How Dance Artists are Addressing the U.S. Prison System in Their Work, Both Onstage and on the Inside

For 22 years, dance artist Brianna Mims and her family have believed that her uncle Ronald Coleman Jr. was wrongfully convicted of involvement in a murder. Coleman has been serving two life sentences plus 65 years and is currently in Calhoun State Prison in Morgan, Georgia. During this time the family has worked tirelessly on his behalf, soliciting lawyers and criminal-justice–reform nonprofits to take his case. So far, though, they have struggled to get the help they need to challenge Coleman’s conviction.

But Mims refused to give up. Drawing on her years of experience creating work at the intersection of art, abolition and social justice, she decided to advocate for her uncle in a new way: through dance.

As part of a 2022 multidisciplinary installation called Uncle Ronnie’s Room, Mims mined her family history to transform an old cell in Los Angeles’ Chuco’s Justice Center—a former juvenile detention center turned community space—into a re-creation of her uncle’s childhood bedroom, with the space between the cells becoming the site-specific stage for the dance portion of the work. Her goal was to inspire audiences to get involved by showing them who Coleman is as a person, the impact incarceration has had on his family and—had he not been imprisoned for the last two decades—the alternate possibilities for his life.

Mims, a 2019 graduate of the University of Southern California Glorya Kaufman School of Dance and a Dance Magazine 2022 “25 to Watch” pick, joins a growing array of artists using dance to shed light on issues surrounding incarceration, the school-to-prison pipeline and the justice system as a whole. Some are teaching dance and choreography directly to inmates. Others are using their personal experience as the foundation for concert works addressing these complex, and sometimes controversial, themes. And others still are channeling their frustration towards the justice system into something more hopeful: a dance-based imagining of a different, more just future.

Movement as Liberation

“When you think about imprisonment or the justice system, you think about the ways our bodies are under attack,” says Ana Maria Alvarez, founder and artistic director of CONTRA-TIEMPO Activist Dance Theater in Los Angeles. “Our access to liberation and our access to power is through our bodies.”

Alvarez’s work joyUS justUS takes on the justice system’s disproportionate impact on communities of color and, instead of dwelling on hardship and deficit, focuses on the joy emanating from these communities as the root of freedom. The dancers don’t move only to music, but they also dance to the cadences of spoken text that incorporates elements of the U.S. justice system, like poetry derived from the Miranda rights and courtroom discourse.

For Alvarez, combining strong, full-bodied movements with these emotionally and politically charged words underscores why embodied performance is such an apt medium for this kind of work. “Dance is such a powerful tool because it’s rooted in our bodies, in our movement, in our connection with one another and in the ancestral wisdom of continuing to move in the face of incredible struggle and violence,” she says.

Choreographer and prison abolition activist Suchi Branfman, who works with incarcerated men in the California Rehabilitation Center (CRC), a medium-security facility in Norco, California, explains that the same idea applies to her work. Plus, she says, dance is just a whole lot of fun. “To witness and be with people who are dancing while living in a cage is a direct antithesis to confinement,” she explains. “We laugh a lot. There’s deep joy and community-building in dance, which is amplified when you’re dancing with folks inside prison.”

Going Beyond the Personal

Choreographer Kyle Abraham’s 2016 work for Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, Untitled America, dives into the ripple effect imprisonment has on the families of the incarcerated. Abraham has an uncle who served time in prison, and the family’s lived experience informed the work. But he looked beyond those connections during the creative process. “I wanted to focus primarily on the humanity of the situation,” says Abraham, whose interviews with previously incarcerated individuals played a large role in the development of the work and the stories that were told onstage.

Mims, too, drew from her own experiences, family memories and the stories of her ancestors when creating Uncle Ronnie’s Room. At the beginning of her choreographic process, she looked to her great-grandparents’ legacy as organizers in the South during the Civil Rights Movement. For the score, Mims asked her grandmother for suggestions from her great-grandparents’ music library. “I just sat with the songs for a long time and really let them get into my body and my spirit,” she says. “After doing that for a bit, I went into the studio and started moving to them.”

Community Behind Walls

While some dance artists are using the stage as a platform for change, others are going inside to create it. Patrick Makuakāne, an innovative hula artist and the director of Nā Lei Hulu i ka Wēkiu in San Francisco, has been the spiritual advisor at San Quentin State Prison since 2016. In this position, Makuakāne now leads the Native Hawaiian Religious Spiritual Group, which, before the pandemic, was a gathering of San Quentin men from Hawaiian and Polynesian cultures—as well as several Vietnamese, Filipino and white members—that met once a week to learn about Hawaiian culture and dance.

“ ‘Spiritual advisor’ is the term that prison officials use, but I think of myself as a community builder,” Makuakāne says. “And that’s what the men really responded to. They learned that hula is more than a dance, it’s about taking care of one another in community.”

Branfman made a similar discovery through her choreography project at CRC, which, prior to the pandemic, had been meeting weekly since late 2016. “When you make a big circle in a gym in a prison and turn on good music, everybody dances,” she says. “The root of the work that we do is understanding that dance is a way of being together in community and thriving and sustaining ourselves.”

After COVID-19 restrictions made in-person gathering impossible, Branfman pivoted in an effort to maintain the community she and the CRC prisoners had created. Using written packets, she invited the dancers to continue choreographing. What they wrote and sent out became Undanced Dances Through Prison Walls During a Pandemic, a series of works directed by Branfman which continues to be performed in person, virtually and via other forms of media by dance artists on the outside.

Reclaiming the Ripple Effect

Branfman’s and Makuakāne’s work reverberates beyond prison walls too. Makuakāne says that it’s not uncommon for members of his group to reach out to him after they’ve been released to thank him for the skills they learned through hula. Branfman’s work presents a great deal of food for thought for audiences, as they witness stories told from the inside.

Abraham, too, kept the lessons Untitled America could teach his audiences in mind, specifically those viewers who haven’t directly experienced the impacts of incarceration. “Something that I was really drawing on in a lot of ways was my mother being in the hospital and knowing that she wasn’t able to leave,” he explains. “People who may not have someone in prison can connect with being in a space they don’t want to be in or thinking about how hard it might be when they can’t see a loved one.”

And, in addition to using the visceral nature of dance to convey the difficult emotions surrounding incarceration, artists like Alvarez are using movement to put a new future on the table, showing by example what a reimagined justice system could look like. “How do we use joy, community, dance, music and power to build a system that is thinking about our health and well-being?” she asks. “It’s going to take rethinking the entire model of how the justice system works. JoyUS justUS is a proposal on how we can imagine a future that’s full of more love and more justice.”

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Jennifer Archibald’s “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner” Premieres at Richmond Ballet

Recent ballets by choreographer Jennifer Archibald explore how dancing creates a distinct kind of remembrance, homage and hopefulness. This week, her unique combination of choreography and documentary brings together political history, a cinematic classic and Richmond Ballet. Entitled Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, her new ballet was inspired by the 1967 film of the same title that starred Sidney Poitier. The film plot features a white woman bringing Poitier, her fiancé, home to meet her supposedly liberal white parents.

It wasn’t until June 12, 1967, six months before the film was released, that interracial marriage was legalized. That court case, Loving v. Virginia, took place in the state where Archibald was commissioned to make a ballet.

“It started with Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner,” says Archibald. “I wanted to pay homage to this historic film through a ballet, as a step toward changing the narratives seen on stages. The spine of the story is about love, and the music for the ballet binds together themes of compassion, love and civil rights history. Singers’ voices inspire dancers to respond physically and to explore vulnerability as part of loving relationships. The ballet’s duets reflect the highs and lows that are part of unconventional relationships, historically and today.”

The score includes music by Sam Cooke, a central figure in the civil rights movement, who imbues the ballet with a soulful and poignant acoustic landscape.

Archibald has distinguished herself as a courageous choreographer who can uncover difficult histories and make strides towards greater understanding and connections among people. In 2021, her commission for Tulsa Ballet, called Breakin’ Bricks, examined the city’s past and future, acknowledging the horrific massacre of 1921 while making space for a city that can “build together, and create a community that can listen to and support one another,” says Archibald in a video about the process of making Breakin’ Bricks that is subtitled “Finding Spirit Through Ashes.”

The ballet was selected as one of the best events of 2021, with Tulsa World critic James D. Watts Jr. writing, “Jennifer Archibald’s Breakin’ Bricks … is a work that left the audience with an unspoken but inescapable question: Now that you’ve seen how racism both subtle and gross has permeated our past and present, what will you do to remove it from our collective future?”

In Richmond, a city that was the capital of the Confederacy from 1861 to 1865, and, in 2020, home to protests about Confederate monuments, Archibald was inspired by the dancers. “Richmond Ballet is made up of a group of artists who are diverse, thoughtful, and reflective,” she says. “While making this ballet, we had many conversations about the city’s history, and its future. I talked about my own parents and what life was like for them as an interracial couple who got married in 1969 in Canada. I am hopeful that it’s the current generation of dancers and choreographers who are making ballet a place to share stories that are relevant to everyone.”

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner premieres on November 1 and will be performed in Richmond until November 6, as part of the company’s Studio 2 program. The ballet will also be included in Richmond Ballet’s January 27 performance at the Virginia Wesleyan University Susan S. Goode Fine and Performing Arts Center in Virginia Beach, Virginia.

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A Q&A with Tina Bararian, Who Is Connecting the Dancers of Iran

Tina Bararian, an Iranian dancer and choreographer living in New York City, founded Dancers of Iran in April 2021. The organization has a website, Instagram page, and YouTube channel that feature Iranian artists and also provide information about classes, workshops, and auditions, all of which is scarce for dancers who live in a country where dance is forbidden. Dance Magazine caught up with Bararian to find out why she created the site, what she’s hoping to achieve with it and how she’s supporting Iranian artists.

DM: Could you talk about your beginnings as a dancer?

Bararian: I was born in Iran, in a small city called Babol, in the north. I was born after the 1979 revolution, which completely changed everything in the country. The Iranian National Ballet was closed down; all the dance schools were closed down. Dance, for the government, is seen as a cheap art, as seductive. Growing up, people from my generation did not have the chance to have a dance class.

My dance journey started when we first immigrated to Australia, when I was 11. I was given a free platform for the first time, and at the end of our year at the school, we were told we could perform whatever we wanted. At that time, I was obsessed with Michael Jackson. I mean, the resources we had [in Iran] were so limited, but we did have an international cable TV. Now, if the government knew that we had these international TV sets, they would come into your house, imprison you, take away the TV, you might have gotten lashes, I don’t know. When I was three, they walked into our house and my dad had to go on the roof: He fell off and broke his leg trying to dismantle the cable.

In Australia, my dad was working on his degree in physiotherapy, my mom was working all the time, so I was alone a lot of the day. One of the things that got me through the day was dancing, and I liked dancing to Michael Jackson. I decided to perform it for the school show and I got so much great positive feedback and I was like, ‘I never knew that this was something I could do!’ When I was 14, we immigrated to Canada and my mom said, ‘why don’t you take ballet classes?’ I really owe my dance journey to my parents, because they were my main supporters, and they were the ones who pushed me to continue and to not give up.

Why did you start Dancers of Iran?

I used to travel to Iran, and I really wanted to do something for the dance world. Now, compared to when I was growing up, there are classes, there are dance schools, they do have performances. It’s just that it could get canceled at any time, if the government officials want to come and cancel it. It is not a free platform. While I was travelling, I wanted to do something for the dancers there, but a lot of them were scared, which I understand, because if they publicly show a dance video of themselves, they might get imprisoned.

When the pandemic hit, [at first] I didn’t feel like I was capable of doing anything. This site was so they could feel like they can be seen. So that’s how it started. Dance performances have been illegal in Iran for the past 40 years, but people are still dancing—you can’t suppress it.

What do you hope to accomplish with Dancers of Iran?

In Iran, we really don’t have a dance community. I wanted to create a community. I want this platform to say, ‘you’re all being supported; you all have talent.’ I think that’s what kept it going, and dancers feel more comfortable now to share their videos. Basically, it’s like a free marketing platform. I also have a YouTube channel for Dancers of Iran where I started to offer more information about what I know about the dance world. I use my own portfolio—my resume, my reference letters—as examples. I have done workshops [via Zoom] for them as well.

How do you feel with Iran and Iranian women being at the forefront of global news? What role do you feel dancers play in this struggle?

What happened to Mahsa Amini, every person, especially every woman, could relate to. She was an ordinary woman, walking down the street, who got killed for nothing.

We are dancing for, hopefully, the next revolution. I feel very proud of Iranians and Iranian women right now. I’m trying to support them in any way I can. I can use my platform to be a voice, so now the page is more focused on what’s going on right now and responding to that. When I started Dancers of Iran, I really tried not to be political because I was mindful of the dancers who are inside Iran. I wanted the dancers to feel safe. But now, it’s not a time for that. Now you have to pick a side, and we’re going to pick the right side.  

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