In Process

I've stopped writing because my head has been empty.  Or perhaps I should say it has been too full.  I'm in an intense rehearsal process.  7 hours a day, plus drive time.  There are breaks, of course, but it turns out that we practice in the breaks and/or we can't keep stuff out of our heads.  This is the most intense period of work I've ever done.  It is also, perhaps, the most fruitful.  I am growing.

I'm going to commit to blogging -- about dance, yes, -- but also about other things during this process.  I cannot let myself become a dance machine.  The last time we made a piece, I lost my sense of who I was; it sounds dramatic, I know, but I think this time, I will need to blog in order to maintain a non-dancing sense of the world.

For the record, then, here's how I've been living.  We have rehearsal from 11:30 to 6, Monday to Friday.  Some of that time is company class: we warm up together, work on things together, develop skills, relationships, trust, techniques, etc -- the things that enable us to do what we do.  Then, we have 30 minutes to rest.  We start again at 12:30 and go until 3?  We have another break of 30 minutes... sometimes 45.  Then, we work until 6.

Prior to that, I do what I need to do.  Sometimes, that's physical therapy.  Sometimes, it's bodywork.  I've pared down my extra classes: now, I do less gyro, pilates and swimming than I would like, but the days are long and hard.  I need to conserve my energy.  My drive of 34 miles can take a sweet 45 minutes; that's good NPR time, music time, or personal silence time.  It can also take 90 minutes; then, it's either utter angry hell or it's my time to focus on being a cog in the commute traffic wheel (here, for example).

When I get home, I don't feel real.  I need to eat, stretch, heat, ice, bathe, EAT and sleep.  So, I do.  And I let my friends and my writing fall by the wayside.

So, perhaps, an insider's look at the way we work?  How we create a piece depends on the choreographer, but here's an example of an actual moment from last week.

The five of us lined up in front of our floor to ceiling mirror; we looked intently not at ourselves, but at the choreographer.  He danced a phrase.  Then, he broke it down and taught it to us.  Learning from a mirror helps get rid of the opposition-effect you have when you try to learn from someone infront of you:  When they raise their right arm, do you raise your right arm or do you raise your left -- because that's what the mind sees?  But learning from a mirror "flattens" the three dimensionality of the phrase.  So, you have to keep flipping between the mirror, the choreographer, and the rest of the group.

"Going on..."  When I hear that, I usually have to suppress a little moment of panic: I don't have it yet; I'm never ready.  "Going on. " The phrase continues.  I pick up a chunk here and there.  "From the beginning..."  "So, ...."  And we begin to ask questions.  We look at each other, trying to figure out what we've missed.  We ask him to go over sections.  We practice.  I'm really bad at this; there's often detail that I don't quite get the first or second or even third time around -- particularly when it's fast.  Others in the company seem to get it immediately: I feel a little more panic.  The choreographer watches.  Demonstrates some more. Gives personal instructions.  I'm still stuck; I can see that there's a flip, but I have no idea how to make my hands do that.  Eventually, we all have it.

The five of us line up in front of the mirror; he counts; we all do.  It's satisfying.  I've got it.  It's beautiful.