PERFORMANCE ART REVIEW : Three Phases of This ‘Moon’ : Uneven Laguna Piece Depicts Lunar Lore in Terms of a Sly, Seductive Woman

On Friday night, silent young women in black-painted faces and white paper jump suits ushered small groups of spectators through the Laguna Art Museum to witness the three phases of “Circus Moon.”

Envisioning the moon as a woman of sly and seductive powers, the four women who created the hourlong piece (Ruth Ann Anderson, Cheri Gaulke, Anna Homler and Deborah Oliver) and several performers offered an uneven journey through lunar lore.

An air of uncertainty and makeshift arrangements pervaded the evening, most annoyingly when performers giggled or otherwise broke character if applause was not immediately forthcoming at the conclusion of each piece.

Other problems included ragged pacing, the flat and amateurish enunciation of performer Kristen Borkland as “Earth,” and ostentatiously “insane” activities devised by Oliver that looked like acting class exercises or tepid borrowings from Peter Weiss’ “Marat/Sade.”

Oliver’s “She Sleeps With Her Eyes Open”--viewed from above by spectators positioned in a mezzanine gallery--was a tedious journey to “the dark side of the moon.” Amid all the hectic “lunacy,” the moon (a white-clad dancer) and Anderson’s set (plunging white ramps and floor-based sculptural reliefs) seemed underused.

But there were also fleeting moments of striking imagery. A woman’s voice describing “a white curtain between sleep and the sky, peering over the edge of the evening” set the tone for Homler’s “Luna Remembers.” Her brief tales--melting plausible scenes into bizarre fancies--segued into sultry nonsense-language songs, delivered with toothy intensity.

Homler was an irrational Luna, removing white paper plates from a stack (symbolic of the full moon?), caressing a giant fork and moving a magnifying glass in a slow, self-absorbed arc.

Seen through a scrim, Gaulke’s “Magnificent Desolation” was a beguiling fantasy about the moon--a pert, two-toned figure perched on a platform--and the earth, a child who makes friends with her and uses silly props (a hula hoop, a balloon) to act out lunar facts. Earth’s naive remarks--”I let you see every part of me and you let me see every part of you”--were fresh and amusing (the problems with their delivery notwithstanding).

But a crush of other allusions flooded in--including a Fellini-esque circus metaphor that involved some inept tightrope walking--and weakened the delicate tone Gaulke established at the outset.