This story aired in the 6/23/26 episode of Crosscurrents.
Have you ever wondered about the people that lived in your home, before you were there?
Sometimes there are decades of secrets under all the layers of chipped paint. You might say an apartment is a sort of living archive.
Old scuffs on the walls and floor boards tell a story of a previous tenant’s habits and routines. And some of those marks may have come from dance routines.
That’s what new tenants might find at 849 Divisadero, because that one-bedroom apartment was the birthplace of Gravity Dance Company nearly 35 years ago.
The space is now turning into something new, because the choreographer and co-director of the dance company was recently evicted. Gabriele Christian was the last in a long line of Gravity dancers who lived there.
When they found out they were losing their home, Gabriele decided to do something/ to capture and honor the legacy of Gravity Dance Company.
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Have you ever wondered about the lives that have passed through the home you live in now? You’ve stared at the beige contours of chipped paint knowing there are decades of secrets under all the layers of landlord specials. Old wall scuffs map a routine. The creaking floorboards are trying to tell you something!
You might say an apartment is a sort of living archive.
That’s how choreographer and co-director of Gravity dance company, Gabriele Christian, thinks about the 1 bedroom apartment they inherited at 849 Divisadero. Gravity’s founder Jess Curtis started the company out of this apartment, welcoming dancers from around the bay for nearly 35 years. Gabriele was the last dancer to stay there. When they were forced to leave, they needed to do something to capture that archive.
A voice echoes from a small amplifier, “this will never happen again in this space.”
“That's right. Well, maybe. I got a key. I'm gonna keep a key. For probably the rest of my life,” responds Gabriele Christian.
“My favorite art comes out of urgency, and this is urgent because of the fact that I'm losing this apartment. I think because this apartment's been in the dance scene for 30-plus years, it felt like we had to have a dance event because this is how you honor a place that's held choreographers. Everyone you can imagine has probably stayed in this apartment before.”
“My name is Gabriele Christian.”
“I've been a choreographer and dancer and a performer out here for about 12 years.”
“This is the last seconds of this series. It's called Eviction Dances, which came together in my mind really in response to a pretty intense eviction process that had to do with my fact of being a subletter. So I could leave quietly, which is not my style, or I could pull together a community who have experienced similar things. See what comes out of the woodwork.”
Christian announces to the audience seated and standing in the backyard, “We have about 14 performances, so it’s a marathon. Let’s get ready for a good night.”
“Thirty-two people all together said, ‘Yes, I'll come through and do something in response to this theme.’ And I didn't give them any assignment. I said, ‘Look, we have the space. Here's a room. Pick a room, pick an outside space.’”
Christian continues, “There was a beautiful performance by Oka who put clothespins along their spine, this idea of like the pained body. They were the first performance, and there were these, I guess they call them a murder of crows flying above them. And they were in all black. They looked like a crow had just fallen to the earth. It was just stunning.”
One of the artists, Valencia James, led participants through a ritual that began in the living room. “My name is Valencia James. Tonight I wanted to share a burden burning ritual. You know, I’ve written, say, ‘evictions.’ We are definitely burning evictions.”
A participant, an elder in the crowd, shared aloud, “I can talk about what I wrote. I’m being evicted from my home of 15 years. It’s a trend.”
“Yeah so we’re seeing you know evictions, arts spaces are closing, um, but we have each other, we have community, right,” Valencia closes.
“I think the idea of landlessness or houselessness or eviction or, like, involuntary departure in general is just pretty much a lot of people's experience, not just mine. It's also immigration and Custom Enforcement. It's also trans folks can't fly. It's also war in Iran and war and genocide in Gaza. These are all places for departed folks against their will. So I think eviction's kind of like the word. It's the way that our bodies are tasked to leave a thing.
“So rather than eviction, like being evicted, which I think is so victimizing, how about you dance your way out of a space? How about you d- dance your way out of, um, what was once yours?”
Christian begins, “Kevin Lo, where are we going next?”
“I'll start up here. I want to play a little bit of flute on the roof. And then I'll lead us down into the apartment,” Kevin Lo responds.
“I was like, this is all super intentional, super generous performance, even if it's not just dancing. The choice to leave your space, come to my home, and choose a location to do something in, it's already a choreography of intention,” says Christian. “It’s like, I'm gonna read a poem perhaps…”
Dancer Keith Hennessy says, “So I'm gonna ask for three people to read, and I'm gonna dance. And, uh, the sections are sex work…”
A group can be heard chanting, “Take my face and give me yours. Take my unhappy face and give me your bright face.”
Christian continues, “I'm going to play my music on the roof. I'm going to be in a drag, garbage bag on the roof. For me, everything was choreography.”
“Brilliant Johnny Nguyen, he's a Vietnamese dancer extraordinaire. He decided to come in as this character of the painter who was going to paint over the apartment for the landlord, and then ended up doing this amazing kind of breakdance meets, [Jackson] Pollock extraordinary piece where he threw paint on the walls.
Christian asks, “How much do I owe you?”
“Uh, I was gonna charge you, but when I'm looking at your shirt…” Johnny Nguyen replies.
“Got paint on more than the walls. Got paint on people, got paint on all my freaking furniture. My couch in my new house has the paint. My carpet in my new house has the paint. Some people's shoes. People come up to me to this day being like, ‘Oh, this, you see this little purple mark on my shoe? That was from Johnny,’” Christian recounts.
Christian goes on, “I'm in a sort of a legacy of a lot of protest art and protest performance.
“There are many places in the Bay that are so storied. So like every place has its really amazing history that oftentimes will not be remembered.
“I imagine that my work right now is accidentally archivist. So maybe my job is to actually not be mad at the new tenant–they don't know what they're stepping or sleeping on–but give them a letter and say, ‘Please reach out to me. I'd love to come see what your place looks like. I'd love to tell you about this apartment. Maybe you can continue this in my absence,’ and we'll see if they respond.”
