When is the dance over? hand over the money...

Let us pretend:
I have a dance collective.
We dance. We move. We talk and do artsy things together.
We pose questions about movement and stillness.
We pose questions about space.
We pose questions about the human race, and what makes people turn to dance, and what makes people annoyed with dance, and what makes people have a relationship to dance in the first place.
We pose questions about our bodies. Some of us want to get more buff/more toned. Some of us want to feel out sitsbones. Some of us want to understand where the depth of our inhale begins.
We are curious. NOT for the pure sake of being curious...or are we?
Anyone can be curious...being curious, asking questions, asking Why? and Why? and Why? Its a very 2 year old thing to do. Then the sensory and conceptual explorations of these "Why's?" is pretty (to use a word that artists like to throw around for semi-shock value) it is all quite masturbatory.
We want to play and play and play. Foster our creative/curious selves.
This is our job. This is our work.
The final performance is the aftermath of the process.
Even then, in what sense is it final? Is it over: when the last dancer ceases to move, or when the music shuts off, or at a blackout, or when the audience's applaud dies down, or when everyone is out of the venue, or when the last dancer gets paid?
Does the performance not still continue in the pulled hamstring muscle of one of the dancers, or in the mind of an audience member, or the smell of sweat in the pit stain area of the dancers' costumes, or in the fizz of the post-show beer that is bought with the dancers' performance stipend?

If Bob Marley met Sigur Ros...?

I tutor out in Chesterfield, N.J.  It is a good almost hour outside of the city, but I must admit that although I normally hate driving and commuting, the extra 4 hours of cruising there and back on Saturdays and Sundays is a nice, forced chill time.  

There is no traffic on the weekends.  With the exception of coming down 10th street through Philly Chinatown, it is smooth sailing.  I've had great recent karma with traffic lights, probably to make up for all the shitty luck I've had with them before.  As I pass swiftly through them, they shine down at me looking all green and generous.  Each green light reminds me of a bouncer at a gay club.  It is as if I am underage and have a horrible fake id, and the bouncer looks all scary and intimidating, but upon entry and i.d. inspection, he smiles like a big teddy bear, taps me on the back, and says, "go right ahead in doll".  Sweet!  Weird analogy, I know!  But if you know me, you know that I lived my not-quite-21-yet years in the gayborhood.  And you can't blame a girl for wanting to get funky and dance without getting awkwardly grinded upon by the creepy club guys that society apparently breeds at straight dance clubs.

ANYWAY...I enjoy the drive to jersey.  Once I get past the eyesores of strip malls, real malls, shopping centers, and liquor stores, I sail onto 295.  Today I was listening to a Sigur Ros cd (that I semi-stole but plan on returning once I burn it, cause someone left it in the cd player at my rehearsal last night).  I forgot how lovely Sigur Ros is: the soothing piano, and the melodies, and the breath, and the patience and subtle persistence.  They could be so corny, but they are not...especially when you are listening while driving on a highway.  They take you away to a simple place and you don't have the urge to hear a funky beat or electric guitars squealing.  I like that.

Tutoring went surprisingly well.  I am realizing that all the headaches and disorganized Princeton Review scrambling, and all the attempts I've made to wrap my head around this Princeton Review job are paying off.  It really wasn't easy at first...or literally for the first year that I was teaching and tutoring.  I am not passionate about the SAT, but I wanted to still be genuine in my attempts to help kids out.  The job felt very unnatural/inorganic.  I felt like I should be more organized, more serious, and less idealistic and dreamy.  I was semi-right, but lately I've been starting to settle into the job more.  I love that its flexible schedule-wise, I love that it is a challenge, and I love that it has made me a bit more of a grammar nazi than I already was before.  I like the two kids that I am tutoring right now too...which helps.  

So driving home from tutoring, I was super inspired by the country-feel of Chesterfield.  There are vast, snow-covered fields, and barns, and open spaces, and curving roads.  The whole landscape felt nice.  By that point the Sigur Ros cd was on the last couple tracks and was making a lovely soundtrack for the ride.  The whole trip was seeming oddly cinematic and yes I hate to say this because I cringe at moments like this, but it seemed "sympathetic" or "romantic" or some kind of sappy shit.  Hmm...are these the type feelings that start creeping into one's mind at age 23?  Before I know it I'll be hanging up Norman Rockwell paintings ..and making scrapbooks...and saving locks of hair and ticket stubs.  

So as I got closer to Philly, I thought "Enough of this. Maybe there will be some real loud crazy music playing on WKDU."  I switched to FM.  First I got stuck listening to a few amazing oldies tunes.  Then when I switched to WKDU, they were playing LOTS of Bob Marley.  The first song I heard was "redemption song".  It had me thinking about artist's and lack of health insurance (from this meeting I attended earlier this week), problems that people have in their lives, blah blah.  Thanks Bob Marley, you've got me right back to sappy.  Faith in my own semi-coolness was redeemed when I heard and enjoyed, "Buffalo Soldier" and many other lovely hits. I appreciate this chill day, and I wonder what would happen if in heaven or something, Bob Marley met the Sigur Ros crew.  Maybe in the next century, when we are all up there together with nothing to do, I'll arrange a potluck.  Let me know now if you want to be on the guestlist and what you plan on bringing.  Jerk chicken anyone?  And who knows any Icelandic dishes? Not I.   

I guess you've never seen an old lady cry before

The gym where I work is full of old ladies.  I've worked there for almost 4 years, so not only do I personally know each and every one of them, but I have seen them actually grow older.  Its a weird thing...watching people you don't really give much of a shit about grow older.  I mean, I am not a callous, horrible person who crosses my fingers hoping one of the old bags will land her low impact jumping jack on the side of her orthopedic shoe and break her ankle.  Not that.  But my point is, you watch the 4 year development of a boy or girl from age 6-10 or 21-25 and you see so many noticeable changes that you are forced to say hmm... those four years are really something. You say this whether you know the kid or not.  You don't have to be a relative or friend to be inevitably forced to genuinely appreciate the concepts of time and patience.  You are forced to appreciate nature's gradual pace.  But these old ladies and their aging...it is hard to watch.  Most days I don't notice anything, but some days I find myself thinking geez, after 4 years Cecilia is still bragging about her visits to MOMA, Betty is still on her "Grannies for Peace" political kick, Dot is still doing the same damn half-ass sit ups that don't work, Marge is still grumbling and complaining from inside of her pashmina and fur coat...etc.  Their aging seems terribly stagnant, terribly clingy to the past and what was.  I'm not sure what I want to happen...I'm not sure what I want them to do...radically change, become new women, jump ship at age 75, take up motorcycling, divorce their husbands, quit the gym...I don't know.  I guess it is beautiful that time has molded them into the quirky, unbudging, often-crochety old ladies that I have know for 4 years, but it just seems odd.

     I have a favorite though; there is only one, and I have secretly wanted her to be my pretend grandma since I met her: Rhoda.  She is wicked cute, brilliant, and honest.  She is just a class act.  I love that she always brags about her purple Walmart gloves and her daughter who is an artist in New York.  I love how she thinks the world of her children without ever being pretentious, or sentimental, or gushy.  I love how you can tell that she has been through a lot of shit, but knows that although it probably made her stronger, that life is still very uncertain and she is not even close to having all the answers.  I love how she loves Obama and is so excited for our country, but hates how the other ladies squeak and squalk and chirp their political opinions just to hear the echo.  Basically, she is the coolest lady I know.  Every day she rides the stationary bike for 10 minutes, grabs half a styrofoam cup of coffee, and leaves.  We often talk, not for too long, for just long enough.

     Today Rhoda came into the office asking if I could get her coat zipper un-stuck.  It was a bitch of a zipper, as the teeth of it were pretty much shot.  She said she was having trouble with her thumbs, arthritis I guess.  I got it un-stuck, but then when she tried to zip it again, it became re-stuck.  She tried to get it un-stuck a second time, and I was looking at the zipper not at her face when she said, "I guess you've never seen a grown woman cry."  I thought, "sure I have" and remembered when I used to make my great grandmom (Butch) cry when I was a kid and she was baby sitting me.  I would get her all riled up until actual tears would drip down her cheeks, and in retrospect, I can't believe I used to do that!  I think maybe I did it because I actually got some absurd fascination out of seeing a lady of her age, who I was sure had been through soooo much, be brought to tears like an ity bity baby.  But back to Rhoda, I looked up and she was in fact almost crying (I guess because her thumbs were in that much pain and she was also just plain frustrated with the zipper).  I don't know what is profound or special about this, but the whole event has been spinning around my head all day.      

5 screwed up things about "Dancing with the Stars"

I would love to ramble, but this is an exercise in to-the-pointness. Anyone who knows me, knows I usually fail miserably and take 4 hours to talk about something that lasted 1 hour. Yikes! Here we go:

1. If you are dancing "with the stars", then clearly, the dancers and dance as an art-form are not the "star" of the show. I realize the genre of the show is reality tv-ballroom dance competition. I realize that it gives people like my grandma, aunt, mom, and dad a bi-weekly exposure to ballroom dance. I hear them use "dance words" like: grace, finesse, rhythm, coordination, footwork, and partnering to describe the duets they see on T.V. But...what kind of message does the title send??? "Dancing WITH the stars" Who are the heroes here? The stars are the heroes. And more than that, the focus of the show is STARDOM NOT DANCE. There are celebrity (sort of) judges, there is competition, there is the idea of popularity (winners are chosen American Idol-style...by call-ins), and there are pop singer appearances and performances becuase I guess,clearly, the producers don't have faith that glitzy dance will be enough to hold the viewer's attention.
   
2. I'm not saying the show has to be didactic and teach us all about ballroom dance, but AT LEAST teach us something real about work ethics and dance! The ideas of discipline, competition, and hard work are bff's with the artform of dance. Freakin Martha Graham says...hey it takes 10 years to make a dancer! What does that even mean? The conflicting belief system that some hold is that: even if I have never "danced" before, if I put my mind and body to dancing and I begin to dance, well then, shit...I am a dancer. Both ideas are lovely and there are infinite shades of gray that lie between the two ideas. What complex and great concepts to really honestly communicate to viewers, but "Dancing with the Stars" sells us short yet again! If you've seen the short clips that they show of the stars and their professional ballroom dancer-partners in rehearsal, they usually just show the bloopers (ex. someone tripping over her partner's feet). We usually hear the critical, yet sometimes hopeful advice as the professional coaches the amateur star, but that is all we get. Morals learned: "Practice makes perfect" and "Never Give Up!" Any Kindergatener can spit out these basic principles. These are morals for children's books and kids shows, not for adults! Sesame Street teaches more complex values than this.
3. Censorship, SEX, bleh! Why do people do ballroom dance in the first place? Well...I should do my research, but from what I know, Tango is very much about sex, love, and dealing with pain or loss. Then I think of jive, swing, etc. 1920's type dances...jitterbug...and I think woah...they are about liberation, celebration, athleticism, real vigor and energy. No ballroom dance style I've named has been about Fake sex or Fake fun, yet this is all I see on Dancing with The Stars. I see grinding...almost (but then it is diluted with a cutsey smile to the camera or a twirling spin) I see skimpy outfits on the women...almost everyone has cleavage and exposed legs (but it is watered down just enough so nothing is actually erotic). I see pelvises almost touching, but not quite touching. I see men grabbing women's thighs, but the sexual content is kept luke-warm. This bothers me cause sex is something real...It is something that you, me, and the next guy can relate to. As a dancer, who is always interested in sensation, muscle memory, and imagination...I think that sex deals with these ideas in an even more real way than dance.(compare the last time you got some to the last dance class you took...which do you remember more? okay then!). Maybe part of the reason why my grandma, aunt, mom, and dad watch DWTS is because "sex sells", but what's being marketed is some"respectable" censored version of sex that reminds me more of JonBenet Ramsey than a porno. Isn't it hypocritical for someone to watch Dancing With the Stars and enjoy the wealth of boobs, and shaking, and spread eagle lifts and jumps...and then to harshly criticize the bikini-clad girls in Jay Z.'s new video who are backing their asses up toward the camera? What makes us draw lines between what is "respectably sexy" and what is lude. Is it race? Is it fame? Is it socio economic standing? Is it age? I think they all have something to do with it.
4. What is it we can realte to? My dad was making the argument that the popularity of DWTS is great and has even caused some inner city schools to expose the students to ballroom dancing during their physical education classes. I still can't see the good. How is that fair for hypothetical inner city school 3rd grader "A" ? Granted the learning of a dance form is always a positive thing, but do you realize how much money goes into ballroom dancing...how much it costs to actually compete or even continue taking lessons in the real world? If a kid actually wanted to pursue it, do you realize that the cost of the shoes alone would probably buy her text books for one whole year? I'm not saying its impossible, but to me it seems as if the wrong people are deciding what kind of dance to expose these kids to. I don't know much about the ballroom dance world, but I'd like to see the socio-economic standing of most of the dancers in the ballroom community. I am sure it is VERY high. It doesn't seem right that the corporate funders, the companies who advertise on commercial breaks of DWTS, can decide what inner city school children should be exposed to. It doesn't seem right to say, "Here learn this highly competitive dance form that in the real world requires money, prestige, body image, and talent to succeed in. Then go home, flip on the television, and watch celebrities look like heroes on DWTS. You can relate to that??? Right guys???" I wish I could articulate this thought better, but it just doesn't seem right. It feels like these rich people are mainly doing these outreach programs to give themselves another pat on the back.
5. Thats all...I rambled enough on 1-4...so who needs a 5th reason? These are my opinions...they are still morphing and changing, but at least they are some food for thought! Later.

Dancing with the stars

My family loves Dancing With the Stars...
to the point that when I call home when an episode (or even a rerun)is on, they ask me to call back when its over.

My grandma sits on her couch, her heating pad cranked up to soothe her arthritic back. She eats popcorn and drinks some root beer and has a night of pure enjoyment.

My aunt calls her friend in New York after each episode to chat about who got kicked off and how lovely XYZ performed and how ungraceful and cocky ABC was.

My dad dotes over DEF's foxtrot and my mom criticizes the judges for being too harsh on GHI. My dad grabs the remote and cranks up the volume when a good ballad with jazz chords is chosen as a couple's accompaniment. My mom reaches for the remote to bring the volume back down to normal at commercial breaks.

Basically they all really and genuinely dig this shit, and my guess is that they are just a microcosm of a Dancing With the Stars-loving-society.
This leaves me thinking and then mumbling under my breath, "What is this world coming too?"
hmmm...this line sounds all too familiar. Why have I heard that before?

My Pop pop used to say it "What is this world coming to?" about the Beatles and their long hair. A barber,Pop pop was as straight edge as the razors he used. He was pretty sure that long hair would lead to the downfall of the country. But even my Pop pop, I think, if he were still alive, wouldn't like Dancing with the Stars. He'd shuffle past the cable box and flip on horse racing instead, my grandma, all the while, hopelessly pouting and pleading with him to go back to the dance show.

My dad used to say, "what is this world coming to?" to me. I'd be watching MTV Real World, and it never failed. As soon as Dad would walk into the living room the parts where Ruthie was sobbing and squealing out "I just can't do this fucking shit anymore. Its just too much" and then guzzling liquor or the parts where Lindsay and Cara were grinding in the club, or the parts where Jay was revealing that he was Bi-sexual in the hot tub... Dad would always walk in at these moments and would shake his head, roll his eyes, and say "What is this world coming to?" Sometimes he would follow it by saying, "These people are all unstable, and they all have emotional problems. Don't they?"
But Dad, Don't we all?...have emotional problems? Don't we all just want to feel good?

So Dancing With the Stars is a FEEL GOOD show. It is entertainment. It exposes the world...the football loving, un-artsy world that may never experience dance in their day to day life, to ballroom dance. It makes people smile. It makes my grandma forget about her aching back, my Aunt forget that she lives alone, and my parents forget that they are almost senior citizens. So I pose the question to myself:
What is wrong with a show that does this? AND What is wrong with the world that appreciates it? Maybe I am the pretentious bitch for being completely opposed to the show.

I have lots of reasons why I oppose to the show and enjoy thinking of myself as a fairly unpretentious and unbitchy person. I will post them soon.

let me blog about blogging then NEVER blog.

Shit. I have failed miserably. Since January '07, I have failed to blog - failed to put any of my ideas, thoughts, delusions, and schemes to take over the world as we know it online. No worries though...every idea is scribbled somewhere. I'm pretty sure some new idea for a dance is jotted down on a pay stub that has crammed itself between pile #4 and #5.5 in my tiny, messy room. I found the beginning of a poem I wrote on an old NY Times Magazine. I had written all around the actual text, and I had to keep turning the magazine 90 degrees to read the next line as it turned the corner. Maybe I'm just TOOOOO ARTSY to blog...I need my means of expression to be ORGANIC, not forced, FREEing, without structure and guidelines and a damn blinking cursor that bosses me around and tells me where to insert my text. That's right...I insert my text where I want, when I want, and how I want. So there.

But my goal for 2009 is to stop making pretentious bullshit excuses like the one I just wrote. I should suck it up, get over my fear of the blinking cursor, and blog. So then someone other than the little mouse that is cooped up in my bedroom wall can get a peek at my ideas. Although, that gray little pocket-sized creature has, on occassion, crawled up next to my ear while I was sleeping and gratefully whispered things like, "hey, your thoughts on the Ann Liv Young Show delved so deeply into the issues of consent and exploitation in Art. It really struck a chord deep within me." In response to that, I usually say, "Thanks little guy, lets do coffee sometimes and discuss Art, politics, and the ways of the world." By that point he is long gone - scamperred away back into the woodwork.

Here is a beginning of this idea that I have for a piece. How could a site specific piece take place nowhere? What would it be like if no one was in the piece? Or if no one cared about the piece? What if the concept was nothing? What if the dancers felt nothing? What if the audience felt nothing? Here is a story starring: Nothing with a guest appearance by: No one.

This stage is nothing.

Imagine this stage as nothing.

Something is just Nothing playing dress up:

glitzy baubles dangling from Nothing’s earlobes

a gaudy shawl draped around Nothing’s neck.

Nothing.

So bare, so rare , so very hard to come by.

The words “so” and "very" for example, two shiny bead on the necklace in Nothing’s dress up bin

We have tendencies to dress up the page, dress up the stage – the space

We dress up the space: so pure, so empty.

(ah…see how I use two adjectives when one would do)

We tend to make somethings, add layers

We use repetition over over over over over over over over over over over over over over over over over over writing it so many times over and over till the word “over’ looks like it is spelled wrong: so foreign, so queer.

And then there are those layers we tend to add: those layers of controversy, of political incorrectness

Those layers we construct and have no chance of backing away from,

No chance of them not itching like an Irish wool sweater up against a bare breast.

Even in the winter layered with frost and icicles: icicles that would stick to your tongue and rip off a layer of taste buds,

Even then, you’d itch and itch and itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch itch and itch and itch your bare breast so many times that you’d lose confidence in the English language and the way it spells its four letter, queer little words and the way that the violent actions they denote leave your breast red and raw.

So Nothing plays dress up quite often

Tries desperately to layer itself in hopes of becoming something, anything, overthing, itchthing.

It layers itself, plays at being so absurd, so bizarre

Nothing squeezes its feet into paten leather, 6 inch pumps, walks over a sewer grate, gets its heel stuck…

The heel breaks,

Nothing falls, exposing, OH GOD, exposing its somethings, anythings, overthings, itchthings.

No one sees Nothing fall:

No one is around

No one hears it

No one cares

tumbling into the 21st Century

Computers? Blogs? Internet? what am I getting myself into? Give me a good old Dunkin Donuts napkin, paired with a commerce bank pen, matched with a bumpy Chinatown bus ride...and that is my usual definition of a journal. My thoughts get jotted down and then carelessly get shoved in a marble copybook or in the bottom of my purse. So here we go...now my thoughts can end up here to not get lost, and who knows, maybe even get read by a few people.