Begin Again: Dealing With a Spoonful of Setbacks

Just for today, this column is not what I planned it to be. In an unexpected (or entirely predictable, depending on when you ask me) turn of events, I am not feeling good.

How did we get here? How did we go from doing so great that I pitched a comeback story to the preeminent dance magazine in the country to crying on the studio floor? To answer this question, I need to explain “The Spoon Theory,” a term coined by a blogger with lupus named Christine Miserandino.

It goes like this: Imagine you have 12 spoons in your hands—each visually represents a unit of energy. When you’re chronically ill, everything you do takes more energy (spoons) than it takes the average person. Showering takes a spoon, commuting to the studio takes a spoon, a dance class might take three spoons. This pattern goes on and on until there are no spoons left in your hand. You might be able to reach over to the table next to you and borrow a spoon from the next day, but then you will have fewer spoons to use tomorrow. Eventually, if you keep depleting your spoons, you will run out and crash completely.

Over the past year, I have planned my days meticulously, slowly adding more physical activity to my plate only when it can match the additional spoons I’ve been given through improved health. Unfortunately, with my last column, on training, I did too much and ran out of spoons. I didn’t crash completely, but I started seeing shades of my old symptoms, like fatigue, inflammation, migraines and nausea, creep up, and I had to do something about it.

I took a few things off my plate (RIP Dance Spirit editor position), prioritized sleep (9 pm bedtime for the win), told myself it was okay if I couldn’t make it to ballet every day (at least for now), and tried to give myself grace during class when I was able to be there. In a Dance Magazine article on returning to dance post-injury called “When the Body Betrays,” sports psychologist Dr. Alan Goldberg says recovering dancers should keep their focus on the progress they’re making. I can’t realistically expect my body to be able to move the same way it did when I was 18 years old—that is setting myself up for failure.

Honestly, I’ve been pretty disappointed. When I was a young dancer, a teacher once told me that a day off in dance was like a week off in any other passion. Although this is a myth that’s been debunked (taking time off can actually be a great thing for your dancing!), those words have still haunted me every day for the past nine years. I didn’t want to take two steps backward, even if just for a month. I wanted to go full throttle—to chase my big plans.

Thankfully, though, the decision to be respectful of my body’s physical boundaries has paid off, and I’m beginning to feel better. And if the past year has shown me anything, it’s that it’s never too late to try again.

As many dancers return to their first big runs of performances like Nutcracker and other holiday shows since the onset of the pandemic, I’d imagine some of you might also be realizing that dance is taking a bigger toll on you than it used to. It’s terrifying to be in a new body with new physical and emotional challenges. Let’s give a little space to the need to prioritize recovery, listen to our bodies and acknowledge that progress is not linear.

So that’s it for today. No milestones. Nothing flashy to show. Just a spoonful of setbacks to push through. That’s life, right?

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Robert Battle at Full Throttle

When you’re enjoying the easygoing, joke-telling manner of Robert Battle as the welcoming emcee of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, you might not realize there is a ferocious choreographer underneath all that charm. To celebrate his 10 years as artistic director, at New York City Center on Tuesday night the company presented seven works Battle’s created over the last 22 years. Each one held bold surprises—even for those of us familiar with his work.

At the Dance Magazine Awards the previous night, Judith Jamison, in presenting the award to Battle, said, “I love watching Robert’s bravery.” I think she meant both his bravery as a choreographer and as an artistic director. As the latter, he has expanded the Ailey repertory with so many interesting choices—Aszure Barton, Wayne McGregor, Johan Inger and Kyle Abraham—that we tend to forget about Battle himself as a choreographer.

A bare-chested Asian man jumps straight up into the air on a dark stage, his expression surprised, arms gently bent out to the sides
Kanji Segawa in Robert Battle’s Takademe. Photo by James R. Brantley, Courtesy AAADT

Well, the program at City Center reminded us in a big way. Robert Battle is a choreographer of masterful restraint and sudden explosiveness. He is a choreographer who has definite musical tastes and finds a different, original movement vocabulary for each of those music choices.

With a disciplined sense of suspense, he makes us wait for the big moment. In Mass (2004), a devotional piece of skittering, swirling and vibrating and a modernist sense of design, the 16 dancers sometimes lock into off-kilter positions of stillness. And then a burst of momentum pushes these monklike figures across the stage in an agitated, unstoppable herd. In his portion of Love Stories (2004, originally a triptych with contributions from Judith Jamison and Rennie Harris), we crave to be carried on a high by Stevie Wonder’s songs, but Battle reins the dancers in with strict unison until the very end, when he unleashes a torrent of wild revelry.

In Unfold (2007), the extreme attenuation for the woman—in this case a ravishingly arching Jacqueline Green—is sustained throughout this short work to the operatic voice of Leontyne Price. Green’s partner, Jeroboam Bozeman, seems like a lost soul clinging to his memories. With a slow développé to the side, toes pointing upward, Green hits the high note just when Price does. It’s the kind of satisfying convergence that Battle is careful not to overuse.

Jacqueline Green and Jeroboam Bozeman in Robert Battle’s Unfold. Photo by Paul Kolnik, Courtesy AAADT

The evening’s emotional range went from the desperation of In/Side (2008)—which finds Yannick Lebrun staggering and spiraling to Nina Simone singing “with your kiss life begins”—to the giddiness of Ella (2008), in which two dancers (Renaldo Maurice and Patrick Coker) physicalize Ella Fitzgerald’s speedy scatting that ricochets between popular tunes of the 50s and earlier.

The work that premiered this season, For Four, laced its full-bodied jazz moves with chaîné turns and cabrioles, and somehow it all fit into the robust Wynton Marsalis score. The projection of an American flag onto one dancer seemed to suddenly curtail the dancers’ freedom and make them feel trapped.

Takademe (1999) never fails to excite. With crackling energy, Kanji Segawa mirrors Sheila Chandra’s staccato stutterings, deep exhalations and vocal spurts. A brief, enchanting masterwork, Takademe is where language, voice and movement mingle—at top speed and intricacy.

In his opening speech to this program honoring him, Battle graciously pointed out that David Parsons gave him his first chance to choreograph, and he, Battle, has given Jamar Roberts his first chance. And so the chain of extraordinary artistry continues.

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Op-Ed: Please Stop Weighing Dancers

On what began as an ordinary day in early fall, I and the other dancers in my pre-professional ballet program were told that we were going to be measured by the costume shop in anticipation of our upcoming Nutcracker performances with the company. We were lined up in a hallway that led to the open common area of the building. And one by one, we stepped forward to face the measuring tape. As each of us was measured by an assistant costumier, the numbers were recited out loud and written down by another member of the staff sitting at a table nearby. Efficient, yes. And then we were asked to step on a scale, and just as with the other measurements that were taken, the numbers were read aloud. And we, the teenagers with big aspirations for careers in ballet, listened to those numbers and took mental notes.

This moment was more than 15 years ago. Despite my own efforts to address mental health issues in dance, I have tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that something like this would certainly not happen today.

But recently, a colleague who also advocates for the well-being of dancers shared a story with a group of dance medicine professionals that one of her dancers was weighed in front of her peers. I expected total shock from the group, but what poured forth was absolute confirmation that dance institutions are still weighing their dancers.

Why does this practice continue to be accepted? You can decline to be weighed by your medical doctor. But dancers line up without question to have their weight recorded by artistic staff with zero medical training.

I beg an answer to the question “Why do you need to know?”

“You need to fit the costume.”

I don’t believe that harm was intended by the people who lined us up and weighed us that afternoon. But intention is not the absence of harm. There are real reasons that a costume shop would need the measurements of dancers prior to a performance, but the way this was done led all of us to deliberately compare our numbers to those of our peers. There was chatter in the dressing room for days—beautiful and thin girls wondering aloud how they could “fix” those numbers. Plans were made for special diets and workout routines. We all knew now where we stood compared to our rivals, and weight was the primary concern. At that point in my life, I was still a skinny child; my weight had never been an issue, but just hearing these conversations made me realize that it was an intrinsic part of my value as a dancer.

But, truly, do you need to know the weight of every snowflake in the Nutcracker to assign them the correct costume? You don’t. In fact, most costumes are made to accommodate many dancers, with rows of hooks and eyes that make them fit a variety of bodies.

The one exception is if a company needs to fly a dancer onstage: It is reasonable that production professionals might need to have an estimated weight to make one of Dracula’s brides soar. Even then, it depends on what kind of fly system is used.

“We are worried about your health.”

The death of Boston Ballet dancer Heidi Guenther
from complications related to an eating disorder in 1997 created a huge shift in the way dance companies and schools considered the dangers of an eating disorder. I remember well the summer that she died. I was at an intensive and we all sat huddled around the TV in the common area stunned at the news. After her death, there was a noticeable shift in the summer intensives that followed. There were hour-long seminars with nutritionists, some schools even had the presence of mind to bring in a mental health professional to speak. But it felt then, and continues to feel, like many of these gestures are liability management. The way our bodies were spoken about by teachers, and the practice of weighing dancers, continued.

When I ask dance leadership about the practice of weighing dancers, or even asking for weight on an application, I often hear “We want to make sure that they are healthy.” Dancers are at least three times more likely than the general population to have an eating disorder, and those statistics don’t take orthorexia and other disordered eating habits into account. The concern for the prevalence of eating disorders is far from unfounded. But a person does not need to be “too thin” to have an eating disorder. Eating disorders manifest in every kind of body, not only in the lightest dancers.

One of the most common reasons that dancers are currently weighed by their school or company is to participate in a competition. The competitions request this information, we can assume, for the purpose of not allowing dancers who are not well to perform. In the most well-meaning of intentions, they may also be trying to bring awareness to the adults around them when a dancer has become too thin. But who collects this information matters. Again, your weight is private medical information. To be asked for medical forms to be provided by your doctor confirming your fitness to dance is one thing; to have teachers and directors collecting your weight and other medical information is completely inappropriate. And an eating disorder should be prescribed by a mental health professional, not your dance teacher.

“The boys need to be able to partner you safely.”

Recently on social media, I saw a comment posted that a dancer’s studio would not allow students who were over 120 pounds to participate in partnering class. The reason for this was to prevent the men from injuring themselves. The disparity in expectations for male and female bodies in dance is huge, and women are routinely reminded of their subservience to the male dancer, who is harder to find. If the reason for concern is the physical wellness of the male dancer in partnering, then why are male dancers not asked how much they can lift or bench-press?

I find this argument for needing to know the weight of female dancers the most nefarious. It does not honor the woman, nor does it honor the man. I am 5’10” and was capably partnered by several male dancers who were shorter than me. The measure of a great partner is not how much they can deadlift. Partnering in dance is a marvel of physics. It involves timing, force of motion and collaboration. Most male dancers will tell you that the smallest girl in the room is not necessarily the easiest to partner. The best male partners are not those of Herculean strength; they are the ones who understand the science behind what they are doing and genuinely care about their partner. A capable teacher or répétiteur can help a partnered pair accomplish what is needed. And choreography can be adapted and changed.

Men are also not immune to the harms of weighing dancers. Some of the worst eating disorders I’ve witnessed have been among male dancers. The requirement to be strong enough to do what is asked while also being lean enough to fit the mold is true of all the sexes.

It’s Time for Change

The practice of weighing dancers can create lasting damage. To this day, when I am weighed at the doctor’s office, I stand with my back to the scale. When I am confronted with a form asking for my weight, I either guess or leave it blank. It is a small act of self-care. For a long period of my formative years, I thought of my weight as a measure of my value. There is no height-to-weight chart that exists that is a true measure of your fitness as a human, or a dancer. The BMI was developed with little regard for muscle mass, was normed on white bodies and was meant to be used to look at larger trends rather than individual health.

I was recently asked by a leader at a college dance institution what I thought of the practice of asking dancers for their weight. My response was the same question I posed earlier—”Why do you need it?”

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Heels Over Head: 5 Tips to Get More Comfortable With Inversions

“Being upside down is important to me,” says Pavan Thimmaiah. After all, an image of an upside-down dancer in a freeze is the logo for his New York City–based PMT House of Dance studio.

And yet, when Thimmaiah was younger, he was so unsure about being upside down that his mother, attempting to help, would sometimes hold him by the ankles to get him comfortable with the feeling.

Indeed, going upside down can be intimidating—whether it’s the fear of falling, the rush of blood to the head or just the disorientation of seeing the world from a different angle. But “if you can go upside down, it provides you more options to express and to move without limitations,” says Thimmaiah. And that’s not just for breakers—modern dancers need this tool for inversions, for instance, and ballet dancers for partnering.

So what does it take to become as confident moving upside down as you are right side up?

Go Back to Basics

The headstand and the handstand are perhaps the most basic versions of being upside down and are thus a good starting place. That’s why Gus Solomons jr would include a “handstand day” at the beginning of the semester for his contemporary classes at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts and would have students practice them in class throughout the year.

If handstands sound intimidating, start with a headstand, says Thimmaiah. With your forearms in a tripod configuration with your head, gradually raise your legs from a coiled position (knees starting near your elbows, then straightening up). When you’re ready, you can progress to a handstand using a wall for support. Your arms should be straight, about shoulder-width, and fingers spread. Engage your core and glutes to keep your legs and back straight, says Thimmaiah.

Once you’re stable enough to remove your legs from the wall, play: Open and close your legs, or try moving one hand off the floor, paying careful attention to the changes in balance and counterbalance. “It’s a place where you can explore movement,” Thimmaiah says. “It’s not simply a position.”

Conquer Your Fear

Mastering inversions can be as much a mental game as a physical one. If the idea of being upside down scares you, exposure therapy might help. Start with positions that don’t require you to hold up your own weight. While not everyone has an inversion bed, as Solomons does, yoga poses like fish can get you used to having your head upside down while the rest of your body is safely on the floor.

“Look at the movement and break it down into smaller steps,” suggests Amanda Donahue, an athletic trainer at the Joan Phelps Palladino School of Dance and School of the Arts at Dean College. She recommends calming pre-inversion jitters with breathwork or meditation. “If you can control your breath, that’s going to help downregulate your nervous system, so you can be more relaxed and engaged.” A spotter or floor mats can also be used to help you feel safer, she says.

Consider the Benefits

Even if your current work doesn’t call for being upside down often, it’s still a valuable tool. “It’s a way to diversify yourself as a dancer,” says Thimmaiah.

You may be experiencing inversions without even realizing it. “There are many ways of being upside down,” Thimmaiah says. “If you can do a cartwheel, you’re upside down, so it’s a matter of figuring out how that translates.”

Yes, it’s even true in ballet. “Balleri­nas are always getting thrown upside down,” says Solomons. “It’s even more critical for them to get comfortable being every which way in space. You’re training your body to do all it can do, and upside down is another possibility. When you get there, you can get used to the idea that seeing the world right side up is not all there is.”

Take it Easy

Being upside down can be especially difficult for people who have low blood pressure, says Donahue. If inversions are making you light-headed or dizzy, take a break, and be sure you’re well-hydrated next time you attempt them.

3 Exercises for Safe Inversions

Upper body, core and grip strength are key to going upside down safely and confidently, says Donahue. She recommends these exercises:

Plank variations:
Start by maintaining a plank position with proper alignment for up to a minute. If you can do that well, try a plank pike, using either socks or sliders to allow the feet to slide towards the hands, lifting the hips up to the ceiling and controlling on the way back to plank. To progress this exercise, you can twist the hips toward one shoulder to engage the obliques. Alternatively, you can lift one leg into arabesque and slide in just one leg, or try placing your feet on a physio ball to shift more weight into the hands.

Farmer carries: With a moderate or heavy dumbbell in each hand, stand tall and walk for 20–40 yards, or 30 seconds to a minute, as if you are carrying heavy grocery bags. Increase distance, time or load to make it harder, or try it with all of the weight in one hand.

Isometric hangs: Use a chair to grab onto a pull-up bar and hold yourself in a pull-up position, making sure that your back is not arched, building up to 30 seconds. You can also hold the down phase of the pull-up, with your arms fully extended.


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Begin Again: Figuring Out How to Train on a Budget

At 18 years old, when illness dragged me kicking and screaming off of the stage and into my bed, I felt as though I’d lost myself entirely. The physical pain was stunning, sure, but it was the loss of dance, of what I saw as my identity, that I struggled to cope with.

Now, with nine years of life and my illness (mostly) behind me, I’m returning to dance with a whole new perspective—one that is centered on seeking out happiness.

When I find myself disappointed by slow technical progress, or anxious about my odds after nine years away, I ask myself, “But is it fun?” As ABT principal Devon Teuscher told me in a 2018 interview for Dance Teacher, “If it ever stops bringing me joy, I can always give it up and do something else. This job is too hard to do if you don’t love it.”

At 18 years old, when illness dragged me kicking and screaming off of the stage and into my bed, I felt as though I’d lost myself entirely. The physical pain was stunning, sure, but it was the loss of dance, of what I saw as my identity, that I struggled to cope with.

Now, with nine years of life and my illness (mostly) behind me, I’m returning to dance with a whole new perspective—one that is centered on seeking out happiness.

When I find myself disappointed by slow technical progress, or anxious about my odds after nine years away, I ask myself, “But is it fun?” As ABT principal Devon Teuscher told me in a 2018 interview for Dance Teacher, “If it ever stops bringing me joy, I can always give it up and do something else. This job is too hard to do if you don’t love it.”

In other words, I’m working to find joy in the journey.

But that can be a difficult thing to do when you can’t afford it. Over the past year, I have been disappointed to discover how high the financial barrier to entry has become for a professional dance career. Most of us don’t have angel investors offering to fund the training it takes to get stage-ready.

So, I’ve come up with some options for training without completely breaking the bank. Of course, everyone’s financial situation is different. This works for me and my budget; something different will likely work for you and yours.

First, in-person classes are expensive. (As of this writing, most in Manhattan hover around $25.) Six days a week of classes is a major burden (don’t even get me started on the cost of taking multiple per day!). Still, in my opinion, having a teacher in your immediate space observe and correct you is the best way to improve safely and quickly. Plus, you can’t beat the inspiration of watching a room full of passionate dancers doing their best.

I take in-person classes, but only as my finances allow. I reserve those hours for teachers who inspire me, uplift me and correct me, which is exactly what my personal go-to Steps on Broadway ballet teacher Nancy Bielski says to do. “Look for someone you trust, who really knows what they are doing, and who can set your body up to dance correctly,” she says. “That will really streamline the process and keep you safe.”

At the moment, I take two classes per week (three if I’m able to pick up extra work or save in other areas in my budget that week). I’m a bunhead at heart, and I feel my best if I’m prioritizing my classical technique, so I make sure at least one of my weekly in-person classes is ballet. I like to return to the same teacher each week (Bielski) so that she can track my process, and we can build a relationship that leads to more corrections and industry guidance.

Because I’m interested in musical theater opportunities, I like to have my second class fall in that realm. This is where things get tricky: Sticking to the same teacher each week can lead to more corrections and establish a strong relationship, but if you don’t branch out you close yourself off from other amazing choreographers and a broader industry network. My current solution has been to attend class with the same teacher for three to four weeks in a row before shifting to a different teacher for the following three to four weeks. (And I plan to cycle back through the list.) My current musical theater class is Josh Assor at Broadway Dance Center—he brings me joy, and challenges me musically. Next up is Billy Griffin.

A lot of the musical theater classes fill up quickly, so I try to register for them in advance when I can. That said, if I am feeling sick (my healing is not linear), I give myself the flexibility not to take in-person classes that week. If I’m having a hard day and need a class that fits super-naturally on my body or allows me to work through some hard emotions, I will change directions and sign up for a contemporary class. I want to make sure I can get the most out of every class I pay for.

On the days I can’t attend classes in person, I like to take virtual classes through CLI Studios and YouTube. (I used a hefty discount code to get a year’s worth of training from CLI, and it paid for itself within weeks.) Check out this Dance Magazine article to find other places to train online.

Although virtual classes are affordable, once you stack on the cost of a studio rental, you may as well just take regular, in-person classes. (The studio rental space closest to my home costs nearly $50 per hour.) To get around these high fees, I’ve sought out space in a religious community center that often goes unused during the day. The room doesn’t have mirrors or quality flooring, which is less than ideal. So, I got my hands on a vinyl marley roll and a glassless mirror from Harlequin Floors.

Hilton stand in front of a small full length mirror in the community center.
Hilton’s community center studio setup; Courtesy Hilton

I also have a dear dance friend who works at a gym in the city and is allowed to bring friends in during off-hours. Class is always more fun with a friend, so don’t be afraid to ask others if they would like to join you for virtual class and split the cost of a studio rental fee, or have access to a free space of their own.

You might also consider seeing if a dance studio near you has a work-study program that will allow you to take classes at a discounted rate or use the space after hours. And don’t overlook dance jobs that offer company class or class reimbursements as a perk. Even if it’s a small gig, or not quite your style, sometimes the opportunity is worth the training benefits alone.

Since I’m interested in landing musical theater, film and television jobs, my training also includes acting and vocal training. For affordable voice training, I asked around to find a teacher, Rebecca Soelberg, who was both talented and within my budget for weekly voice lessons. I have also joined a semi-professional community choir, called Lux Mea, that rehearses for two hours every Thursday and has been a fun and affordable way to work on my voice.

For acting, I have taken advantage of some pre-COVID classes at The Freeman Studio I was registered for but hadn’t yet had the chance to cash in on. Classes are held every Friday for two and a half hours, and I always leave on a high.

I’m of the opinion that we could all benefit from saving a buck in this industry, but at the end of the day, finances are a deeply personal matter, and you need to find a strategy that works for you as you pursue your own joy. Consider giving some of these tips a try and then go comment what your personal money saving hacks are over on Dance Magazine‘s Instagram—we’re all in this together!

Check out my most recent vlog on Dance Magazine’s YouTube channel, where I take you through a week in my life of training.

The post Begin Again: Figuring Out How to Train on a Budget appeared first on Dance Magazine.


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Inside the Gibney Company’s Radical Reinvention

The Gibney Company is not your average contemporary-dance troupe. The 12 dancers, who are helmed by three directors enacting a model of lateral leadership, go by the title “artistic associate.” As full-time employees, they make a competitive 52-week-per-year salary complete with health insurance, free on-site physical therapy, an annual artistic sabbatical and paid vacation. The company is deeply committed to activism, and part of each artistic associate’s job is to do regular work with survivors of partner abuse, and to design fellowship projects aimed to fill a particular need in the community.

The goal of these efforts is to cultivate the dancers as leaders, activists and entrepreneurs—a radical step in an industry that has for so long called professional dancers “boys” and “girls.”

When Gina Gibney founded her single-choreographer pickup troupe, then named Gibney Dance Company, in 1991, she never could have imagined that 30 years later it would be doubled in size; financially secure; housed in a thriving, community-centric organization; and poised to make its Joyce Theater debut. But while many would see this as a pinnacle, Gibney thinks of it as the start of something new. “This is the beginning of a very clear, dynamic and forward-focused future,” says the founder, artistic director and CEO.

Two dancers grab each other's shoulders, reaching away from one another with their hips, free arms outstretched
Rehearsing Alan Lucien Øyen’s premiere Shantel Prado, Courtesy Gibney

Making Space for Others

Walking around New York City, it’s easy to spot contemporary dancers by their black tote bags bearing the phrase “Making Space for Dance.” This is the longtime tagline of Gibney, the umbrella organization which houses the company as well as an ample schedule of open classes, presenting programs, training residencies, video assistance, lecture series, a digital journal and partnerships with 11 other arts organizations.

“Making Space for Dance” is also an ethos that Gibney herself has held on to since her early days as a choreographer. Just a few years after arriving in New York City from Ohio in the early 1990s, Gibney leased a permanent home for her troupe: Studio 5-2 in 890 Broadway, the historic dance building that also houses American Ballet Theatre.

“It was never just our studio, but it became a space for the dance community,” remembers Gibney. “Seeing our colleagues fill it and animate it was such a fortuitous beginning.” Though Gibney Dance now boasts 23 studios, including three performance spaces, spread across two locations, Gibney’s never stopped keeping her eye on what the field needs—even if that means stepping out of the way when necessary.

“The best thing I learned from Gina is to make an oppor­tunity for the person beside you as you make one for yourself,” says Amy Miller, one of the company’s directors. It’s this mindset that’s allowed the company to remain flexible through so many iterations.

Until 2014, the company was dedicated to performing Gibney’s own work; for a decade this was done with an all-female ensemble. But as the organization continued to grow, Gibney knew it was time to take on a new role. She stepped away from choreography and day-to-day operations, and instituted Miller as a director. In 2017, Nigel Campbell became a director as well (both Miller and Campbell still perform with the troupe).

Today, the team works in a lateral structure: Campbell focuses on rehearsal direction, Miller spearheads the company’s community action, and Gibney oversees commissions and main-stage curation. All three believe that shared decision-making leads to more equitable choices, yet acknowledge that working together does take more time. “For me, shared leadership is a microcosm of activism in and of itself,” adds Miller.

Since transforming into a repertory company, the group has worked with dancemakers including Bobbi Jene Smith, Shannon Gillen and Shamel Pitts. “I feel like Gina is still choreographing, she’s just choreographing in real estate and in culture and in relationships,” says Miller of the shift. Gibney agrees: “Being founded as a choreographer-led company has informed everything about how our organization has grown. But during this period of rapid growth, I very intentionally let that go and turned to another chapter.”

“Like a Lightning Bolt”

Gibney refers to her original goal of directing a dance company as a small (“but important”) dream. But the intervening years have allowed her to dream on a bigger scale than she’d ever thought possible.

In January of 2020, the company received a new opportunity to do so in the form of a $2 million gift donated by philanthropist Andrew A. Davis. Gibney thinks of the gift “like a lightning bolt”: The company has since doubled in size, hiring six new dancers in the past year, including Rena Butler as a choreographic associate, and bringing in a general manager to help with the day-to-day.

This rapid growth is what’s allowing for the company’s Joyce debut, scheduled for November 2–7 and made up of three world premieres by Butler, Sonya Tayeh and Alan Lucien Øyen. The program will mark Butler’s Joyce choreographic debut and the first time that the work of Øyen, who’s based in Norway, will be seen in New York City.

“We’re excited by what the Gibney Company can do because they’re bringing in new names, which is a way for our audiences to be introduced to choreographers we might not be able to take the risk on ourselves,” says Aaron Mattocks, the Joyce Theater’s director of programming.

After a 30-year legacy performing in smaller venues, making it to the Joyce stage is a triumphant announcement to the dance world that the Gibney Company is more than just a studio ensemble. The donation is also enabling them to start touring, plans of which are still in the works.

Two dancers lift a third above their shoulders as she arches her head back, one leg extended to the sideRehearsing Sonya Tayeh’s premiere Shantel Prado, Courtesy Gibney

Focusing Outward

While much has changed for the Gibney Company in the past year and a half, the troupe’s commitment to advocacy and activism has remained steadfast. Since the company’s founding, Gibney has braided work with survivors of domestic violence into her work in the studio. Today, artistic associates are trained by social workers and therapists to understand how trauma impacts the body, and how dance can be used as an intervention, in order to work in the community. They also each take on a Moving Towards Justice Fellowship, leveraging the Gibney organization’s resources to respond to the needs of the dance field. Two that currently stand out to Gibney are Jesse Obremski’s Our Paths, a multimedia online platform that cultivates leadership through empathy, and Leal Zielínska’s Okay, Let’s Unpack This, which provides free therapy and other mental health resources for dancers.

After years working for dance companies where he was asked to leave himself at the door each day, when Campbell first joined the Gibney Company as a dancer in 2015 he felt like all the disparate parts of himself were finally coming together. “I’d always loved dancing, but I knew I had something to say, and I didn’t necessarily know how to say it or have the platform to say it,” he says. “Here it’s a 360 model where we are advocates and entrepreneurs and dancers, and all of that is part of our job description.”

Dance requires a lot of focus on the self, but the outward-facing nature of the artistic associates’ roles allows for a company culture focused on radical honesty, risk taking and what Miller refers to as a “softened” sense of competition.

“This is a grand experiment, and that’s exciting to me,” adds Campbell, continuing in Gibney’s spirit of open-minded adaptability. “We don’t know what this is going to be, which means our potential is unlimited. Our work is to show up every day as a company and say yes to the possibility of what this experience has to offer to us as a company, to the field and, really, to society.”

The post Inside the Gibney Company’s Radical Reinvention appeared first on Dance Magazine.

How Dance Experts Are Reimagining the Post-COVID World

The lurch of conflicting COVID-19 guidance has wildly shifted how we occupy space with one another. Our collective improvisation through the “coronasphere” (as scholar Kate Elswit brilliantly named it) has been subject to an onslaught of rules, reversals and regulations.

As part of a shared research project with Dr. Heidi Boisvert and Melissa Painter through the Guild of Future Architects, we spoke with a number of dancers, choreographers and scholars thinking through the ramifications of COVID on our lives, and what comes next. What we found was galvanizing and unsurprising: that dancerly folks are abundantly contributing to the reimagining of civic and cultural structures in anticipation of an eventual, post-COVID moment.

Kate Elswit, Reader in Theatre and Performance, The Royal Central School of Speech and Drama

“Simple respiration data doesn’t capture people’s breath experience. When the pandemic came, experiences of breath changed the extent of our bodies. People were talking about how their world was getting smaller, but actually the big issue was as you’re walking the street, as you’re walking in the grocery store, that your body was bigger. So how do we start to train ourselves to engage with that heightened feeling of breath when others are in proximity? That’s already a social choreography.”

Elswit throws her head back, mouth open in front of a pier

Courtesy Elswit

Sara Wookey, Dance Artist, Researcher and Consultant

“This time has really thrown up a great opportunity to look more closely at something that is always there. It’s not just a relational practice; it’s this real ability to be in the room together with others and to create a sense of connection and belonging. Dancers have something to offer here.”

Black and white headshot of Reiner looking resolutely at the camera, long hair loosely behind his head and a beard growing in

Courtesy Reiner

Silas Riener, Performer, Choreographer and Teacher

“It would be deeply comforting to seek solace and certainty in the foundations which built the work and artists of the 20th century, and the innovation of the early 21st. I feel the momentum to return, to get back, to go back, to be back. Maybe that is part of an insidious collective delusion. It’s so seductive to return to what was, but there was so much wrong. I suggest we take advantage of this moment to be aware, to be better. This is a moment of unlearning, of undoing. We are traumatized, we are brand-new little babies. We don’t know how to do anything.

“For those of us who teach and touch down in the university (and move through the reality of freelancing and making our own work), the empty promise of releasing young artists into a field we all know cannot support and employ most of them feels more hollow than ever. We rely on young artists who graduate to define the field. We hope they break the mold. We hope they find ways to live, but I worry we are not being honest about the tools we give them.

“I don’t have answers, I only have questions. Restlessness, uncertainty, unsettled-ness drive the works that feel the most important to me. So with utmost suspicion—and reverence—for the power of the past, I offer you Merce Cunningham, who said before nearly every class, ‘Let’s begin again.’”

Vanessa Chang, Senior Program Manager at Leonardo, The International Society for the Arts, Sciences and Technology

“What does it mean to move or not move in the world? The last year has called attention to who owns place and space. It’s very important to me to attend to the specificity of location, and work that does that, and that can invite people to move through it. Artistic practice can invite a different form of moving through that sustains attention that isn’t just spectacle. I think we really need to invite reflection.”

Headshot of a dusty blond with cropped hair looking at the camera with a closed mouth smile

Courtesy Chang

Teena Marie Custer, Street Dance Theater Artist in Pittsburgh

“I think there were already cultural shifts happening in how concert dance was presented even before COVID-19. The circumstances that exist now will give the concert-dance community a chance to reassess equity in terms of who and what is seen.

A woman balances on one hand on concrete as her legs fold above her body, her free hand grabbing her back ankle

Courtesy Custer

“Although I feel that humans will always have a need for live interaction with an audience (I have felt this through the absence of my street/social-dance community), we have normalized watching dance virtually, from TikTok to The Joyce livestreams. After having all my touring work canceled or moved to a virtual platform, I am reassessing what skills the new generation of dancers will need to navigate the new normal.”

Jessi Stegall, Dance Artist and Graduate Student at Harvard Medical School

“During the height of the pandemic, many members of the dance community found themselves out of work, questioning the sustainability of their role as artists, and considering, perhaps for the first time, the ever-present boundaries of their work. As someone who is consistently grappling with my own duality of ‘artist’ and ‘nonartist,’ I resonate with the seemingly mass identity crisis.

“This is not an obstacle—it is an opportunity to dig deeper into values. Let’s reestablish our communal and individual values of creative making. What does it mean to flourish as a dancer? As an artist? As a human? As writer and choreographer Andrew Simonet so eloquently puts it, ‘It’s better for the world to keep your mission and change your tactics than if you lose your mission and keep making art.’”

Headshot of short-haired brunette looking at the camera, with long earrings and a fuzzy beige tank

Courtesy Stegall

Ariane Michaud, Lead Producer at The Conference for Research on Choreographic Interfaces

“I used to find that interactions within the community existed in relation to the amount of work and play that we could get in every day. Many conversations revolved around ‘the hustle’ and the constant drive to do more, see more, be more. During COVID, artists, choreographers, producers were able to assess the imbalance that this placed on our lives and on the community as a whole. This pause did not come without hardship, however; taking a moment to reflect on the constant motion has created space to re-enter and re-create according to not only new physical standards but mental and emotional standards, as well.

“What should follow is a restructuring of the ways funding can and should support dancers, choreographers and arts administrators through this shift. The number of career pivots we are already seeing, alongside the fight to elevate the minimum wage, will affect the ways in which we gather as a community. In the current economy, it is no longer enough to do what you love.”

Ryat Yezbick, Assistant Director of the Shared Futures Program at the Guild of Future Architects

“Coming out of social isolation has felt both exhilarating and daunting; being amongst other people again has often left me feeling fatigued from a shared heightened sensitivity to ourselves and each other. To ‘catch up’ with others coming out of COVID is a somatic and emotional experience as much as it is an intellectual endeavor. The physical touch and proximity we were collectively denied, the nonverbal comforts we derive from being amongst each other, now feels like an ecstatic experience full of presence.

Headshot of smiling brunette, chin tilted slightly up, in a button down and a leather purse or backpack strap showing on her shoulder

Courtesy Yezbick

“‘Catching up’ has therefore occurred through long-held hugs or impromptu dance parties, moments in which our bodies can collectively release all of the shared grief through the ritual of shared physical expression. How do we take this heightened presence and care for our inner worlds into all that we manifest in the future? How do we let this newfound sensitivity inform how we relate to ourselves and one another?”

Black and white closeup on Andrea Miller's torso and head, leaning into a male dance partner

Courtesy Miller

Andrea Miller, Founder and Artistic Director of GALLIM

“The threshold of the theater or museum—that’s not where art and creativity start or stop. We’re hopefully entering into a more ready climate to think about creativity and artistry without needing an invitation to enter the theater or museum. I wonder if we’re set up for it in terms of how schools teach dance. It might be a stretch. I’m really excited to see the kind of artistry and creativity that this time has invited people to value and adventure in, because I think that there’s more chances to become part of a conversation. We need strangers to dance. Strangers need you to set the conditions to dance.”

The post How Dance Experts Are Reimagining the Post-COVID World appeared first on Dance Magazine.

What the Reactions to Debora Chase-Hicks’ Death Revealed About Divisions in the Dance World

On May 6, there was a tear in the universe and a void opened up when Debora Chase-Hicks died. For a large portion of the Black dance community, her name needs no qualifiers like “former star of Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater.”

A dance giant fell, and yet, if one paid close attention to news outlets and social media, taking notice of who acknowledged her loss, one could have easily drawn a line between the separate, parallel societies of the “Black dance community” and the larger body that is dance (the implied white being silent).

Indian freedom fighter Jawaharlal Nehru said, “History is almost always written by the victors and conquerors and gives their view.” And Philip Graham, the former publisher of The Washington Post, spoke only truth when he stated “journalism is the first rough draft of history.”

Today all aspects of history are being reevaluated through the lens of anti-racism and equity, and hopefully being crafted anew.

Yet the dance world still mirrors the inequity of the world at large where whiteness is the dominant culture. There are, however, a multiplicity of parallel societies (Black, Asian, Latinx, LGBTQ+, etc.) derived from marginalized communities. They are full and fecund, organically reflecting the value systems of their respective cultures. They crown their own leaders, heroes and martyrs, measured by their own barometer of greatness and excellence developed independently, but in full acknowledgment of the standards of the culture of whiteness.

Chase-Hicks was a game changer, an inspiration, an example for generations of dancers. Her sweet blend of technical prowess, artistry, integrity, grace and humility in classic roles in Talley Beatty’s Stack-Up, Ulysses Dove’s Episodes, George Faison’s Suite Otis, and Alvin Ailey’s For ‘Bird’ – With Love and Masekela Langage as well as the iconic solo Cry, garnered her the respect of her peers.

She was an anchor in a cohort of dancers who raised the standard of American modern dance. In the 1980s, she, along with fellow Philadelphians Gary DeLoach, Kevin Brown, Deborah Manning and David St. Charles, in addition to the likes of Marilyn Banks, Sarita Allen, Donna Wood, April Berry, Raquelle Chavis, Neisha Folkes, Sharrell Mesh, Dwight Rhoden and Desmond Richardson, were some of the final dancers handpicked by Mr. Ailey. It was this generation that set the model that has become the brand of excellence associated with Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater.

Debora Chase-Hicks was a blue blood of the Black dance world, a descendant from the lineage of Joan Myers Brown and her Philadelphia School of Dance Arts and Philadelphia Dance Company (Philadanco).

“Her movement quality,” muses Philadanco alum and recent Guggenheim fellow Tommie-Waheed Evans, “her captivating essence, her stage presence—she was as smooth as ice, so crystal-clear and so consistent. She had a deep understanding of her port de bras and also this deep understanding of what she was doing in space. She could get buck with it, or she could be soft and graceful. She was so diverse. And she was just gorgeous.”

“It was Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater. It was not just ‘American Dance Company,’ ” says Raquelle Chavis, who was Chase-Hicks’ tour roommate and closest confidant. Reflecting on her friend, she says: “She made good choices. That acting, that dance-theater thing—she knew where she was in the space and how she’s going to utilize that space and bring you with her on that journey.”

We speak often of cultural appropriation, but less of cultural segregation. As the dominant culture, whiteness dictates the standard, assigns value and has power to ration and control access to opportunity. It has the authority to define how people of color are permitted to present themselves within their constructs, like the “urban” section in bookstores (where is the “suburban” section?) or the subdivision of Black, Asian or Latinx movies or shows (we don’t call them “white shows”). Lacking access and the ability to self-define, people of color empower themselves by creating their own spaces (BET Networks, Ebony, Essence, Netspan/Telemundo, La Opinión).

When we compare the legacies of George Balanchine and Alvin Ailey, two juggernauts in American dance history, the rolling imprint of systemic racism is quite evident. Both choreographers created dance companies and signature works, and they cultivated world-class dancers. Their divergent origin stories illustrate the role racial inequity played in the building of their careers. Balanchine came to the U.S. highly pedigreed via his work with the Ballets Russes, which led to his financial backing by elite arts society. Ailey climbed the ladder without much of a boost, and the tiny one he received in 1962 from the U.S. State Department came with huge caveats. The first was the insistence that the company be marketed as an “ethnic,” not a modern, company. The second was more insidious: The government threatened that if he “displayed” homosexual or effeminate behaviors on tour (in Asia and East and West Africa), it would bankrupt the company.

This same inequity can be read through the different ways dancers are presented with opportunities post-retirement. White dancers of pedigree are often headhunted for positions in leadership, sought out by legacy organizations to partner or collaborate, their projects supported by funders, presenters and the press. The extension of access and opportunities is an act of preserving and carrying on these ordained artistic bloodlines. The system determines what is “important” enough to preserve (this bias is markedly evident in the world of archiving).

The same cannot be said of the Black modern dancers who carry Ailey’s legacy, and for that matter the Dance Theatre of Harlem alumni who danced under Arthur Mitchell. Artistic directorships are not offered, full-time faculty positions can be hard to come by. When they do capture roles in leadership, it is often after paying a high tariff of work in the trenches of the dance field or academia, which often renders them overqualified while paid a fraction of the salary and, often, standing on a glass cliff. Meanwhile white dancers from prestigious ballet companies seemingly waltz into leadership straight from the stage; some are given multiple times to fail in such positions and are paid handsomely to do so.

In our racialized society, it could be argued that Black excellence is valued equally to white adequacy. Standards and criteria apply in a more fixed manner for people of color (specifically Black people) than for their white counterparts. One could argue that some of this is due to the hierarchy of dance, with ballet positioned at the apex. However, white modern and postmodern dancers also benefit from their proximity to what is deemed white genius.

And what of the genius in Blackness? The ingenuity of thwarting a system built to deny you can be categorized as little else. Philadelphia School of Dance Arts and Philadanco have consistently trained and prepared generations of dancers for professional careers in a variety of dance genres. Joan Myers Brown built a metaphoric underground railroad to possibility, not only for Black artists but for anyone who crossed the threshold of her organization. (Note the organic diversity and inclusion, no initiative required.) “We counted the other day. There were 22 dancers who went to Ailey from ‘Danco,” says Myers Brown. It makes you wonder if there’s something in that Philly “wooter.”

For years there was an urban legend that Myers Brown was resentful that her dancers left for Ailey. However, the opposite is true: The two directors worked together to create a pipeline of opportunity. Myers Brown remembers getting a call from Alvin Ailey. “He said, ‘I have two girls here from Philly.” It was Chase-Hicks and Deborah Manning, and he was asking which he should take. “‘I know you don’t want me to have both,’” Myers Brown recalls him saying. “I said, ‘You got to take both.’ That’s when they got to be ‘the two Debbies from Philly.’”

Which brings us back to Chase-Hicks. When asked where she acquired her formidable and versatile technique, Chase-Hicks proudly proclaimed “Joan Myers Brown was my ballet teacher,” Raquelle Chavis recalls. Myers Brown was classically trained by Sydney King and Marion Cuyjet; both women were known for exposing their students to a myriad of techniques and teachers. Following her mentor’s blueprint, Myers Brown amassed a cadre of master teachers for her students: Delores Browne, Marion Cuyjet, John Hines, Pat Thomas, Fred Benjamin, along with white teachers like William Dollar and Karel Shook. Denise Jefferson, while the director of The Ailey School, traveled from New York City weekly to teach at the Philadelphia School of Dance Arts, as did Milton Myers.

Courtesy Philadanco

“It was a time before Horton,” says Myers Brown. “I studied with Dunham, so I started them with ballet, jazz and Dunham. The kids talk about how it gave them that strength and perseverance and determination.” Her company dancers were built by choreographers like Fred Benjamin, Talley Beatty, Billy Wilson and Eugene Sagan. The result was a dancer who could do everything and anything.

“There was never a hierarchical understanding of dance. Ballet, Graham, Dunham, all the things were always treated with the same amount of respect,” recalls Robert Garland, director of the school at Dance Theatre of Harlem and resident choreographer, and a Philadanco alum. “The first time I saw 32 fouettés was Deborah Manning and Debora Chase-Hicks turning to a disco song called ‘Ring My Bell.’ I’ll never forget it,” he says with a chuckle. Everywhere the students looked they saw their likenesses in Black excellence.

This flattening of the hierarchy of genre is a crucial component to the “decolonization of ballet” the dance world is calling for in 2021. It has been a practice in the Black community for decades. It was the thinking that allowed for classically trained Black pioneers like Myers Brown, Katherine Dunham, Louis Johnson, Talley Beatty, John Hines, Delores Browne, Janet Collins and Billy Wilson to seamlessly move through the genres when opportunities opened up. Wilson started his professional career in musical theater and later transitioned to a soloist position as a founding member of the Dutch National Ballet (when usually it works the other way around). Ironically, a byproduct of the restrictions of systemic racism is versatility: Not only does it make Black folks twice as good but in twice the areas.

A great number of these Black dance educators had their dance career dreams deferred or truncated due not to a lack of talent but to segregation. They poured that desire, passion into their students. They held high expectations, and did not mince words; they prepared their dancers for the real world onstage and off.

All artists are encouraged to have “something to fall back on,” but for dancers of color for whom the options are slimmer, it is seen as even more crucial. Myers Brown was adamant about students having a skill that could pay their bills. Chase-Hicks had been a bank teller while she danced with Philadanco, and when she retired from Ailey she enrolled in stenography school. When she returned to Philadanco as rehearsal director, her stenography skills served her well, allowing her to type notes while never taking her eye off the dancers. She missed nothing.

She did not consider herself to be a rehearsal director. She was once quoted as saying: “Rehearsal director? I’m a coach. The ultimate goal, of course, is to keep the ballet intact. But, I love to work one-on-one. Coaching is nurturing—teaching, actually—and I love that so much.” In a competitive field where younger dancers can be seen as a threat to seasoned veterans, and a rite of passage in old-school company culture is for newbies to “figure it out on their own,” Chase-Hicks did not subscribe to this mentality or behavior. “In the two years I got to share the stage with her, she would give me little tips and hints: how to secure a headdress or, in Blues Suite, how to hold the pink fan at the end,” says former Ailey dancer Danni Gee, one of the 22 who came through Philadanco. “One beautiful moment was when I was doing her track in House of the Rising Sun, she showed me this is how you bring the stool out in the dark, how to place it and get the scarf off on the chair, quickly.”

“She was your biggest cheerleader,” adds Chavis. “She never wanted to see anyone be defeated or fail. She was always pushing you to be the best that you can be. And if she saw something that might help you, it could be just a little thing, like what your pinky finger’s doing…”

Her process of welcoming a new dancer into Philadanco was a one-on-one rehearsal on her own time. “She came up to me and said, ‘I want to rehearse with you on our own.’ She went through that entire track with me, she told me what to expect in rehearsal later that night. She would get inside the work as if she were dancing it,” says Tommie-Waheed Evans. “She would talk to you about the character work that you were building and the nuances that you were stumbling on. She made us all artists, not just simply dancers.” In a way, she became a conductor on Myers Brown’s underground railroad, developing in them the skills they would need on their journey.

But it was her artistic eye and attention to detail that truly made her a great. “Debora Chase-Hicks was a master class,” is what choreographer Camille A. Brown says wistfully. Brown recalls working beside her while setting work on Philadanco. She was awed by Chase-Hicks’ ability to see, hear and reinforce her choreography’s intention and details as rehearsal director. When Brown returned after a hiatus, she recalls, “The piece was exactly how I left it in the best of ways. I didn’t have to reinforce all the stuff that I had said before I left. Walking in and seeing it felt like, ‘Oh, she cared for this piece while I was gone.’ And that’s so powerful because she provided a space for you to move to the next level of whatever you want to do. She held it so carefully that I didn’t have to think of all the extra stuff. I just had to focus on challenging myself and challenging the work.”

The institutional knowledge that Chase-Hicks literally embodied and the level of integrity in which she worked to preserve the intention of the choreographer’s work would have been lauded had she been a stager for a choreographic trust. Most choreographic works by Black masters are not held in trust but by family members. This is because most Black dance companies were founded out of passion and necessity—creating a space to dance and tell our stories. Often the nuts and bolts of business were cultivated on a need-to-know basis. Most organizations had to stay in the present, working to survive, leaving little bandwidth to think about the future (archiving, trusts, etc.). Historically, the contributions of artists of color have been sorely under-documented and when these incredible artists, with invaluable experiences and knowledge, die, the institutional knowledge dies with them.

If “journalism is the first rough draft of history,” and if we recognize history as a pillar in the process of creating equity and leveling the field, then it is incumbent on journalists and the media to use their pens and platforms to assist in correcting the narrative.

The post What the Reactions to Debora Chase-Hicks’ Death Revealed About Divisions in the Dance World appeared first on Dance Magazine.

One Year After Its Launch, Black Dance Stories Remains Required Viewing

In Episode 1 of Black Dance Stories, a web series that launched on June 25, 2020, Stefanie Batten Bland talks about how she has no childcare. In another episode, Leslie Parker Zooms from the Twin Cities, where she is having solo rehearsals at a theater three blocks from the epicenter of the George Floyd protests. Nia Love starts her episode with an energetic dance that grounds her before she dives into sharing that she is recovering from a case of COVID-19 and is grieving the transition of family members.

Love emphatically states that dance is “the place where I name myself in a way that I can feel connected.” This type of wisdom has become essential during more than a year of a global pandemic and racial reckoning, during which for the first time, maybe ever, people have truly been sitting with and observing their emotions and where they are located in their bodies.

Created in response to the sociopolitical events of 2020, but reflective of a foreknown reality for Black dance artists, this week the series celebrates its one-year anniversary of documenting voices that are often unheard, perspectives that are not often prioritized, and ways of telling that are often overlooked.

The series is a gift dreamed up and executed by Charmaine Warren with an ever-growing team that began with Kimani Fowlin and Nicholas Xavier Hall. Just like the dance community, this team is composed of multi-hyphenates; they are performers, choreographers, professors, recent college graduates, writers, curators and more. Streamed weekly on YouTube, the series is not a dance history lecture, but, rather, each episode is a series of overlapping stories told by two or three Black dance artists in whatever manner they please.

Through Black Dance Stories, we have met and witnessed artists wherever they quarantined: Marjani Forté-Saunders is in her Pasadena, California, backyard, where her spirited son Nkosi runs into her lap mid-conversation. Wanjiru Kamuyu sits in her Parisian home-library/office, where floor to ceiling bookshelves frame her face. In his Jersey City bedroom, Oluwadamilare “Dare” Ayorinde hops excitedly off his bed in order to grab Saidiya Hartman’s new book, which inspires his storytelling for the evening. It is through this intimate invitation into people’s homes and lives that Black Dance Stories creates a tapestry of Black history happening right now through the lenses of those who study the Black body by moving their own as both practice and craft, as well as sharing stories at the intersection of two of the most impacted demographics in the U.S.’s crisis over the last year: performing artists and Black folks.

According to the CDC report on COVID-19 Hospitalization and Death by Race/Ethnicity, Black or African-American, non-Hispanic persons are infected, hospitalized and die at rates of 1.1x, 2.9x, and 2.0x higher than those of their white, non-Hispanic counterparts, respectively. And while vaccination distribution is well underway, with plans to reopen theaters in fall 2021 in alignment with Dr. Anthony Fauci’s predictions earlier this year, arts workers continue to sustain a devastating economic impact, with 95 percent of artists and creative workers reporting loss of income, according to research by Americans for the Arts. The study goes on to say that Black, Indigenous artists of color “had even higher rates of unemployment than white artists in 2020 due to the pandemic (69 percent vs. 60 percent) and lost a larger percentage of their creative income (61 percent vs. 56 percent).”

These staggering statistics quantify what Black performing artists, specifically Black dancers, understood in our bones even before the past 15 months of ongoing crisis. This understanding is aptly characterized by Ta-Nehisi Coates in his book Between the World and Me when he states matter-of-factly, “In America it is tradition to destroy the Black body.” Our connectivity, or, as The People’s Institute for Survival and Beyond calls it, a “net that works,” is a model for surviving and thriving when life can be particularly tenuous for Black people at any time. And so, we listen to Black dancers who not only contend with the destruction of their Black bodies under the weight of racism and capitalism, but who have made a life of transmuting the harms of interlocking oppressions through practicing movement.

I’m not an objective observer here; in fact, I’m an example of this connectivity. I participated in the series opposite Raja Feather Kelly in Episode 7. I have a treasured relationship with its founder and co-creator, Charmaine Warren. I am also a former programs manager for 651 ARTS, which is co-presenting the spring 2021 season. Many of the folks featured are my colleagues, friends and mentors, bonded by our adventures in the field of dance.

My web of relationships in and around Black Dance Stories exemplifies the interconnectedness of the dance field, especially among Black artists, and this is a good thing. As my friend and colleague Ali Rosa-Salas, director of programming at Abrons Art Center and associate curator at Jacob’s Pillow brilliantly asserts, there is no such thing as neutral.

In this sociopolitical moment, we are suffering the consequences of not knowing and understanding enough of the intimacies and histories of Black life, while being witnesses to legislative attempts to keep it that way. Just a year ago, across our country, well-meaning white people discovered the depth and impact of the racist history of the U.S., and it is because our traditional history-telling—storytelling—has been one-sided, prioritizing the written word, from an objective, neutral (read: cis-white ableist fat-phobic patriarchal heteronormative colonizer) voice. Stories are told from a voice that often records and documents (read: misrepresents) what it does not understand because it is not a part of it.

Black Dance Stories
, in the tradition of storytelling in the African Diaspora, privileges and celebrates the relational, the ancestral, the genius in collective knowledge, the oral/aural, the call and response, the intergenerational dialogue, the responsive and improvisational, the ritual of gathering with libation (directions on how to prepare for your episode as a featured storyteller highlight in red font “Have a glass of wine or drink”) and, of course, movement.

Some episodes feature names you may know, like Camille A. Brown, whose choreography has been featured on major concert dance stages, on Broadway and, recently, in the feature film Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, starring Viola Davis and Chadwick Boseman. There’s Okwui Okpokwasili, standout performer in the 2019 revival of For Colored Girls at The Public Theater, and brilliant art maker in her own right known for her work Bronx Gothic. She and Kyle Abraham, each featured in separate episodes, have a long list of accomplishments, but perhaps the most notable shared between them is that they are both MacArthur “geniuses.” In these cases, Black Dance Stories deeply humanizes these artists beyond their accolades, in a way that seems too rare for artists who’ve made a name for themselves. We are privy to their fears and inspirations, family heirlooms and thoughts on love.

Many episodes, however, feature artists whose names you might not know, and that’s important. We have a problem in this country, born of individualist and capitalist values, where we worship celebrities and often only recognize people’s impact posthumously. Our study of Black history often begins and ends with a recitation of a list of firsts, such as our most recent notable example of Kamala Harris, the first Black person elected to Vice President. Black Dance Stories features artists with established careers and rising stars alike, pairing storytellers in an episode based on their calendar availability. This game of chance catalyzes rich conversations that fill in gaps and answers the questions radical historians often ask: Who is not here? Who else’s story has yet to be told?

In each episode, both the hosts and storytellers name their familial lineages and the indigenous land they are on, and through that telling locate us geographically, Diasporically and ancestrally. We listen to the mundanities, the challenges, the joys and the liberations of everyday Black life; a conversation between Rennie Harris and J. Bouey dives into mental health challenges and Black masculinity, while Bebe Miller traces her family line back to enslavement and Kyle Marshall reminisces about dancing in church.

Some stories lean heavily into the telling of artistic lineages: yon Tande places us with him in Howard University’s dance studios in the 1990s, studying under Dr. Sherril Berryman Johnson. Zane Booker takes us from dancing as a Philadelphia teenager as part of Philadanco under the tutelage of Auntie Joan (Joan Myers Brown) and Talley Beatty to tough discussions with Jiří Kylián, at Nederlands Dans Theater, about whether his Blackness is a costume.

Jason Samuels Smith, literal dance royalty, names family and artistic lineages that heavily overlap for generations. He speaks fondly of cousin Debbie (yes, Debbie Allen) and his father JoJo Smith, whose Hell’s Kitchen studio, JoJo’s Dance Factory, pioneered the modern-day dance-studio model of teaching multiple styles (jazz, ballet, tap, etc.) under one roof.

What is most heartening is that the series gives each artist their proverbial flowers while they are full of life to enjoy them—a radical act in the age of Black Lives Matter.

I invite you to let these stories wash over you; absorb what you can and let the rest fall away. This is an opportunity to get to know some of our greatest embodied culture-bearers, and it is a launching pad to uncover kinship with artists and artistic life; there is so much to learn, and these skills are transferable. Hear and witness how these dancers metabolize the world around them through movement. The artists are offering us their grounding practices, their reflective practices and their dreams. They are modeling thriving community connection, alongside worldviews that urgently need to be heard.

With Black Dance Stories, we are witnesses and participants in a simultaneously ancient and Afro-futuristic mode of documenting history that privileges the voices of the people the story is about. This is dance history. This is Black history. Black Dance Stories is our history.

Black Dance Stories
episodes are streamed on Thursdays at 6 pm ET, live on

YouTube
, and remain available for replay afterward. Guests in upcoming episodes include Danni Gee and Debbie Blunden-Diggs (June 24) and Mikki Shepard and Joan Myers Brown (July 1). The series is free to watch, but donations through fiscal sponsor International Association of Blacks in Dance are encouraged. The spring 2021 season of Black Dance Stories is co-presented with 651 ARTS, Brooklyn’s premier institution for the African Diasporic performing arts.

The post One Year After Its Launch, Black Dance Stories Remains Required Viewing appeared first on Dance Magazine.