Illness gets bused in from Nevada. It rises up between the cracks of the sidewalk. It sleeps in the park and by the fountain at the U.N. Plaza. It's in the stench in the seams of the escalator. It slumps around the apartment in ratty sweats clutching an object meant to stand in for a mother or lover. It's around and in us. You can try to stomp it down or shake it out. You can try, if you are Samantha Blanchard, to make a dance about it. Eclipse Dance Theater takes suicide, that side-effect of mental illness, as its... More >>>