When the New Zealand choreographer Neil Ieremia christened his troupe Black Grace, in 1995, he wasn’t thinking of its indigenous, Pacific Island roots, or of the various national sports teams with “black” in their names and vigor in their steps. He had in mind the local slang, in which “black” means brave to the point of audacious. For Ieremia, you couldn’t apply “grace” to a bunch of short, stocky men like himself, whose legs were happiest when bent, and not preface it with a headshake. The word seemed purely aspirational.
Twenty-seven years later—and by the end of any Black Grace show—it has become a statement of fact. The company’s dozen or so dancers, both men and women now, not only spring into the air as easily as cats, and land as softly, but they also possess a spiritual kind of grace. Humble and guileless except when making fun of themselves, they succumb to spells of indigenous ritual that descend without ceremony and just as quietly diffuse. For an American comparison, envision the Paul Taylor of Esplanade: dancers running, jumping, falling, and crawling, attuned to magisterial Bach. (Ieremia also has a penchant for the Baroque, with its dips from rhythmic pluckiness into wells of deep feeling.)
