Distractions

I read an interview many years ago with a Paris Opera Ballet dancer, and she said something I've always remembered. She said that it is very important to escape the dance world. She likes to explore the city, for example, and this is her way of getting away from the stress and the intensity of her work. I have come to appreciate this advice more and more since I read it, many years ago when I was still a student. For me, travel is also a wonderful escape. 

But when you can't travel, and you can't get out of the studio, there's another thing that is a terrific escape: stories. 

In a way, dance is made up entirely of stories. Some are obvious and some are entirely below the surface. Perhaps this is why I find writing stories to be such an amazing experience, one that is able to completely pull me away from the problems and challenges I face in the studio. 

Below you'll find a sample of my fiction, and of a realm that is for me, one of the few things in my life that is entirely separate from my work in the dance world. 

They arrived, Daniel pulling a baguette and brie out of his backpack, Amelia clutching her notebook, gazing up at the museum which rose before them, quietly and determinedly into the gray Parisian sky. In line behind a group of American students, they stood in silence, eating bread and cheese with their fingers. Wordlessly Amelia led him through the crowd in the garden, past the Thinker and the Gates of Hell, and into the main house, towards her favorite statue. 

They paused to admire it, bathed in a pool of pale light from the tall windows. 

'Is it possible to love someone that much?' Amelia asked him, as they stood gazing at Camille Claudel's L'Age Mur statue. The figures in the statue seemed to be moving, falling ever forward before them, the man turning away from the woman's slavish gaze. 

Four years ago Amelia had been taught Claudel's work in a French class. A classmate had asked the same question, skeptical and disbelieving of Claudel's ill-fated existence: "they must be exaggerating, it just can't be true. You just can't love someone that much. Enough to destroy your entire life by your own hand. It's impossible. It's all for the drama of the story."

Their French teacher, a surly blonde woman with a constantly furrowed brow and a strong penchant for running, answered after a moment: "Oh, yes. It is most definitely possible." 

Our young heroine sat brooding over the question as her classmates protested. Finally the French teacher waved her hand and said, attempting a chuckle, "you are all too young to understand." 

Amelia knew that she was not. 

In their English class they had been assigned an anthology. Amelia had a used copy. Each day in English class when Amelia opened her book, it would fall open to the page with Shakespeare's 116th sonnet. 

And each day when class began, Amelia let her book fall open, and read in disbelief the words that meant someone else had been as crazy as she. The words that meant — perhaps only implied, but Amelia was quite certain level — that it was indeed  possible: "love is not love / which alters when it alteration finds / or bends with the remover to remove... / ... "  

It had been months, almost a year since they had split. Daniel had since moved on. There was a girl back home, where he was. And still she sat in English class, away at school halfway across the country, unable to rid herself of the thought of him. But she wasn't crazy. She was in fact quite sane. And it was terrible, painful, and she was ashamed of it. But it seemed to be true. The poem, and Claudel's frightening narrative pointed to the truth of it. 

So when she stood with him, four years later, in front of the statue, it was in disbelief. She reveled in how remarkable it was, looked up into those small, bright eyes and wondered if she dared ask. 

Decideding she would dare, she asked him the question. 

He didn't answer, but stared with her at the statue. And together they watched as the figures fell forward, Claudel's arms outstretched toward the man who would destroy her. 

Staying in Shape While Traveling

At home in New York, I attend yoga classes, run, and occasionally attend fitness classes at Exhale or Refine. But while traveling, without the luxury of attending a class for my workout, and without daily dance classes, it can be a little more difficult to keep in shape.

A lot of people say that running is the ideal way to workout while traveling. I disagree completely. As a young woman in a foreign country, I'm not just going to go running around through neighborhoods I'm not familiar with. I would much rather do these quick and effective workouts at home, and get on with my time off. Here are two apps that make this possible:

1. Pilates Anytime: You can subscribe to pilatesanytime.com for a mere $18 per month (less than one drop-in Pilates class in NYC) and with that subscription comes a lot of benefits, including countless mat workouts you can do on the go. I also use Pilates Anytime at home, but when traveling it is especially useful. When traveling, I select the "Mat/No Props" option, but if I have brought a tennis ball, foam roller, or theraband along, I can select a workout that uses those props. 

If you have access to any real Pilates equipment while traveling or at home (lucky you!) then the Pilates Anytime subscription is definitely worth it, because it provides hundreds of tower, reformer, and cadillac workouts as well. The subscription is, in my opinion, totally worth the price and a terrific option for dancers. 

2. Seven: This app is available for iPhone, iPad, and Android. It is my favorite way to work out when I have very little time and no equipment. The exercises are classic: push-ups, sit-ups, wall-sits, etc. It's a simple workout, and it's very effective.

Cora Dance Review

Shannon Hummel/Cora Dance performed on Saturday, July 12 at 8 pm in tennis shoes and T-shirts on a makeshift lawn, to a smiling collection of local residents of Red Hook, Brooklyn. As onlookers drifted into the performance space, a lot surrounded by buildings and covered with artificial grass, choreographer and director Shannon Hummel greeted many by name, embraced many as if they were old friends. In fact, nearly everyone at the summer evening showing of Cora Dance's combined works, Common Dances, seemed to know each other. 

The ideas behind Shannon Hummel's various new projects are wonderfully idealistic. As her audience ate fried chicken and watermelon served picnic-style from a table in the corner, Hummel explained her choices as a choreographer and her involvement in the Red Hook community. 

Hummel has been creating dance in New York since 1997, but in 2008, when she opened a dance studio in Red Hook, her vision for the company began to change. She wanted the studio to be pay-what-you-can, and as the community began to attend dance classes, Hummel discovered a host of new young dancers. 

Here, she explained, was where the "Common Dances" were born, a series of pieces performed in public. On benches, outside doorways, even in Hummel's car. These performances grew popular, inspiring public involvement. And Hummel's collection of ideals took shape. She spoke to her audience, smiling, of the resulting "impediments to art" and her use of "everyday locations and common human experiences" to create dances. 

For the performance on Saturday, July 12, the entire series of "Common Dances" were to be performed using the space that surrounded the audience. To the right, a doorway. Behind them, Hummel's car. In front of them, an empty picnic table and a bench. 

Hummel's dancers were diverse, a collection from her youth company, four company members, and several adult dancers. An extension of Hummel's idealism, it seems that she is passionate about using dancers who are members of the Red Hook community, as well as using community spaces and community involvement. 

As the audience finished their picnic dinner on blankets spread throughout the space, dancers began to come through them, sitting on blankets and walking slowly among them. Folk music played. The murmuring of the audience became quieter as they watched the dancers, young and old, move through the space. 

Although at first their movements were interesting and engaging, Hummel's idealistic choice of using dancers from the community began to work against her vision. Lack of training and performance experience began to hinder the movement. As the dancers moved through the picnic blankets, they stared blankly into space, and up into the skies. The intention behind their focus was unclear. 

When the audience quieted and the dances began, the lack of professionalism became even more obvious. Conflict seemed to be the sole choreographic motivation. Dancers moving together seemed to be fighting one another. Dancers alone were fighting themselves, fighting the doorway they were attempting to open. Tension was established, but never released. Spoken word was used sporadically, in incomprehensible outbursts, which were sometimes amusing, but oftentimes uncomfortable and forced. 

Hummel created Common Dances with a set of high-minded goals. But just as her dancers seemed to lack focus, Hummel's collection of intentions conflict with one another. While dancing in public spaces is a brilliant way of getting a community interested in dance, and setting choreography on dancers who are not professionals is an admirable undertaking, the two combined do not serve Hummel's best interests. 

At the end of the evening, Hummel admitted to her audience that Saturday's performance was meant as a showing, and that the company was preparing for a January season at BAM. If this is indeed the case, Hummel and her dancers have a great deal of work to do before the new year. 

While this performance lacked professionalism and focus, Hummel's ideals are thoroughly admirable. Her vision of community involvement in dance is one that other choreographers – perhaps those with access to more professional performers – would do well to emulate.

This review is also published on exploredance.com. 

Living Like a "Parisienne"

In Paris I realized something, and voiced it to my companion over bread and cheese in a park near the Louvre: "So basically, what I've learned this week is that Americans don't know how to make food." 

Everything we had eaten, even the croissants from the supermarket we had bought when nothing else was open, was delicious. At the creperie we had watched as the chef squeezed a lemon over our crepes, scraping the seeds off with a long, thin spatula. 

"In America," my companion observed, "they would have squeezed that lemon juice three hours before, and it would have been sitting there. Or they would have just bought pre-squeezed lemon juice. And it's amazing. You can taste the difference." 

We ate our crepes walking down my favorite street in the Marais, rue Veille du Temple, a quiet and lovely line of shops and restaurants. One shop we discovered has nothing but jam. Delicious jam and honey in every flavor you could imagine, including Apricot Lavender, Pear Vanilla, Raspberry Champagne. I bought two sample sizes as presents to take home, and the woman behind the counter wrapped them in brown paper and tied them with a gold ribbon. 

Our apartment, just at the border of the Marais and a neighborhood I am less familar with, Republique, was even smaller than mine in New York. You could cross the room in four strides. My favorite thing was the window. In Paris the windows are all huge, almost as tall as I am, and ours looked out towards Sacre Coeur, a beautiful church on the northern side of Paris, clearly visible and rising over the rooftops. 

We couldn't afford to eat out every night, but I didn't mind at all, when the alternative was choosing something lovely from the Parisian supermarket and eating it at the table in front of the window. We never got tired of that view. Everything from the supermarket was delicious, despite our tiny kitchen and lack of culinary expertise. On our last evening we ate store-bought truffle ravioli, and the whole kitchen was filled with the warm, rich smell of truffle oil. The whole package of ravioli was only three euros. 

And so I learned how easy it is to eat well in a place where the ingredients are so meticulously selected, where food supply regulations are so strict, and people's expectations are incredibly high. In one boutique near our apartment there was a charming poster that read, "Je ne suis pas snob...Je suis Parisienne" meaning "I'm not a snob...I'm a Parisian." 

The cheapest mode of transportation was, surprisingly, not the subway, but the Velib city bicycles. A weeklong pass was only eight euros. So we got to know the city from those bicycles, French traffic speeding along behind us. 

"What are the rules?" I wondered aloud. 

"I don't think there are any," my companion replied. I think he was right. I was petrified the first ride, as pedestrians rarely hear your bell or move out of the way, cars nearly run you over, trucks reverse without looking behind them, and you are forced to swerve hurriedly out of the way, right into oncoming traffic or into the curb. 

You get used to it. By the end of our week in Paris I was smiling and cruising along the bike lane next to the Seine, and yelling, "hey!" at the cars who almost ran me over, and ringing the bell merrily at the pedestrians who still took little notice of us. 

Since our apartment was all the way up on the seventh floor, the air that came through the window smelled remarkably fresh for such a big city, and sometimes carried with it the sounds of our neighbor playing his piano, the people next door's dinner conversation. My companion made friends with a little boy in the window across the way. They would pretened to shoot at one another with imaginary machine guns. The little boy loved it, donned a cape, and started calling out to us in French. We could hardly understand him, but for a few words. He seemed to be rather shy when I came to the window, but would ask about me when I wasn't there, calling, "ou est la fille?" with a smile. 

The language was the only disappointment. My French was better the last time I was in Paris, but still a few people I spoke with seemed surprised we were Americans, but laughed at my companion's attempts at speaking in French. We joked that he always gave us away. What gave me away, which I realized at which point in the conversation people switched suddenly to addressing me in English, was when I got my articles wrong, said "le tartelette" instead of "la tartelette." 

The day we left we walked to Gare du Nord in the early morning, talking and watching the shops open.  A few people were on the street, smoking and talking on benches, in cafes. 

I can't wait to go back. 

Today's Choreographers on the Future of Dance

A tall figure wearing black stands between lines of empty folding chairs. She interlaces her fingers behind her neck, folds her face between her elbows.

From my place in the chairs behind her, I can hear her breath. It is unsteady and uneven. Maybe performing for a small audience in a studio is harder than performing for a packed theater.

The dancer in front of me steps onto the floor and begins dancing in silence. Then ambient music fills the room.

I watch as her movements become steadily jerkier, an elbow, a knee jutting out, her face contorted.

And I lose focus. What is the dancer supposed to be feeling? I start wondering if everyone else in the room gets it. The audience, a silent and diverse row of spectators, watches her patiently. Some have their brows furrowed. Others don’t pretend to be interested.

One man, larger than most of the audience members, with a full beard and a plaid shirt, glances at his watch.

There is a disconnect in this room. How did we get here? How did I get here? Dance used to be understandable. Even at small modern dance shows, I didn’t always feel so lost. 

The studio is on the north side of Jennifer Muller’s loft space on 24th Street in Manhattan. At one end of the space lies an office, a living space, and in the center a bathroom and kitchen. The studio lies at the other end. Tonight, it serves as a theater where emerging dance makers show their work. It is the kind of space you only find in New York, and adds to Jennifer’s charm as a New York City creator of modern dance, and a supporter of young modern choreographers.

The other dance pieces pass in a haze of complex group dances and peculiar use of spoken word. The HATCH Presenting Series, a performance series for young choreographers hosted by Jennifer Muller/The Works, concludes as Jennifer Muller gathers the choreographers in the middle of the studio for a panel discussion.

She looks out at the room, filled for the most part with empty chairs, and back to the choreographers, seated in a line in the middle of the studio. After thanking the miniscule audience for staying to hear the discussion, Muller asks the choreographers a simple, yet powerful question: “Why dance?”

“It’s the one place where I can be truly honest,” one choreographer replies. “It’s the most honest place you can express yourself because – because it’s just you.”

The others nod. Their answers mimic the first. They dance because they learn something about themselves. They dance as a form of self-expression. They dance for personal exploration and self-discovery. 

Muller, a slight rigidity in her voice now, her eye on the rows of empty chairs surrounding us, asks the question we have all been wondering about. “What,” she gives the audience a pointed look, “made it difficult for you to bring an audience to see your work this evening?”

The question is met with blank stares. For Jennifer Muller, a highly respected creator of dance, to ask such a question of these young dance makers is, to say the least, incredibly intimidating. One choreographer, pale and fidgeting, wrings her hands in her lap. Another narrows her eyes at the front row.

“The fact is,” Muller continues after a prolonged silences, her voice growing louder, “that when I have my season at the Joyce, I am responsible for bringing an audience. The theater doesn’t bring people. I bring people.”

I stare at the row of choreographers, willing one to answer.

A girl in the middle, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, finally does.

“Well, for me,” she raises her voice, feigning confidence, “I just wasn’t ready for people to see the piece yet.”

Silence. Blank stares. The choreographer is oblivious to how counterintuitive this sounds to an audience of people who have just paid ten dollars to experience her work. She continues.

“I just think that I am in a place where I am not ready to advertise my work. I just feel like I’m not there yet.”

The girl in yellow nods her head. I watch her incredulously, willing her to disagree. She does not.

“I felt that way too.” I watch as Jennifer Muller’s back stiffens, but the girl in yellow doesn’t seem to notice. “It is definitely a challenge for me. I don’t feel confident enough to share my work.”

Muller can only manage a curt, “All right, then.”

The conversation continues. The tiny audience listens politely. They interject ideas about dance and dance makers and choreography they admire. I remain aghast at the choreographers’ answers.

They dance for themselves. They make dances for themselves. They were hesitant to advertise their work and search for audiences. They felt their work wasn't ready to be seen.

And the result is an empty studio. Rows of empty chairs. A lack of exposure, a lack of recognition, the loss of all the elements that support dance makers in this country – audiences, donors, the press – all lost to the self-centeredness of a young choreographer unwilling to seek an audience because their work is nothing more than personal exploration. 

They would rather keep their dances to themselves. Because their ideal audience is the self, looking back at them through movement. 

It is a truly valid experience. You discover yourself through dance in a way no other practice can provide. But creating choreography is different. 

A man in a plaid shirt makes a brave observation.

“The thing is that to an outsider, the dance world is," he pauses, “intimidating.”

A faint muttering echoes through the studio. The man in the plaid shirt glances adjusts his collar, raises an eyebrow. I stare, incredulous. What kind of a person would say such a thing in a room full of dance enthusiasts?

But he is right. Dance, in New York City especially, has become a small niche filled with dance experts and closed off from the city at large. New York, a place that was once the worldwide center of dance, now hosts a dwindling dance community that refuses to interact with the city at large. Now dance in New York is elitist, for a select few. It’s unapproachable.

And perhaps it is because we have fallen into this trap. We have started not only to dance for ourselves, but to create dances for ourselves, dances that wouldn't be interesting to anyone but us. 

Is it simply the young, barely emerging choreographers who have done so? Do the most successful creators of dance create work for others instead? I decide to head to Brooklyn to see what they might have to say. 

Andrea Miller's new space in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn mimics that of Jennifer Muller’s HATCH event. Folding chairs are lined on a studio floor. Cheerful Ikea lanterns hang from the ceiling.

The space belongs to Andrea Miller's company, Gallim Dance, and mimics her casual air. She sits at the front of the room with Kyle Abraham and Brian Brooks, slumped on a red couch with one bare foot tucked underneath her, the other dangling towards her audience. As if she is at home chatting with friends, and watching television. You wouldn’t know by looking at her that she has become one of New York’s most influential young creators of modern dance in the past seven years.

Abraham and Brooks seem a great deal more aware of their position. Both wear fitted shirts, Abraham’s buttoned up to his neck. They sit like dancers.

Throughout the discussion, Miller’s influence upon them is clear: they begin to slouch, laugh, freely pass the microphone between them. They agree with her on almost everything.

Miller marvels at the loneliness of being a choreographer, faced with the daunting task of fundraising and grant writing. And despite their success, it seems these three influential dance makers are hardly immune to the hardships of creating dance in a place with so little funding. 

All three admit that they write their grants themselves.

“I micromanage,” Brooks laughs, “I had a fight with [my company manager] just this morning. She wanted to do a grant. I don’t have time to do it.”

Miller and Abraham nod knowingly. It seems that time is hard to come by if you have your own dance company.

“She wants to outsource.” Brooks gives a sheepish look at his audience. “I can’t stand it.”

A chorus of laughs.

“I think we’ll be outsourcing,” he adds.

More laughter.

Brooks continues, “I think I was working for many years before I realized I had a business. I went through a mental shift, from dance to business.”

Miller and Abraham nod in agreement. It seems that they have become accustomed to being fundraisers, PR managers, and businesspeople as well as being artists. And yet, when I finally ask them about finding and building audiences, about for whom they are creating work, they seem to have very few answers.

Kyle Abraham answered vaguely that the community of the piece should inform the its advertising. (For Abraham, community seemed to be the theme of the evening.)

“So for example, you have Brian’s incredibly mathematical work," Abraham and Brooks exchange laughs, “and so you approach IBM, or some place that would value that, and you show them.”

Abraham then launched into a proud tour of his own experiences as a choreographer. “I’ve had people come up to me… the work spoke to them.” Community, for Abraham, is when someone gives you a compliment on your work. The idea of using different niche communities to support the dance community is a unique idea, and yet it was clear that Abraham had never actually used it for his own work. And thus it seems that most choreographers, those who are highly successful and those who are just barely beginning to launch a career, are content for dance to remain a niche art form. An art form that only those who are members of that community are able to interact with. 

The other choreographers had little to add. 

The trouble is that if we continue to think of dance in this way, as a functionining niche with no need for outside influences, dance will not survive. There are not many of us. There are not enough of us to truly keep dance thriving. As a community, the niche community that we are, we have a responsibility to change this. Because the reason art is great and the reason art is worth creating is not because it's a private joke between friends, something only a select few understand or value. 

It is for a much larger and more influential group. Which means we have to stop creating dance for ourselves. 

But go on, dance for yourself. In class, during a soaring grande allegro, fly for yourself. But when you create dance, when you are in the studio with a choreographer, think of the community outside of your own. The community who doesn't know or care what grande allegro means, but will take notice of movement to music if it is performed and created with an audience in mind. 

It is our nature as human beings to do so. And dance makers satisfy that need, a need that has been forgotten in today's popular culture. Nobody cares about dance except dance enthusiasts, dance lovers, Alastair Macauley and his readers. 

Let's change that.