The 2024 Fall Arts Issue invites readers into the world of challenging art forms that they might not have known how to approach—from opera to slam poetry, from modern dance to performance art.

I'm going to be real with you for a moment: There are people who shut down when they hear the word "art." For them, it immediately conjures up images of things that are difficult and intimidating, a kind of work that needs to be done, rather than something to be enjoyed passively. And while there's a bit of truth to that perspective—some art absolutely asks the viewer to be part of making meaning—it also feels too easy to give in to the idea that art is only for certain kinds of people to appreciate.

This year, the City Weekly Fall Arts Issue explores the idea of why some creative forms can feel daunting, and what to do with that challenge. We asked local leaders in specific artistic areas—including modern art, opera, performance art, spoken-word poetry and modern dance—to help invite people into those forms, and break down some of the perceived barriers to entry.

Not everyone might be turned from a skeptic into a devoted fan, but we hope that we can brush away a few stereotypes and help build the notion that art is for everyone.

Along the way, we'll share a calendar of upcoming performances, where to find galleries, the key spaces in the local literary scene and more. Utah is a place bursting at the seams with creators, and our goal is to connect them with the people who can celebrate and support their work—even if those people don't know it yet.

Scott Renshaw
Arts & Entertainment Editor

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An Invitation to Art
Local arts leaders offer ways to welcome newcomers into challenging creative forms.
By Scott Renshaw

Modern dance, performance art, spoken-word poetry, opera, contemporary art—each, in its way, can feel like a challenge for newcomers to access. We spoke to local leaders in those fields to get a sense for how folks might be less intimidated, and take a chance on something they've never experienced before.

Modern Dance: Daniel Charon, Ririe-Woodbury Dance Company Artistic Director

Daniel Charon recognizes that approaching modern dance can be a challenge for some audiences: "Modern dance is a really unknown experience," he says. "The go-to [frame of reference] is, people will think is it like ballet, or So You Think You Can Dance. And it's not really like those things."

That's why Charon has often made it a priority, when bringing modern dance to potentially less-experienced audiences, to let them know he wants to welcome them in. "We'll go to rural Utah, and places that don't often get modern dance, and we'll sometimes narrate the performances," Charon says. "The first thing I almost always say is, 'I'm here today to relieve you of the pressure of trying to figure it out.' And people will come up to me after the show, and that one simple statement kind of releases this burden."

One of the key points Charon recognizes is that audiences tend to be used to narrative art forms—like movies, TV or novels—and that a more abstract experience can leave them feeling somewhat adrift. "For dance, people often want to translate it into a narrative: boy meets girl, or whatever the case may be, this or that happened," Charon observes. "It makes people feel insecure and not educated if they don't 'get it.' But again, it's just the idea that whatever the experience you have of it is the right experience—there's no 'right' or 'wrong.' Everything doesn't have a literal meaning."

"I'll compare it to a smell," he continued, "maybe you'll smell something, and you'll have nostalgia, or maybe something you don't really like the smell of, but you don't have to define it. You can just have the feeling. Or even music, when you hear a symphony, you might not know it's about this or that, but that it just made you happy, or angry, or whatever."

Part of allowing that shift of perspective to take place is approaching the performance more as a connection to the artists on stage, which is something Charon identified in his own earliest attraction to dance.

"The unique thing about dance is the physicality of it, this vulnerable situation," he says. "I feel this kind of empathy and connection to the people on stage interpreting this art. I feel like I connect to the trials and tribulations they face when performing this work. It's really a connection to the performers first and foremost, and how it reflects challenges we face in our everyday lives—to have an experience that's often energizing, often confusing, that makes it something to think about and contemplate."

In terms of a pitch for encouraging people to give modern dance a try, Charon notes that it's important not to feel that a first experience is a do-or-die experience.

"You might go to a dance show, and you might not like it, and then you don't go back," he says. "But if you read a book, or see a movie that you don't like, you don't just stop. You keep going back to see different takes. ... Contemporary dance is something that's being made all the time, and there's an inherent risk involved. Sometimes that risk pays off, and sometimes it doesn't, and that's okay. We're premiering new work all the time, and there's something exciting in that: 'I'm the first to experience it.'"

"I'm trying to help them land wherever they can," he adds. "Maybe it's, 'Hey come to the show, it might be something new for you, but just sit back and relax and try to take it in.' Sometimes it's nice to let them just notice the people on stage, and the physical feats; that's a level you can appreciate it on, and that's fine. It's just creating space for people to be okay with the experience, and not be hard on themselves."

Charon recognizes that this is also a time when all audiences might be looking for things that feel lighter when the world offers plenty of stresses and challenges, and he's thought about programming Ririe-Woodbury's upcoming season accordingly. But within that context, there's still experimentation, and a chance for people to try something that provides a different kind of artistic experience.

"Last year we did a show in the round, and we had beer," he recalls. "It's the experience of consuming dance that we're really thinking about—breaking down the barrier between performer and audience. You get this very real, three-dimensional experience."

Performance Art: Kristina Lenzi, Salt Lake City Performance Art Festival curator
Performance art faces some unique challenges from potential audiences, and some of those challenges are created by popular culture. In movies and TV shows, performance artists are frequently used as a shorthand for someone who's pretentious, the work treated as a punch line

Kristina Lenzi has encountered the kind of feedback where people simply don't have a reference point for understanding what performance art is, or can be.

She notes that the response she gets when people find out the kind of art she's involved in is "usually that it's weird. They don't know how to access it. Mostly, when I try to explain to people what I do, they don't really understand it. I think talking about what I do is really hard. It's more when someone sees it for the first time, or engages with it for the first time."

Because performance art pieces are often the creation of one artist, exploring personal ideas or themes, there might be a sense that it can be harder for audience members to grasp, looking for narrative in the same way Daniel Charon described folks looking for narrative in dance. And it's certainly the case that people often feel uncomfortable with what they're not sure they understand.

"I think newcomers are intimidated by [performance art]," Lenzi commented. "I think newcomers need permission to interpret it in any way they want, so that however they feel about it is accurate."

One of Lenzi's other roles is teaching performance art at Weber State University, so she's familiar with the notion of trying to introduce people to the art form. And she believes that one of the challenges she faces is with kids who are taught to look for a specific interpretation—the "themes" identified in CliffsNotes—rather than learning how to be thoughtful, critical thinkers about art.

"One of the things I do is tell [students] right of the bat, 'Be present, be open and interpret this in any way you want,'" she says. "Nobody's going to have the same interpretation. I'm tempted to blame it on education, or lack thereof. I think about abstract art in particular, if someone is taught the principles of design, they can approach a work of abstract art and say, 'This is why I like it.' In public school, anyway, there's not a lot of that kind of art taught anymore."

Performance art can deal with serious, heavy material, but that's far from the only kind of performance art. Lenzi suggests that one of the better ways to enter into the experience of watching the art form is to look for something lighter, and learn that it can be entertaining, not just scary. "What I would suggest is, going to one you've heard is humorous," she says. "If I'm going to have an audience filled with people who might not be familiar with the form, I'll make it a more humorous piece. When everyone is laughing, they're more on the same page; they don't feel so alone."

While the work of artists like Marina Abramovi has raised the profile of performance art in the United States somewhat, it's still relatively unfamiliar to most people—and Lenzi notes that some of the material that does become familiar can deal with risky or dangerous behavior. Yet she encourages potential viewers to realize there's a wide variety of material out there, and something might connect with them.

"As far as being a viewer or a witness, be brave, give it a try," she affirms. "If it's not your cup of tea, it's not your cup of tea. Or maybe try more than one, because they're not all the same; they can differ vastly."

Modern Art: Jared Steffensen, Utah Museum of Contemporary Art curator of exhibitions
Jared Steffensen has a vivid experience of his own dawning realization that visual art could be unusual and challenging. Growing up in a military family, Steffensen moved all over Europe, and recalls visiting the Centre Pompidou in Paris at the age of around 10 or 11.

"One of the first things I saw was a piece by Claes Oldenburg, a Swiss army knife the size of a ship," Steffensen says. "It was one of those moments when my brain went, 'Wait, what is this?' It shifted the way I thought about art in that moment: This can be art—why is that? ... I think maybe for me, that was the challenge. I had to accept that this was art, and I liked that."

Steffensen is aware, however, that not everyone has that same response to modern art.

"Before I was a curator [at UMOCA], I ran the education department," he recalls. "I ran tours, and one of the biggest questions that would come up is, 'Why is this art?' And it's a valid question."

Part of the challenge emerges from the way that most Americans are taught about art, to the extent that they're taught about art at all. "I think about, let's say, how I learned about art in public school, and how my kids learn," Steffensen says. "There's sort of this, 'here are the great masters, and this is art.' So there's an expectation that's what they'll see when they come to a museum. And when you don't, you sort of retreat."

It's a particular challenge that most visual art is non-narrative, and—once again as Charon noted about modern dance—the level on which most people encounter art on a daily basis involves trying to understand a story. That paradigm makes for a difficult shift to thinking about contemporary art.

"A play, for instance, is a narrative that unfolds, and it feels like you're brought along with it," Steffensen observes. "And I think something happens that with contemporary art in particular is that sense that you're supposed to 'get it' as soon as you see it. We're taught that we're supposed to know the answer, right? Visual artists speak through images. And we're not always taught to read images as metaphor; we're taught to read images as a fact, as a documentation of something. So I think that in itself makes it difficult to come into a museum, see something that's unfamiliar, and realize that it's okay that you don't know. It's okay to allow yourself to work through it without knowing exactly why."

Steffensen also understands why that feeling of discomfort from not "getting it" can lead to another kind of reaction: mockery. "There's that feeling of, 'I'm going to make fun of it, because that's a way to deal with what I'm feeling,'" he says.

Part of Steffensen's job as a curator, however, is to anticipate that potential for discomfort, and work to guide visitors into an exhibition in a way that can make them feel more comfortable. "When putting shows together, I think a lot about my nephews living in Sandy," he says. "If they were coming here, how would they understand this? How can I help them with something that might feel more unfamiliar, and bring them through the exhibition? ... I try to provide something that feels familiar—'I know that, or I know what that looks like'—so they can perhaps use that familiarity to bring them into the work."

There's still a natural resistance that some people have towards the idea of going to an art gallery, in some cases because of a perception that the art world has a particular political slant, and that they may have certain uncomfortable perspectives thrust in their faces. Steffensen acknowledges a certain truth to that—"Artists right now, there's a lot for them to respond to"—but believes that UMOCA strives to be a place that is about approaching potentially difficult themes in a way that's welcoming to everyone. "We're not trying to talk down to them," he asserts; "we're trying to have a conversation."

He also suggests a somewhat non-intuitive way of making a visit to a contemporary art exhibition more inviting: visit with a child. "See how they respond to it," Steffensen says. "Ask them questions. They haven't yet been told to think a certain way about art. There's still this wonder, and that could be a way to let down your own barriers. And there can be something about the kid's honesty that can be helpful: 'You don't get it? I don't get it, either.'"

Spoken-Word Poetry: Sammi Walker, Salt City Slam producer
As is true of many different creative forms, there are clichés and stereotypes of those who create and perform spoken-word poetry. And according to Sammi Walker, some of them are true, while others are not.

"When I tell people I do slam poetry they go, 'Oh ... that's a choice,'" she reports. "When you think of slam poetry, you kind of think of beatniks. We don't wear berets. We do snap. And it's not like a smoky cigar bar. Our venue is a punk-rock venue, so it's kind of the same vibe."

That vibe is one that turns the crowd into part of the experience and a large part of what could make it fun and engaging for visitors rather than scary and intimidating.

"The audience plays a really big role in what the poet's performance looks like, and the energy," Walker says. "Watching the dynamic between the audience and the performer is one of my favorite things. You can do so many things as a performer—audience interaction, targeting one person in the audience and talking to them, playing Simon Says, having the audience in the palm of your hand. ... It's just so crazy to watch how these artists can be in their presence on the stage. Just hearing how the audience reacts to them, the wordplay and the rhythm of the poem."

What's particularly important for people to know, Walker believes, is that slam poetry isn't an in-club where outsiders are unwelcome. "What we do before the show is get the audience comfortable—not necessarily with the topics, but how to react to the poems," she says. "[We let them know that] there are going to be a lot of 'uncomfortables.' These are people's experiences that they've gone through. And maybe you've gone through that too, and hearing that back to you isn't great for you. ... Teaching them the etiquette helps everyone, because they feel connected and unified."

Newcomers are so important to the process that they're actually the ones who are invited to be judges at the events, Walker notes. "We actually ask that first thing, 'who has never been before,' and who is if we have five people with their hands raised, you're one of our judges," she says. "When you have other poets judging, it gets more intense. When you have people who don't do this for a living, or do it regularly, those are the people we're writing for. My best editors are really those who don't do poetry. They'll go, 'That doesn't make sense,' and I'll think, 'Okay, I've overpushed my poet-ness.'"

That emphasis on connecting with everyday people is a big part of what can make slam poetry less intimidating, but Walker understands that a learning curve might still remain. "In some cases, there may be people who [worry about 'getting it'], because there are a lot of poetic devices used," she confirmed. "And maybe you're not on the same page as the artist, because you don't have the exact same experience. ... We have to ride this line of concrete imagery, and poetic imagery and devices."

These events—which often include open-mic portions—can be so welcoming to newcomers, in fact, that they might consider making the transition from audience members to performers themselves. "I always tell [people], they should try it at least once," Walker says. "A lot of the time, when I am talking to someone, they share, 'I've thought about starting to write poetry, I just never knew there was a space for this.' ... We might have someone who does great, and we think, 'Where have you been hiding?'"

Opera: Christopher McBeth, Utah Opera artistic director
Not everyone has the kind of upbringing Christopher McBeth had: surrounded by music early in his life, becoming part of a traveling boys' choir at the age of 8, being drawn into opera as a teenager listening to someone singing Wagner.

"I'm a voice nerd," McBeth confesses. "I am such a lover of how expressive and beautiful—and sometimes even ugly—the human voice can be. In the movies, we hear great oration, or in theater. Then you add people who can sustain that in a singing voice, or can sing a million short notes in a florid way that is practically athletic in its form."

Yet McBeth still doesn't believe that opera needs to seem daunting, even to those who did not have those formative experiences. "I think people who do feel intimidated by opera are those whose understanding of the art form comes from not being able to understand it yet," he opined. "There's a lot of stereotypes—in popular culture, on TV and in movies—because this art form has been around for 400 years, and has a breadth of different ways it can be done; it's going to have a lot of material that can be used for farce and sarcasm. And even I think there are moments in certain operas that are downright silly, because at the moment they're supposed to be expressing something that's larger than life. Like the old stereotype of the Wagnerian soprano, with the spear and horned Viking helmet."

"But those who love the art form are those who have curiosity," he continues. "Why are those things there? If you allow yourself to be just a little bit curious, you start to discover a whole world from which that derives."

That world is an artistically complex one, one that McBeth describes as "the original multimedia artform." Yet rather than making opera more intimidating, he believes, it can create different entry points for those who are encountering it for the first time.

"I think someone could say, 'Okay, I'm not even going to pay attention to the supertitles. I'm just going to let the music or the actors be what I focus on,'" he observes. "Sometimes that's the mood I'm in. Or maybe there's a lot of visual art going on on the stage. You don't have to be overwhelmed by all of the different parts."

That willingness to consider a variety of different entry points extends to the content of the operas themselves, McBeth says, and it's one of the ways he approaches talking with someone who isn't sure about whether opera is for them.

"When I talk to people who don't know anything [about opera], who say, 'I don't know if that piques my interest,' I say, 'What does? What kind of story appeals to you—comedy, action, dramas? Do you stay away from stories where people die?' The beautiful thing with opera is the different sources it comes from, story-wise and language-wise. They may say they don't like opera, but there's a story and a musical form that appeals to them; they just don't know it exists yet."

He recounts as an example a one-time technical staffer who worked backstage. "When he started, he just liked the building-related stuff; he said, 'I don't know if I like opera,'" McBeth recalls. "Over time, he discovered there are stories that aren't 500 years old, and that are in English. He could say, 'I recognize these characters and what they're singing.'"

McBeth notes that there are some common entry points, whether it's Gilbert & Sullivan when it comes to comedy, or Puccini for tragedy. "They feel safe, because of these kinds of pieces, you've probably heard them in an elevator, or in a commercial," he says.

Yet perhaps the most important thing with opera—and indeed all of these art forms—is trying to begin with the openness of curiosity, rather than the crossed arms of judgment. That notion can apply to something as simple as wondering why that aforementioned horned-helmet-wearing soprano can seem ridiculous in the context of opera, yet not in another pop-culture context. "Why is it not funny when Loki in a Thor movie is wearing those things?" McBeth asks. "Because what you find is—and another thing I love about this art form is—it's an onion where you keep peeling back the layers."