In my youth, I would occasionally visit the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow. For the uninitiated, the Tretyakov houses a vast collection of Russian fine art—picture the MoMA, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the Frick collection all diced up and served as an exquisite borscht. I can’t remember much of what I saw, but I clearly recall Malevich’s “Black Square” on display. What gives, Tretyakov? All your other pieces at least depicted something; in some way, they spoke to the viewer, and required some permutation of skill and effort. This was a black square. If I could paint a black square by my tender seven years (my bedroom wall was adorned with a number of Blinderman originals, at least half of which could be deciphered as animals, humans, and—after one particularly inspiring trip to a museum—a reproduction of the armless Venus de Milo), why wasn’t my work considered fine art? I was outraged; as we say in Australia, this was just not cricket.

In my indignation, I sought answers from my elders, but nothing satisfactory emerged. I accepted the “Black Square” as most people accept the majority of recent modern and contemporary art—something too esoteric and abstract for mere mortals to understand.

Since that experience, I’ve approached art with a generous disposition—but it’s time to draw the line. Open mind? Sure.  Provocative subject matter as social critique? Yeah, I guess. Dropping condoms, pantyhose, and liquor bottles on a mattress and calling it “My Bed” (I’m looking at you, award-winning artist Tracey Emin)? Nope. Now we’re just rehashing The Emperor’s New Clothes with Warhol prints. We’ve gotten to the point where something stupid and obnoxiously mundane is lauded simply for being inflammatory (Ms. Emin, who likes to have sex and drink, communicates her insights with all the subtlety of Girls Gone Wild).

To put it bluntly: what’s my beef with contemporary art (if I were an artist, I could communicate this to you by shaping beef mince into the word “art” and serving it at my gallery/kitchen/multipurpose installation space)? Much of what’s praised is abstract and conceptual, and is glorified for possessing depth that—let’s face it—we’re simply afraid to say it lacks. Otherwise (although these categories often overlap), whatever’s produced seems so devoid of skill that even I can claim authorship. In spite of my earlier braggadocio, I’ve made minimum headway in terms of artistic ability; if my skills are sufficient (barring an incredible investment of time and training), I can’t help but fail to be impressed. The result of all this conceptually-oriented produce is that language has had to pick up the slack, leading artists and critics alike to wax grandiloquent on the artistic merits of “negative space” and other equally inane ideas.

If we assume that the abstract and mundane are valid forms of art, and remove the necessity for technical skill to boot, we preclude the need for art to be located in galleries. In fact, we can do away with artists—their craft, in the form of the everyday, the ordinary, and the crude, is to be found all around us. Why don’t we take the democratizing logic of “art from anything, by anyone” to its natural conclusion, and admit that such assumptions would mean that the need for professional art is undone by its very essence? Tracey Emin’s made her bed—let her lie down in it.

Purity and human desire clash in Kaguyahime: The Moon Princess, the first show of the 2012-2013 season of Les Grands Ballets Canadiens de Montréal. Les Grands is the third ballet company in the world to stage the abstract piece, which fuses contemporary dance with traditional ballet, and succeeds in bringing a mixture of Eastern and Western artistic traditions to Montreal.

According to a traditional tenth-century Japanese folk tale, Kaguyahime is a small girl who is found inside a shining stalk of bamboo and adopted by a bamboo cutter. Kaguyahime grows, and with her, an impossible beauty that attracts suitors from far-flung places—including the Emperor of Japan. The Emperor, Mikado, immediately falls in love with the maiden and requests to marry her. Saddened, Kaguyahime reveals that she is a princess from the moon sent to earth for a short time, and despite the Emperor’s attempts to use his army to stop her from leaving, she finally returns to her kingdom.

The ballet, choreographed by renowned Czech dance master Jiri Kylian, diverges from the traditional tale by including a full-fledged war sequence that represents the rivalry and ensuing chaos spurred by Kaguyahime’s beauty.  Through his fight scenes, Kylian critiques the desire to possess the unattainable, and points to the tragedy of a lust that culminates in hatred, violence, and destruction.

The ballet company truly shines in the portrayal of the fight sequences, executed with refreshing grace and force. These scenes are permeated with symbolism, including the stark contrast between the light white fabric of the villagers’ attire to the lush black velvet of the Emperor’s army. Light and dark clash in a world mired in disarray, represented by the minimalist set design in which figures of horses fall chaotically from the sky.

Perhaps the more perplexing scenes are those in which Kaguyahime (Eva Kolarova) appears. In her solos, Kolarova contorts her body in shapes that range from fluid and smooth to controlled and precise—not quite in unison with the scarcely melodic flute tones that eerily infuse her solos. However, in her performances with other members of the company, Kaguyahime stands out by the ethereal quality of her movements, and Kolarova succeeds in her portrayal of the delicate moon princess, the physical embodiment of purity.

The ballet highlights the contrast between innocence and lustful possession when Kaguyahime, ensnared in golden silk by Mikado (Marcin Kaczorowski), dances in a vulnerable struggle for freedom that culminates in a spectacle of blinding mirrors. The light finally allows her the chance to escape the Emperor and return to the safety of the moon in the ballet’s tragic finale.

In addition to the skillful ballet company, the production boasts an impressive, world-renowned musical team performing Maki Ishii’s rhythmic score of intermingling Western and Eastern percussion.  The performance includes guest conductor Michael de Roo, who conducted the orchestra for Kaguyahime’s premiere in 1998, members of the celebrated Japanese drum ensemble Kodo, and professional gagaku (imperial Japanese court music) repertory musicians playing in traditional imperial attire.

Les Grands Ballets’ performance of this rare, internationally-acclaimed ballet is captivating in its distinctive fusion of angular contemporary dance and ballet-based somersaults and duets. The story of the pure, peaceful moon princess disenchanted by the violence of earth is powerful in its simplicity and continues to resonate in this luminous blend of contemporary artistry and ancient wisdom.

Kaguyahime: The Moon Princess runs through Oct. 27 at Salle Wilfrid-Pelletier in Place des Arts. Tickets range from $46.04 to $124.04.

It’s been said that art finds its highest form in the Grecian tragedy. After watching The Bacchae, it’s easy to see why. Scapegoat Carnivale’s production of Euripides’ classic benefits from an original translation by director Andreas Apergis and assistant director Joseph Shragge. The resulting textual clarity aided the talented cast in conveying a story convulsing with hubris, violence, and painful horror—a tale that, after nearly 2,500 years, still packs quite a punch.

How is a god born? From another god’s thigh, of course. Dionysus’ mortal mother was killed while he was still a fetus; Zeus’ flesh became the supplemental womb. As if such an experience wasn’t traumatic enough, the entire mortal side of Dionysus’ family rejected him. It’s blasphemy; it’s sacrilege! This is the tale told by the young god at the beginning of the story; teen angst coursing through divine veins is a fearsome sight indeed.

Alex McCooeye’s Dionysus trembles with rage and vengeance that borders on the psychotic. The modern conception of the god of drunken revelry caricatures the original in this regard; McCooeye’s fragile and off-kilter performance reminds us of the frightful wrath of gods.

This wrath is directed towards Thebes, where his mortal family resides. The King, Pentheus, refuses to accept Dionysus’ divine status, even after the women of his city are driven by the god into a frenzied ecstasy. Wolves suckle at their breasts. Milk flows out of the ground when they scratch at it with their fingers. Wild beasts are ripped apart by their bare hands. That Pentheus precipitates his own grizzly doom (though not before a scene of unexpected humour) by wilfully ignoring all this comes at no surprise—this is a Grecian tragedy after all.

Brett Watson’s Pentheus finds a mostly singular note of throttled rage and impotent indignity, though it serves the character well while verbally sparring with the disguised Dionysus. In the latter parts of the play, the now-enraptured noble fully externalizes the fool; Watson fleshes out these dimensions with skill—the subtle sighs and vocal quiverings heighten the comic horror of the moment—but even this results after a transition that is all too brief.

Amongst the supporting cast, Teiresias (Greg Kramer) is a stand-out, dominating his scenes with full-bodied, nuanced enunciation. Equally stunning is the Messenger (Paul Van Dyck). From his lips sprung the most violent and fantastical imagery, more vivid than any graphic representation could ever aspire to achieve. The purity, the monumentality of the terror inspired by Van Dyck’s speech as well as that of the Attendant (Karl Graboshas), are easily the show’s highlights. Agave (France Rolland) is the clearest fusion of oral and physical virtuosity; as the mother of Pentheus, Agave epitomizes anguish in the production, and Rolland fulfils this role with expert precision.

The five-member Greek chorus serves as an amiable interlude to scenes, though ultimately, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Harmonization across the vocalists is incredible, euphoric even, but solo segments have mixed results. Brian Lipson’s score—a concoction that oscillates between unremarkable golden hues and contemplative minor dissonance—seems uninspired. Leslie Baker’s choreography is as simple and unvaried as the chorus members’ facial expressions, and its execution sorely lacks synchronicity.

A separate choir at the back of the theatre contributes to a near-surround sound experience—a fantastic decision that could be utilized even more fully. This creative use of the whole of theatrical space is evidenced by the staging of many characters throughout, and is equally beneficial to the performance. Erwann Bernard’s lighting design generally opts for the unobtrusive, and is not without a few moments of thoughtfulness. Francis Farley’s minimalist-yet-functional set design is similarly spartan, and it appropriately allows for the focus to be on the cast itself.

If the goal of Scapegoat Carnivale is the revivification of ancient masterpieces for a contemporary audience, The Bacchae is undoubtedly a success. Traditionally, the play is an important form of ritual worship of Dionysus; I suspect the god of revelry and ecstasy, looking down from Olympus, would be proud of this production.

The Bacchae  runs through Oct. 20 at the Centaur Theatre (453 Saint-François-Xavier Rd.) Tickets are $18 for students.