The Girls of St. Madeleine's
Remembrance of Things Past
by Chris Kaufman, Seattle Weekly, October 9, 1996
A.C. Petersen has captured the profundity of sweetness, that often maligned and ridiculed quality, in The Girls of St. Madeleine's. Sweetness isn't innocent, it's courageous and discriminate, revealing the fading flower as a shadow to its pungent aroma. Inspired in part by the Madeleine children's books, and a real-life 19th century educating cleric, St. Madeleine's was a romp through a pop-up book for kids. Petersen's work is not so movey, and in the past her sense of dramatic timing has suffered because of it. But here the succint scenes and seamless transitions demonstrate a more mature grasp of storytelling. Highlights included Craig Wollam's ocean wave cut-outs. These and other set pieces flew in from the rafters with the magically commanding ta-da of Sister Madeleine's had (who, by the way, was gloriously vivified by Wade Madsen combining Mother Teresa with Carol Burnett). The eight little Madeleines "swam" behind the three-foot cut-outs and bourreed and dove through a startlingly realistic synchronized swimming number. Afterwards, arched red windows appeared as the girls prepared for bed and sleep-walked through dreamy gestures while Sister snoozed, chin conked to chest. The final scene brought snow from the heavens. In blue light designed by mystery maker Meg Fox, the girls filed out and Madsen sang a blessing and lament for youth in his heartbreaking contralto voice. Garrett Fisher admitted lifting most of the live score from Gorecki's Symphony no. 3 (in line to be the next Pachelbel's Canon), and did so with honor. The Girls of St. Madeleine's, like childhood, passed quickly and memorably.

The Girls of St. Madeleine's
Madeline Stories Put to Dance
by Jean Lenihan, Seattle Times,October 3, 1996
Thank heaven for a choreographer who understands little girls. A.C. Petersen, an acclaimed independent choreographer in Seattle, is not the first to create a dance using Ludwig Bememlan's Madeline stories as source material. Yet choreographers must use finesse and restraint if they are going to work with such fine-tuned classic imagery. And they cannot neglect the quality of alienation in Bemelman's tales. A Madeline without wistfulness is a disaster. Petersen is well prepared for these challenges. For 10 years the former UW architecture student has been creating haunting minimalist dances to paint unusualy complicated portraits of schooolgirl tea-parties and other feminine group rituals. For The Girls of St. Madeleine's, Petersen's first full-length work, she cites as inrpiration the general "human-ness" of Bemelmans tales, the navy blue skirts of schoolgirls, and the highly detailed work of traditional Asian dancers she witnessed on a recent trip to Japan and Indonesia. "I really enjoyed seeing subtle movement that has a specific focus," she explained, "because that's how I like to work." Another lifelong passion, to be involved in a musical theatre production, also fond expression after she hooked up with Seattle composer Garrett Fisher. Fisher, who recently received great notices for his operas The Passion of St. Thomas More and The Passion of St. Sebastian, wrote an original music score for Girls that will be performed live on piano, oboe, guitar, accordion and a variety of percussion instruments. "He wrote themes to go with different characters," Petersen said, "so to me, in a way it's like a musical." Another artist who sill surely make some mark on this production is local choreographer Wade Madsen. Petersen cast tall, leggy Madsen as Miss Clavel, the sober and mysterious nun-like headmistress. "He has this amazing presence and timing and sense of what to do onstage." There is no one "storyline"; rather, Petersen has woven together a 45-minute work in which the schoolgirls (only eight is this telling) move between surreal episodes based on the lexicon of sleepwalking, jumping rope, tea parties and synchronized swimming.

Chado, Tea Party, Golden Section
WinterFest Dance Event Gives Humorous Edge to Tea Ceremony
by David Lyman, Seattle P-I, January 14, 1995
There's something marvelously disarming about choreographer A.C. Petersen's Chado (the way of tea), the central piece on Petersen's opening-night program of the Northwest Asian American Theatre's WinterFest '95. The work sets out with an air of absolute somberness as tea master Tracey Fugami kneels before a heavy iron tea kettle and begins the strict, elegant ritual of a Japanese tea ceremony. Soon, however, the mood begins an ever-so-slight mutation. A tightly linked trio of dancers moves slowly across the stage, like a frieze trying to creep its way off a wall. Dancers Ronly Blau, Melissa Kerber and Fumi Murakami shadow the tea master's motions -- a spin of a hand here, a purposeful fold of an arm there. But when the three kneel, they topple to their sides. A comic tumble? Perhaps, but they're so straight-faced about it that it's hard to tell. When the three take a shortcut from their procession, though, there is no doubt about their intent as the set off into a stumbly little divertissment, as if fording an unseen creek on a series of unseen stones. It is humorous, to be sure. But it's not a parady or a spoof. Petersen seems to have too much affection for the tea ceremony that continues to unfold throughout the low-key antics. Fugami carefully ladles water out of the now-steaming kettle, then slowly pours it back in, as if caressing the water, trying to cajoe it to a boil. It is an unexpected combination of humor and gravity -- a dramatic spectrum that dance rarely permits itself.
Petersen make a more overt lunge for the comic jugular in the premiere of Tea Party, the evening's opening work. Once again, things begin ambiguously. As two women (Kerber and Murakami) dress for English-style high tea, a third (Johanna Hulick) agonizes over preparations, frantically flipping throught the pages of Emily Post for advice. It's a wry contrast -- not of the knee-slapping variety, but well worth a solid smirk or two. Anticipation is high as the tea party begins. Anxiety mixes with a terror of straying from by-the-book sipping. It's both hilarious and horrifying. But then, a touch of anarchy creeps in. Just as deliberately as she had found the right fork at the right time, Murakami dips her hand into the cake and brings the gooey mess to her mouth. Kerber piles her teacup high with sugar cubes, and a teeny basition of civility crumbles.
Petersen herself performed the premiere of the third piece, Golden Section. It's a deceptively simple piece, relying more on its hypnotic pace than the movement itself.
Petersen walks an ever-broadening ring of concentric circles, an outstretched arm and pointed finger anchoring her to the center. It's a work in which the small becomes significant: fingers gently tapping one another, a hand eerily swinging like a pendulum from a stationary arm. They are minute movements, but Petersen wields understatement the way other choreographers do pyrotechnic movement. And in an age dominated by bombast and self-importance, such modesty yields an eloquence that often speaks louder than the loud.

Ozeki / Northwest New Works
by R.M. Campbell, Seattle P-I, May 15, 1993
(portion of review of a mixed bill at On the Boards Northwest New Works)
Closing the evening was Petersen's Ozeki. Choreographed for four men, with live music provided by the Seattle Kokon Taiko (a Japanese drum ensemble) as well as taped music by Ondekoza and Sam Cooke, the work is a fascinating study in male physicality. David Balsley, Bryon Carr, John Dixon and Craig Williams enact part of the ritual of sumo wrestlers -- fierceness accompanied by elaborate manners. However, the four rarely stalk one another; rather they often move in isolation, engaging an imaginary opponent. The first part of Petersen's piece clearly evokes Japanese traditions, in part identified by the insistent drums of the Kokon Taiko. The second part, set to Western music, serves as intelligent and contemporary counterpoint. Her work is concise, well-crafted and compelling.

Voice of the Heart, Voice of the Hand
Classical Symphony no. 1
Upper-body Strengths
by Jean Lenihan, Seattle Weekly, October 23, 1991
Maybe it's been done before by others, but I have never seen upper-body choreography as offered by the last artist on the bill, A.C. Petersen. In her two works, Voice of the Heart, Voice of the Hand, and Classical Symphony no. 1, she uses only commonplace upper body gestures, the kinds we all do every day and she designs her movement phrases with the simple intent of helping us see them clearly. What a risk! In Voice, Petersen, Fumi Murakami, and Christina Naficy are three girls in waist-cinching dresses performing happy rituals in some sheltered gently lit world -- part Catholic girls academy, part Japanese teahouse. They walk in simple patterns, carrying their hands in front of them as if they had platters. Though their faces are serious, they move with a palpable bouyancy. They perform half a dozen ritualistic exercises, all compelling and beautiful. Classical Symphony, Petersen's second piece, is set in the daytime world of socialized male-female sports/business game playing. On a playing field, in tennis whites, upper-body signals can be a great way of boasting strength and suggesting altruistic concerns. Holding the upper body in place, though, indicated that rules are being followed. I'm not sure that Petersen's upper-body essays could carry a full evening on their own, but in the context of this Allegro! Program they came off like small miracles, particularly Voice. It provided a serendipitous close to the evening as well, since Petersen liberated that eyes-up palms-up gesture that proved so problematic for the first two choreographers. When Petersen's eyes moved skyward, her arms didn't follow. Instead, a single hand reached forward, curled into a tight fist, and came to rest near her heart.