Saturday night I went to Central Park’s Summer Stage to see Israeli choreographer Nimrod Freed’s PEEPDANCE, performed by his new company, Tami Dance Company. The peep-show aspect ended up going along well with the little theme of my weekend, since I’d stayed up till all hours of the morning the night before finishing Charles Bock’s excellent BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN, a dark novel about the underside of “the fabulous Las Vegas.”

Anyway, I loved this show!

They had about six different tents / boxes/ cages — whatever you want to call them — set up on the west side of the field, each housing one dancer apiece, one cage — the most popular one — a couple, male and female. All dancers were clothed, dancing mainly modern-style dance but some more social dance, making various poses, some acting, a couple breaking the fourth wall and engaging with the “audience” — meaning, the sets of eyes looking in on them, but there was of course no actual stripping, unless you consider the shedding of an outer jacket or a monk-type figure taking off and on his hood or a a woman off and on her mask to be such.

But it really made you think about the voyeuristic nature of dance, how dance can be a kind of strip-tease just in its emphasis on the body, the voyeuristic nature of voyeurism in general, and the gendered aspect of all this. In an interview choreographer Freed said audience members would run back and forth between the various cages, but it didn’t matter; you got what you were supposed to get if you simply peered into one box, from various peepholes. After viewing the show twice (they ran it two times) and talking to people during and afterward, I disagree with him. I think what you get out of it depends on which box you look into, whether you look into more than one, and in which order.

I began with this box of the monk (although on looking at my pictures, he looks a bit grim-reaperish; and, now that I look at the picture, those peep holes kind of look like bullet holes, though I didn’t notice that during the performance). He was moving slowly, deliberately, kind of hauntingly, taking on and off his hood, albeit without really letting you see his head. I thought this was interesting, but was curious what was in the other cages, so moved on.

Second cage was a woman making various modern dance moves, contorting here, expanding there. I moved on to another to see a slightly more agitated woman thrashing about, at one point donning a mask. Another box held a woman moving more gracefully, another an older woman doing the same.

One thing I noticed about myself was, when I started peeking in on the first woman, I felt kind of ashamed, like this is perverted. Is this what it feels like to be a man at a real peep show, I wondered. Do they even get embarrassed by what they’re doing? I backed away from my peephole and looked at other people peering through the holes. One woman standing next to me caught my eye and gave a nervous laugh; maybe she felt the same way.

Anyway, by far my two favorite boxes, and the two I kept coming back to were one containing a young woman, speaking Russian, whose dance was the most performance-art-y, and one containing the couple.

Both of these kind of told a little story with their movement, there was variety in their performance. When I first peered in at the couple, they were flirting, or she was trying to flirt with him rather. Later, they fought, later they cuddled lovingly, at one point there was almost an S&M quality, as she hurled herself at his feet, he nearly stepping on her. At one point, she carried him like a baby. He was shirtless, wearing a black faux leather skort, she a black dance top and short bottoms.

What was interesting to me was when he began to play to the audience, making eye contact with the various peeping eyes.

He was very confrontational with people, and it really unnerved me. I backed away when his gaze caught mine. It was then I realized how freakish other people eyeballs peering through those holes looked. All eyes began kind of darting back and forth at each other, seeming to think the same thing, worried this guy was going to come after us. There was a kind of bonding of peepers. The woman in the box with him tried to keep him at bay, but he wouldn’t have it. He sneered at the eyeballs, clawed at us, thrashed himself into one sides, making the whole wobbly box sway precipitously.

At one point, he even began climbing over the side. I ran away!

A woman who arrived late saw all the people standing at the couple’s tent, and walked over. The first thing she saw when she peeped in was him throwing his waist right into the side she was on, near her peep-hole. She backed away quickly, frightened. “I don’t think I like this!” she said to me. I told her not to worry, and to go look in some of the others; they weren’t so nuts!

What was interesting to me though was that he was the only dancer / ’stripper’ to be so confrontational, to get so angry at the peepers. In fact the only other person to break the fourth wall and acknowledge our presence was the Russian woman.

But she wasn’t confrontational, and definitely not angry; instead she was by turns submissive, playful, humiliated. Here she is pointing jokingly out at a viewer. When someone stuck their camera lens through their peephole to photograph her, she puckered up and posed, then began laughing, at first cracking herself up, then her laugh turning into a cry, a wail, like she was a poor imprisoned animal. She threw herself on the ground, only to get up, brush herself off, and dance.

Then, she walked around the perimeter of her cage, asking in Russian for money, “Pojalsta, pojalsta, dollar,” she’d cry out, holding up a finger. At one point someone gave her one. She thanked him, put it in her mouth, and chewed.

She took it out and tried to give it back to the man who gave it to her, who wouldn’t take it. No one would. No one wanted a chewed spit-laden dollar bill! I thought how hilarious it would be if a real stripper did such a thing.

Then she tried to do what she considered a “sexy dance” — though she was so innocent, it, pretty hilariously, wasn’t strip-tease-like at all. She kept talking throughout, in Russian, which I didn’t understand, but, from the tone of her voice and the questioning look on her face, it seemed like she was asking us if we liked what we saw.

I just found it interesting that the man, the only man (besides the monk guy), was the only one who kind of violently acted out against being “peeped on.”

It was a great turnout. Here they all are onstage for a bow.

I met up with Evan there, who took some great photos and posted her own thoughts here. Also, the Winger’s Deborah Friedes wrote about seeing the show in Israel, here.

Okay, Pasha didn’t save ballet; he actually doesn’t have much of anything to do with ballet, other than that he’s touring with Danny Tidwell right now. But he’s on my mind because last night, on my way to Fall For Dance, I stopped by Dance Times Square to pick up my receipt for the long-awaited and highly anticipated “DTS Students And Friends Outing” to the Nassau Coliseum next Tuesday to see Pasha’s tour!!! Er, I mean the So You Think You Can Dance concert tour I chatted with Melanie a bit, and she told me that they’re trying hard hard hard, fingers crossed fingers crossed, to get the SYTYCD tour powers that be to allow us all backstage. Apparently they don’t have a problem with a couple of people, but they freaked a bit when she told them we’re a group of, more like … 40. Still! Come on, we’re a bunch of ballroom dancers, how rowdy can we be??? Please SYTYCD people in power, let us in to see our friend and beloved former teacher! We promise to behave! We promise!!

Okay, on to Fall For Dance. This is a most excellent event that’s taken place at City Center in midtown for the past I think three years now. Each night for about two weeks four or five different dance companies perform an excerpt from their repertoire. Tickets are a miraculously low $10 for the whole night. So, audiences — especially young audiences — can be exposed to several new companies for only $10 a night!

Last night marked the very first performance in New York by a promising new ballet company, called Morphoses, whose mission is to bring new life and new audiences to that most poetic of dance forms that many have feared is getting a bit withery and dried up. It’s founded by 34 year-old Christopher Wheeldon, formerly the first-ever resident choreographer at New York City Ballet. Wheeldon doesn’t yet have a permanent group of dancers, but is using guest dancers from several ballet companies, mainly NYC Ballet. I’ve loved so many of Wheeldon’s pieces that I’ve seen at NYCB over the past couple of years, so I have really high hopes, as do, I think, the vast majority of ballet lovers here. Last night the company performed not a brand new work, but one created by Wheeldon a couple of years ago for NYCB, a lovely duet called “After the Rain.” I see it as kind of a bittersweet pas de deux whose theme is a couple’s attempt to patch things up and find some common ground in the aftermath of a bad fight. It was danced by two NYCB dancers, the really cute Craig Hall and celebrated prima ballerina Wendy Whelan, to Arvo Part music composed of a string and piano section, in which the light tapping of high piano keys actually sounds like rain drops. It goes without saying that Wendy is just such an incredible dancer; when I see someone like her perform I realize it’s not just a choreographer who’s responsible for the success of his or her work. She dances with such conviction, with a fully formed thought in her mind of what her movements mean so that even though she dances mostly abstract ballets, as with this one, there’s just such an intensity and drama to her performance, the audience finds a story anyway. Well, listen to her talk about her work herself. I really love that City Center has done this this year — put up these little audiocasts on their website of interviews with several of the artists whose work is being performed at FFD. Go here to see a list of participating companies arranged by date, click on “info” for a breakdown menu of companies performing on that date, then click on that company to be taken to their info page where you can see an interview. Very cool!

So last night was actually my second night at FFD. I went Wednesday night as well but didn’t have time to blog about it yesterday. Highlights for me have been, in addition to Wheeldon, Keigwin + Company, a rather hip, young modern dance ensemble. I really wish Larry Keigwin, the company’s choreographer, would do a piece or two for SYTYCD. He’s so much fun. They performed “Love Songs” — several humorous duets performed by three different couples, pieces of which I’ve seen before. Each couple had its own distinct ‘couple personality,’ and told its own humorous story of relationship angst. On first and last was a youngish charmingly awkward pair who were obviously trying rather desperately to get to know each other better. They danced to a set of Neil Diamond songs. In another set, a more sophisticated couple, danced by Keigwin himself and one of my favorite modern dancers Nicole Wolcott, performed a voluptuous witty tango-y pas de deux to clever-sounding French music. And the third couple, the most wickedly funny imo, evoked, to Aretha Franklin music, the classic struggle between male and female for the upper hand in the relationship, rendered all the cuter by their mismatched sizes — fleshy woman (Liz Riga, my second favorite female modern dancer), smaller man. At times, when the woman wore the pants, she would drag her beau around, at times lifting and carrying him around the floor, and, when Franklin belted out some of her “let me tell you how it is” lyrics, she’d bop her head at him right along with the words. Then the reverse would happen; he’d have her begging. Then tables would turn, she’d have him back in the palm of her hands (literally with those crazy lifts), but he’d become too needy; she realized she should be careful what she wished for. It was so fun, funny, evocative, and very relatable.

The other one I loved Wednesday night (along with the crowd) was Urban Bush Women’s performance of its most famous piece “Batty Moves.” They tell you in the program notes that Batty is a Caribbean word for rear end, and the piece is a rather fun, raucous celebration of the African-American female form. The women sang rap lyrics, called out to the audience encouraging proud black women to rise, then launched into solo after solo of amazing combination African / modern dance. The audience was on its feet; a perfect ending to Wednesday night’s show.

Unfortunately, I felt really badly for ballet Wednesday night. The audience was filled with young and /or newcomers to dance and people related so much more to Keigwin and Urban Bush Women. The two ballets performed — one by Royal Ballet of Flanders — was a very abstract and rather slow-moving meditation on the passage of time and consisted of four couples dressed in generic pink leotards and white shorts doing abstract movements center stage while others dressed in black simply walked slowly around the stage’s perimeter.

The other ballet performed Wednesday night was NYCB’s small-scale one-man performance of Jerome Robbins’s “A Suite of Dances,” in which a male dancer interacts with an onstage violinist, at times almost cutely competitively. Robbins is my favorite “old time” choreographer, but he did most of his great work in the 1940s and 50s. And even though this particular piece had its premiere in 1994, the movement still had a very 50s feel to it, like Fancy Free. I love many of his ballets (particularly Fancy Free, as it’s often performed by my favorites like him and him), but I feel like every time I go to the ballet nine times out of ten they’re putting on something decades or centuries old. The audience was so much more into the aforementioned two pieces, not the ballet. I left with the feeling that ballet is encountering some serious relevancy problems. Kristin Sloan and I had an interesting little back and forth regarding “Suite” in the comments section on this post. I understand what she is saying, that’s it’s a softer sale, but I don’t know if the audience is really automatically pulled into a man’s own playful encounter with music. At least it doesn’t have the same urgency or speak to the human condition in the same way that glorifying a body Western Culture has long deemed “other” does. I don’t know, perhaps I would have had a different reaction if one of my favorites had performed the piece. There’s something about Marcelo’s very being that is somehow always contemporary and relatable. It’s an extremely interesting discussion, though, classical ballet’s ability to speak to modern audiences, and I’m very interested to know what others think.

Anyway, that’s why I was so happy last night to see the Wheeldon. It was contemporary, meaningful, relatable, and gorgeously, poetically danced. Also standing out to me in last night’s program was the piece immediately preceding Wheeldon’s, “Inventing Pookie Jenkins” by Kyle Abraham. It began with Abraham, an African American man, sitting in a pile of white tulle, which, when he stood, was revealed to be a long skirt reminiscient to me of Matthew Bourne’s all-male Swan Lake. He moved about, first on the ground, then standing, at times jerky, at times with beautiful lyric fluidity, to a soundtrack of gunshots and ambulance or police sirens. Then the soundtrack changed to a provocative / celebratory hip hop song, “Respect Me” by Dizzee Rascal. Abraham’s movements alternated between hip hop and lyrical modern, as he seemingly tried to break free of … of what? A policeman’s custody, stereotypes superimposed on him, even his own self-image — which took on both a racial and gender significance. It really just blew me away and if you ever get a chance to see him perform, by all means do!

Tomorrow night is, sadly, the last night of the festival. I’ll be looking forward to “Quick” by Indian company Srishti, in which several ‘London businessmen’ use classical Bharantanatyam technique and South Indian rhythms to deal with today’s cut-throat corporate climate. Interesting! I’ll also be looking forward to “The Evolution of a Secured Feminine” by Camille A. Brown, which I’m dying to see just because of its name alone! (go here for Eva Yaa Asantewaa’s audio interview with Brown), Jorma Elo’s Brake the Eyes, which I blogged about before, and South African troupe Via Katlehong Dance.

Finally, I’m very excited about the illustrious Vanity Fair contributing editor James Wolcott’s commenting on my last post on Nureyev!!! Apropos of that post, apparently there was a big book party for author Kavanagh, which he attended and wrote about on his blog. Sounds fun, albeit a bit nerve-wracking! There were many members of the ‘glitterati’ there, including Jay McInerney, an abundance of “New Yorker” people, and even our favorite Sir Alastair It made me think of the book parties I’ve been to — only two: one for my former Feminist Jurisprudence professor, Drucilla Cornell, a comparably very academic, toned-down affair, and one for a friend of a friend, Ben Schrank, at which I made a flaming fool of myself in front of favorite author Colson Whitehead, a story which I’ll have to save for another day since this post is now 500,000 words long.

Anyway, while I’m kind of on the subject, for reasons that are too ridiculously complicated to explain, I haven’t been able to set up a “recent comments” column here yet, so just want to point out that artist Bill Shannon whose work “Window” I reviewed earlier, left a comment on that post, along with a YouTube link; and Ruth left a comment on my Suzanne Farrell post inviting interested people to participate in a Farrell fan site she’s set up.

Okay, I’m finally done blabbering. More on my final FFD later this weekend

I don’t know who in the dance community annoys me more: those who consider themselves hipper than thou and call themselves “downtown,” or those who consider Ballet the only form of dance.

Spurred by Eva’s suggestion, I went to Bryant Park this afternoon to take part in the first ever group photograph of the New York dance community, organized by Belgian online dance initiative Sarma and local dance collective Chez Bushwick. Everyone who considered themselves part of the dance community was invited. Since I’m a dance blogger, ballet and modern fan and amateur ballroom dancer, I decided that included me.

When I arrived I spotted a robust, jovial-looking, curly-haired man wearing a t-shirt that announced he was a member of the photo op, and headed toward him. I kind of look like Sylvia Plath but shorter and with darker hair, or maybe Suzanne Farrell but not anywhere near as pretty I have long hair and was wearing a ballet-y black bouncy-skirted sundress bow-tied at the waist by a red silk scarf, and sandals whose straps were topped with embroidered flowers. I was carrying an oversized pink bag bearing books. After making brief eye contact with me, the man peered around me to another woman and began greeting her, until I stopped right in front of him.

“Oh hi,” he said to me, surprised. “Um, we’re actually taking a photograph of the New York dance community here. Would you like to participate?” he asked hesitantly.

“Uh-huh, that’s what I’m here for,” I said.

“Oh. Oh good,” he said handing me a piece of paper announcing the rules (you gave them permission to use the photos of you on the internet and in magazines, yadda yadda). He also told me after the picture was taken, I was to sign my name on a roster of attendees and would receive a sticker entitling me to a free drink at one of the concession stands. He then told me they were running a little behind schedule and directed me to take a seat at one of the tables in an adjacent elevated area along the path.

I did as he suggested. Turned out to be the perfect little perch for me since its elevation gave me a good view of the crowd. I enjoy being an observer. Plus, I was having a bad hair day and was a little worried of running into Marcelo or David or one of my ballet heartthrobs, so could be on the lookout and duck for cover if need be. I had nothing to worry about as it turned out: there wasn’t a soul from the ballet world there.

Many people began arriving, and I didn’t know anyone. Finally, I spotted a fellow blogger in the crowd. As he was making his way to the tabled area after receiving his instruction paper, I waved to him.

“What are you doing all the way over here?” he said as he approached. I didn’t really understand the question so responded with a quizzical look.

“We don’t ever see each other,” he then announced, “because you’re a snobby elitist who only goes to uptown things. I go to all the cool downtown things.”

I just stared at him, not really knowing what to say. He laughed. Apparently I was supposed to take it as a joke.

“Well, I’m going to go around and meet new people while you sit here like a wallflower.” And he was off.

I kind of sat there stupefied. I think I saw Eva, but after that didn’t feel like getting up to say hello. Maybe some other time. I saw Jonah Bokaer, one of the organizers of the event and a dancer with Merce Cunningham. He’s rather cute in person He was going around giving people who looked like they belonged small bottles of water. That didn’t include me. He looked right through me when he passed directly in front of my table even though I had my piece of paper with the instructions prominently displayed. A twenty-something woman with dark hair bearing a green “press pass” around her neck was going around with a notepad. She stopped at a table in front of me at which sat a man and two women with really cool-looking dreadlocks. I overheard them tell her they were retired dancers, now choreographers. I wondered if the interviewer was Gia.

About half an hour later, an announcer muttered something over a microphone that barely worked. From the crowd’s actions, I figured he was telling people to line up to his left. I followed suit, but kind of wish I’d just have stayed where I was to take pictures. I got a space all the way in the back of the crowd. I could hear him now telling taller people to move to the back, but apparently the average man over six feet either doesn’t understand English or has no sense of his size in comparison to others. Or else “downtown” male dancers are just rude. Some tiny women in the back brought over some chairs and stood on them. Soon, a security guard was in on the action ordering the people to get off the chairs. They paid him no mind. He yelled louder. They continued to ignore him. I couldn’t believe their audacity. And it did look dangerous: the plastic chairs were very insubstantial and the ground was really rocky and unstable. I wouldn’t stand on such a thing and these were dancers. He walked right up to one of them and yelled in her face to get off the chair or else. This was far more exciting than the photographer up front!

“Oh come on, officer” she whined like a character in Rent. Thankfully the last picture was snapped and the whole experience over, so there was no further trouble.

Good thing about being in the back was I was first in line to record my name. That of course didn’t mean I was actually first to do so. As the man handed me pen and paper, someone reached over my head and snatched the whole right out of my fingers, bumping me on the crown with the back board. Other pens and rosters were handed about, arms flying feet stomping everywhere. About fifteen minutes later I was finally able to scribble my name, identity (blogger), place of birth and email address, and receive my sticker, which I promptly took to the nearest concession stand.

“What’s this thing?” the clerk snapped.

“We’re supposed to get a free drink?” I said.

She laughed shaking her head. “I don’t know nothin’ about this.”

“The dance community gathering, over there,” I pointed to the raucous crowd bombarding the man with the rosters and stickers.

“I don’t know and I don’t wanna know,” she spit.

I guess it was a fitting end to a discomfiting experience. Weird, I was just saying how good it felt to be part of the dance community.

Okay, how come I always look like an ass in ballet class, but a ballerina in all the other styles of dance I take? Tonight, I took my first dance class in four months now (yikes) — a beginner Flamenco class at 92nd St. Y. Seriously, in lieu of the beautiful palmas (fluidly wrist-bending Latin / Indian hand movements that are one of the three basic elements of the dance), I did the perfect port de bras (balletic arm movements). I mean, I’m sure they wouldn’t have looked like perfect port de bras in ballet class, but they sure did in Flamenco. No matter how much Latin I take, for some reason I always have the tendency to turn my wrists inward so that my palms are toward my body (as in ballet), rather than turned out, away from it, as they usually are in Latin. It’s ridiculous.

And damn do those castanets require patience! We only did basic taps, but tapping the pinkie finger, then the ring, then the middle, then the pointer, then moving to the left hand in a continuous one-two-three-four-five rhythm, faster and faster and faster was so unbelievably trying on my nerves, for some reason. I had to keep shaking my hands like I was shaking off a bug or something. And keeping my arms up in the air was a bit painful, embarrassingly. I am just a bit out of shape here And forget trying to coordinate the castanet taps with the wrists with the arms with the foot toe / heel stomps (my favorite part — gets rid of some real aggression )… forget it! This dance is so hard. It’s not athletically hard in the way ballet is, but it requires maximum coordination that I don’t have!

I’ll probably stick with it anyway; it’s good for me Unfortunately, the teacher has a strict dress code — all black — so I can’t wear my pretty purple Flamenco skirt (above). Don’t really understand this — I took a Flamenco class at Ballet Hispanico months ago and wore the skirt to Paso Doble classes at two different ballroom studios and no one’s ever had a problem with the color. It cost $75 too, so I have no intention of buying another one in black. My black ballroom skirt will have to do, though it doesn’t have the pile of ruffles at the bottom so is not going to look wholly right for Flamenco… I just always pride myself on being different, so was rather pleased with myself for finding such a color.

I’ll never forget the first dance class that blew me completely to Heaven, made me feel like I was experiencing a whole new level of humanity, made my heart race: it was basic ballroom Samba with Roula Giannopolu at DanceSport studio. I remember I was squealing when I came out of there, practically crippled with blisters, my classmates trying to steady me and asking if I was okay. “What kind of music was that?” I screamed out demandingly, collapsing on the lobby sofa. No one knew and Roula had sprinted off to her next class. “That was like ballet and African and Latin and just the whole world!” I cried, flailing about. I haven’t had that same exact experience since and I so long for that feeling again. I think I may sign up for group ballroom classes next month. I like the solitary Latin dance classes I’ve taken — Brazilian Samba at Alvin Ailey and now Flamenco. But ballroom’s really where my heart is.

Anyway, on another note, here are some more pictures I took today during my lunch hour of the Bill Shannon “Window” site-specific dance performance that I blogged about at the beginning of the week. It was funny seeing it down on Liberty Plaza this time, after having watched from the high-rise before. I had thought when I was inside looking down that people were trying to be good New Yorkers and avoid any weirdish person making a “scene,” but being down there with the people, I realized that the area the dance was performed in was so vast, without music, it was actually pretty hard even to notice. You had to really seek him and his dancers out to see him. Dance is also so music-dependent I realized. Upstairs we had the music blasting from the speakers to accompany the movement we saw out on the plaza. It really got you into it, made you move a little yourself. Being down there with no speakers, the movement just didn’t have the same meaning, it wasn’t as fun, it wasn’t as noticeable, it wasn’t as “performancey” which I guess was the point…

One of Shannon’s break-dancers.

The guys in white are the performers. It might be apparent, it might not.

This is Shannon himself, on the crutches. I didn’t notice him zooming around on the skateboard this time; he used it more as a prop than a vehicle, unless I just arrived a bit late and missed that part of it.

On, and another thing, at one point a woman walked up to him while he was on the ground break-dancing. I guess because he had the crutches, she thought he was hurt and tried to help him up! He spoke with her a bit, but with all the city noises, I couldn’t possibly hear what they were saying. I wonder whether he went along with her, told her what was really going on, or if I just completely misunderstood the whole interaction and she was actually part of the performance!

Last night, I saw at the Tribeca Film Festival a documentary about the journey of Alexis Arquette, of the famous acting family, from man to woman.

I’m glad I pre-ordered tickets; door sales lines were long:

Entitled “Alexis Arquette: She’s My Brother,” this was one of the most fascinating documentaries I’ve seen, but not for the reasons touted by the filmmakers, who, unfortunately, had to return to L.A. and England and were unable to stay for an after-show Q&A. Will teach me not to wait until the end of the festival to see a movie — that’s one of the reasons I go to festival films, argh. And how much I would have LOVED to meet Alexis — a true character! Anyway, the press release stated that, though filled with celebrities, drag queens and Hollywood glitterati, the film was a serious look at transgendered life. I felt like it was actually more about the former, and regarding the latter, it left me with more questions than it answered — neither of which made it at all a disappointment. To the contrary, it was absolutely mesmerizing.

My only other experiences with the subject of transgender life come from Jeffrey Eugenides’s profound, brilliant novel Middlesex, one of the greatest American novels, ever, I think. And that story differered from this because the main character was hermaphrodic and, without an operation, decided to re-define himself as a man after being raised female. I missed the Felicity Huffman movie, which Oberon blogged about in detail. Other than that, I remember a person in college, who called herself Tatiana. My school was huge, though, and I never knew her; I only knew she tried out for both male and female parts on the cheer squad, freaking out many a male cheerleader, including my lovely then boyfriend. I felt sorry for her.

But this, I found to be more a very sympathetic portrait of a younger sibling lost in the shadows of his very famous sisters and searching desperately for his own voice. It drove home the point, without necessarily meaning to, that growing up in the light of the cameras with a large family and many flamboyant, big-personalitied drag queen friends, can, ironically, make for a very lonely life.

Of course he doesn’t seem lonely, having adopted that same ‘huge personality’ as his sisters and drag companions. It’s a self-made documentary, so his face and voice are everpresent, and, while his incessant whining can really grate on your nerves at times, overall he’s just simply fascinating. By the way, I’m very aware that some would say it’s wrong to use masculine pronouns to refer to him since he sees himself as a woman, but this was the crux of my problem here. Unlike Cal in Middlesex, who begins life as a girl but narrates his story from his older, male point of view which compels the reader to envision him as a man, Alexis, who changed his name in his teens but, interestingly, never says what from, for the vast majority of the film actually is a man and seems, to me, essentially masculine — a total preening Queen, who loves dressing in drag and wearing makeup and continuously changing hair colors, but definitely a man. The film includes several clips of him growing up, and spending his teens, twenties and early thirties as a gay man, and a really good-looking one at that — in fact, he kind of reminded me of Evan McKie on the Winger

A gay man, he seemed to know little of women’s bodies. When he goes to the plastic surgeon, of course he wants humongous breasts, with nipples practically at chin-level. The surgeon can only laugh. “What, you can’t do that?” Alexis asks dejectedly. Forced to undergo psychiatric therapy in order to gain the right to have the surgery — understandably humiliatingly aggravating (is this mandatory for people having breast enhancement or lyposuction?) — Alexis brings his therapist a self-made drawing of how he envisions his future vagina: it resembles a sweet, tiny peach core. First thing though, he is quick to assert, the nose has got to go. His nose, he tells his surgeon, is that of a man — the type of man he is attracted to for sure — but it’s just not a female nose. So, he has a very idealized notion of the exact female body he wants. It wasn’t surprising to me that many of his friends began to accuse him of making the film not because he actually wants the reassignment surgery, but for attention.

For a film about changing one’s sex organs, it dealt very little with actual sexuality. There are some really interesting interviews with doctors about how far male to female reassignment surgery has come in the last few years: parts of the penis are maintained and used to construct the clitoris, making the new clitoris nearly as sensitive as a real one — but that’s more physical than sexual. As a gay man attracted to and used to sleeping with other gay men, if he became a woman he would need to turn to straight men for romantic partnership, with whom he seemed to have little experience. That’s just so completely mind-boggling to me. I’d think it would take a very open-minded straight man to go for someone who was once another man. At one point, he does film himself with a very young boyfriend, but he is still male then, and it’s unclear whether this shy, untalkative young man, so different from Arquette, is gay, straight, or bi.

Unlike in Middlesex, where I felt myself vehemently hating any character who wanted Cal to remain female, here I found myself wanting so badly for Alexis NOT to get the surgery. Maybe it was just that I kept thinking of that young Alexis as so Evan-y and such a beautiful man, or maybe it’s that I was just so scared for him, as I would be for anyone, to have such a serious surgery. I won’t reveal the end, but he begins to freak out a little as well after he “passes” his psych exam.

All in all, I found it an absolutely fascinating portrait of a preening but confused, emotionally needy, but very human person whose need to feel comfortable in his skin, though taken to another level here, is ultimately something everyone can relate to. If he was trying to gain celebrity, and I DON’T think he was, I have to say, he is as unforgettable as Cal, Eugenides’s main character. From here on, I think every time I see anything starring any Arquette, I will definitely think of him. I highly highly highly recommend it when it hits the theaters.

On Thurday night, Dea and I, used Dance Link’s two-for-one ticket offer (you’ll get a one-year subcription to their discount program if you attend the Fall For Dance Festival), and went to see the fabulous Alonzo King’s LINES Ballet at the Joyce in Chelsea. They danced two pieces, “Migration” (about “the hierarchical migration of birds and mammals”), and our favorite, “The Moroccan Project,” a gorgeous contemporary ballet danced to beautifully rhythmic and melodious African, Moroccan, Arabic, and Andalusian Flamenco music. To me, it epitomized what I love in contemporary ballet — dance ripe with possibilities for taking traditional ballet and fusing it with other kinds of beautiful movement from around the world — here, African, Spanish, Moroccan, Indian — to create something really sublime and worldly.

The piece consisted of a combination of beautiful duets — some romantic, some playful, some fraught with discontent — solos, and ensemble work. During the group parts, the dancers would never dance alone but always worked with and off of each other, looking closely at each other, reacting to each other’s movement, at one point literally bouncing off of each other: during one of my favorite parts, four men laced arms and turned away from a lone woman who, in “Red Rover” fashion, thrashed and hurled her body at them desperately attempting to convince them to allow her into their fraternal circle.

Another favorite part of mine were the “solos” — where only one dancer is actually moving on one part of the stage, but other dancers are onstage as well, very closely watching the moving dancer, examining his or her movement, their facial expressions and tilted heads intently trying to understand the statement that moving dancer was making with her or his body. Visually, it had the effect of being an exercise in learning another language: the moving dancer was definitely speaking to the stationary dancers, and they were surely listening and understanding. With the music bearing foreign lyrics beating in the background, the point is compellingly made that dance is another language as vibrant, complex and meaningful as any spoken.

Dea and I also noticed that the dancers — all wearing matching costumes of understated peach dresses for the women, tan gaucho-styled pants for the men — somehow blended in with each other, though they had varying skin color: no one person stood out as being, for example, “the African American dancer” or “the Latino dancer.” Because it was a truly multi-ethnic company, it did not look at all out of the ordinary for, for example, a red-haired freckled man to be doing intense African-based movements to Gnawan percussive instruments. How awesome is that!! “If I could be a ballet dancer,” Dea said, “this is the kind of company I’d want to be in!”

Also, Dea brought this for me from Brazil:

It’s a CD by a Brazilian singer named Marisa Monte, with lots of really pretty samba songs. I’ve never heard of her and I love the music — how sweet is Dea

Last night Alyssa and I went to see the closing night of Keigwin Kabaret at Symphony Space on the Upper West Side. Here we are with our little silver tambourines that were atop each seat’s armrests when we arrived. If audience tambourines are supplied, you know you’re in for a little zaniness!

Anyway, the show didn’t start until 8:30, so we met at Cleopatra’s Needle beforehand, where we caught the beginning of a jazz band and got some drinks and snacks.

I have GOT to stop snacking at night on chocolate martinis and french fries … I’ve gained five pounds in the last couple of weeks; Luis is going to drop me flat on my butt in my lesson tomorrow night…

Anyway, even with the fries to soak up the alcohol, the martini was rather strong and by the time we arrived at Symphony Space, we (or I anyway) were a little tipsy. When we sprinted into the lobby ten minutes before the show was to begin, and the usher asked us which show we were there for so as to direct us either to the upstairs or downstairs theater, we looked at each other quizzically. I’d completely forgotten the name… Alyssa, quicker than I, blurted out “Gender!” and the guy told us, “downstairs.” No gender upstairs, nope, all gender is downstairs…

When we got downstairs, the place was pretty full and the only available seats were in the first two rows. A bit of a tiff eruped between us and several other near-late-comers, over who would have to sit in the first row. “What are they going to be doing,” one woman shrieked? “I don’t want a lap dance!” No one up front at least seemed to know what to expect. Alyssa and I eventually ended up with the highly coveted second-row seats, I am, as it turned out, very happy to say! Note to everyone who is unfamiliar with extreme hyperactive drag king extraordinare, Murray Hill: if you’re a shy, non-audience-participation-type, DO NOT SIT IN THE FRONT ROW OR ANYWHERE NEAR IT when seeing a show that he emcees. Alyssa and I seemed to be either too non-visible and uninteresting, or else too obviously completely freaked out, to be his fodder, but an unfortunate but well-humored guy in the first row who happened to be wearing a colorful, Christmas-y sweater, was not so lucky. Nor were the people in back of us, nor the guy in back of them … but more on HIM later…

Anyway, the, as the name implies, cabaret-style show, was a lot of fun. The company’s artistic director, Larry Keigwin, was a great dancer (and really cute to boot!), and I LOVED assistant artistic director Nicole Wolcott. She was such a beautiful dancer. I so wanna be like her! Seriously, she really makes me want to learn modern now. She made it seem freeing and fun while also being based in solid formal technique, if that makes any sense, and she just moved so amazingly gorgeously in her solo, to “Stand Back” by Stevie Nicks. I also really liked her duet with Keigwin, a tango-y kind of thing to French music, the first part of which involved chokehold-drop (what they’re called in ballroom anyway) after chokehold-drop. This is where the man wraps his hands around the woman’s neck and it looks like he’s strangling her, then drops her into a dangerous-looking dip. Teachers of mine have wanted to put it into my routines, but I’ve refused to do it because it seems dangerous to me (all the more so since I’m a frightened amateur who doesn’t really know what she’s doing) and because I feel like it just looks somewhat misogynistic. But, since this was a gender-bender thing and they were specifically questioning that, it worked here. Although, I would have preferred for her to do it to him a few times as well, but perhaps it is hard for a woman to balance a man’s body that way … but isn’t that what gender-bending stuff is made of…?

Anyway, the show was a combo of modern dance performed by Keigwin and Wolcott and their company, which includes Patrick Ferreri (who’s damn cute! and performed a hilarious drunk-off-his-butt riff on Tharp’s final Sinatra Suite, danced to One For My Baby, which I think Angel should DEFINITELY try out on ABT audiences next time he performs it ), and Julian Barnett (who did this sweetly endearing thing to a heavy mental number on overcoming being a picked-on gay kid). And, there were the cabaret performers including my favorite Mike Albo, who did this scream-inducing parody of TV show “Ugly Betty” by mimicking the gay male character who plays the slavish, somewhat whorish employee of Vanessa Williams’ Cruella deVillish boss and sidekick to her scheming receptionist, Amanda. Other dancers included Ying-Ying Shiau, Liz Riga, Alexander Gish (who portrayed a cute but frightening cherub-faced waiter who got a little over excited about a big ole butcher knife he carried around in his pocket), and Jamacian burlesque dancer Akynos, whose pasty came off at the end of her number, leading her to finish with her left hand over her breast. How do those things stay on anyway???

One of the craziest parts of the evening was when they ran this audience-participation contest, drawing three people out of the audience at seemingly random to compete in ’sexiest in dance’ to Justin Timberlake music. Hill picked on the guy from the fourth row who was cackling loudly throughout, and insisted he come up onstage to be the male contestant. Hill kept calling him “a gay” while he was in the audience, and when he got onstage, Hill said, “Oh, I thought you were a gay out there in the audience, but now that you’re up here I see that you’re not one at all.” Alyssa and I were DYING of embarrassment; he is nuts. Anyway, I don’t know if this guy was part of the act, but after initially looking out at the audience, like, crap, what did I get myself into, he proceeded to, I swear, perform the funniest, sexiest, cutest, lewdest cheesecake / beefcake strip-tease I’ve ever seen. Afterward, Hill asked him what he did for a living and he said vaguely that he was in show-biz. Don’t know who he is, but I definitely want to see him again! I don’t know what the guy’s sexuality was — I try not to make assumptions since I’m usually wrong — but if Hill was right in his final analysis, I think it’s perhaps funniest to see straight men who are freaking out try to do strip-tease…

All in all, I thought it was fun, though, I have to say, it was billed as part of a several-part program Symphony Space is doing entitled “Gender Benders,” and nothing besides the presence of Murray Hill, who is the biggest walking talking gender bender I’ve ever seen, challenged my notions of gender. I guess Shiau and Riga ridiculed the male gaze, the former by standing at the edge of the stage doing nothing more than licking an ice cream cone, the latter by kind of “talking” with her breasts with the assistance of Wolcott, standing behind her; and there were plenty of gay men humorously grabbing their crotches and riffing on both straight and gay male identities, etc. Hill remarked that he’s never been north of 23rd Street (though I saw him at the Supper Club, in Times Square, not long ago…), acting like it’s such a big deal to be all the way uptown, but uptown is still New York City, for cry-eye. This kind of show is more needed for the middle-Americans who frequent Hooters and drool over the waitresses’ tight shirts only to have near-nervous breakdowns when people like Matt and his fellow ABT guys sing at the bar. Also, I found it interesting how the audience would go “woooo” and hoot anytime the women were onstage being ’sexy’, but when the men were on grabbing their crotches, everyone laughed. I just think as a society in general, we’re still very uncomfortable “objectifying” men the same way we do women… Anyway, Keigwin & Co. will be performing at Skirball Center near NYU next week. I definitely want to see more of them!

Just really quickly since this post is now about 100,000 words long, Friday night, on Gia’s Winger recommendation again, I went to see “Becky, Jodi and John” at Dance Theater Workshop. Much more mellow than Keigwin Kabaret, but I found it compelling in its sublelty and bittersweet humor. Choreographed by John Jasperse and featuring him, Becky Hilton, and Jodi Melnick (all 43 years old, oddly enough), it dealt mainly with aging and dance: the dancer’s ‘aging’ body; how changing self-esteem and increasing self-knowlege alters how you present yourself and what you’re willing to do during a performance (after Jasperse asks her to do the project, Melnick goes through a long, humorous litany of problems she’s been having lately with her joints and muscles, and tells him there are certain things she doesn’t like to show anymore, such as her arms); the choreographer’s ‘aging’ mentality and how s/he’s perceived by critics and peers as “old” (at one point, Jasperse came out onstage naked, carrying a load of bricks, placed the bricks down and assembled them into a structure while another dancer read a critic’s review of his work, telling him he was too “formalist” and needed to loosen up); and the power and absolute necessity of maintaining friendships with each other over the years and across the miles (after Jasperse finishes his ‘building’ he walks to Melnick who stares down at his genitals questioningly, humorously, then they perform a beautiful pas de deux illustrating their mutual reliance on each other for physical and emotional support. Like the Forsythe and Young works I blogged about recently, this also was multi-media, using video projections, spoken word, and of course dance to explore its themes. While it was centered around dance, I still think many people could relate to the themes — to the process of aging, feeling your body begin to give, feeling “old” compared to the younger generation, maintaining friendships while people go their separate ways, etc.

Also, I just have to say, I just saw Melnick in another piece, Vicky Schick’s Plum House with Laurel Dugan, also at Dance Theater Workshop, and it blows my mind that she is 43. She looks soooo young. Not that 43 is not young of course! All three dancers did amazing things with their bodies, especially in the first part, where they’re spread out on the floor in various stretch poses. I, for one, could not have the turnout required to do some of that floor work…

Here is a picture of the lobby, where they have a splendid chocolate bar! It was the most crowded I’ve ever seen it, and I think the shows sold out all nights, so hooray for them!

Finally, I just want to point out that Dance Theater Workshop has an interesting little thing on their MySpace blog. In their playbills, they pose a series of questions about the performance you’re there to see, titled “Cat Got Your Tongue?” They are: 1) How did the body move?; 2) How did you feel during the dance?; 3) How was the piece organized?; 4) What was the dancers’ relationship to each other, to the audience?; and 5) What, if anything, do you think the artist wanted to communicate with you? I think they’re interesting questions designed to make you think about what you just saw, thereby getting more out of it. Sometimes, oftentimes, modern dance is difficult to make sense of for the average viewer, which is the main reason, I think, why modern dance does not draw the audiences that ballet and other kinds of dance do. I feel like I get more out of a performance after I blog about it, so I think DTW’s MySpace blog is a potentially wonderful tool.

Last night I went to the monthly Writers’ Room member readings at Cornelia Street Cafe in the Village (in which I’ll be reading at some point in the not-too-distant-future). Reading were Susan Buttenwieser, a Pushcart Prize finalist, Lara Tupper, a lounge singer-turned novelist whose debut novel, “A Thousand and One Nights” has just been published (how jealous am I?!?!), and last but not least, Signe Hammer, who, because of her bio, I was very interested in hearing. The funny host, playwright Stan Richardson, whom I personally like (though I’m not sure that sentiment is universal amongst the WR crew) always asks the readers what, from the bio they provide him, they are most proud of (still have no damn clue what I am going to say when it comes my turn…) Susan said hers was being nominated for the prize, Lara said hers was being a member of the Barry Manilow fan club (hehehe), and Signe said her short-lived career as a dance / performance artist with Meredith Monk’s original dance group, The House, was her proudest moment! Immediately everyone clapped loudly; all the writers and their friends knew already of Monk with no further explanation. So, Yay For Dance!! She gave some brief little humorous tidbits about her work with Monk, saying they founded site-specific “Dance Theater” (performing at the Guggenheim and Judson Playhouse before obtaining their own space), as opposed to “Dance Dance” which is what she termed Twyla Tharp’s main enterprize, after trying and failing at Dance Theater. Tharp, she said with humor, realized the genre wasn’t for her after her first effort, which Monk remembered as being a piece where bodies hurled through the air as if propelled by a canon, one after the other, and … that was it. After labeling her and Monk as “Downtown,” Stan asked her if she considered herself “downtown” in terms of her writing, and she snapped, “no, downtown is dead!” Because there is no derriere-garde anymore, she proclaimed, there is no avant-garde either. Hmmmm.

Anyway, the readings were interesting, but maybe it’s just that I’ve seen so much dance lately (and, I guess contemporary Dance Theater), that, I kinda think, uh, the art of simply reading from some pieces of paper requires somewhat of a performance artist. I mean, lying down on your futon with your legs hanging over the back of the frame with a book open in your face — how I read anyway — that’s just the way words were meant to be taken in– by visualizing them on the page. Hearing them spoken just doesn’t allow them to penetrate my brain the same way. Usually. Except when spoken by Ann Liv Young and Laurel Dugan and Forsythe’s dancers. Hmmm, maybe I should ask Laurel to help me, to be my dancer alter ego! Ha ha. No, stage is far too small, and Stan would freak. I’ll have to call forth my own dancer alter ego

Anyway, in the audience, I met this lady:

Her name is Alice Denham and she was all excited about her new book, whose full title is “Sleeping With Bad Boys: Literary New York in the 1950s and 1960s,” being reviewed in the New York Times. I looked her up and she’s been reviewed all over the place! She gave me a little flyer showing the front and back covers of the book. Back cover reads “Denham’s lusty memoir is a juicy tell-all about a time when male writers were gods and an aspiring and gorgeous female novelist tries to win respect… Caught between the sheets are James Dean, Norman Mailer, Philip Roth… The steam rises page by page as Denham — the only Playboy Playmate to have her fiction published in the same issue as her centerfold — chases her dream of writing as a young, oversexed beauty in the literary swirl of 1950s Greenwich Village…” The Denham I met seemed interesting, intelligent, quirky, and opinionated, as she rolled her eyes at some of our host’s jokes and wasn’t shy about yelling out, “that’s the ONLY funny one of the night” at the one that actually made her laugh (and she’s of course a lot older now than in her picture as shown above)… but she didn’t seem so ‘oversexed’ to me. I guess she read my thoughts because she said, “Oh, they sexed it up, you know,” rolling her eyes. “It’s really a feminist account of a woman in the 50s trying to be taken seriously as a writer.” Looks good, and I do think I’ll check it out. And Susan Brownmiller of “Our Bodies Our Selves” gave it a thumbs up!

One thing though: feminism and the whole (false) mind / body binarism has captured my interest of late, and Denham’s back cover made me think of it again. As dancers, our bodies are all important, and in a way, I guess we are our bodies. But we are also obviously intellectual beings. It’s just upsetting when someone — a man, doesn’t want to accept that, who thinks that because you’re a dancer he can treat you a certain way, disrespect you, say certain things, look at you a certain way — all things that can even be a bit threatening. I’m a lawyer, I’m not used to this. And it’s definitely not all men — definitely not even most; most men are totally cool; it’s just some who ruin it. Do a lot of female dancers get this treatment? What about “sexy” female writers like Denham? Or Candace Bushnell? Ann Liv Young said she got some suggestions about ways she could make her piece “sexier” by men who didn’t understand her work; she just rolled her eyes inwardly and thanked them. Very Dorothy Parker. I love her. Someone asked for Santoro’s phone number, I think she said as well. I wonder how Santoro reacted.

Anyway, on a more positive thought, regarding feminism: there are some really cool things going on in the city this weekend. There’s a “Global Feminisms” exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum on feminist art, and “Indwelling” — a combination of photography exhibits on women’s bodies by female artists, screenings of shorts films such as the movie “A Girl Like Me” which I saw at TriBeCa film festival and blogged about earlier — awesome awesome AWESOME short film by a high-schooler about young African-American girls’ self-perceptions — and some play readings such as The Vagina Monologues. The theme is women’s body images, and it celebrates the 25th Anniversary of the Women’s Therapy Centre Institute and takes place at Cooper Union’s Great Hall. Sounds excellent.

“No matter what life you lead

the virgin is a lovely number:

cheeks as fragile as cigarette paper,

arms and legs made of Limoges,

lips like Vin Du Rhone,

rolling her china-blue doll eyes

open and shut.

Open to say,

Good Day Mama,

and shut for the thrust

of the unicorn.

She is unsoiled.

She is as white as bonefish.”

Anne Sexton, “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,” from TRANSFORMATIONS.

On Thursday night, I went to see Ann Liv Young’s “Snow White” after seeing it posted on The Winger, by Gia Kourlas, who also has a good interview with the young iconoclastic choreographer in TONY. Very in-your-face, very rawly unabashedly unerotically naked, very hilariously WTF??, very post-post-post-feminist, and I LOVED it! This was my first time seeing anything by her, and I had to do some research, both on her work and the classic fairytale, to make a bit of sense (but I love that sort of thing — and I had no idea reinvention of the fairytale was so popular — in addition to Anne Sexton and Gregory Maguire, Angela Carter and A.S. Byatt have had their take). Young said it was based on the Grimm Brothers version and not Disney, which was pretty obvious, but I don’t think she needed to say that anyway: it’s really just her own thing entirely.

I’m not sure if I got what I was supposed to get out of it, or if there’s even some specific thing that she wanted me to get, but some themes I saw were pretense or illusion versus the real, tearing apart sex and gender stereotypes– rather lewdly too, subverting the (male, I guess) gaze, questioning the meaning of eroticism and nakedness versus nudity, etc.. It was kind of like a play within a play, but in a way that questioned what was performance and what was real. When the audience walked into the theater, the three performers were already standing onstage looking out at us waiting for us to take our seats. Young herself kind of glared out at us, a challenging look in her eye: she was not up there to please us, to show us prettiness and gratification. Similarly, at the end of the performance (which was rather abrupt), they just got up, took their things and walked off the stage, not waiting for or needing our applause, no bows, no “curtain calls.” And throughout the show, things would go wrong — sound devices that wouldn’t work, costume malfunctions, problematic props, etc. — and would be fixed onstage. It’s as if she’s questioning what a performance is, what are its confines, and at points, I wasn’t even completely sure if what was happening was supposed to be happening or if it was part of the show.

But back to the beginning. The three performers — one man (Michael Guerrero), two women (Liz Santoro and Young herself) — all wearing simple white ballet leotards and heavy black sneakers (the last of which is the only item of clothing that remains part of the costume throughout), play a rock song — Guerrero on drums, Santoro keyboards and Young singing. Each person, by the way, plays two characters — Guerrero the sound technician and The Queen, Santoro The Woodsman and The Prince, and Young the play’s director and Ms. White. After the song finished, all three stripped naked and changed into their next costume — all onstage. No strip-tease, nothing artful or sexy about it, just a clothing change done onstage — and therefore — really somewhat shocking. Certainly not Kenneth Clarke’s definition of “the nude.” Plus, none of the bodies are “idealized” — no makeup, no starving oneself for months on end or working out like a madperson for the idealized physique — these are real bodies.

For the next song, Young sings naked (except for the heavy black sneakers), while Guerrero works the sound and Santoro changes into her Prince costume — underwear with a giant strap-on dildo. The sound goes wrong, not enough is coming out of the mikes, and Young stops the performance mid-song to yell and scream at everyone for it. One male European blogger I read likened her to Eve Ensler, but to me, this ranting naked woman reminded me more of Karen Finley. Except, where Finley would often rant about overtly political issues, Young’s fist-pounding naked woman is political in another way: if traditional onstage female nudity (ie: for male gratification) must render (at least in fantasy) the woman vulnerable, humiliated, and subjugated to men in order for it to be titillating, Young’s dictating everyone around, forcing even the rather muscular man to run frantically about, his penis dangling between his legs, is nothing but amusing. She is hardly the vulnerable, submissive one, and is humiliating everyone else. Maybe the image is a bit shocking as well; I found it funny.

The Disney version has oft been criticized for reifying the virgin / whore dichotomy. As Sexton’s poem notes, the Queen is the sexed-up slut well deserving of her eventual demise, Snow the glorious good girl who is, for all intents and purposes a virgin — of course every woman must at some point perform those horrid ‘wifely duties’ but Snow’s “china-blue doll eyes … open to say Good Day Mama” but are “shut for the thrust of the unicorn…” Since she denies her sexuality, the fantasy of her virginity remains intact. Here, Young screws all such fantasies: the “Prince,” topless and with her giant strap-on dildo, climbs aboard Young, balancing his body over hers in a push-up, as if looking into the glass-box where the poor dead beautiful Snow lies. But instead of being a beautiful dead girl, Young is alive and active. She jumps up, pushes the Prince over, climbs atop him and straddles the dildo. Young told Kourlas part of what she wished to do was play with skepticism, so she wants the audience to see it penetrate her. The spectacle is rather outlandish and the audience kind of didn’t know how to react. Personally I don’t see how anyone could possibly find this ‘girl-on-girl action’ to be intended for male titilation — it seems way too vulgar — but Young told Kourlas that a European male viewer wrote to her that he thought the performance was quite sexy, but if she wanted to make it yet sexier she should lose the tennis shoes. In an earlier piece, entitled “Michael,” which I only read about and now wished I would have seen, apparently part of the action takes place in a trailer bearing three naked women dancing, and a male outside peering through the window, naked as well, and masturbating. He later comes inside the trailer, only to have his penis tied to the couch by the women, who pour soda over him while screaming, “I don’t love you anymore.” Is she saying that this is the fate that befalls the poor man who assumes women’s bodies exist solely for his gratification? Anyway, at one point during Snow White, Young reads to the audience some letters of criticism from former viewers, but she didn’t include this tennis shoe one and I wish she would have.

In the last section, the three performers pretend to be part of a radio talk show. One discussion revolves around how each character’s Valentine’s Day was spent. Young tells a story in which she was driving down the freeway topless, rocking out to cranked-up music and having herself a great time. A trucker sees her and begins following her. Of course, right then her tire goes flat. She throws a shirt on, jumps out of the car, and goes to the trunk to retrieve her spare, when the trucker stops and approaches her. He shoves her up against her trunk and pulls down his pants. Just then his black lab jumps out of the truck and attacks him, allowing her to run away. She flees into some bushes and hides, only to hear a shotgun go off. After the trucker pulls away, she goes back out to the street and holds the dog in her arms as he dies. A caller phones in and tells her if she’d just keep her clothes on her life would be much easier. Very disturbing, and Finley-esque.

Anyway, “Snow White” is playing at The Kitchen this Wednesday through Saturday. There’s tons of good stuff I left out. My friend, unfortunately, was disturbed by it, so I guess it may not be for everyone, but if you want to see a real spectacle that will likely challenge your notions of things and make you think, then just go and check it out for yourself.

So, I just received in the mail my prize from Root Magazine for being a winner in their essay contest for my piece on making an ass of myself in Samba class! I love “Rough Guide,” and it’s perfect for me — covers dance festivals worldwide, and has a whole section, OF COURSE, devoted to Rio’s Carnival! Lists inexpensive hotels, how to get tickets to the parade and what times to go to see the best schools, and how and when to sign up with a Samba school if you wish to dance in the parade (it listed Mangueira as the best, which Cathy had first told me about!) So, now I have NO EXCUSE for not going next year

The book also lists a bunch of other fabulous world festivals (both dance-related and non-dance), including, New Year’s Hogmanay in Scotland, PETA’s “Running with the Nudes” — as opposed “Running with the Bulls” — in Spain, NY’s very own Halloween parade, and one in particular that caught my eye — the Gay and Lesbian Festival in Sydney — supposedly the largest of its kind in the world and in which participants really know how to “lose their inhibitions,” clothing-wise. Sounds like the perfectly SAFE place for that — and probably ideal for someone like me who freaks over her costume showing a milimeter of cleavage (more about that in a later post…) Hmmm, ideas for more stuff to spend my non-existant monetary funds on…

Here’s a picture from the inside flap — I’m not sure if this is that Sydney festival or something else, but it looks intriguing

Anyway, it was the perfect prize for me! Thanks again so much, Root!

Last night, I went to see another piece by Forsythe, this time at the Baryshnikov Arts Center. My usual dance friends were all busy, so I managed to convince my friend and fellow co-worker, Jonathan, who rarely goes to dance events, to accompany me. This task proved to be quite difficult since the website described the work as involving “audience participation.” When you’re a ballroom dancer and you invite your very dance-shy friends to socials at your studio promising them they can simply sit and watch all the action, only to get there and have everyone and their dog dragging them kicking and screaming out onto the dance floor, then go and invite them to an audience participatory dance event, they simply won’t trust you. I had to promise him on my life that this was a world-class concert dance company and the only ones doing the actual dancing would be the professionals.

Anyway, You Made Me a Monster was, like Three Atmospheric Studies, dance theater, and involved not only dance but other elements of theater as well, this time sculpture, sound effects, and words (this time not spoken but written, and projected from a video monitor onto a screen). The theme was the devastating effects of cancer on the body.

A group of 80 of us walked into a room where about 10 or so tables were set up, each bearing a partially constructed model of a human skeleton made from cardboard pieces. Guides divided us into smaller groups, took each group to a different table, and directed us to build off of the partly put-together puzzle, but not in a logical way. In other words, a spine should not resemble an actual spine, but the audience-member should twist and bend the carboard bone so that it made an artful design, then attach it to the model not where it “should” go on a “normal” human body, but in a more unconventional, surprising place. If we liked, we could also take some of the pieces of white paper below the table and trace the shadows made by the distorted model body.

Okay. Can you pick the lawyers out of the art crowd?… Yes, with us, this proved almost as bad as if we’d been asked to dance. While everyone else at our table enthusiastically went to work, Jonathan and I looked at each other, picked up a cardboard piece, looked quizzically at it, surreptitiously regarded the instructions we were told to pay no attention to, looked at each other again hopeless confusion covering our faces. Beginning to stress out about looking like a couple of idiots, I finally shrugged my shoulders and started bending and twisting a femur. Jonathan frowned at what I think was a collarbone, then put it down and excused himself to go to the bathroom for the next ten minutes. He’s never coming with me to a “dance event” again, I know it… In the end, I contributed to our table’s body by placing a very long, twisty bone protruding straight up from the center. It looked more amusing than anything else.

About ten minutes into our “body-building” project, shrill, screeching sounds began to emerge from the speakers, and dancers, three in all, came out, approached a table (each a different one), and began conveying through movement the design we’d created with our “bodies.” Their movement was much like that of the mother and diplomat’s assistant that I described in Three Atmospheric Studies — twisted, distorted, and contorted to grotesque, misshapen effect. I recognized the dancers from Atmospheric Studies, since I’d just seen it.

Funny thing, Matt Murphy had told me one of his favorite dancers from Atmospheric Studies was “the bald guy.” That man was one of the dancers here. I hadn’t noticed him much at Atmospheric Studies, since he didn’t “play” one of the main characters. Here, he took my breath away. Matt was so right! Dancers … they do notice dancing! With me, I guess supreme dance skill has to be shoved right in my face for me to see it…

After finishing at the tables, the dancers went to the front, stage area, and danced behind three separate stands each holding a piece of paper with a tracing an audience-member had made of the shadows of their model. They resembled musicians playing instruments while reading music sheets.

Behind them was a screen, onto which was projected a series of sentences, each running across the screen one by one. This use of words was somewhat ineffective to me. Every once in a while, I’d see solitary words or phrases that shouted-out to me, like “xenophobia,” “seeds of one’s internal destruction,” “reproductive organs were removed,” “grasp of space … uncanny, delirious,” “repulsive, occult, lethal,” Aliens” etc. etc. But I couldn’t focus on the words because that would take my concentration away from the dancers, and I didn’t want to do that. So, I only got an intermittent sensory effect from various words or sentence parts, without understanding how they fit together into a fuller narrative. I would have much preferred the words to have been spoken. There were sound effects blaring over the speakers as well, but to have the words on top of the sound effects would have enabled me to better understand them, since I feel that sounds can better compete with each other than visuals. You can only look at one thing at a time!

I noticed right before leaving that the pieces of paper on top of and underneath the tables contained those same sentences. I snatched one and put it into my bag. I’m not sure if they were there for us to take, but I’m very glad I did, because I read it on my subway ride home, and it made the performance all the more sorrowfully compelling to me. A man, whether it’s Forsythe I’m unsure, tells about his wife’s illness then death from cancer of her reproductive organs. The woman, a dancer, had been bleeding profusely, obviously weakening her and making her unable to perform. Her doctor, who happened to be a woman, told her it was just that she was dancing too much — obviously a judgment laced with sexism and devastatingly destructive medical inaccuracies — something with which a few of us are just a bit familiar. He goes on to talk about what a “dance genius” his wife was: “She had been able to reach into the profound heart of dancing and bring it to light…” The two were working on a piece about xenophobia, in response to several murders of political refugees in Germany. She had likened her cancer to xenophobia, which “constitutes a fear that the seeds of one’s internal destruction reside in a foreign body…” One thing I love about Forsythe is his ability to merge and analogize seemingly disparate things to shed new light on both. The “story” ends when, years after the woman has died, the man and his children began to assemble a cardboard jigsaw puzzle-like model of a human skeleton given to the wife before her death by a friend. They did not follow instructions, however, but “randomly bent, folded and attached the various intricate pieces until there was a model of something I understood. it was a model of grief.”

Amazing writing central to the piece that I thought should have been more central to the performance. As Jonathan and I were walking to the subway, I said that the dancing seemed one-note to me. He said he thought it was thematic and he enjoyed it overall and didn’t need a narrative with a big-bang climax. It WAS thematic and I didn’t need those things either, but I still wished there would have been something beside all the images of distorted, mangled, devastated bodies. I wished there would have been some beauty somewhere. I guess I found that in this writing, which was beautifully written. I just don’t know how many people saw the pieces of paper to pick up before leaving, so I don’t know how many people missed out on it.

One last note, on gender: two of the dancers here were men, one a woman. I thought it was interesting that Forsythe used male dancers to portray a woman’s illness from a feminine form of cancer. He also used female dancers in traditionally male roles in Atmospheric Studies — ie: a diplomat. This is interesting to me, this kind of playing with gender roles and assignments, unless I am reading too much into it. However, there was one line in this written story that struck me. After the woman’s cancer-ridden reproductive organs were removed, the man says, “I noticed afterward, she no longer smelled like a woman.” He goes on to talk about how, once she started on a course of radiation therapy, she began to “bend” “los[ing] the ability to fully lengthen her body” as a dancer must. So, the cancer depleted her of both her ‘womanness’ and her ‘dancerness’ — the two things that defined her, at least to the man (who is the one, after all, left to speak for her). But the line about the reproductive organs and “smelling like a woman” bothered me. It’s horrible for a woman to lose her reproductive organs — it’s horrible for anyone to have to lose any of their organs — and I definitely think doctors have been too haste to recommend hysterectomies and mastectomies and have done so out of pure and simple laziness over having to deal with the complexities of our bodies. But what exactly does ‘a woman’ smell like? Do we all smell the same? Are we all one thing, are we all defined by the same thing — our reproductive organs?

So, Jonathan Wilkins and Katusha Demidova are the America’s Ballroom Challenge Champions!! The top photo, by the way, is copyright of Jeffrey Dunn for WGBH, from the America’s Ballroom Challenge website. I couldn’t be happier for them. For the first time, I absolutely fell in love with their dancing, while watching them during this competition. I have always championed the couple I call the underdogs of Standard, Victor Fung and Anna Mikhed, but here I really saw why Jonathan and Katusha are the reigning U.S. Standard champions and third overall in the world. Though I haven’t studied much Standard and don’t know much about technique in that dance style, I could tell what a perfect connection they had, like they were just made to dance with each other. And they exhibited such class and charm. The way Katusha wore her hair, with her curls bouncing around behind her, particularly during their short number — their swift-footed, gleeful, sweetly flirty Quickstep danced to “It’s Too Darn Hot,” she reminded me so much of Rita Hayworth dancing with Fred Astaire. What sophisticated beauty and grace and elegance. It made me wish the Standard competitors wore their hair down all the time, instead of up in the oftentimes rather severe buns.

Though I’ve liked Latin, watching these two made me feel like Astaire and Hayworth, like class itself, had been brought back into American Dance. I wish Standard was more popular here.

Of course I love Latin. I love Latin primarily because I love learning about the cultures from which the different dance styles originate. I love being exposed to, and learning to ‘feel’ different kinds of music, with the beautiful sounds made by foreign instruments, the mellifluous foreign languages… But too often, I feel that people sexualize Latin dance, and it makes me uncomfortable. Latin dancing is really not about sex. One of my friends from my old studio, Juana, once told me that Rhumba, for example, grew out of slave culture. The Rhumba basic — a step, followed by downward motion of the back shoulder muscle toward the hip, followed by the settling of the body weight into that hip, mirrored the way the slave women who had to carry heavy loads on their shoulders would walk. I love that she taught that to me. It made the Cuban motion so fundamental to Rhumba all the more clear to me. And, I felt like I was having a mini history lesson. Funny thing, Juana wasn’t even a dance instructor, just a very knowledgeable and historically-aware fellow student. In any event, this basic movement is not sexual. Latin dancers in part wear “skimpy” costumes because this isolation of movement of a single part of the body is important to the dance, so the judges must see their backs, hips and rib cages in order to determine whether they are exhibiting proper technique. Not that the costumes can’t ever be called “sexy,” but I feel that sometimes people go too far, and reduce Latin dance to that, and thus reduce Latin dancers to sexualized objects. Sometimes other kinds of dancers can be reduced to sexualized objects as well, and I find this very disturbing. I have a lot more to say about dancers and bodies, but will save that for later. For now, I just want to say congratulations to Jonathan and Katusha for some very beautiful, very inspiring dancing

Yesterday at work, I got a call from a reporter from a big law journal here, wanting to do a short interview with me about the case I recently won. I was getting lunch when he called, so he left a message. When I returned to my desk and listened to my voice mail, I freaked out a bit. I’ve never spoken to the press before! So, I re-read my brief and the D.A.’s brief, re-read the Court’s decision about eight or nine times, even re-read some of the cases I relied on and the Court cited. I was so nervous. I mean, I think I am the typical appellate attorney: i.e. a bookish writer-type, who can’t talk her way out of a paper bag — which is why I am an appeals lawyer, and not a trial one, after all! Ugh. I took so much time re-reading everything in sight, that I must have returned his call too late in the day, and missed him, because I sat by the phone, like a high-schooler waiting desperately for the boy she likes to call her back, until well into the evening. Around 7ish, I finally decided it was time for me to leave the office for the day; I figured he’d call back tomorrow.

I was so frazzled in the evening, I thought I’d better do something to bring my stress level down a notch. So … I took a dance class of course! But, in keeping with my New Year’s resolution to not spend so much money, I opted for a street Samba class at the Alvin Ailey extension, for $15, instead of another ballroom lesson, for about $10,000. Which means, I saved $9,985!!! Which means I can attend one more Met ABT performance!!!

Seriously. Street Samba: insane. INSANE. I’ve never felt so stupid in my life! We started out doing these crazy stretches, making me realize just how inflexible I really am. Then, only a half an hour into the hour-and-a-half-long class, the teacher — the other-worldly, completely beyond human, impossibly amazing, Quenia Ribeiro, began with like, advanced advanced ADVANCED hip swaying, pelvis contorting, just crazy moves. The class was supposedly for beginners!?! First step — FIRST step — was this African-based (I know this, because I’ve seen it at Broadway Dance Center’s West African class’s student showcase) traveling move, except instead of simply opening up arms and legs as wide as possible sideways while somehow bouncing forward, she moved her pelvis back and forth in this really beautifully sexy way. I tried and tried and tried to imitate her, but couldn’t in any way, shape, or form do anything even close to her with my mid-section. Happily, I managed to figure out where my feet, at least, were supposed to go on the floor. Right at the second I was feeling like, okay, I look like an enormous ass, but at least I know where TO GO on the floor, the drummers started drumming (live band by the way, singing in Portuguese, which means they were really Brazilian — how the hell they managed not to laugh themselves silly watching us, I’ll never know…) , and Quenia started moving AT THE BEAT THEY WERE BEATING TO — basically, the speed of light. In trying like hell to keep up, I flailed about wildly, smacking this poor Asian woman next to me right in the face. She stepped on me, though, so it was okay! Seriously, the few of us in the back section were spending more time apologizing to each other than anything else.

It didn’t take me long to realize it was just not going to be happening with me. I mean, this woman just moved in ways that I didn’t know possible. Her pelvis was darting back and forth — both front to back and side to side, so fast it was just a blur. I had to grab onto the back barre just to steady myself while watching her. This was NOTHING like the ballroom style of Samba I know! Had nothing in common with it whatsoever. I mean, it was still interesting, but just wasn’t me. As a skinny white girl, I know I will never ever EVER be able to move like this woman. And the funny thing is, after I finished my rotation squirming down the floor I stood at the back barre and watched the rest of the students. And, apart from about four really good ones, who you could tell were her very serious dedicated students, no one was really dancing Samba. They were all, however, rocking out madly, and were laughing hysterically and obviously having great fun doing so — unlike me, who just couldn’t get over the fact that I couldn’t do it properly. The really fundamentally pathetic thing about me, I realized, is that, these people, though they weren’t doing Samba, still all had obviously danced a lot at clubs before and just had either a natural or developed sense of rhythm and awesome, for lack of a better term, booty-shaking skills. I, on the other hand, had none. They may not having been dancing Samba but they were most definitely DANCING; I — I looked like Gumby basically.

Well, I felt STRONGLY like giving up, but forced myself to give it the old college try — more because I knew I’d feel stupid making a scene either walking out of class or sitting down in back than anything else. The reason I managed to make it through the whole class — nearly the whole class anyway — was because I assured myself that, even though I was making a gigantic ass of myself, no one was looking at me; people were concentrating on themselves, on having themselves a blast. And this little mantra worked. Until …

…until I turned to look out the window, and saw, to my horror, about twenty to thirty people — men, women and children, on the outside of the building staring right back at me, bemused looks overflowing their faces. Turns out this handy little covering on Ailey’s ground-level studio windows is not really a covering — if outsiders walk up close, they can see everything going on inside. And since Samba is so much blasted fun, the music pouring out through the windows and onto the sidewalk, we attracted the attention of every passerby… And I had thought I was SMART to stay in the back of the class — ie: by the window, and not by the mirror! Idiot idiot idiot!

Anyway, I tried and tried, but to no avail. I never did get it. Just when I thought we were done, at about ten minutes until the end of the hour, and everyone was applauding the band, Quenia announced that we’d now completed the Bahia part of the class; now, it was time to learn the Rio style. Good lord, I thought; there’s more?! And funny thing, absurdist thing was, Rio was actually much closer to what I knew from ballroom! I mean, there was still a lot of upper-body arm and upper torso movement, and hips were looser and steps bigger, but I actually recognized some of the moves! I saw bota fogos, and voltas, and bachacatas — my favorite!!! I nearly peed my jazz pants! Legs were kept a little closer together than in Bahia, and Rio was, to little ballroom whitey me anyway, more familar to my body, more jazzy, more Latiny, just more me. And I swear, Quenia looked right at me when I was coming down the line, and just kind of smiled, as if to recognize that (even though there were at least 20 students in the class), she could see how much trouble I was having with Bahia (you’d have to have been blind not to); and now here I was doing something not completely ludicrously wrong! Ah! So, at least now I know that Rio-style Samba is the kind that I like, that I can actually aim towards even if, with my body type, I may not ever look completely right doing it… Throughout class, I was thinking how much I just wanted it to end, how I’d look back on this and laugh but would never ever come back, but at the very end of it, I was actually reconsidering. Maybe I will visit Quenia again, especially if she spends more than the last ten minutes on Rio!!! Anyway, my mind was very successfully taken far off of reporter guy!

First thing this morning, he called. The minute the phone rang, I reached for the paper on which I’d written out my ’statement.’ Of course, once I started to recite it, he interrupted and started asking me some questions. And he was so nice and warm and easy to talk to (do they learn to be this way in J school??) I couldn’t help but just go along with him and speak what I thought, off the top of my head. After I hung up, I realized that, though I said what I wanted to say content-wise, when I’m relaxed and speaking freely, I tend to use lots of “likes” and “totallys” and “I means” and “ums,” and now I’m all worried, if he took down word for word what I said, I’m going to sound like ‘Valley Girl attorney’! I can just see the write-up: “‘I was like, oh my god, I totally can’t believe the trial Judge like did that, like that was soooo totally wrong,’ says Ms. Plank…” My office-mate assured me that I most definitely did not sound like that, but I’m still worried! Will have to wait and see…

I ate way too much of this over the past week! I know it doesn’t really look it, but it is just so yummy! Definitely my very favorite southern dish. I gained six pounds, in just one week … Jacob took one look at me last night and said, “okay, let’s talk about music!” He’s going to be gone next week at a competition in Las Vegas, so I have two weeks to lose it before lifts begin again! Seriously, methinks I am finding a rather not so good connection between ballet and standard ballroom involving body image. Now that I have decided to do a Tharp Sinatra Suites-esque routine with Jacob, i.e. foxtrotish waltz, rather than Latin, I just keep envisioning myself romantically floating across the floor, lightweight and feathery. Latin is more about connecting to the floor, being, not heavy, but just solidly grounded. Plus, Latin dancer bodies are usually voluptuous and curvy and buff. Standard bodies are more light and weightless-looking, like ballet. Meaning, ugh, weight consciousness time…

Anyway, Jacob cracks me up. I’d bought several Sinatra and Harry Connick Jr. CDs in North Carolina so that I could listen to them on my 11-hour train ride home, and hopefully, find a good song for our next routine. I found four possibilities on the classic Sinatra CD, which I stupidly forgot to take out of the disc player and put back into its holder, which of course I remembered to bring with me to the studio but left the disc player at home. I was so mad at myself. But Jacob simply asked me what the names of the songs were, most of which I didn’t know, then asked me to sing some of the words, hum the tune even, which I did. And he named each and every song! Even with my horrible singing! We ended up deciding on “Luck Be a Lady Tonight,” which I like because it has a few different rhythms that we can play around with, and fun, saucy lyrics that can be acted out. So, it’s not a straight, syrupy love tune. Should be fun. We started playing around with choreographing the beginning, during which he took me down about three-quarters of the way into the splits, which I surprised myself by being able to do. Guess helium-filled stomach did not affect my flexibility too much! Anyway, I think it will be a fun routine.

Here are some more pictures of my trip down south to visit Mom.

Not to sound maudlin and syrupy, but you do. One day at work a while back, I was having a stress attack (which happens not infrequently for me) and needed a breather, so I visited Ballet Talk (one of my many dance ‘breather’ websites) and took this completely goofy “Which ABT Ballerina Are YOU?” test that someone had posted. The test asked you both ballet questions (like which ballets, or which characters, you liked best) and more general personality questions like what’s your favorite color, image, word, how your friends describe you, what you look for in a mate, etc. I worship Alessandra Ferri — think she is by far the most artistically brilliant ballerina in the world right now, so assumed I’d get her. But instead I got Gillian Murphy, an allegro ballerina known for her athleticism, amazing speed, fast fast multiple turns, sky-high jumps, etc. And, in my little critique, it said that I was a great athlete and had boundless energy, and now I just needed to work on developing my artistry a bit! I laughed, thrilled at having got as my ABT avatar the ballerina who is probably, judging by the wild screams in the audience everytime she takes the stage, everyone else’s favorite!

Well, Luis and I taped ourselves dancing our routine earlier this week, and I just got up the courage to watch it. I’m in shock. I screwed up right and left — and there is a lovely shot of me covering my mouth bashfully after whacking my hip into his pelvis on a back cha cha — can I cover ANYTHING up?! And I seem to have this surprised, open-mouthed look on my face the entire time — like I can’t believe I’m actually dancing a Latin routine. BUT, with all the mistakes and silly faces, my body actually looks OKAY doing this crazy-ass, every-other-step-an-insane-trick, lightning speed mambosambachacha dance. Of course I need centuries of practice… but I re-viewed my tape of Pasha and me doing our soft, pretty, slow, romantic Rhumba, and I can’t believe it, but I look better with crazy Luis. I always thought that, with my ballerina-y body — ridiculously long legs and arms, long, thin sinewy, flexible muscles, feet with enormous arches, long goose neck, tiny bird-like head, etc. etc., I’d definitely look best doing a slow romantic dance. Speed-of-light-paced Mambo that requires smallness, not to mention sexy curves, was probably the farthest from what I would think would look good on me. I agreed to do Luis’s routine because — apart from the fact that I’d met him in one of the group classes he was teaching and really really liked working with him — I thought it would challenge me; would at least make my friends laugh if and when they saw me perform it. So, basically, the thing that ended up being a real challenge for me was the thing I thought was my thing. Hmmm…

One reason Rhumba’s so hard for me is that I go way way WAY too fast; Pasha’s always yelling at me to keep the time, count out loud if I have to. And everytime I count, he tells me I’m completely right, so if I can count, I should be able to keep the time with my feet. And yet I can’t — I’m just so impatient; I just want to go go go. And then I realized, that’s how I am in life too — I’ve been known to speed down our office hallway or round a corner so fast, I’ve blown paperwork right out of a co-worker’s hands; I’m always being asked to slow down while walking with friends; I not infrequently smack angry pedestrians with my ginormous ABT dance bag while speed-walking down Manhattan sidewalks; I talk so fast in the courtroom I’ve had judges tell me to stop my argument and start over; I sometimes get so impatient waiting on a subway I want to kill the train conductor by the time the train arrives. I do everything fast — except eat, and that’s only because I developed a swallowing disorder and was forced to calm down, in order to feed myself and to live, basically. I can’t even have a severe headache without jumping around… –speaking of which, I went to my primary care doctor yesterday for a check-up and she read to me the Columbia headache specialist’s report. He said all positive things like ‘patient was well-groomed’ and ‘dressed appropriately’ and ’spoke articulately,’ but then at the end said, ‘patient somewhat anxious.’ ‘Somewhat anxious’ – -who me? I remember how, in an acting class I once took at HB Studios, we did a relaxation exercise and my teacher kept ordering me to stop moving and relax. I tried and tried and tried, and absolutely could not stop: swinging my leg; tapping my foot; rubbing my knuckes; crossing and uncrossing legs… anything but keep completely still. Why?
Oof, maybe that stupid ABT test was right! Maybe if I had dedicated my life to dance, I would have been a sparkly, piquant allegro, and not a beautiful, lyrical, poetic adagio ballerina, as I see myself in my dreams (assuming I’d made it in the cutthroat world of ballet, of course…). Now in adulthood, maybe a crazy, fast-paced Latin dance is more me than a soft pretty one. Or, maybe Rhumba is doing me some good; perhaps I should learn to take my time more in life: smell the proverbial roses, don’t rush, don’t choke, taste the food, feel the music, feel the character, feel my partner, finish the pretty line, just enjoy…

Anyway, Sunday evening, my former West Coast Swing team had a partial reunion. Here is a photo. One of our teammates, Jackie Draper, gives a cabaret performance at Danny’s Skylight Room in the theater district about every six months, and as many of us as possible try to go — we kind of use her performances as our little reunion time. This one was special, because Jackie entitled her show “Something to Dance About” and she had a little segment where she talked and sang about our team. The team was a really fun experience — probably the best competition experience I’ve had. In fact, Dance Times Square had all of the showcase participants fill out these little questionnaires about ourselves, and one question was what our favorite competition experience was. I put mine was getting plastered with my teammates after finishing our final competition last May at the Grand Swing Nationals in Atlanta, and reuniting with my former teammates every so often in NY. In the vast majority of competitions, the student competes on his or her own with a teacher; very few comps have a team event unfortunately. With a team, you’re all in it together, and you bond in ways that you just don’t bond with, for example, other students from your studio who are also competing with your teacher, and whom you’ll therefore spend a lot of time with at a comp. A team comp is an unforgettable experience. Anyway, we will probably have our next little reunion at, yikes, MY showcase, which Jackie bluntly reminded me was coming up in less than a month. They’re now putting up posters around the studio… Help.

Oooh, just realized I have no underwear for tomorrow… geez, I have been dancing way too much and neglecting my life. Before I forget, here are a couple of pictures of the artwork I bought in Martha’s Vineyard last month when I went out there to see Stiefel and Stars. Okay, off to do emergency laundry…

Ah, such is the world of ballroom dancing!… Seriously, just when I was going to bitch to high hell about gay men not having any clue as to female needs for modesty, my wonderful teacher, Luis, has redeemed himself and agreed to let me wear for the showcase a cute but covering halter top! Initially he wanted me to wear a bikini top. I told him no way, with all the lifts, dips, fish dives, back bends, rag dolls, upside-down-shakes — there is no way; my boobs will definitely fly out! Definitely. When I explained this to him, he looked at me as if I was speaking another language. I think that because breasts are completely meaningless to gay men, breasts shooting out of skimpy costume tops mid-performance are likewise wholly uneventful… When I stared him down, he finally got it, and said, “Well, if it’s that big of a deal, you can get nipple covers, you know.” No, I didn’t. What are nipple covers, pray tell — does anyone know?? I am so not a real dancer!! Anyway, I showed him various pictures of alternatives to skimpy tops, and he brightened considerably when I showed him one of me in my former West Coast Swing team outfit, the top part of which was a halter. Yay, agreement! No, seriously, I jest: Luis is great! He okayed my new LaDuca shoes as well (pronounced them ‘cute’ even!), which is really cool because, though they’re not standard Latin dance shoes, they are closed-toed, and since I have such high arches, it’s very difficult for me to wear open-toed shoes because my feet tend to slide out of them whenever I point. So, anyway, today I trekked out to my (well, shouldn’t say ‘my’ since virtually everyone in the Latin world uses her) Russian seamstress, Valentina, all the way out near Brighton Beach so she could update my measurements and sketch what I wanted. She did my last competition costume for me, and nothing fell out, so I trust her. Think I’ll still try to get a hold of some of those nipple things though, as well as some serious double-stick tape. You can never be too careful in the oh so costume-malfunction-prone world of Latin Ballroom dance…

Last night, Luis and I went straight through our routine twice, no stops! It was the most intense workout I think I’ve ever had. I told him so and he laughed, “What do you mean, I’m the one doing all the lifts!” Which is true. I try to help, I really do, I swear!!! And his crotch must be extremely sore today — we do this one trick called a “snake,” where I go into a dip, then slide between his legs, feet first, then body, then head, ending up behind him facing sideways, and, I don’t know what it was, perhaps because I was wearing heels for the first time dancing the routine, but I kept whacking my head straight into his groin while trying to get it under. I’ve never done that before! Maybe it was subconscious anger over the skimpy top?! Ha ha ha Anyway, poor Luis…

Last night, my friend took me out to dinner for watching her kitty while she was away visiting her boyfriend in Scotland — only to tell me she’s marrying the bf and moving to Glasgow! Which I was of course very happy for her for, though I am going to really miss her But, hey man, why can’t I marry a Scottish boyfriend and move to Glasgow???????

But something in our dinner conversation ended up starting me on this self-analysis trip. She’s a freelance writer and editor (which is one reason why it’ll be relatively easy for her to relocate out of the country — lucky lucky lucky her!!), and in telling her I was thinking about trying to get into the same line of work, she suggested I begin regularly scavenging the paper recycling dumpster in my apartment building for magazines so I can think up stories. Which I did for the first time upon returning home last night. Found a lovely W magazine and Bergdorf Goodman catalog (the latter of which is almost like a Vanity Fair, interestingly, with all its articles on personalities, etc.). Ended up searching more for fashion ideas for my costume to present to Valentina today than story ideas… But at one point, I noticed something on the backs of both mags was ripped off. On further inspection, I realized it was the recipient’s name and address. Of course I immediately got all paranoid thinking on no, I always leave my name and address on my New Yorkers, Time Outs, Brown Alumni Mags, and ABA Law Journals before tossing them into the bin. What if … And then I thought, what? What if what? It’s interesting that someone did not want people to know that they subscribed to W and Bergdorf. I guess I don’t care what people are going to think of me based on my subscriptions… So I read TONY (doesn’t everyone?) and the New Yorker (don’t a lot of people?), went to Brown (everyone went to school somewhere…), and am a lawyer (it’s not like I’m the only one in this city…). And then I realized I’ve always been weirdly oblivious to what other people think of me. Maybe it’s because my reunion’s coming up, but then I began remembering how when I first started at my high school, I didn’t know anyone since I’d just been transferred from another due to redistricting, and I’d found this great little bench that was perfectly situated in the middle of the three buildings that comprised our campus, and right next to the lockers. My mom would pack me lunch, and I’d sit there on the bench with my little sack and eat while watching everyone. I’m weird — and this is probably why I ended up in New York — but I was just fascinated with watching how people interacted with each other, or didn’t, who rushed frantically from class to class or stopped at their lockers between periods, who sauntered coolly either putting on a false air of bravado or who honestly didn’t care if they were late, how different people dressed and what their clothes said about them, who was picked on, who was ridiculed — either to his or her face or behind his or her back, how the ridiculee dealt with it, who looked nervous, who else was a loner, etc. etc. etc. I loved watching people basically. One day, a teacher rushed up to me, and, tugging on my sweater, cried out, “honey, honey, why in the world are you just sitting here? I always see you sitting here all — ALONE!” And when I looked up at her, confused, she actually had tears in her eyes. She was truly worried about me. It never occured to me that I wasn’t invisible, or maybe not invisible, but just that people didn’t really think about what I was doing enough to be bothered by it or question it. Not long after that, I was reunited with a friend, Kelly, whom I’d known years earlier from elementary school. She was completely different now. She was now a normal 13-year-old girl obsessed with popularity and fitting in. She explained to me what popularity was (because I honestly hadn’t known), whom I should want to be friends with and kiss up to (even though I found their personalities repugnant), and what items of clothing and by what designers I absolutely must have (even if those clothes didn’t particularly appeal to me). High school ended up being the worst four years of my life. And I honestly wonder what my experience would have been like had I not sought out a friendship with Kelly, after that teacher freaked out over my supposed loneliness.

Anyway, I’m blabbering…

A couple of internet thingys I wanted to point out: first, this way cool blog – this woman is a total riot and I cannot stop laughing at the hilarious way she expresses herself, but her rants are also very thought-provoking and her blogroll educational. I serendipitously found her blog, oddly, after my orthopedist mentioned something about Maxalt, my headache med, being taken off the market for health reasons (after searching every nook and cranny of the internet, I’m now sure he meant Methanone). But she’d once blogged on the drug, so it popped into my search. And, after reading her recent entry on names and thus being prompted to think about the inherent racism of John Stossel’s recent 20/20 segment arguing that parents should be careful not to give their children odd (read: Black) names, lest they have a harder time in society, and then performing more internet searches, I eventually came upon this very interesting test, conducted by Harvard University. Take it! Take it! Everyone take it! It’s really interesting and makes you aware of how you think!

… and more beach, given that the comp is in south Florida and hotel it’s in right on the beach. Except this time I’m not gonna be sharing a beach with a bunch of rich, older, fellow-saggy-rear-ended people as on Martha’s V., but with a plethora of real dancers. With perfect bodies. Oh well. And I have to wear my bikini so my mid-rif will tan, since Luis is making me wear low-cut fringe-y pants and a very short top for the showcase… But, despite my stupid body image issues, I am VERY excited for two reasons: first, because this is my first time at this one and it’s the largest Dancesport comp in the country, and second because Anna Garnis, my teacher Pasha’s partner, finally got all of her Russian documents in order (her Russian passport and U.S. papers had been stolen in the studio) and, having missed Blackpool and the Manhattan Dancesport comps (since she first couldn’t travel out of the country for the former, then was in Russia getting stuff taken care of for the latter), they are FINALLY going to be able to compete again So, many many pics of them to come!

I had to go into my office today because I’d stupidly left a copy of my ticket order to the comp in my desk, which I hated to do because I knew no one was going to be working today and I absolutely detest being in large office buildings all alone. I’m always scared I’m going to get raped. It happened to an older friend of mine, albeit in the 70s when NY was much less safe, and security has been pretty decent since 9/11 but still … it creeps me out being in big buildings alone (plus, maybe has something do with the fact that I’m working on a disturbing sex assault case now…). Anyway, I’m very glad I went in because my Winger yoga t-shirt apparently came in on Friday after I’d left. Which is cool because now I can promote the Winger to my ballroom friends and family It fits pretty good — normally I don’t like tight-fitting things, but I think it looks okay. Luis will definitely like it because he’s always telling me I need to be less shy and show my body more. Given that being more comfortable with my body is one reason I started Latin (others being learning about partnership and about Latin culture of course), I guess the form-fitting-ness is a good thing Anyway, here’s a pic of little miss Modest Mouse in boob-enhancing Winger tee (and click on previous two for back of shirt, and for way fun packaging it came in! — I know, I’m a dork…)

Speaking of modest mouse-iness, my friend and I went to the New York Burlesque Festival at the Supper Club on Saturday night. It was very interesting. My friend LOVED it and is currently thinking up burlesque names for herself (and me). She has battled a weight problem all her life and I think it was a very positive experience for her to see so many different-sized women flaunting their bodies without a care to traditional male-defined standards of female beauty. As for me, it was fun because it was an alternative, gay and lesbian environment. If it wasn’t, I definitely would have been very uncomfortable. I have zero tolerance for frat boys and the stupid women who date them. And zero tolerance for men who can’t take their small minds off of boobs for five seconds… Anyway, some of the women were amazing dancers — there was this one troupe of about six women who did rather amazing lifts with each other. Delirium Tremens did a routine on pointe, and Harvest Moon did some amazing tricks while balancing a full glass of champage on various parts of her body. And there were two men — one who stripped down all the way, which was fun, and another dressed as a cowboy who turned his back the the audience, ripped his pants off, then pretended to get an erection (or maybe it was real, what do I know?!!) and turned around to balance the cowboy hat over it. Very fun night, and I’m glad Kristin Sloan posted a bit about it on the Winger!

I had my last lesson with Luis before missing two weeks (first for comp, second for his vaca), and it was quite frightening. We tried the overhead lift he wants to do at the end of the showcase routine but I’m supposed to support my weight with my arms pushing down on his shoulders, which is very very hard for me since I have ligament damage in my left wrist. I can’t even do normal push-ups with my left wrist; have to make a fist and balance my weight on my knuckles. So I don’t think I’m gonna be able to do the lift he wants. He said as an alternative that we could do one where I grab both of my ankles, but that’s going to require straddle splits, which are hard given my overstretched adductor muscle. A third possibility was doing a cartwheel over his head and landing on his back in a Sylvia-esque position, but that involves the same wrist activity as the first since I have to propel myself up and over with my wrists using his knee as a kind of vault. Ugh. He said those are the only three that will really work with what he wants to do (spin me around and around for several beats); the other ballet-y ones I liked are not geared toward the kind of crazy-ass Latin routine I’ve got myself into apparently. So, I’m supposed to decide whether I want to risk further injury to my wrist, possibly requiring surgery, or tearing my adductor?! Injuries are such a royal pain in the ass!!!!!

And I have it big time. I’d tried on my bikini for my Martha’s Vineyard trip in my home mirror, but only viewed myself from the front; didn’t look at my lovely derriere until I got out there. Yikes. Alyssa told me to shut up and wear it to the beach anyway, as she was wearing hers and was suffering from the same problem, except hers was induced by withdraw from 20+ mile marathon-running, power yogalates, gymnastics and hiking all over such places as Bolivia and Egypt. Alyssa is the consummate amateur athlete, making my dainty ballroom dancing look like cheesecake in comparison. Still, we both have injuries and actually reconnected after not seeing each other for many months then serendipitously meeting at a physical therapy center in SoHo. Except, being the far more serious athlete, her injury was a lot more severe: she tore her hamstring in eight different places whilst doing the splits drunk at her birthday party. But good thing that came out of it was hooking up with the ER doctor… I LOVE Alyssa; thanks to her I have an inkling of what it’s like to be a Sex and the City character And I love her for gamely trekking out there with me mainly to see Marcelo Gomes’s first ballet (and David Hallberg perform it) in Stiefel and Stars, even though she’s not a big ballet fan. Thanks for keeping me company and being adventurous, Alyssa

The ballet, “Loving,” was beautiful! So sweet and romantic. Someone likened it to Robbins’s “Other Dances” to which I guess it was similar, but with several couples. And, not to be silly, but something about it kind of reminded me of the courting scenes in Martins’s French pastoral “Songs of the Auvergne”- maybe just because the students danced the corps parts. It was urbane, but there was something sweetly innocent and very slightly bucolic. David and Gillian were lovely as the leads — David is always so charming in his dancing. It’s funny reading him on The Winger, where he is just a guy — smart, thoughtful, sophisticated for his age, and somewhat bookish, but just a guy with a guy view of the world, not this princely dancer seemingly from another time. And the costumes, which, according to David, Marcelo designed, were gorgeous! The women and girls wore light summery dresses with haltery tops and flowing, knee-length skirts; Gillian’s top was white — a different color from the rest, and it looked perfect on her. I definitely think he has a future as a choreographer (not to mention fashion designer…)

Alyssa fell completely in love with Ethan, who did nothing more than introduce the school and the program, and apologize for not being able to dance, as he just underwent surgery on both of his knees. Women always fall for that man! I just find it funny that he didn’t even dance and Alyssa, being a normal female, still went for him. I guess it shows that so much of being a performer is personality. I like my favorites for the same reason; I probably just don’t get the appeal of Ethan because he’s straight! (Seriously, my gaydar sucks. Or maybe it’s that I have excellent reverse-gaydar. I met James McGreevey briefly while doing a judicial clerkship in New Jersey and crushed on him so badly; I’m attracted to them before they even know they’re gay…)

Anyway, besides the ballet, we went to the beach, did a lot of touristy things like visit the red cliffs at Gay Head Bluffs and the gingerbread houses in Oak Bluffs, consumed loads of good wine and seafood (me: Pinot Noir — liked it even before Sideways, I swear!, steamed scallops in a bun, wasabi-coated soft-shell crab, and cornbread-crusted cod; Alyssa: Bordeaux and lobster, lobster, and more lobster!), went to several art galleries (Alyssa’s an art history grad student), ate ice cream at Mad Martha’s in Oak Bluffs which our tour guide said is a favorite of Bill and Hillary, and did A LOT of shopping (I bought: a shiny fuscia purse; a tiny ruffly white top to go with this pink and white Betsey Johnson skirt I’ve long been trying to match; two books — one by Styron who once lived on MV about his depression, and one on being an artist by Anna Deveare Smith — at a bookstore owned by this fun, interesting woman who writes about ghost stories and gossip on Oak Bluffs and who’ll be writing a piece on the ballet in the upcoming Martha’s Vineyard Gazette which I will definitely keep my eyes open for; and two photographs, a sketch, and a print at two different galleries. Alyssa bought some wampun jewelry — made from the purplish coloring found inside the shells of clams native to the area, a sweater, an aromatic tea set for her godmother, and three books — one on African art, which is her area of specialization, and two by the writer / bookstore owner.) Here are some pictures of the trip.

Now we are back in NYC and I’m very nervous about all the work I have to do (basically research and write two briefs) before I head down to Florida for the US DanceSport nationals a week from tomorrow. We got back later last night than expected and I was very tired for my lesson tonight with Luis. He could tell, so instead of practicing lifts that could be dangerous when half asleep, he spent a lot of time talking over the choreography and brainstorming about my costume (I wanted a cute ruffly skirt and peasant top; he was thinking more hot pants with red fringe and basically no top — he’s got another thing coming; I don’t do skimpy tops ever but especially not with upside-down lifts…), and hair (he wants me to get extensions for fullness and for me to wear my hair in curlers all night the night before and all day the day of the performance (which is going to go over really well at work, especially if I get any surprise visits from clients’ families…). Ugh. AND, he decided to make some changes to the choreography — after listening to the music again, he felt one of the lifts should go in another spot than where it was. Which sent me into a frenzy. Apparently, he still does not realize that I’M A TOTAL AMATEUR and making any changes to the choreography a mere six weeks before the performance is nothing short of hysteria inducing. I’ve noticed that when I’m not dancing regularly, I get really nervous about my private lessons. It takes me forever to learn choreography, I’m scared of new things (like overhead lifts and dips where I have to support my own weight), and I just can’t move well (he tried to teach me how to shake my knees so fast that my whole body vibrates, and I could not for the life of me do it — it involves simply bending and straightening your knees, albeit at lightening speed…). Well, my hips and left knee are still a bit achy (from the tendonitis and slight meniscus tear, respectively) and my adductor muscle is still sore, but if I’m going to be donning tight ass pants and not have a nervous breakdown over minor changes in my routine, I’m definitely gonna need to go back to Steps…

“Dead weight. Dead weight. Dead weeiighttt,” Pasha kept moaning while shaking his head all throughout my lesson last week. Ugh. Could I feel fatter? I guess when we do this far-more-complicated-than-it-looks lift / dip / spin thingy that I stole from my favorite Latin diva, Karina Smirnoff, I’m supposed to hold myself up by pushing my pelvis as far into Pasha’s groin as possible. Otherwise, I’m “Dead Weighttt” ie: too much for him to hold up. It just feels weird and, like, violative of boundaries dare I say, since I’m crushing my bony crotch as far as possible into his. I guess real dancers get over the boundary thing fast. But I still don’t completely understand when guys tell me to hold myself up. I know I have to strengthen my body during a lift and hold my position as much as I can, so I’m not dragging him down, but how much can you hold yourself up while suspended in mid air? And what about during a dip when you’re supposed to be “dipping” at least part of your body downward?

Then, while choreographing a rag doll into our routine (I couldn’t find a good link to this, but it’s the trick all the dancers are doing in the party scene at the beginning of “Dirty Dancing” that so seduces Jennifer Grey), Luis kept telling me to put my body weight completely into his hands so he could control me, and the trick, better. I kept trying but I couldn’t seem to do what he wanted, and he kept saying he knew I wasn’t as lightweight as I felt and that I must not be trusting him with my whole weight. Ugh! I totally don’t get it — am I too heavy and not working hard enough to hold my own, or am I not heavy enough indicating distrust?? Are all male partners just different or am I nuts??!

Anyway, speaking of Luis, tomorrow night, he and Anya will be teaching the salsa lesson at Midsummer Night Swing! Be there!

And, this weekend is the super mad fun Manhattan Dancesport Championships at the Marriott in Brooklyn Heights. This is the most prestigious dancesport competition in the mid-Atlantic region and all of the top U.S. couples compete at it (so, look for Andrei Gavriline and Elena Kruyschkova in Latin, and Jonathan Wilkins and Katusha Demidova in Standard). The event begins Thursday with pro/am competitions (when students compete with their teachers), and continues through Sunday evening. Saturday and Sunday nights will be the most fun to watch since they are the professional comps. Saturday is pro Latin (dancers compete in: cha cha, samba, rhumba, paso doble, and jive), and will be followed by an exhibition by the lovely and amazing Sharon Savoy (who, with her old partner, David Savoy, has performed at the Olympics and was a driving force behind making Dancesport an official Olympic sport). Sunday night are the comps in pro American Rhythm (American-style cha cha and rhumba, bolero, swing, and mambo) and Standard (waltz, foxtrot, viennese waltz, tango, and quickstep), and is to be followed by a cabaret show choreographed by Las Vegas choreographer Wendy Johnson, who I’m told really knows how to create a spectacle. These competitions are all a lot of fun and this is one of the best: the crowd can get so raucous rooting for their favorites, the dance floor can start to resemble a boxing match (except the ‘boxers’ are wearing beautiful ballgowns and lovely smiles:)). I will be excited to see the Latin because, ever since Blackpool, I can’t seem to get the paso doble music out of my mind — it’s so dramatic! And you don’t exactly hear it often on the radio… This comp is a perfect way for people to be introduced to the world of Dancesport. It’s a bit pricey — evening tkts are $50, but it’s worth it because the fun lasts for at least six hours (far longer than a Broadway show!) and it’s for a good cause — the dancers’ awards; and ballroom dancers don’t make a lot of money, so they need those prizes…

Lastly, watching Julio Thursday night at the ABT was unforgetable. He will be missed,to make a massive understatement. My pictures are up. I was in the nosebleed section but you can still see the basic action. Enjoy!

it’s not dancing, it’s modeling! Luis discarded all of the choreography he’d done so far, which was fine since I was having a ridiculously hard time remembering the small between-tricks steps, and decided to construct a series of sexy poses that I’m to hit on each of three beats at the start of the song (btw, don’t ever dance to Gloria Estefan — it sounds fun until you start actually to try to keep the beat and then realize how flipping fast it is!). We ended up spending most of the lesson on this since I was having such difficulty striking the perfect pose (especially on the exact beat), and he was being a perfectionist rearranging my hair (and teaching me how to flip it so it’d land just so), pulling back on my shoulders and pushing my chest out (don’t think I’ll ever stop having posture problems), adjusting pelvis, hips, arms, wrists, fingers, knees, toes, etc. etc. etc. ETC. to put me in the perfect state of sexiness (I LOVE working with a gay man!!). So, now I think I have the poses right, but it takes so long for me to strike it perfectly when I’m trying to move at lightning speed, and then it’s so hard to make sure I get the right connection with him so I don’t lose my balance and make him throw his back out catching me. We didn’t work on the overhead lifts since he was sore from moving over the weekend, but I think I am ready when he is. I think. I am trusting him more — we worked on this one trick where I fall forward (holding his hands of course) and before I hit the ground, he whips me up and turns me over and I slide up in a body roll. I know he’s strong and I’m not going to fall, but it’s one thing to know that in your brain and another to tell it to your body in the midst of the trick…

My former West Coast Swing partner, Mark, informed me that everyone in the WCS (how the dance is abbreviated in the “industry”) community is very excited about Benji Schwimmer making it to the finals on So You Think You Can Dance with his partner Heidi, who teaches at one of Mark’s studios. He said the judges seemed a bit confused about what exactly WCS was, but were very impressed, especially with Heidi. I saw a repeat of the show and remember seeing her in Blackpool do a demonstration on WCS versus Jive. She is truly an awesome dancer! I don’t watch a lot of TV because I am usually at either some studio or opera house at night (and tonight is Vladimir night at the Met!!!), but my WCS friends must definitely keep me posted on this! WCS officially on the dance map, yay!

I went to the New York City Ballet last night to see one of the new ballets they are putting on as part of their spring season’s Diamond Project, where they show brand new ballets by contemporary choreographers — one of the reasons I like that company — they perform a combination of classics and contemporary work, so you get a mix. This one was by a Russian choreographer, Alexi Ratmansky, called The Russian Seasons, and was very interesting — dramatic and humorous by turns, with plain but gorgeously-flowing costumes. I’ve seen all of the new ones except for two, and my favorite has been Evenfall, sweetly Swan Lake-like, by their resident choreographer, Christopher Wheeldon, who I think is a genius and have liked practically everything I’ve seen him do.

And, Lincoln Center is now gearing up for Midsummer Night’s Swing outside in the plaza! Luis and his partner, Anya, will be performing and teaching salsa on June 28th!

After my two lessons this week I now realize how horrendously out of practice I am. Two weeks away from the studio for a beginning dancer is a serious recipe for failure. Before doing any lifts, I warned Pasha that all the Cadbury bars and black pudding I’d consumed in Blackpool had put serious pounds on me and when he frowned I pointed to my stomach, which has now developed a round little mass of pudge. Pasha is Russian (obviously) and thus given to brutal honesty, and he basically responded, oh that, that’s always been there… yes, everything is the same. Argh! I knew I didn’t have a completely flat stomach, but didn’t know it was that obvious… am beginning to think your dance partner knows your body better than anyone, including boyfriend… I also told Pasha about my toe, he asked if it was serious, I said no, just another stupid injury requiring yet more ice and Advil, and he shrugged his shoulders and said, we all live in pain; if it’s not falling off or cancer, you ignore it. Okay, am slowly learning the dancer way of life…

I’m really nervous about the upcoming performance though, because I seem to have forgotten: where my center is, how to spot, how to move my hips properly (without disconnecting them from my upper back and jutting them out too much) , can’t do a simple spin without wobbling all over myself . . . everything. And, I need to cancel my lesson next Wednesday with the immensely popular and hence impossible to re-book Pasha because I must go to ABT. Vladimir Malakhov is performing for practically the only time this season, and as I think he’s one of the two greatest male dancers in the world right now (the other being Jose Carreno, who is performing a splendid many times with ABT!), I must not miss it. I’ll just have to kill myself with ballet classes until October because, though it’s not Latin, ballet is ESSENTIAL to training in any kind of dance.

Yikes. My showcase is in two days and my dressmaker is just now making the dress. I had wanted a ballet-style dress, much in the style of the gown Alessandra wears in the balcony pas de deux in Romeo and Juliet. But the fabric she chose, while beautiful, does not seem to be conducive to that style – or else she’s not sure exactly how to make it, being a Latin dressmaker. But the weirdest thing is that she seems to want to put these humongous bra cups into it. I told her they were too big – I’m a petite person and a definite B cup and I’ll look like Pamela Anderson. But she insisted they are Latin cups, and are what are used in Latin. The Pamela Anderson look might work if the dancer was staying on the ground and remaining upright, but I’m doing theater arts stuff – I’m going to go shooting right out of that bra during my fish dive. A guy who saw her fitting me said, “Don’t worry, the guys will love it.” Yeah, right. But seriously, she would not put a smaller cup into the bra, said she didn’t have any, this was the smallest a Latin cup came. Then, she said, “And besides, Latin women are proud of their bodies.” What? I’m not not proud – I’m just not a D. She finally said if I found other cups she’d be amenable.

So, next day at work, I called the ballroom dress store LeNique. An Australian guy answered. Embarrassed, I asked him if they sold bra cups. He said no, they had their own supply for their own dresses but didn’t sell them individually, although he thought some place in the Garment District did. I asked him if he knew where that place was, and he began thumbing through a phone book. Very nice guy. I felt badly about asking him to recommend another retailer, so I mumbled, “I’m sorry, it’s just that it’s kind of an emergency.” My office-mate started cracking up, and cried, “Help, I have a blind date tonight and he thinks I’m a double D; I need stuffing fast.” I shushed her, but LeNique guy overheard and started laughing. Anyway, he did end up finding a place for me in the Garment District – so thank you LeNique guy! I went on my lunch hour, and they had every cup size imaginable. Their cups actually looked a bit small. So I bought one B and one C. I mean, one pair of each, of course… I brought them to my dressmaker, and she rolled her eyes, and said they were not the right shape – too circular, instead of demi, and repeated that they weren’t Latin. She finally said she’d use whatever I wanted at this point.

I don’t think the dress is going to work out because the material’s just not right. But I still don’t get the Latin versus ballet thing – every Latin dancer is the same cup size? Stacey Keibler’s cups were smallish, weren’t they?

Very annoyed. Many of my friends and family are crazed Dancing With the Stars watchers. So, I figured I’d let them know about the PBS special America’s Ballroom Challenge, a televised event that occurred at the Ohio Star Ball in November last year, in Columbus Ohio, which I attended and in which my teachers competed (and made the finals!). Anyway, the first half of it aired a few days ago. I asked everyone what they thought. One person exclaimed that obviously Dancing With the Stars must have unearthed the best-looking dancers and it was really hard to watch such homely people, even if their costumes were lovely. Another remarked that the beautiful ballroom gowns often conflicted with the dancers’ not so beautiful faces. Another said she couldn’t believe how fat most of the Latin dancers were and she’d never wear such a tiny costume. Another said she thought when the Latin dancers “squoze” their back muscles, the fat protruded, and she wouldn’t do that so much if she was them. (Because Latin dancing isn’t about really moving your body or anything…) I honestly have yet to hear one person tell me what they thought of the DANCING.

A few weeks ago, I attended a panel discussion on representations of the body in contemporary dance at the Dance Theater Workshop in Chelsea. All of the panelists, who were either choreographers or dance scholars, were total theory heads and I understood about a half of one percent of what they were saying. But one female scholar, was all too clear when she snidely remarked, “Well, up until recently dancers didn’t even have bodies, not to mention brains, and uptown they still don’t. Instead they have anorexia and bunions and nicotine addictions, since there’s no way you can remain 108 pounds without one.” Of course she was talking about ballet, and I don’t think she was talking about Jose or Marcelo or Angel. It was hard not to laugh at the way she said it, but the comment stung since I’m such a ballet lover, not to mention a petite woman. I assume the audience was filled with modern dancers, DTW being a modern dance theater, and I felt like everyone was looking at me as the representative of bodiless, brainless, male-dominated women – none of which I am just because I’m thin.

After thinking about it, I remembered that this scholar was tiny herself – couldn’t have possibly weighed over 108, if even that. And many of the critics of my fellow Latin dancers are large themselves. I guess it’s a form of female self-criticism to be most harsh on other women who seem to embody the physical problems we find in ourselves. Still, it bothers me that a female dancer’s worth seems to revolve around her body. It makes me feel like, what’s the point of working so hard on contracting and expanding my pelvis in Samba and my upper back and hips Rhumba if I’m just going to be the little spidery-limbed Balanchine girl.