Bright lights against white curtains met the audience with a bang as dramatic horn instrumentals sounded. Two microphones sat on the floor, and the room rang with drum rolls fit for royalty. This is how FLOOR, choreographed by Emma Lutz-Higgins, began.

The work took place at Linda Austin’s Performance Works Northwest on March 21-23 as a Co-Alembic Production, initially generated as part of PWNW’s Alembic Residency Program. Dancers in Lutz-Higgins’ first-ever evening-length work included Portland artists Allie Hankins, Emily Jones, and John Niekrasz.

According to the show program, Lutz-Higgins began process exploration for FLOOR in her bedroom during the COVID-19 pandemic lockdown. The program also quoted American artist Félix González-Torres’ letter to friend and curator Andrea Rose. While visual references to González-Torres’ work — known for being interactive, minimal, and featuring large sculptural piles of paper, candy, and other items stacked in gallery spaces — were not initially evident, they became pleasantly apparent as the work progressed.

Dancers Niekrasz and Jones entered from the upstage right corner, smiles plastered on their faces. They wore black, ruffled, and navy tops and pants, eliciting laughter as they blinked and smiled directly at the faces of audience members. After moments of prolonged glancing, they grabbed the microphones and spoke.

“I’m still waiting,” announced Niekrasz. The audience laughed. He and Jones then exchanged a melodically mismatched dialogue about waiting for a positive email that would bring good news and reveal a relief to life — “… an email that says you will never get another email. Forever. The end,” they finished.

The pair then fell into each other, chest first. They shared weight and hovered in a counterbalanced limbo, eventually falling to the floor before walking to the back of the room as the light changed and bubbly music started. The dance then became a duet of walking, swinging, touching hands and elbows, and resting palms on each other’s backs. They repeated bouncing pliés as Jones swung her hair. They repeated high knee humps and sliced their arms as they pas de bourréd out of wide second positions; flicking their feet, syncopating their rhythms, and shaking their heads.

The work is a cardiovascular delight, and the weight of the dancers’ tired breaths punctuated the quirky and light soundtrack of ticks, whooshing, and ambient melodies. The dancers chased each other in an abstract game of “tag” while the music’s bass came in, encouraging an amplification of the already fast choreography. After a while, the performers slowed, engaging in skimming shoulder lifts — flying each other until Jones slammed Niekrasz into the rear wall, holding the shape and sliding to the floor. They lay in silence until Niekrasz propped up on his elbow to look at the audience, eliciting more giggles.

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Just then, dancer Allie Hankins entered the room, slowly crawling backwards on a diagonal trajectory. Along with her black fur-trimmed pants and sheer top, she had colorful neon pink, blue, yellow, and orange plastic strands hanging from her neck. Hankins rested center stage, flipping and creating surreal alien images on the floor. As she flailed and kicked, the colorful pile evoked images of González-Torres’ works, along with reminiscences of American sculptor Nick Cave’s highly regarded soundsuits. Hankins dropped the pile of streamers and struck a gestural pose, smiling widely, before heading back to the floor to tell the patiently waiting microphone, “I think what you’re looking for is too good to be true.”

She exploded into choreography.

Hankins, who tends to thrive in works containing spoken performance, shines again in this vigorously punching work. She slices, hops, chases, runs, freezes, reaches, and gestures. Her extension is effortless; and the spoking motions of her arms, textbook. She is satisfying to witness under the yellow-tinged spotlight, and — much like the other performers — embodies her purpose in the piece. The three are believable as both individual entities and modes of storytelling, participating physically and cosmically in the narrative of the work. The sense of self developed by the performers within the choreography is palpable but not conspicuous, inviting the audience to become engaged in their on-stage experiences.

Hankins ended her solo flat on the stage, and the others rolled to join her in a soundscape of babbling water. The three created momentary individual shapes — abstract landscapes of coral reef and dune. They moved in time with each other, occasionally present with and addressing the audience through looks and side glances. As they navigated around each other on the floor, they repeated a series of phrases, including:

“I want to be in the loop,” “Don’t be afraid,” “I’m just trying to locate,” “You’re right where you’re supposed to be,” “I’m just trying to have fun,” and “I want an apology.”

The dance then evolved into spacious moving passes, slides, and bourrés with beguilingly controlled arms while commedically contrary dialogue continued:

“Actually, the loop is the last place I want to be,” announced Jones, followed by Niekrasz and Hankins commenting, “Get me out of this loop,” and “The loop is a cage, I think.”

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Later, the performers jumped and raised their arms in exacting unison to triumphant music, breaking apart to encompass the stage with wide vibrance and abandoning themselves to their exhaustion. Their tonal steadfastness captivated amid the dance’s difficulty, and formed languid moments of meditation.

Suddenly, they ran to the window blinds at the sides of the room and lifted them. The dancers proceeded to tape neon strands of blue and pink across the walls, draping similar colors against a symphony of loud instrumental sound. As they taped, the space became a birthday party (or a circus, or a Vegas stage, or a county fair, or a child’s dream).

There was a joy to the color palette not commonly utilized in contemporary aesthetics, and something dreamlike about the combination of Fantasia-esque music paired with the frantic building up of textures. When the room was complete, blue helixes extended from the back of the room, and pink and yellow were draped to create one large festive funnel. Jones strutted forward and said, “I want to decorate!”

“I want to be told I’m so beautiful,” followed Niekrasz. “I want a really good photo of myself,” commented Hankins. “I want to reiterate I’m so glad you’re here,” replied Jones. “I want to stop changing the lights the week before the show,” laughed Hankins. “I want to dance to an eight count,” yelled Niekrasz. The dialogue, some written by Lutz-Higgins and dancers, and some quoting Crush by Richard Siken, further elevated the mood.

Frankie Valli’s Can’t Take My Eyes Off You began shortly after. Hankins headed towards a microphone and addressed the audience again, explaining that there was a balloon under each seat. The audience located and blew up blue balloons, some popping in the process, and threw them on stage, as instructed, upon hearing the word “GO.” The audience came to life with participation, and a feeling of fun permeated the air.

Moving, shaking, and jumping continued as the music faded. The dancers dissolved into step-touch unison involving gently floating hands, orbiting each other calmly as the lights dimmed to a gorgeous deep orange focused from upstage. The scene was beautiful and contemporary in its simplicity; a plastilina wonderland of Chuck E. Cheese meets high school dance night, minimalist gallery exhibit meets 1980s neon sign — achieved with the straightforward hanging of a few colorful strands and expertly placed lights. It was a small American-classic world in which the audience could meditate, seemingly forever, reveling in the work’s delicious depth and refreshing lack of obviousness.

Hankins, Jones, and Niekrasz leaned on the back wall once more, slumping to the floor and parting this developed dream life. They glided across the floor with more controlled rolling, and when they returned to their solos, became immersed in personal worlds.

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They, like the piece at large, stood with one foot in fantasy and the other firmly rooted in the sorrowful reality of present day — a beautiful straddling of metaphoric balance. They slow-danced and sent their arms slapping to their thighs as Jones lay near the remaining pile of string, all grooving with their inner selves, on into eternity.