfits that probably were not meant to make me think of Myanmar’s monks, though they did. Their hair was arranged like eighties’ icons Cyndi Lauper and Adam Ant, and they sold, sold, sold to Tchaikovsky’s finale of Theme and Variations. To bring the mockery home, sparks gushed down from the ceiling like an excessive pageant. The audience responded with an appreciative ovation. All I could think was, what would the folks back home think?

    The next day included a traditional Danish lunch with longtime friend and incoming Artistic Director Nikolai Hübbe. The life of an AD can feel isolated, and opportunities to connect with peers are energizing. Aside from catching up and commiserating, we traded dreams of future repertoire and plans to tour and advance our companies. We agreed to continue the student exchange and consider exchanging principal dancers when schedules allowed.

    My traveling companions treated me to a superb dinner at Restaurant Gronnegade, one of only eight Copenhagen establishments to be awarded a Michelin star.

    All in all a quick but inspiring trip, home in time for Monday’s meetings and Tuesday’s Nutcracker rehearsals. Still a few hours from Seattle, temporary turbulence  is challenging my stomach to hold on to the champagne and reindeer … yes, reindeer. More from the odd life of an AD soon.