student blog

entering the new life

I believe in re-heating coffee, women’s rights, “A Room” by Jane Hirschfield, breakfast for dinner, Breakfast At Tiffany’s, and doing the right thing. I think the apocalypse is approaching faster than we can anticipate and that a few good friends are better than a lot of not-so-good friends. Everyday I call my mom, listen to NPR’s hourly news summary, think about love, and misplace the keys to my apartment. And in a perfect world, everybody would read the book before they saw the movie, I would write a best seller and David Foster Wallis would be alive to have delivered This Is Water at my commencement ceremony (had I attended it). Admittedly, I’ve made the same mistake twice, used dictionary.com to look up a word I should already know, cried because “It hurts,” and discovered the solution to many a problem only after the calamitous flames have set fire to the already unfortunate disaster I call my life.

That’s what I’ve managed to come up with. For now.

As of recent, the end of my undergraduate career has become a harsh reality, and I imagine it won’t be long before I have to rely on the aforementioned to keep my head above water in the pool soon-to-be-called “Living with my parents.” Or wherever else I end up temporarily. I figure this much: that I’ll want to be able to recall a few definite things about myself in anticipated times of disillusionment. Because when my apartment becomes empty except for a few labeled boxes and I’ve no place to call home, no salary to define my worth, I’ll have to settle with just being me—and I imagine it might be helpful to know exactly who that woman is.

It’s that time. Conditions are calling for the “What now?” inquiry, the questions I’ve been anticipating for some time now, which I’ve chosen to answer like a mischievous child—shrugged shoulders, palms to the heavens, head down, but eyes up and twinkling (maybe I throw in a wink): “I don’t know,” I say, “I just don’t know.”  They want answers—old friends, my dentist, people I’m meeting for the first time, the man I’m allowed to call Uncle Marco—but this is not just a matter of resume-making, job-searching, and post-collegiate-plan-making. This is about re-establishment. Starting over. The big Z-E-R-O. And newsflash: having a degree doesn’t make this any easier.

Unfortunately, it never really occurs to any of us that what we’re really entering into is not just the so-called “real world” but instead a new world. Inevitably, we’re subjected to a lifestyle change, whether or not we’ve asked for it. So how do we cope?  How do we answer the questions when we’re still in pursuit of the answers—the answers that are ultimately meant to fashion our sanity (or however much of it we’re left with). Naturally unemployed, I’ve had time to give this some thought, and so it is my opinion that only one thing will be able to get us through this temporary but inevitable time of transitional discomfort—and that it is generally referred to as “self-preservation.” Joan Didion calls it “keeping a notebook.”

Sometimes, I imagine myself dressed up as a traveling circus monkey with cymbals, watching her other circus friends from behind the curtains: Azlan—respectably the reincarnation of my family’s second golden retriever—jumping through a ring of fire, some Johnny Depp-looking character walking the tight-rope with the same confidence he once had dashing though Liverpool Station, and the identical twins I once knew from high school—their calculus homework done to perfection—dangling beautifully beneath the skyline in their trapeze artist unitards. I’m the last to close the show, and I can hear the crowd cheering loudly as I step out from behind the curtains after Johnny and the twins. I’m on my platform: chin raised, emitting the confidence of an Olympian. ‘Alas!’ says the voice in my little monkey head as I pull my arms farthest away from each other, stomping my feet in expectation of the crashing cymbals. I bring them together with force, but the only sound I can hear is that of a gasping audience, astonished amidst the silence of my instrumental failure.

This can’t be (The self-reflection sets in). This has never happened before!

I’ve panicked, clapping my cymbals together nervously—over and over and over—but nothing is happening. My arms are moving; I can feel them. And I can see my cymbals crashing into one another. But the sound! There is no sound.

Silence.

That was my chance—the silly monkey’s metaphorical opportunity—and I blew it. I watch the crowd leave their seats, mumbling about wanting their money back, while the twins shake their heads in disapproval from behind the curtains. My cymbals fall to the ground like Drew Barrymore’s microphone in the last scene of “Never Been Kissed,” and I want to wave my arms and say, “Wait! Come back! I swear I can do it!” But instead, I just stand there: sad and embarrassed, thinking this couldn’t possibly get any worse. And then I remember… I’m dressed like a monkey.

I made this all up right? Put this pathetic little story together for entertainment purposes only? I wish I could say that I had, but the monkey dream is recurring. I remember having it for the first time when I was visiting friends in Chicago, and since then it seems to have taken the place of my apocalyptic dreams, which I’d argue is, well… bittersweet. It’s possible this dream is entirely arbitrary, but it’s seemingly uncanny the way its emotional climax aligns with the feelings I’ve been living with lately.

I used to think that—and when I say, “used to,” I mean only a few weeks ago—certain things were necessary to ensure self-preservation, things like a foreseeable future, a good job, skinny legs, and a boyfriend. But then I did the math and realized that out of the four things on my list, I am only in possession of 0.5 of them. And it would seem, according to my calculations, that I ought to be either unsuccessful or terribly unhappy, and I generally don’t feel like either of those things.

Joan Didion writes in Slouching Towards Bethlehem: “We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were. I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be…”

And so to remember, she writes these things down. She keeps a notebook. 

Likewise, the remembering seems difficult for us—what certain things meant, still mean—so instead we begin to watch the slow replacement of these intangibles with a list of items we’d much rather be checking off because it feels good. And because it’s easier. Knowing things about ourselves becomes two things at once: always the lesser of the pair (whatever the other may be) and the sanctity which will find us the home no money could ever buy. I ask then, what exactly is the worth of the monkey who cannot make use of her cymbals? Well—if she recognizes that the problem at hand has little to do with her ability and entirely to do with a pair of broken cymbals, then the answer is: something. But if she recognizes this is all just a silly little dream—that the monkey suit is in fact removable—well, then… then she is worth everything.

I don’t know who I’ll be in the next five years, five weeks, or if I’ll be wearing a monkey suit—if I’ll wake up someday and feel differently about politics and public transportation or decide that it’s time to start opening my mail and register for online banking. But in the meantime, what I do know quite certainly are the things that I believe in, which are the very same things I ought to let inspire what is already destined to happen to me. Didion writes and I believe that, “My stake is always, of course, in the unmentioned girl in the plaid silk dress. Remember what it was to be me: that is always the point.” It is precisely what will get us through discovering who we are about to become amidst all else that one may deem unfavorable.

—Sarah Gonsiorowski

 

 

The Quarterlife Crisis: It’s a real thing!

And this is how it ends: “Love and sadness, twined together so tightly they are indistinguishable,” writes Emily Gould to end her book And the Heart Says Whatever (quite the title, isn’t it?). But it sounds to me like an awfully morbid declaration and one that almost suggests an unhappiness that is both static and steady. To consider the inseparability of sadness and love seems pitiful — hopeless at best — but the worst part about Gould’s conclusion is that I actually believe her.

“She doesn’t really provide any answers for the title’s premise,” says Rob upon lending me the book, (Rob is my boss, but the kind you ask for genuine advice about what not to say when out to lunch with a prospective employer or boyfriend), and he’s right. We share a similar dissatisfaction with the story’s unidentified solution, but it seems to be more pressing of an issue to someone like myself. What I had hoped for — as someone in the midst of career transitioning — was something comparable to that of a stiff drink, pat on the back, and a firm talking to that eventually ended with a sympathetic embrace and the phrase, “Everything will be okay…” But I suppose if a therapist (minus the drink and a hug) is really what I’m looking for, then I suppose I should have realized that a sixteen dollar paperback is not exactly a physical or financial equivalent.

In And the Heart Says Whatever, we learn about Gould’s internship at Gawker, a bit of restaurant work, her relationships with various men (Joseph in particular), but it’s difficult to pinpoint a moment in the book where Gould actually expresses a sincere sense of pride or accomplishment. Most of the time, she’s indifferent or just terribly sad: someone who is extraordinary but has convinced herself that she is somewhat less than mediocre. However, what Gould does accomplish successfully is her ability to accurately illustrate the tendencies of what Eye Weekly identifies as the “Quarterlife Crisis.”  Unfortunately, this has become a very real thing, and is defined as:

“Unrelenting indecision, isolation, confusion and anxiety about working, relationships and direction is reported by people in their mid-twenties to early thirties who are usually urban, middle class and well-educated; those who should be able to capitalize on their youth, unparalleled freedom and free-for-all individuation. They can’t make any decisions, because they don’t know what they want, and they don’t know what they want because they don’t know who they are, and they don’t know who they are because they’re allowed to be anyone they want” (eyeweekly.com, Dec. 23, 2010)

In a certain sense, Gould becomes admirable because she has managed to both emulate and conquer this so-called Quarterlife Crisis phenomenon simply by writing her book…so I guess that lets her off the hook. But what about the rest of us? What the hell are we supposed to do?

I recently returned from a visit to Chicago where I was dancing and visiting friends, while simultaneously deciding if Chicago proved to be a place I could not only live but also survive upon graduating. While I was there, I attended a master class taught by choreographer Randy Duncan and a company class taught by Same Planet Different World artistic director Joanna Rosenthal. In addition, I attended SPDW rehearsal (as an observer) of “Hit” choreographed by Black Label Movement’s Carl Flink. In combination with my inspiring encounter with a portion of Chicago’s “dance life,” I also displayed my helpless behavior toward public transportation, exhibited painful anxiety in a crowded Trader Joe’s, and sat alone in Union Station for over five consecutive hours (although that’s not much different from my current living situation).  However, what proved to be most inspiring about the visit as a whole were the attitudes and survival rates of two of my closest friends: talented twentysomethings, currently obtaining or having already obtained Masters degrees from reputable universities that value the pursuit of an artistic career. Sounds pretty exceptional, huh?

Inherent in my being is a type of anxiety that both frightens and overwhelms those who don’t know me, and while I’d like to blame most of it on my mother, unfortunately this disease was acquired all on my own. That being said, these friends who I was staying with had the pleasure of experiencing this type of behavior for the four days we were together. Santo dances for SPDW, co-owns his family’s restaurant, and works part-time at another restaurant as an additional source of income. Matt is a writer, currently attending graduate school, finishing an internship at Hubbard Street Dance Chicago, while simultaneously juggling two to three other jobs. But what I envy most about each of them is their calm approach to living — that they have found ways in which to do what it is that makes them happy. And naturally, it’s what they’re terribly good at.

I explained to Santo and Matt the rampant tendency of the Quarterlife Crisis, to which they half-laughed and confirmed what I had already expected: that they too were currently experiencing the effects of its wrath, and probably even more so than myself. The only difference was that they had chosen to handle it like adults. (Of course, they didn’t actually say this, but it’s the truth and highly respectable).

So maybe this proves my delusion — the portrait I paint in my head each morning of my scrambling to find work that I like, my desire to be wanted, to be valued, crawling helplessly on all fours to find food or a few quarters to pay for a cup of coffee or a pair of used tights, and if I’m lucky, a man who might still find me desirable even after I’ve been crying for hours in desperation about nothing in particular. This, however, could mean one of two things (or both): 1. That I’m extremely passionate about what I do, or 2. dangerously unstable. (I’m joking… it’s the first one…. I think).

To state the obvious, I’m not the only one struggling to find work (and with it a sincere form of happiness) which is why I should probably take note of how it’s being accomplished without the sacrificing of sanity. However, I’m beginning to wonder if dancers and artists have increased their rate of survival simply by having been prepared for this sort of thing all along? The economic circumstances are undeniably poor, but have artists really ever expected something more profitable? “Starving” is actually integral to the maintenance of our irresistible image, or at least that is my understanding. 

As dancers (or artists), we make decisions based on what we want, but what we want isn’t always what we are allowed. So we work harder at what we do, make art to figure out who that is, and once we’ve managed to accomplish these goals, we set new ones in order to seek work seemingly more gratifying than what we’ve been given. And if we happen to get paid once in awhile, well… it means the heavens have pardoned us temporarily. You see, dancers know more about hard work and dedication than most other employees, and their rewards are equivalent to that of a performance opportunity or a new leotard (talk about work ethic!). We ache for nothing more than the pursuit of a creative life and the gratification felt from sharing something so truly special to us with our audience members, knowing whole-heartedly that our gift can never be recreated, only experienced. We don’t know what it’s like to receive a consistent paycheck or formally interview for a job, or follow standard procedure; it seems our world has always managed to be a little less forgiving. But maybe we’re better off because of it. After rehearsing “Hit” with the company, Santo told me, “there [is] something great about the exhaustion and desperation that it [gives] the dance…” and dancers understand what he means- that even if what we have isn’t much, we’d give it all up just so we can hurt a little more for what it is that we love.

So maybe Gould is right. Maybe love and sadness are undeniably inseparable, and perhaps it’s not as bad as we imagined it might be. This may definitely be the beginning of my so-called Quarterlife Crisis, but at least I hear it knocking, already with genuine intention and in enough time to make plans. Every morning, I try to remember who I am and what my art form has taught me, and sometimes I even recite to myself in the quiet of my own room, “Everything will be okay,” until I believe for a brief moment that it actually will be.  And then after my two cups of coffee, I step outside the doors of a multi-level Chicago apartment and into a brisk wintery wind, only to realize that I have absolutely no idea where I’m going.

*Special thanks to Rob Cline and Sam Shapiro for their insight and inspirational reading material.  The following links include the article referenced in this entry from EYEWEEKLY as well as other interesting reading suggested by NPR.

-- Sarah

hoping everyone else gets it / Sarah

Recently, a few interesting things have occurred.  And these things are moderately unrelated to dance. But not entirely. I wanted to share them with you.

In the past few weeks I have not only re-entered the old restaurant where I used to work, but also ran into and engaged in conversation with co-workers from the old restaurant where I used to work- two things I neither expected to do nor had hoped might happen. Regardless, I survived- dignity intact- realizing each was bound to occur and probably in a fashion less terrifying than I had imagined.

Annually, company members gather together post-Dance Gala performances to revel in the efforts of their performance along with faculty, family and friends, as a sort of a rightful reward for their hard work and dedication. Conveniently, this year’s cast party was held in the confines of said restaurant.

For the record, this really is a wonderful place to dine, drink and work- that, I will never deny- but it just wasn’t a place for me, which this little dance soiree confirmed by its end.  And if you were wondering about any encounters in particular, ex-chef was not present, nor have we conversed since I was given full custody of the Underworld Trilogy; he moved to Memphis in pursuit of his dreams, and probably in hopes of getting the hell away from me, which I can’t exactly blame him for.

Regardless, the event proved to be a success in its ability to showcase the members of my dance family: the people who have always understood my artistic endeavors and the efforts behind my pursuit.  And now they were being unintentionally compared to the family I had once tried so terribly hard to fit into. Only now, everything appeared to make perfect sense. 

My old managers said “Hello” in all politeness, as they ran around frantically, aiding bartenders, servers, and chefs, and I noticed nothing had changed.  Nor would it probably ever.   Fellow friends pulled out cameras like tourists and retold stories of hilarity, and as we swished about our cocktails and wine, we soon forgot where we were (and not because we had been drinking).  We forgot where we were because it didn’t really matter.  Being together with the people you love- the ones that love you back and for all the right reasons- sort of makes its way into the foreground, as architecture and place fade into the distance.

By the end of the evening, laughter roared loudly, but only five people remained beside the bar, myself included- the owner peering anxiously in our direction, probably glad he had made money and the event had been a success, but also wishing we would leave so he could go home.  My director noticed, and began to shoo us out, thanking the man I used to work for.  I remember hoping that my re-appearance had made some sort of impact on the people who saw me that night, and I imagined them saying things about me like, “Maybe we should have taken the time to really get to know her,” and then I re-joined reality.  We made our way toward the staircase, and I waved goodbye.  And this time it felt official- like a sort of confirmation that I was leaving a place that had never really welcomed me in the first place.

 

My second encounter with actual co-workers occurred right before Thanksgiving break and possibly right after Sam and I had discussed plans to move to New Orleans and build a house out of coasters.  “You’ll sleep on this side,” he said, pointing to the miniature replica on the table between us, “and I’ll sleep on this side.” I clapped my hands ridiculously and decided (in that moment) to only make decisions about my future post-cocktail consumption as it seemed to extract feelings of anxiety (Dad, if you’re reading this… I’m joking). 

Ironically, Sam and I really had been discussing our nervousness in relationship to career transitioning just as a band of co-workers entered the bar we had occupied for at least an hour already.

 “Is this awkward?” he asked, watching me watch them file in, one after the other.

“Sort of,” I said, “But at least I’m happy.”  And I meant it. It sounded sort of simple when I heard it flee from my mouth.  Of course, the detachment was odd- watching my past dance around me in human form, extending affection in all directions but mine- but really, it had always been like this; I had just failed to notice it.  I was too busy pretending to be someone people “could” like: the same person everyone secretly hates for having no opinion and being annoyingly diligent.

“I really have to go to the bathroom!” I said, and Sam gave me the “It’s-time-to-grow-up-and-no-I-will-not-go-with-you” look, which was followed by friendly words of encouragement: “Just go.”

“Don’t make me be ‘that guy,’ “ he said, “-the one with the girl who peed herself in a bar.”

Sam was right. If I was the good friend I claimed to be, I would march myself to the bathroom and take care of business like any other grown woman. So for his sake and mine, that’s exactly what I did- past the co-workers without a glance, and down the hall to the ladies room. And I made it just in time.

When I returned, a few of these old friends approached us, and this is what they said:

            “Today was [insert name here]’s last day, so we’re just out having a few drinks.”

            “Nothing new. Same shit.”

            “It’s probably a good thing you left. You don’t want to be stuck at this place…”

            “I work from 9-5 at my other job and then go straight to the restaurant every night.”

 These are all things I appreciate not having to say. They’re not my type of sentences. 

 

 

 Last, I must make mention of my latest reading of Emily Gould’s And the Heart Says Whatever, recommended to me by Hancher’s Rob Cline for seriously understandable reasons. “You have to read this,” he said, and it is so very clear as to why this was said to me. Talk about female experiences with career transitioning and the workplace!  I’m beginning to think Gould and I are somehow related.  I am halfway through her collection of both relatable and evocative anecdotes, and the following are lines taken from her book worth sharing (or at least I think so):

“There’s this weird quality of being suspicious and cynical about everything and simultaneously, unwittingly, being utterly open and receptive and gullible that is part of youth, or at least was part of my youth...”

“Free floating ambition is toxic because it means that anyone who has accomplished anything in any realm of human endeavor is the enemy because she might be your competition. So you hate everyone a little bit, but behind this wall of hatred you still feel vulnerable. And you are vulnerable, but not because of the competition. You’re vulnerable because if anyone points you in anything that seems like a direction, that’s where you’ll go...”

“I also wonder if there was some moment when men began to sense that the skepticism I’d once feigned had calcified into something real, and so they stopped trying to sway me.  Or maybe they don’t sense anything and they just see that I’m almost a decade older now. And anyway the streets and the bars are full of easier prey: girls whose eyes, behind their sunglasses, are filled with this targetless, nameless, need.” 

 

…  And so at least I’m not alone. None of us are, really. Artist or not, our lives are flooded with questions and illegitimate answers, desirable but unnecessary things, and the encounters we are never expected to have.  But these things make life sort of stimulating and somewhat manageable.  Not to mention, these are the things we make art about.  Dance, writing, photography, painting: they all begin with something personally meaningful, regardless of outward significance. But of course, that part comes later; usually around the same time we hope everyone else “gets it.”

—Sarah

 

Something Positive: A few not-so-obvious benefits of being a dancer / Sarah

1. That artistic image that makes us so irresistible

“So you’re a dancer?” he says, head cocked in skepticism, at least one eyebrow raised- at least one.

“That’s right,” I say, fussing about in my homemade sweatpants, bending over before sitting down—knees straight—to tie my shoe. Gracefully. But something falls from my pocket as my torso ascends, and I go to pick it up. A bobby pin. To which I say, “Hmm… I wonder how that got there?”

Shower? Every day. Though truthfully, my favorite sweatshirt or socks might not be ‘refreshed’ as frequently.  1.5 weeks without washing: that’s the limit. 

That girl sitting in the back row of the lecture hall, make-up-less, hair array, clothing damp from “previous-dance class-perspiration,” whose mother probably tells her occasionally, “You look so lovely, you know, when you actually take time to do your hair”: that’s me. I can’t understand the intrigue of that flawless blonde- sparkling smile, trendy apparel- sitting in front of me. “She’s so mediocre,” I whisper.  He glares back at me, a look of disappointment.  I know what he’s thinking. “I didn’t wear my jeans today,” I say. “I just didn’t feel like dressing up, okay!”

2. Muscle Memory

Repetition of movement. It’s what we do over and over, again and again, day in and day out. Maybe in this order, or that, facing a different direction, maybe a retrograde here and there: its how we train to perform. It’s how we become versatile. And say on the night of performance, if our minds happen to desert us, our bodies—from hours of practice—will rush in like gallant warriors to save the day (and along with it our artistic dignity).

But this might also come in handy when making coffee at a specific early hour despite being in a sleep-like state, or grocery shopping when having forgotten a list. This talent can be both helpful and applicable, though I suppose if dating unacceptable men becomes at all familiar, this could become highly problematic (not that I would know).

3. Our doctors and chiropractors are likely to send us Christmas cards

We tend to visit these individuals more frequently than we do our own families (and not particularly by choice).  And as a result, our relationships flourish into beautiful friendships. With that being said, my chiropractor knows the following:

1. That I have no school spirit
2. Large crowds make me extremely uncomfortable
3. I carry a medium-sized, but heavy green bag filled with school things. 
4. I am in need of new running shoes.
5. I am going through my quarter-life crisis, and a tattoo is not the answer.

4. We can blame it on dance.  No really- we can.

Minimal to nonexistent social life, inability to sit still beyond sixty seconds, conversations of unrelated subject matter always concluding with “something about dance,” wearing the same clothes four times in one week, falling asleep in public places, having a fit about walking up a flights of stairs, a get-together with non-dancers proves to be socially awkward because “they don’t understand us,” profuse and uncontrollable sweating, intolerance for mechanical things and extreme matters of business, constant complaining about muscle/joint-related issues, inappropriate degree of openness, “Modesty? I don’t know what that means,” ridiculously high pain tolerance, unacceptable outfits repeatedly worn in public, extreme instances of multitasking…

This is all because of dance.

*For their input and inspiration pertaining to the subject matter of this blog entry, I would like to send a sincere “Thank you” to officemates, dancers, and dear friends Erin Donohue and Kim Chmielewski. Your uniqueness is lovely and motivating.

-- Sarah

on failure: experiencing it, fearing it, and dealing with it.

I’ve been told that the experience has never escaped me—that I have never overcome the detriments of my earliest encounter with real, heartfelt rejection. My father was the first to say it, I remember—circling around empty spaces in a parking lot waiting for my mother to push through the exit doors of some craft store, holding in her hand a package of miscellaneous things.  It was a conversation one might expect to encounter at an intervention: the victim enclosed in a space that seemingly begins to grow smaller, unanswerable questions in abundance, followed by the moment of surrender to an undeniable accusation, screaming aloud to anyone that might care to hear a pathetic cry of desperation, “YES!” I finally said, “You’re right! I AM terrified of failure!!”  The car grew silent when my mother reentered, and I wiped my cheeks like an adolescent.  “So, whatcha guys talk about while I was gone,” she said, to which I replied, “Nothing.”  My father was right: I was making excuses and I was scared—scared that years of hard work and dedication might someday amount to nothing.

When I was eighteen years old, I was not accepted as a trainee with the Milwaukee Ballet Company for two reasons: 1. I lacked musicality (they said) and 2. I was overweight: 5’5,” weighing in at 120 pounds. I had been dancing with the school for approximately 10 years and it wasn’t until my moment of rejection that I had heard an evaluation like this.  At first, I handled things gracefully, returned to the studio, and had poor, distasteful conversations about the success of my peers only with myself (naturally, I would never comment on “ballet politics” aloud, and announce that so-and-so’s mother paid her way into the company).  However, this only cured temporary pain and soon after, artistic self-motivation seemed rather funny to me.  Not laugh-out-loud funny.  Sad funny. Truthfully, it took me several months to pick up the tiny pieces of my so-called life and move on.

When I did, however, I found myself at The University of Iowa, and this proved to be a good thing.  The Department of Dance welcomed me with open arms and pointed toes, and for the first time in awhile, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I wanted to slip back into my tutu again.  Of course, I eventually traded in my tights for a pair of cotton shorts, a loose fitted tank top, and the bare soles of my own feet in order to explore the less constrictive world of contemporary dance.  As it turned out, I preferred the modern artist’s universe to the pretentious island of classical dance for its creative embrace and kinetic possibilities (and yes, I feel that my many years of dedication and respect for classical ballet have earned me the right to say this). And for the record I still own and wear my ballet shoes proudly and respectfully.

While attending the university, my encounter with Failure has become minimal, though when we do happen to cross paths, our run-ins are bearable and often surpassed by my consistent failure with relationships and men.  However, the most fearful degree of failure is the type that is anticipated and most associated with my future endeavors.  This is what my father was talking about.  My fear of failure buries itself in the form of rejection, much like my experience with the Milwaukee Ballet, only this time it appears in nightmare form in my post-collegiate life and in a way that I see my career as a dancer ending well before it even begins. This is how I have come to understand the evils of anticipation.

“Failure and rejection are not the same thing,” my father said before my mother’s retaking of the passenger seat, and he was right. I was misusing the word almost criminally—tossing about its implications in a way that made me appear to myself as someone who had little talent and no intelligence with which to recognize it.  But that was not the case at all, nor has it ever proven to be. 

Dancers—at least the ones that I know—are modest creatures, and they will say things like, “Oh, I’m nothing special,” or “I could have done better,” but the truth is, they’re all full of it, myself included. Most of the dancers I know and work with are talented artists—unique in their approach to movement and their relationship to the art of dance— and seemingly, most of them fail to recognize and take pride in their success. Perhaps this is inherent in a dancer’s embrace of perfectionism, or maybe it’s just that there seems no appropriate way of actually acknowledge one’s talent without seeming annoyingly pretentious.  And I suppose either of these may be the very reasons as to why fear develops in relationship to failure. It all amounts to an unfortunate and unnecessary frame of mind, followed by even more unnecessary self-criticism. 

As I think about my plans to incorporate myself into the professional world of dance, I am beginning to realize the importance of understanding the difference between failure and rejection—that they are absolutely not the same thing. Failure implies a lack of effort—a conscious decision to neglect responsibility as an artist—and this is nothing I have ever chosen to do, nor will it ever be. But rejection—rejection is both uncontrollable and inevitable, and often times cannot be helped. I have only the physicality and artistry that belongs to me, and unfortunately it might not be at all what a choreographer or artistic director is looking for at some particular time, in some particular place; and this would not be my fault.  How could it be?

In order to negate rejection, one must first understand its nature, only to realize that it is something worth facing multiple times in order to achieve success. Rejection does not imply failure. Actually, it makes obvious an attempt at success—the desire to achieve happiness for one’s self—and that is a good thing.  And so for most of us, Failure becomes nothing more than a manipulative ghost in haunting that can only prove to be harmful upon the acknowledgment of its existence.  Apparently, these things are only to be understood from the circling about with one’s father in adolescent frenzy and the rational thinking that increases with age.  Regardless, these things happen to be matters of the heart, and so I suppose that I was lucky enough to have them explained to me by someone who loves me for the artist I aim to become and the inexpressive individual I will never prove to be. I understand feelings and emotions and their inherent tendency to inspire art-making, which means I also understand their ability to hinder it simultaneously, and while this is no serious solution to combating Failure, having a general understanding of what it may or may not entail makes dealing with it moderately tolerable. 

— Sarah

couch clinging

 

On September 9th, 2010, I quit my job.  It was eleven o’clock in the morning when I found myself silent, sitting on a bench belonging to Market Street, alone, phone pressed to my cheek, and lost in a certain numbness felt only by silly girls in hopeless romance.  On the other end of the line I heard things like, “Forget what I said, it was done out of obligation,” and “I wish I had never met you—you and your selfishness—and please return my movie at your earliest convenience.”  The Underworld Trilogy was all he had left me, and now he insisted upon its return.  “No. Absolutely not,” I thought to myself.  I wanted some sort of collateral for the unexpectedness of it all.  And besides, I would need something to watch now that I was scheduled to slip into a temporary state of depression in which I might cling to my couch for an unacceptable amount of time. 

The chef I had been dating at the restaurant where I worked was breaking up with me, and much to my surprise, he had beaten me to it.  In most relationships, it is generally more desirable to be the one doing the “breaking”, knowing whole-heartedly that you—having come to rational and healthy conclusions as to why this “just isn’t working”—do in fact have the last word. And I expected this person to be me. So when it wasn’t- when instead it was being done to me by someone who I felt had falsely assessed our situation—I acted impulsively. 

And that’s when I called into work.

I figured, at that moment, it was the only sort of control I had over my own life, and so I decided to flex my utilitarian muscles and extend a giant “fuck you” in the direction of my employer, and in the direction of said boy.  As it turned out, no one cared. 

At the time, it seemed thoroughly irrational, mostly because I traded both financial stability and dignity for temporary feelings, but also because I hadn’t thought this through.  I just did it. 

However, what I realized was that my chef had done me a favor- that he had allowed me to do something for myself.   And looking back, I realize leaving the restaurant was one of the better decisions I’ve made.

I realized that I was not meant to be in a relationship like this- not with work, not with this boy, and not with a false sensibility in which I received gratification from clearing leftovers, pouring wine, mopping floors, and tending to the needs of my servers.  No, because what I needed most was to be in a relationship with what I really loved: those dreams that I had someday aimed to pursue—the artistic endeavors that I had forever envisioned being necessary to the achievement of true happiness.  And it just so happens that those were the relationships I had been neglecting for longer than I had expected I might.  Maybe it was that inherent sense of fear- the fear of failure—that had kept me settling, floating beneath a stratosphere of mediocre things hoping that someday, maybe someone might notice me in all the right ways for all the right reasons…or maybe it was something else.

Even before I could accurately understand the meaning of it all, I wanted to be an artist.  I wanted to make moments- ones that might be remembered, and if I was lucky, perhaps even appreciated.  But if I was going to make a serious effort to do so, how did I expect to go about my art-making when my energy was being spent on things like sanitizing an ice machine and killing fruit flies that resided innocently beside sticky liquor bottles and slimy drains?  This also meant I wouldn’t be able to waste countless hours vacillating over some silly boy who never meant to love me anyway- and that I would probably have to return his movie. 

And truthfully, that’s why I quit.  It wasn’t just because I couldn’t stand to be around someone who I thought might have the capacity to love me, but instead because I had come to realize what I was really meant to love, and if I didn’t lend it a bit of my affection sometime soon, it might just leave me to myself.  And from what I hear, no one wants to be alone.

My name is Sarah Gonsiorowksi.  I am both an aspiring dancer and writer- a senior at the University of Iowa, interested in issues relating to career transitioning for dancers.  I am twenty-two years old, and there are two things that I believe in: the pursuit of a creative life and love.  And if I were to believe in a third, it would be the dependency of the aforementioned on one another.

—Sarah

Sarah Gonsiorowski is a senior at the University of Iowa, pursuing a BFA in Dance and a BA in English, with a concentration in Creative Writing.  Originally from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Sarah received her classical training in dance from the Milwaukee Ballet School, in addition to having spent four consecutive summers with the Joffrey Midwest Workshop.  She has performed in works choreographed by Jose Limon (under the direction of Nina Watt), George Balanchine (under the direction of Leslie Peck), Kim Jones, Lee Wei Chao, Harrison McEldowney, Gina Patterson, Michael Pink, Toni Pimble, Jimmy Peters, and Carl Flink, to name a few.  This summer, she attended the Joffrey Ballet School Jazz/Contemporary Intensive, under the direction of Dorrell Martin.  In addition to dance, Sarah has participated in the University of Iowa’s Irish Writing Program in Dublin, Ireland, under the direction of Writers’ Workshop graduate, Martin Roper, as well as had the opportunity to work as a Writing Fellow for the University’s Writing Center for four consecutive semesters.  Her goals beyond University of Iowa parameters include dancing professionally for a contemporary company, in addition to having success as a writer.  She is one of Hancher’s newest interns.