Karissa Fyrrar grew up in the wilds of small-town Nova Scotia, and discovered dance through the magic of Broadway musicals – obscured through a haze of video noise and bleeding colours on copied VHS tapes her grandfather mailed from Connecticut. These warped impressions of what life was like out in the world proved indelible – despite eventually joining it and learning the truth was far more bleak, Fyrrar maintains that there is always a bit of weird magic hiding in the mundane if we pay attention.
As a choreographer, Fyrrar likes to make art that imitates life (that is, itself, sometimes imitating art). She strives to create work that honours the flamboyance of her childhood love of musical theatre through the lens of the dark, choppy films that she watched – a reality where truth and fiction live in tandem. In this world, the tragic can be sweet, the ludicrous can be solemn, and the mediocre can be divine.
Fyrrar also draws much of her inspiration from her time spent on the TTC, mixing with crowds of people who don’t think anyone can see them. She actively rejects the idea that dance has to be big, instead using choreography of the fingers, face, and even eyelids to invite the audience to lean in. This calculated use of detail is accompanied by a vaguely political quality, presenting a nuanced experience for the viewer that speaks to something recognizable, if a bit off. In this space, nothing is meaningful and everything is meaningful. Nothing is real and everything is real.
It’s in this way that Fyrrar tackles serious social and emotional issues with subtlety and humour – by pulling audiences close and hinting at gravity through the guise of levity, she produces quietly confrontational work that leaves audiences with something to bring home, if they were paying attention.
Fyrrar is inspired by the perils of everyday life, accidental sharing, moments of letting go, unattractive honesty, and the things our hands and faces do in the moments we stop thinking about them.
photo: Andy Fang