3 guys are standing upstage in the center, backs to the audience, shoulder to shoulder.
They begin to sway, left to right. The sway is slow, barely noticeable, but consistent.
There is sometimes so much anger in this space, that it’s hard to contain. It erupts without notice, roars over everything.
Stage left: two guys are facing front and on the diagonal, also shoulder to shoulder.
Stage right, same thing.
The first song fades in.
There is also an openness to joy and to laughter like I have rarely seen. Sometimes it is so big, this openness, this joy, that the human body cannot contain it, and so it spills. This is the moment, when it spills, that we find the ground that holds the anger that can sometimes erupt.
The four move forward on their respective diagonals. They try to move in unison, but don’t always move in unison. The tension and the excitement of the dance is in the trying and the not always getting, the unison. It puts us at the edge of our seats, as we wonder when it will happen: the glimmer of all bodies the same; the falter of those bodies, not. The picking it back up again. The trying. The tension of trying.
There have been times when chairs have been kicked over. There have been times when people have stood up so fast and so furiously, that the chairs they have been sitting on, have toppled. There have been times when people are face to face. Too close, face to face.
This is when I step in, push my way in, say, “Guys. You guys. Come one. Stay with me. Take a breath.”
I always wonder, right before I begin my drive, why do I do this?
Why do I get in my car to drive for 2, sometimes 3 hours, to get to them. I’m barely getting paid. All of us who do this, are barely getting paid, if at all. When things are bountiful, our gas is covered, and maybe a cup of coffee for the road. But not for our time. Not for our effort.
We have all agreed to this - to volunteer. Which is good and which is fine, but still, sometimes, I wonder. What am I doing?
I was there last night, for our final rehearsal for the dance show on Saturday, which only a small handful of people will get to see.
I walked in after my 2 hours plus of driving, and there they all were. Sitting in a circle, waiting to begin.
Someone came over and took my bag and the CD player. Someone else pulled out a chair. Everyone stood up, and one by one I got a fist bump, a hand shake, a high five.
Then they rubbed their hands together, looked at me expectantly, and said, “You ready?”
“I’m ready,” I replied, and we began to dance. I forgot about driving, and I forgot about my wondering, because I was right there with them, and it was so fun.
A few weeks ago, one of the guys was insisting that we add a fight scene to the dance show. We need a fight scene, he said. I kept saying no, no fight scene. We don’t need a fight scene. Too expected, too easy, too much of a stereotype. No.
But he kept insisting and finally I gave in. I said, “Fine. Show me why this is so important to you. Show me what you are seeing. Let’s try it.”
He got everyone to the sides of the room, so that it was just me and him in the middle.
Big guy. Really big guy.
He said, “You ready?” I said, “Yeah, I’m ready,” having no idea what to expect, but ready.
He pulled himself up even taller than he already was, and pointed down at me. As he did, his whole face changed, and in a voice I’d never heard from him before, he yelled, “Get on your knees!”
Everyone sucked in their breath. The silence in the room got sharp.
I rolled my eyes. “Not happening,” I said.
He shrank a little. “It’s not? Why?”
I shrugged, “It’s just not.”
“But we’re in a fight scene. I need you on your knees.”
I shook my head. “No you don’t. Give me something else.”
“But you’re not saying ‘yes and’. You have to say ‘yes and’.”
“Uh-uh. Give me something else.”
“That’s what I was thinking though, that you’d get on your knees and…”
“And what?” I said.
“I don’t know.”
These are the moments in this space when the pivot becomes essential. The talk can go on and on, but I’m more into the pivot: Let’s go somewhere else so the room can breathe again.
“I have an idea,” I said, “You stand on one foot, and I’ll stand on one foot. Neither of us can put the other foot down, ever. K, let’s fight.”
The fury in him that had broken the container subsided as quickly as it had come, and now laughter and silliness was everywhere. Nothing going as it should, the whole thing falling apart, and that was fine.
One of my favorite things to do in this space is to make them laugh. I love when that happens, when the whole room erupts in laughter at something I’ve said or done, most of the time not knowing or planning for it, but all of a sudden they are laughing.
As we struggled to wade through this jumble of a dance last night, a dance that is not ready to be shown, but will be anyway, on Saturday night, this happened over and over again. Me saying something or making some kind of face, them laughing.
As this was happening, I was also wishing I had done all of these things in the dance to make it more crisp, when the guy who told me to get on my knees a few weeks earlier, and who was sitting next to me, watching, said:
“It’s so pretty. This dance is so pretty. We don’t see pretty in here. And now, right now, watching these guys dance. I’m seeing it. I’m seeing pretty everywhere. And it’s emotional.” His voice broke when he said that last sentence.
I looked at him and saw he had tears in his eyes, watching everyone dance. I looked back at the dancers, and that’s when I saw it too, saw the pretty, and that pretty washed over all of my mistakes and misses, in this dance we are sharing on Saturday, with the smallest handful of people, watching.
Then there was a moment when no one knew what to do, and I whispered to him, “What do you think should happen right there? What instruction should I give?”
He immediately whispered back, “Flowers. Tell them they are in a field of flowers. That they are leaping through a field of flowers.”
I said, “Great idea! Since it’s your idea, you tell them that.”
“Yeah?” he said. “You want me to say it?”
“Yes,” I said, “I do.”
He gave me a huge smile, stood up and bellowed, “You guys! Imagine you are in dresses! Summer dresses! (that was a surprise). Leaping and spinning, in a field of flowers! Do it! Do it now! Leap and spin!”
They leapt and they spun. A few of them held onto the hems of their imaginary dresses, flaring them out. One guy started to tip toe through the tulips, while another delicately blew the fluff of a dandelion.
The flower dance, in summer dresses, was heartfelt, earnest, and full.
This dance we will share on Saturday is still not ready. There are bumps and there are lulls. Fumbles abound.
But this dance, this not quite there yet dance, reminds why I get in my car and make this drive each week, sometimes twice.
Over and over I get in my car, and I arrive, I arrive, I arrive, because in the roaring anger and the obliterating fear, this is also a certain and specific pretty that happens, that can only happen here.
A pretty that breaks it all open, invites us all in, then gives ground, for us to spill.
One more photo of The Shop, because it is here where I am finding my way into a new sort of solitude. Lolo napping where the wood stove will be put back into its original place, soon.
xo
Joanna
You are an exquisite teacher and artist. “Show me why this is important to you.” I’ve got to remember that line, lol. Then your clear NO, And masterful PIVOT. I wish my students could see this. I think this is the kind of practice that keeps the work honest. These are the dances that matter. The ones that defy critique because they are created with and by the communities that care. Yet you insist on making ART. Art that no one ever sees, but actually accomplishes what we hope, or at least I hope, our dances can do, which is to make an impact, or at least make the world a bit prettier. Thank you for sharing.
glen would be amazed and thrilled at how you’ve transformed that space. so fast. so completely. he’s reincarnated.