Getting Settled

We've been here for two days now.  I'm on tour with West Coast.  Hooray -- Yes, that means I am testing my arm.  I'm back, I think; I'm back.  OK.  Going gently.  Will have to see how my arm holds up.

But to my point.  We've been here, now, for two days.  Touring is an amazing adventure.  We were met with a chirpy welcome: "Our rooms are grandfathered in...."  I've always wondered whose grandfather is responsible for all this.  But, as it turns out, the room is doable, this time for me at least.   We're on a three day trip with the express purpose of taking concert dance out of the urban theatre space into communities with less access to such performances.  It's a sponsored tour that is spread out across the state over the duration of several weeks.  We will be going back and forth and back and forth.

When we roll up to a full theatre, we usually have a full production team -- production manager, lights and sound peoples, stage crew, costume dressers.  Getting us on stage is a big (and costly) thing.  The spaces we dance in are designed for performance -- play or dance, but not usually orchestral music -- we can trust in the architecture of the floor and the sightlines.  We know we will look good, that we will be able to present the work as the choreographer intended it to be seen (more or less), and that we will be safe.  There are no such guarantees in venues like the ones planned for the next couple of months.  We will be performing in all kinds of places.

Here's an example of some of the differences.  At every location, we need to run the pieces to check for spacing. Every stage is different; you need to know where the rough parts are. How far you can go. How much effort you need to make that turn and land precisely. You need to know where the other dancers are. Whether the floor is spongy or springy. It's just part of the job to adjust.

Tonight's floor is linoleum on concrete. It's a community cafeteria/ hall. It's brutally hard. Sticky, yet unexpectedly slick.  There's no give. Everything wheel-wise happens so quickly: my tires slip and skid. I've danced on floors like this when we do school assemblies, but I've never done full repertory on a floor like this. I'm a little scared that I will fall and be hurt or hurt someone else.  This is going to be tough; it will take every last bit of skill that we have and trust in each other.

This community has made us welcome.  There are temporary ramps; they've rented lights and hung them.  The lights aren't where we would expect; instead, sunlight pours through the skylights adding a luminescence none of us could anticipate.  Then, after sunset, the darkness is softer; we can see members of our audience.  Usually, it's a sea of blackness out there.  This time, though, the dusk is gentle.  People's faces seem softer; their clothes less distinct.  They are lit from overhead by our lights; it's a mutual experience.  I suppose that we look as red as they do.

That, I think, is the biggest difference between performing on a concert stage in a dedicated performance space and performing in a community space: we can see people.  They (and we) aren't hidden by stage wings, light trees, aprons.  We aren't raised above the audience.  We and they can see and hear everything and everyone.  It's simultaneously cool and terrifying.  More on the actual performances tomorrow.