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By Kristen Hedberg/ IG @kristen.hedberg
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Published on May 7, 2025
Dorchel Haqq’s “closed mouths don’t get fed.” Photo: Robin M.
Installation artist: Hakeem Olayinka
Soundscape collaborator: Kneaku Ashae
Performance artist: Nailah Murray
Date of review: April 29, 2025
Dorchel Haqq's closed mouths don’t get fed nourishes its participants with a sense of community expressed through movement and meaningful connection. Her electrifying performance — brimming with authenticity, gratitude, and confidence — invites us to reflect on personal agency and self-expression.
A program note reads: “In a two-part experimental journey, the work examines the formative moments when we first recognize our desires and develop the autonomy to express them…Dorchel navigates a home environment where objects become metaphors for the emerging weight of consciousness of a NYC upbringing, where one is influenced by their environment…”
From the moment we step into Center for Performance Research (CPR), we are immersed in Dorchel’s layered world. Hakeem Olayinka's art installation greets us in CPR’s gallery, ultimately leading us back into CPR’s dance space. Immediately my eyes dart to a pile of scattered yellow MetroCards lying beneath a banner that reads, “Honor yourself for showing up… Take moments to pause, breathe, and go in…” The space bursts with intimate objects reminiscent of a bedroom: family photos, cups, bowls, candles, and newspapers.
Dorchel, standing amongst participants who roam freely through the gallery, tears scraps from a large paper roll and hands them to us. “Write a letter of offering,” she encourages — “to the world, to Black artists, to yourself.” She does not reveal what we will do with the offerings, only that “when the time comes, you’ll know.” Already, we are part of the piece.
Still in the small studio, we spot Dorchel again, seated in a cozy corner on top of clothes and pillows, eating a bowl of dinner. The personal image, reminds me of witnessing someone in their most unguarded state.
Upon entering the larger space, Kneaku Ashae pulses house music from a DJ set. A performance artist, Nailah Murray, sits in front of Ashae, her back turned to us — remarkably maintaining this orientation for almost the entire 90-minute performance. The room holds a curious mix of domestic and nightlife articles: a mirror, a clothing rack like one from a bedroom closet, a ceiling lamp with a white crochet dress hanging from it, and another lamp suspended in the center of the studio.
Dorchel’s presence immediately captivates. When she enters the crowded space, all eyes follow her. Carrying an air mattress and dressed in layered clothing, she begins to peel each piece away as if shedding skins, tossing them into the audience seated in front of the clothing rack. Dorchel crawls, embodying vulnerability, then shifts into spiraling movement — lifting the air mattress above her head and spinning across the studio with it.
Eventually, she places the mattress in the corner. This becomes her room, a sanctuary. She reads from a diary, at first inaudible, her voice soft and reflective. Then, through a microphone, her words come into focus: “Isn’t everything a social experiment? How do we see? How do we see others? I see you seeing me…seeing the version of me…seeing others…” Her questions linger in the air.
Dorchel’s fluid, expressive movement language offers thrilling dynamics. As the work progresses, multiple costume changes reveal new facets of her identity, examined both literally and metaphorically in the mirror. Could she be exploring the different selves she presents to the world? A crochet dress suggests softness and femininity. A shimmering silver unitard evokes spectacle.
A particularly resonant moment unfolds when Murray slips from her seat, collapsing to the floor. Dorchel approaches with tenderness, gently dragging Murray’s limp form along the wall before retrieving the small chair where she had been resting. Carrying it to the center of the space, Dorchel climbs atop it. Then comes the moment we had been waiting for — our offerings. Holding up a woven basket, Dorchel invites us to place our offerings inside. As the basket makes its way around the room, we eagerly contribute our letters. Though the letters remain private, Dorchel places them within the space — transforming it into something more personal, as if we ourselves have been woven deeper into its fabric.
Now wearing wide-legged jeans, a fitted tank top, and sneakers, Dorchel appears especially grounded. In this final look, she exits, trailed by the long-seated Murray — now standing, holding a lamp, and following her. Murray has rooted us in the space, and now leads us out.
In Dorchel’s world, we do not merely observe. We are folded into its seams, where every item breathes memory, every gesture becomes a question, and every offering spools a thread in the tapestry of shared becoming.
