From January 29 to February 1, the MAI showcased Anxiety, directed by Simik Komaksiutiksak. Through dance, Simik and artists Cheyenne LeGrande, Courtney Taticek, Chrystal Tam, and Katie Couchie explore the history, personal stories, and lived experiences of Indigenous and racialized communities.
I found the MAI tucked away on a quiet backstreet. Inside, the arts centre features a cozy café-bar, a gallery, and a performance space. After warming up with a cup of hot chocolate, I stepped into the showroom. Right away, the setup felt intimate—audience chairs placed close to the stage, making the fourth wall feel almost nonexistent.
The show opens with a deeply moving performance inspired by a dream about the singer’s late grandmother. In the dream, she is running from a residential school when someone suddenly grabs her from behind. Terrified, she turns, only to see her grandmother’s face. “My child, don’t cry. I will hold you till the morning light,” the elderly woman says. Her voice is woven with the deep beats of the drum and sends a vibration through my soul. She is a grounding presence who sets the tone before the dancers take the stage.
The dance feels organic, almost improvised. The only prop used is a bag filled with diverse objects —scarves, toy construction cones, baskets… Throughout the show, the bag’s contents are repeatedly emptied and gathered, emptied and gathered, creating a powerful symbol of repeated dispossession. Yet, there is joy in this repetition. The dancers playfully drape scarves over their heads, creating a space of joyous anonymity where they can move freely and dance to their heart’s desire. This unfiltered, raw happiness reflects their resilience.
At times, the dancers come together to form an integrated shape with their bodies. Other times, they hold hands, hug, and help each other adjust their costumes. Their collaboration and collective strength are evident on stage, adding a sense of optimism and encouragement to the dance’s message.
For me, the most powerful moment of the performance is when the music stops, the lights come on, and the audience is suddenly exposed. The dancers stand still, staring at us in complete silence—for what feels like half an hour before resuming. At that moment, I feel called out, though I’m not sure why. Am I being accused? Encouraged? Reassured?
By the end of the performance, the dancers address the audience again. This time, their message is clear: they told us that each of us is beautiful. In that moment, I feel an incredible sense of unity—an urge to stand in solidarity with everyone who shares this common beauty that is humanity.
Anxiety was at the MAI from Jan 29 – Feb 1. For more things at the MAI, click HERE.
