student blog

the power of impulsivity

My mind has this tendency to associate certain words together.  For instance, when I hear the word “macaroni,” I instinctively think of “cheese.” There are multiple ways to serve macaroni ­– where cheese is superfluous and, even, undesirable. Other association examples including “peanut butter” and “jelly,” “ketchup” and “mustard,” “salt” and “pepper,” “Ben” and “Jerry’s,” and “Nickleback” and “headaches” also seem to be made for one another.

While these examples are fairly self-explanatory, I also correlate certain things with specific places. To me, Florida is Disney World, retirement communities named Sunny Heights Paradise, and alligators; Massachusetts is the boat that reenacts the Boston Tea Party and the Boston Red Sox, (opposing my childhood misconceived notion, not the same team as the Chicago White Sox in red jerseys); and California is Hollywood, Rodeo Drive, oversized sunglasses, and platinum blonde.  

The dancer in me links New York City with American Ballet Theatre, New York City Ballet, Alvin Ailey, Paul Taylor, Bill T. Jones, and Broadway. Chicago is Hubbard Street Dance Chicago, The Joffrey Ballet Chicago, River North, and Giordano Jazz Dance Chicago. 

Growing up in the northwest suburbs fifteen minutes outside of Chicago, I feel like I have a good grasp on the dos and don’ts in terms of safety: when to take the red line or the blue line, to never walk across Wells Street with your mouth open (especially after it rains), and that the appropriate response to the hooting and hollering of street workers is never, “Thanks boys, I’ll be here all week,” because chances are, so will they. With as much time as I have spent in Chicago, and the high probability of me ending up in the city once I graduate in May (YIKES!), I decided to do some research on the Chicago dance scene. In my mind, Hubbard Street Dance Chicago (in residency with Hancher in September!) and The Joffrey Ballet Chicago are the forces to be reckoned with, but that is because those are the companies I grew up watching. I have some knowledge of other Chicago companies due to relationships I have with people involved, but up until recently, I have been ill informed of any company that paralleled the level of performance opportunity and repertoire as HBDC and Joffrey. 

During a rather unfortunate dance performance in early April with The University of Iowa Dancers in Company, I broke the fourth metatarsal in my foot.  Prior to this injury, I was a planner. I made “To Do Lists” every day, packed my schedule so tightly that I was frequently forced to use the margins in my planner, and have always had my summer plans figured out by December. Needless to say, this injury rained all over my pre-planning tendencies and forced me to dabble in the power of impulsivity.  Missing out on most summer intensive auditions due to a giant space boot, a.k.a. my walking cast, and no certainty of when I would be fully recovered, I figured I’d take this summer and try to figure it out as I go. To date, this whole whim-planning has presented some remarkable results.

In my information-seeking quest of Chicago’s dance downlow, I came across a one-week intensive with Thodos Dance Chicago. I found out about it on a Friday and started that following Monday. I hadn’t danced since April, but had a good feeling about just going for it. Not only was it a week well spent (correction: a week of my muscles and body hating me from workout overload), but it also opened my eyes to all other options of dance in Chicago.

Thodos Dance Chicago has an impeccable rep, a great touring season with a multitude of performance opportunities, a project called “New Dances” that allows company members to choreograph and show work, and is compiled of members who are inspiring movers.  I couldn’t have asked for a better experience.  Speaking with Thodos company members and fellow dancers, I learned that there are over 90 different ballet, modern, and contemporary companies in the city, as well as an abundance of freelance work and pick-up projects around every corner. While I still hold Hubbard Street Dance Chicago and The Joffrey Ballet with the highest regards, it was eye opening to learn the extent of other companies working on the same caliber. 

Back in beautiful Iowa City for the week (another impetuous decision), and listening to a young boy play “Fur Elise” on the piano outside of Tspoons coffee shop, I realized how my simplifications previously stated are pretty rash generalizations. 

With an informed understanding, I can see that Chicago has a rich dance scene stretching beyond just the big name companies, Massachusetts is home to some of our country’s proudest history, and California is not only platinum blonde, but also the deep blue of the ocean, rich evergreen of the palm trees, copper sand on the endless miles of beach, and golden, shining sun. Iowa City can be painted with opposing notions of cornfields and tractors, sounds of music, laughter, and chapter’s beginnings, middles, and ends. And while macaroni and cheese are always nice compliments, macaroni has been known to be pretty useful in the land of arts and crafts.

These happy thoughts make me look forward to what my next spontaneous idea will reveal.

— Kim Chmielewski

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

 

 

Wu Han, David Finckel, and Philip Setzer / Sarah C.

Before I begin my review on Wu Han, David Finckel, and Philip Setzer, let me just point out that I am a dancer and an artist, but by no means am I a musician. My mother made me take piano when I was in 2nd grade and I enjoyed it up until about 5th grade when I realized I loved sports and dance much more. After that the only instrument I considered learning to play was the drums, and that was only because I could hit something.

Therefore, before I went to see Han, Finckel, and Setzer perform the Schubert Piano Trios I had no idea what to expect. I had done a fair amount of research on the musicians for the Hancher Intern video, and I knew that they were world class, highly acclaimed, etc, etc. But what does that mean for a musician? I mean, if you hit the right keys on a piano, does it not sound the same for you as for anyone else? And if you pull the bow across the violin, the effect is the same, is it not?

No.

As soon as the three began to play their instruments I knew that I was in for an unexpected and beautiful experience. They didn’t just play their instruments they danced with them. Wu Han would toy with her head as she interacted with the piano. During high or fast notes her head would move back and forth with the music, and during the dramatic parts of the piece she practically jumped off of the bench. (I would bet money that her bottom did leave the bench at least a few times.)

Wu Han’s husband, David Finckel, was continually making faces towards the audience as well as his fellow musicians. (He and his wife would exchange a few words here and there). He often smiled, and when he had a brake from playing, he would listen to the other two, and then make a face that seemed to say, “Do you hear that beautiful music? I think I’ll play along.” And then he would begin again.

Philip Setzer was a different story entirely. The only time that I saw him smile at all was during the bow. When he was with his violin, it was all business (or maybe “passion” would be a better word). He was so serious, but it was incredible to watch. Here is a man who could be anyone from an ex-football player, to a businessman, to a chef. But as a large man, he plays this –what seems to be – tiny instrument in an incredible way, and the effect is riveting.

During about the first half-hour of the performance I was completely captured by the artists in front of me that I lost track of where I was. But I didn’t care. All that mattered was the music, and the musicians playing it. After a while, however, I was able to “come back to earth” and realize that this is what makes a great musician: the ability to capture the audience. And no, it does not sound equivalent if I play the same note as Wu Han, or if I take the bow across the violin in the “same way” as Philip Setzer. For, the effect is not the same. Those musicians have passion and their passion can be heard in their music.

— Sarah Carusona

Farewell Merce – You will forever be remembered / Melissa

 
In nearly 60 minutes, the Merce Cunningham Dance Company performed 60 years’ worth of legendary Cunningham technique and choreography. This historical, final tribute to Merce Cunningham’s renowned position in the dance world was nothing less than sensational. As a dancer, I feel fortunate to have had the opportunity to witness the last production of one of the most iconic individuals in dance history. In all honesty, I wasn’t completely sure what to expect from this performance. Therefore, I decided to attend the performance with an open mind—which is certainly what Merce consistently encouraged his audience members to do. Because I have studied Merce Cunningham in some of my previous classes, I had somewhat of an idea of what the repertory would be like; however, with the MCDC on stage, no one can ever know what to expect.   

Tuesday night’s show was no ordinary dance performance. The MCDC yet again distinguished itself from all dance companies across the nation. Not many dance companies out there have the Director of Choreography perform alongside the other dancers or have live music inspired by a music legend, John Cage—one of Cunningham’s frequent collaborators. Even more out of the ordinary, no other dance company has attempted to gather 60 minutes worth of choreography and establish the order of which it is performed until the night of the show. Because this whole performance was ultimately left to chance, these dancers followed this criterion as closely and most distinctively as Merce would want it to be. Many of the audience members may have recognized the contrast between the dancers’ facial expressions and their movement. One dancer—Andrea Weber—smiled about half the time she was on stage, appearing as many would say, “not present,” or “in the moment.” As unprofessional this may seem to be for a dance company, Tuesday’s audience members seem to accept it and associate it with Cunningham’s “chance” method. For sixty years, many would attend MCDC performances and anticipate something refreshing and rare. I’d say that the standing ovation at the end of Tuesday’s performance certainly meant that the people of Iowa City recognized the company’s innovation.

Although I haven’t had the privilege of watching Merce on stage, I was able to recognize that every movement was derived from Merce’s incredible movement variations. The choreography was continuously filled with the most abstract lines, facings, and shapes that can only be seen through Cunningham technique. The MCDC members sustained the most controlled and elaborated quality of movement throughout the entire sixty minutes on stage. You would be kidding yourself if you didn’t recognize how impressive these dancers are.

Similar to many dance legends like Martha Graham, Isadora Duncan, Doris Humphrey, and Erick Hawkins, Merce Cunningham greatly contributed to the development of the most expressive art form in history, modern dance. Merce was extremely gifted in creating the most innovative works in modern dance and showing the world new ways to think. After experiencing my first and last MCDC performance, I feel inspired to follow the same approach to my dance technique and choreography. 

The MCDC may be near the end of their 60-years of performances, but Merce Cunningham and his company’s legacy will undoubtedly live on forever. 

—Melissa Carroll

breathing life into jazz / Andrew

I recently read an article that focused on one man’s aspiration to bring new life and spirit into the jazz scene around New York City. His project involves filming over two hundred gigs in order to show a new crowd of potential jazz enthusiasts it too is a music scene that is always evolving and making way for different sounds and styles that are refreshing and original.

Reading through, it struck me that the scenes of music I’m forever tied with, jazz and classical, have such an unrelenting air of ostentatiousness that it ended up stopping me from pursuing music in college. I’ve played cello from kindergarten through my senior year of high school; I’ve gone through the school orchestra classes, the private lessons, the summer camps, the conference-style competitions, even going as far as auditioning to various schools for cello performance and music composition.

Something I always loved about classical music and jazz is that everything is taken seriously and with consideration: from the score, to the performance, to the interpretation. Because of this formality, there isn’t much leeway in terms of experimentation in sounds, technique, or even simply taste. To play a cover of Metallica was immature, or using a simple scratch of an instrument was considered “avant-garde,” and therefor completely discarded by anyone who doesn’t listen to mid-20th century classical music. My interest in composing for traditional instruments (cello, piano, etc.) and new-age instruments (electric guitar, DJ scratching, etc.) fell short during college auditions because of this formality.

Granted, in post-bop and free-improvisation styled jazz, these styles are taken into account and even relished. Unfortunately, those styles of jazz are considered obscure or unconventional, and are promptly discarded by a large portion of jazz listeners simply because the voices and thoughts may not agree with the old style they’re used to hearing.
 
The reason I bring this up is because there is a new project that I might be a part of: EyeJAZZ. The project aims to use new journalists, from enthusiasts to professionals, to cover jazz using a simple pocket video recorder. The organization posts the YouTube-style videos of jazz life throughout the United States. They encourage their “interns,” so to speak, to find young and vibrant performers still keeping the spirit of jazz alive, the same spirit that made jazz explode in such an unrestrained way that the world loved and encompassed so wholeheartedly.

Exploring jazz and classical in new ways is exciting for me because they are two genres of music that, up until the mid-20th century, were the rock shows of society. People cheered for encores during dance scenes in operas, men bought performers drinks after the concerts, and women swooned over soloists. Coverage on music was predominately done in writing and occasionally on radio. Now, with satellite radio, fios cable, 4G internet, I’ve never been sure why classical music and jazz still stick with writing and radio; it may be the only reason why these music scenes seem so out of touch.

This is why EyeJAZZ exhilarates me. The more projects that breathe life into jazz and classical music, the wider the genres form, the larger the audiences, the more accepting the old world becomes.

Ideally, I’ll be proud to be a part of the EyeJAZZ project; the application process ends February 15th. If I make the cut,  I’ll be able to bring the zest and admiration of the Iowa City jazz scene into to the spotlight, not only for everyone living here, but to the rest of the United States, and perhaps even farther abroad. At least, that’s my goal.

Until next time,
Andrew Alberto Nicolas Deloucas

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

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