
As the artistic and executive director of Portland’s Performance Works Northwest, Linda Austin has spent decades engaging artists and audiences in experimentation and dialogue around performance works, and continues to provide accessible performance and creation space rentals for local and independent artists.
As a creator and dancer herself, Austin develops captivating, dream-like landscapes of repetition, intrigue, and exploration, often collaborating with long-time partner and prolific lighting designer Jeff Forbes. She often also works with musicians and local dance makers, including collaborators Allie Hankins, Stephanie Lavon Trotter, Danielle Ross, and others. Austin, who looms large in Portland dance and has so strongly impacted many local dance makers, has a gentle demeanor which pierces through her stage performances with exacting intention. Her works have been presented at Performance Space 122, the Danspace Project, the Kitchen, Movement Research at Judson Church, and in Mexico, with awards including the Foundation for Contemporary Arts Merce Cunningham Award and various fellowships.

I met with Austin on a cloudy morning in the Foster/Powell neighborhood at a café just around the corner from PWNW, which is marking its 25th anniversary. We sipped our coffees as I asked her about her experience getting into the field of dance.
“I had studied theater here at Lewis & Clark, and I was also on light crew (which is how Jeff Forbes and I met back in college — but we didn’t date until much, much later.) I had never studied dance as a child, but I studied theater at school and it was a lot of physical-based work. I moved to New York right after college and actually thought I was going to be a writer,” Austin told me. “In New York, I kind of fell into doing these movement classes with actors that were improvisation-based. I then started taking some workshops through movement research, and artists began asking me to be in their work. There was a trend of using people with various levels of training in their work. I think I was a natural ”mover,” and began performing with a mix of dancers and non-dancers. I don’t know exactly when I transitioned from non-dancer to dancer, but I began taking technique classes — a little bit of Cunningham and with Trisha Brown Company.”

After 22 years in New York, Austin eventually returned to Portland in 1998. She and Forbes opened the Performance Works Northwest space, which would, unbeknownst to her, become a well-known staple in the Portland dance ecosystem. After forming a nonprofit, the building was opened for use in 2000, slowly growing into a place where many continue to turn for mind-bending exhibitions of the performing arts.
“I feel like I’m inspired more, not necessarily by dance, but with people in any genre whose work I identify with.” — Linda Austin
A new collaboration: In Preparation for Disappearances to Come
On February 6-8 at the Portland Institute for Contemporary Art (PICA), Austin will once again present Portland with an expansive music and dance collaboration titled In Preparation for Disappearances to Come. A description of the performance on the PWNW website reads as follows:
It is a machine to practice remembering and forgetting.
It is an occasion for us to slyly, if futilely, enact strategies to sidestep the inevitability of our own future dissolution and the ephemerality of performance.
It is a prompt to consider how our lives and works will dissolve, replenishing the cultural compost that nourishes the future, even as we ourselves are forgotten.
“The new piece, In Preparation of Disappearances to Come, is kind of about our lingering presence or not after we’re gone,” Austin explained to me. She and the dancers of the work, Hankins and Ross, went to New York to meet with a composer friend and collaborator Austin recently reconnected with.
“He’s an old friend, and he had wanted to do something again. So that’s how the piece that we’re performing soon came about — by talking with this former collaborator,” said Austin. “We were talking about someone who has been close to both of us in different ways, who had since passed away… they played music together, and we all made art together. While talking about him, the subject just grew into this other theme of thinking more about how people might not remember us. But how there’s still something that we may have affected or will affect — not in terms of past legacy, but future legacy or non-legacy, almost. There’s this idea I have that may have come from something Simone Forte once said: everything we do is like the compost for the next thing that happens.”

Read my full conversation with Linda Austin below as she talks about her past works, creation process, who inspires her, and hopes for the coming years. Responses have been lightly edited for length and clarity.
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Can you tell me how you first began making work?
Fairly early, after starting to take movement workshops and appear in others’ works, around the age of 28, I met someone who became a friend. He was on the board of Danspace Project. An event they planned got canceled, so he substituted it by making a festival of people who’d never made a dance before. He invited me, and that was how I made my first dance. It was in a beautiful space at St. Mark’s Church, the oldest site of worship in Manhattan, with a professional lighting designer. That was my first dance piece in ‘83. So I just kind of fell into it like that. I was definitely interested in performance and dance, but I didn’t really think I could become a choreographer or a dancer because I didn’t have that background. Once I started doing it, I just couldn’t stop. And that was over 40 years ago now.
Do you remember the title of that piece?
Yes, because at my 30th anniversary, I actually recreated it, which was interesting because I didn’t have a video tape, but I knew how I had made it. I knew the structure, and it was very “performance-arty” in a way. It was called An Atrocity Exhibition in Two Parts. The title came from a novel by J.G. Ballard. I had short dances, and was making all this commentary on the commodification of art. There was an auctioneer’s voice going, and I announced the titles and length in minutes and seconds of each tiny dance. Part Two came from using projections of images that were from the news and fashion and advertising in a loop, images that were replicated in the dance. Then the images disappeared, and you just saw white light as I continued the dance, recreating the images with my own body. I remembered it and made new material in 2013 according to that structure. It was fun to bring it back.
Speaking of making work, you somewhat recently had a fundraiser for new work during a big milestone birthday, right?
Yeah, 70. It was fun. It was supposed to be a roast but ended up being less roast-y than the MC expected it to be. More of it was like gentle making-fun, or more like making fun of me in skits — pretending to be me and being scattered… doing funny things in rehearsal, or rehearsing and having a mailman knock on the door and deliver wine. It was a good time.
What year did you return to Portland from New York and what brought you back?
I came back to Portland in the ‘90s. It was Christmas ‘98. In New York, I had bought my apartment in a tenement building in the East Village for $2,000 in 1978, and it increased in value in a way that I couldn’t have predicted because I didn’t understand what kind of gentrification would take place. But it started becoming worth more money, and I started thinking about how I had this real estate, but no place to dance. I often thought that if I sold it and went back to Portland, maybe I would have a space to dance. Eventually, that’s what happened. Jeff and I started cross-country dating, and it seemed like that was the final thing that pushed me over the edge to leave New York. In many ways, I hated to do it. After 22 years, I really felt like a New Yorker.

What are the big differences between Portland dance and New York dance in your opinion?
The number of dancers and dance makers. The number of people and the breadth of work being made. I feel like there are more places to perform there. Perhaps it’s relative, but I feel like, in New York, what they used to call the downtown dance scene or the experimental avant-garde scene has grown across genres. I think that here, maybe if you’re a super technical dancer, you don’t do more experimental work. There seems to be a kind of a division between the traditional and experimental in Portland that feels not true in New York. I think there’s still more of a cross-fertilization and perhaps more interest in less mainstream work.
But some things for dance are consistent across the board. I mean, I remember sometime in the late ‘80s, seeing one of Trisha Brown’s dancers working as a waiter, and I remember saying, “What are you doing? You’re a Trisha Brown dancer!” And he goes, “No, we still have to have day jobs.” That likely changed later, but dancers are still always needing to support themselves.
What type of work do you enjoy seeing or want to see more of?
I suppose in general, it’s hard to describe. Perhaps something funny. There’s a lot of focus on concept in dance, and sometimes I get tired of the concept. But at the same time, I really like to see that kind of thinking underlining a dance. It’s just more like a chicken and egg thing. I enjoy hybrid forms, but I sometimes get tired of seeing so much projected video as the default visual component. I like work that uses objects with more of a sculptural body, and I enjoy artists who experiment with forms and with what is considered beautiful.
Do you feel like the dance funding landscape or granting opportunities impact the type of work being made?
Yes, though there are generally few granting powers-that-be. That’s the problem. Sometimes I feel like funders react to an upsurge in need, but then that need or trend becomes the default, and artists start crafting their works around what’s being funded. So it becomes this funny circle.
Do you have a different process for each piece, or have you cultivated a process that applies to your work across the board?
It partly depends on whether it’s a solo or non-solo. Sometimes the concept is more clear at the beginning, like for this upcoming piece. I was really glad to find the title because we had a working title of Attention to Emptiness, but it wasn’t right, because it wasn’t really about that. There was something about absence, but, in a way, it was about the absence of absence. Once I find the title, it helps guide it or situate it in places. One thing I like about any kind of work — once I kind of know what I’m working on — is the antenna that I have when I go around in the world… gathering things like quotes or situations or visuals, or even movement ideas or concepts. That heightened awareness is almost like if a rolling stone did gather moss… it would be like rolling around, bringing all the good stuff home. That is a part of my process.
Sometimes I know what I‘m working on more from the beginning than other times. In this work, there were all these different concepts or pieces which I didn’t know how were going to fit together. I just start making decisions, and one follows the next.
So when you create choreography, you use a more traditional approach rather than a less framed one?
I mean, sometimes. When I’m working with others, I make a little bit of movement that I teach to the dancers, and then I keep changing it on myself. Or I work with the dancers and make movement with them. They often remember it, and I don’t.
That’s really interesting. In my experience, I don’t opt to perform my work because I really enjoy experiencing it from the outside.
Hmm, yeah, it might happen as my body gets more creaky, or, you know, I could still make solos… because then you just do what you, yourself, do.
There was one piece I made called The Last Bell Rings for You. It was performed by community participants, and we made it so everybody could rotate out and watch it. So even in the core group, there would be two extras that would be in the audience one night, then they’d rotate back in the next. I wanted those who were participating to be able to have the experience of seeing what they were in.
Do you ever film and watch back the work that you’re in?
Yeah, the final performances. Sometimes I can’t look at it right away, but it’s more like going back through it to find the right part for whichever application or piece I’m working on.

What keeps you coming back to make work and why dance, out of all the mediums?
I feel that dance is great for me because it can include anything without becoming stuck. I can have text, but I don’t have to write a whole play. I can incorporate some kind of spoken word. I can have a sculptural element, but I don’t have to rely on that. I can have music. I can sing, but I don’t have to act. I can perform. When I’m in a dance piece that I’m making, there might be some moments that feel sort of like a persona, but they’re not. I feel like I’m just able to be myself.
There’s something that I see in your work… it’s very organic and real. I’ve probably used the word ‘truthful’ when writing about it. There is performance, but it isn’t performative. Is that something you think about when creating?
One thing I’m drawn to is really tactile experiences and paying attention to what’s in front of me. The Three Miles solo was interesting because I feel like I was able to be very direct with the audience, addressing them and talking to them, but also doing something else at the same time. Then, it doesn’t feel so exposed. Or, it changes the way the delivery is affected. I remember talking on top of the ladder and going up and down the ladder, and thinking, and addressing the audience. Maybe this is why I want to keep making work. It’s my way of processing the world. That’s how I think, by making work up. This way of thinking doesn’t only incorporate the brain; it also has so many somatic, physical, and material consequences and experiences that I get to have exposure to. It’s just an interesting way of being in the world and processing everything that’s happening on the personal, societal, and planetary levels.
And you mentioned that you wanted to be a writer, do you still write? Your titles are so frequently like poems themselves.
I love books, and I like writing, but I’ve never developed a writing practice in the same way that I was able to develop a movement practice for whatever reason. It’s nice because I do put text into my dances, but don’t have to worry about writing a lot. In dance, too, we spend so much time writing press releases or grant applications, so in spurts, I get excited about writing.
In Renee Gladman’s book, Calamities, there is a certain way she starts each section. I tried that prompt for a while, as well, kind of diaristically. But I do keep thinking, maybe when I’m really old, I’ll get back to writing.
Yes, that connection to writing and literature is clear in what I’ve seen. Do you have any advice for someone interested in moving from traditional dance to exploring avant-garde work?
For me, since I didn’t come from a traditional dance background, if I have something I’m trying to get at, I think… I go there by any means necessary. I also maybe have “the frustrated installation artist” in me, or “the sculptor.” So I lean into the task-oriented, and go for it.
I feel like I have “the frustrated installation artist” living within me as well. Where do you think that desire to work with objects comes from?
There’s a kind of safety in it for me. Object is a prompt — for movement or for composition. It can act as another body in the space with which to compose visually. Part of it is the comfort of being able to touch it and manipulate it. Even though I want to believe that one’s body can do all the meaning, if you’re going for certain kinds of things — and I hate to admit this — maybe the movement can’t do that much.
What is your relationship with your audience? Do you have any hopes for what they experience?
A lot of my work, lately, has been in PWNW. Not all of it, but there’s something about that that means something to me. As an audience member myself and as a performer, I really like an intimate audience and feeling the audience close. I like seeing them there, and, you know, I actually even kind of like looking out and seeing somebody dozing — especially after the period [during Covid] when we didn’t have them there. When it comes to the audience, I hope that something remains, perhaps even comes back at odd moments, which is partly about what this upcoming piece is about.

Who inspires you?
I like diverse things. I love watching Cunningham’s work. It’s so different from mine, and I find it kind of moving. Overall, it depends on the works. I’ve always loved Trisha Brown, and I was also fortunate to be living close by while she was making a lot of her early signature pieces. And I would just go to their season every year. I got to see Newark when it first premiered. I like that piece a lot. There are also artists I like in Europe. Local artists, too. I just love my contemporaries.
When I was making in my early years, I loved the art of the people I worked with, Pooh Kaye and Sally Silvers, Yoshiko Chuma, Ishmael Houston Jones, Yvonne Meyer, and Jennifer Monson — they were all my inspirations, even if it wasn’t necessarily their work per se, but their lives of making work.
Was it always your goal to create a space that supports local and community art?
It was not my goal. When I first thought about selling my apartment and getting a place to dance, the place was for myself. Then, there was a fear that I might become an arts administrator because I kind of knew that I needed to share it with other people. So, in a sense, it was a fear that came true. And for the longest time, I had the job of artist, the job of teaching ESL — which was my day job for many, many years — and the job of arts admin and running a space. After I was able to retire from teaching, it became two jobs: arts admin and arts maker.
How do you feel about that?
I feel happy, and sometimes if I’m in the space watching something, even if I don’t like it, I go, “This is so cool, this is my life!”, and then I feel both privileged that it was able to happen financially because of a sort of fluke in my life — and due to my own decision of buying a space for dance instead of a house.
And how can people support you and the studio? What can readers do to get involved?
Donate and come to performances. Possibly think about becoming a board member or volunteering, especially for folks who just want to see performances and don’t have box office money.
What are your hopes for the next several years — for your work and for PWNW?
Well, at the studio, I would like to transition out a bit and strengthen the systems in place to keep it running. Ideally, I’d like to have more time to not be the administrator. Right now, Allie Hankins is helping with grant writing, and we’re hopefully going to get somebody to be more like a studio manager.
For my own work, I’m curious to see how my body lasts and whether my desire to perform will remain or not. Will I end up making something else, like installations or writing? I don’t really know or have plans, but I’m curious. I have one dance in my mind that could happen after I finish this project, and it’s another group dance with live music. It may be a chapter two of a dance that I made in 1990. It was a dance that also had live music and five dancers, and I really like the spatial configurations there, so I have the desire to use this old dance as a map for new material. Recently a new solo idea has sprouted, accidentally really, from spontaneously playing around in the studio in an odd free moment. We’ll see.
In Preparation for Disappearances to Come
In Preparation for Disappearances to Come, created and performed by Linda Austin, Allie Hankins, and Danielle Ross, with live music by Chris Cochrane and Kevin Bud Jones, will be performed February 6-8 at the Portland Institute for Contemporary Art, located at 15 NE Hancock St., Portland. Performances are at 7:30pm on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, with a 2pm matinee also on Saturday. An Artists Conversation will be held after the performance on Friday night, featuring Linda Austin, Amanda Leigh Evans, and Nan Curtis, visual artist and death doula. In addition, a workshop with Amanda Leigh Evans in conjunction with the production, will be held at 4pm on Saturday, February 8, at PICA. For tickets to In Preparation for Disappearances to come, visit PWNW. For tickets to the Saturday workshop with Amanda Leigh Evans, visit here.
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