Solange “An Ode To”, An Evening At The Guggenheim — Reviewed.
By Eish Sumra
When Solange tells you to leave work early and head to the Guggenheim in all-white attire, you do it. That was the order of the day Thursday, when the Knowles sister took over the iconic New York museum located in the heart of the Upper East Side, an area of New York as famous for its white bourgeoisie get-up as it is for its frequency in Gossip Girl. Yet, here, in a museum opened by Solomon R. Guggenheim — who was educated in European art and began his career displaying art in his apartment in the famously wealthy Plaza hotel, a black girl stood, the art world at her feet. Subversive at its core, what began with a simple, military walk down the spiral walkway that hugs the Guggenheim’s celebrated rotunda, turned into an hour of creative genius. When Solange ended the hour long visual and sonic escape, she said “We built this shit”. And how right she was.
I walked in, phone confiscated by officials, with the artist demanding everyone’s undivided attention. As I sat on the marble floor in front of the staging area, it became clear how different this show was. The interior of the museum had barely been altered, the whole point of what was to happen was for Solange to take over the space with her own music and movement. Many had come to watch this spectacle unfold, from The XX (who sat behind me, and made me more self-aware than I’ve ever been), Zoe Kravitz, who watched from the first floor, Questlove, who defied the dress code and Bjork — who I think I saw a few times, but just like the elusive star would want, she felt like smoke, vanishing in plain site.
The artistic community of the world was watching this young creator adapt her body of work from the acclaimed “A Seat At The Table”, possibly one of 2016’s best, and most needed records. She went from being Beyonce’s sister, to a legendary artist in her own right.
She began the performance, descending down the spiral walkway in a camel colored tank top and sweatpant, preceded and succeeded by other black women. Her colorful band stood at the base of the museum, triumphantly blaring their horns and drums until the eight or so dancers stood in position. And so began “Rise” — and our all white attire made sense, she was trying to make everyone but her, her band and backing singers blend into the building’s monochrome architecture. After Rise, she sang “Weary” and “Crane’s in the Sky” — beautifully adhering to the flow and structure of her record. Then came “Mad,” a song that felt further heightened by the political events that had unfolded that day. She screamed and squealed with her band, releasing the angst and anguish that I’m sure many in the audience were feeling about the world. It was both art and therapy.
She moved quickly into FUBU (For Us, By Us), where she came into the seated audience and sang at black men, feeding off their energy and movement. I must admit, having her hand touch my shoulder as she passed by me was a moment I’ll never forget. That song could have been the only one of the performance itself, and still be just as entertaining as the whole show. It was Solange at her most free, her most uninhibited and her most fun.
She ended the show with Don’t Touch My Hair and a reprise of Rise, where the ground audience were instructed to do just that. It was only then that we realised how uncomfortable we were sitting on the ground. Perhaps that was the intention. As she sashayed and fizzed around what would normally be a reception area, it became clear how much of herself she had thrown into this interdisciplinary performance. She wanted to break boundaries and redefine the art of the show. She did just that. From the use of the walkway for dancers, to the clever inclusion of horn players on every floor of the building who revealed themselves at surprising moments — the building was put to better use than any art display could do.
It was the closest thing to a religious experience you can get in New York. Only Solange could do what she did. It was both minimalist and expansionary. One thing was clear, while she may live in the shadow of her sibling, Solange is a visionary in her own right. One we must not take for granted. This show was something special, something needed. She made it for the audience, she looked into the faces of all who were watching and used that to fuel some kinetic energy inside her bones. Her grace, her vitality and ambition were on full display. It was an intimate assessment of a record that continues to inspire and enlighten. “An Ode To” as the performance was called, was really an ode to artistry itself and how powerful it can be when harnessed by pure, unrestrained talent.
The only sad thing about the evening? Her album feels like an understatement now. The show amplified it to an unbelievable height and with it went the artist who is no longer the underdog of the Knowles family, but just another heroine.
