November 2021
by Merav Yudilovitch
I encounter Am I again, though perhaps there is no real “again” here, but rather a continuation. In Getman’s work, the piece transforms from within. Within it, Talia Paz carries a body of time—precision, memory, and accumulated experience converging into a single, living presence.
I visited AM I once again — though perhaps “once again” is not quite accurate. With Michael Getman, the canvas is never still. This teeming, amoeba-like creation is always alive, always in motion. November 2021 is entirely different from its previous incarnations. And it seems to me that the canvas has now reached completion.
Talia Paz is a phenomenal dancer, and this work that Michael Getman created for her is a rare gift.
Through her presence, it offers a glimpse into the entrails, into the finest threads of the soul — into the inner face, the lengthening muscle, the exposed nerve. It is the most beautiful gift one could offer a dancer of her caliber, because she embodies body and movement, precision and discipline, skill and devotion. Within her life, the traces of time: time itself, its layers, the journey, the successes and failures, freedom and constraint, and that fine, transparent humor. Everything inscribed.
The struggles of the soul, the falter and falter again, the madness, the chatter, the essence — the fragile distance between I hope I’ll get it and I think I got it; the stammer, the insecurity. This is exactly what excellence looks like — modest yet aware; not self-important, yet profoundly serious about the work itself.
With kinesiology tape supporting her back and knees, she dances the dance of her life. Because if not this, then what? And yet, even if this is it, it remains a question. To reach toward the impossible.
To embody this love. To respond to impossible, sometimes absurd instructions; to suspend herself in that third grand jeté and risk drowning — to long, to overflow. Not to feel, and then to feel completely. Not to make it dramatic. Simply to be.
A strange creature, the dancer. There is something inherently mysterious in them — a trace of riddle and enchantment, of earth and stars, of tidal waves and abyss, of ancient caves echoing with memory. And within this body, living beneath the white lights that both expose and sustain it, there are markers of the path — each borne with quiet pride, each illuminating the present moment.
If one wishes to understand this work of art, one must simply witness it. It is a creation shaped to the measure of a dancer — and a dancer shaped to the measure of a creation.
And it seems to me that this singular performance was also an echo in a long chain of generations.
In your cherished memory, Madame Nira Paz — an opportunity to bow my head before you.
Thank you for an unforgettable evening.