Choreographer-dancer Allen Kaeja grew up working in his father’s Kitchener abattoir, which he describes, without the slightest trace of hesitation or horror, as “a place of wonderment,” and “part of the natural landscape of my youth.” Indeed, he speaks of the killing floor as most of us would the local hockey rink or shopping mall.

Kaeja’s Abattoir — which he conceived with partner and fellow choreographer-dancer Karen Kaeja, in concert with writer Jason Sherman, composer Edgardo Moreno and new opera vocalist Fides Krucker — is about more than his own youth, however. It uses the abattoir as an open metaphor, one standing foremost for things we have intimate connections with but are ashamed or frightened to bring out into the open.

“Abattoir isn’t just a literal manifestation of animal processing but of human conditioning,” says Allen, on the phone from Vancouver where the piece gets its premiere before moving to Harbourfront’s Premiere Dance Centre next week. “We all have our own personal abattoirs. When we started, I explained what my background is, and how I see it. For most people, the abattoir is like a funeral parlour: you only go there if you’re forced to. Most people have no knowledge of abattoirs whatsoever. All they think of is blood and guts, and it’s not that, necessarily.”

Over two years in the making, Abattoir has led its collaborators down a number of fascinating, instructive paths. Krucker, best known for her work with R. Murray Schafer, went to her brother’s farm to familiarize herself more intimately with the realities of raising livestock. Sherman, who liberally adapts what Allen has told him, adds research he’s done on Temple Grandin, the autistic American doctor whose innovative designs — including a “hug machine” and curved corrals — have revolutionized many contemporary slaughterhouses.

For Allen, the lessons of Abattoir are equally vocational. It’s the first time he and Karen — the co-founders of Kaeja d’Dance company — have choreographed together. It also officially unites his career with that of his family, who, he says, took a while to accept him as a professional dancer. Additionally, it marks a critical stage in his development of a unique partnering style, which comes from his roots in Judo and wrestling. He describes it as a “sense of suspension through space” without the use of physical machinery, and the result — two bodies tossing and thrusting each other every which way — suggests both violence and sex.

“Sex can have as profound an impact on your life as being processed,” Allen jokes.
Interestingly, both Allen and Karen are vegetarians or, more accurately, pescetarians (they eat fish). And while Allen’s reasons are purely health-based, Karen’s are ethical.

“She cannot understand the beauty of what I saw in the abattoir,” he says. “For her, it’s repulsive.” But you won’t notice that in her performance. “There are no personal critiques here,” says Allen. “It’s not a negative piece; instead there are moments of revelation. And people go through such moments very differently. For some it’s crisis, for others, catharsis.”