Getting Back to Normal

photo credit: hula seventy


I just had a terrible weekend.

Although, to be fair, for a terrible weekend it was pretty great. I went out for dinner with friends, took pictures at the Botanical Gardens, finally got around to watching The Triplets of Belleville, made Roasted Vegetable Baklava and Sour Cherry Slab Pie. But, Friday pretty much shot down any chance I had of really, fully enjoying these things.

On Friday, I went at my normal time to my normal place to practice my normal dancing. But, I was kind of extra-fluttery excited because I got a new digital camera for Christmas, and I was going to figure out a way to record myself dancing, something I have been trying to do for months. The little studio where I go to practice has this convenient, high ledge running around two sides of the room, perfect for resting a digital camera on at a height and angle that actually takes in most of the room. Begin recording project. Of course, I can't help but watch everything I record as soon as I finish it. And, like a storm cloud on the horizon, a slow build begins. The first video is okay, not great, but not too bad. I am able to admire the clothes I picked out to practice in, some of my movements look neat. The next two videos are songs that I've been working on forever, and not in a "this is my opus and it has all been building to this point" kind of way. More in a "I was done with this piece months ago, but had no way of getting a record of it and so didn't feel free to let it go, so just kept working it until it was overworked, and terrible, and god I just need to get this down so it can go somewhere to die!" kind of way. Yep.

And, watching these two videos, the stormclouds raced up to cover the sun, the sky turned black and angry, and a tornado ripped out of the sky and tore through all of my self-conceptions, hope, and generally every good feeling I've ever had about anything. These videos were terrible, because I was terrible in them. My movements were repetitive, boring, and uninspired. My technique was sloppy or non-existent. Nothing translated to the tape the way I felt it in my body. It was embarrassing, watching this little video that no one but myself had ever seen, I felt deeply embarrassed. Embarrassed that I had thought for even one micro-moment I could dance. Embarrassed that I had such high expectations for myself and then achieved so low. Embarrassed by my lack of originality, of form, of thoughtful, good work.

To back up a little, I have been encouraged by a couple of people in the last year to start thinking about grad school for dance, and I had been. I had started researching choreographers, reading articles about dance companies, not as potential career options, but to be knowledgeable in my field, to be familiar with and inspired by inspiring work. In short, I was starting to take myself seriously, and these little videos showed me what a joke that was. I had been looking at enrolling in another semester's worth of dance classes, and I didn't even feel like I could carry on with that. There was nothing to do but quit everything and walk around the rest of my life with a bag on my head to hide my shame.

I forced myself to keep dancing that afternoon, because I knew if I didn't intervene, I would probably never want to dance ever again. I did the only thing I know how to do and danced out the disappointment. The rest of the weekend, in spite of the fun things I was doing, it was hard not to walk around with my head hung low, feel sorry for myself, sorry to be myself, feeling like a failure.

Never mind the fact that I had injured both my wrist and my tailbone, which made me a more cautious mover and prevented me from doing any floor work. Never mind that I have always had trouble performing in front of even one or two people, and the camera was just another eye that I would have to get used to performing in front of. Never mind that I knew I was no longer happy with this work and just looking to get it out of the way so I could move on to something else. Never mind that a camera is just a picture, not the absolute expression of all hidden realities, and like any picture WILL be interpreted by the viewer, who is more than a little biased about her own expectations and filters when looking at herself. Nope, none of these mitigating factors can make a lick of difference, I am a complete and utter failure, doomed to roam the earth in infamy for the rest of my days. (Perhaps you can tell, I tend to be somewhat dramatic when upset.)

Then, in the midst of the weeping and gnashing of teeth, I have to wonder, where did all this come from? Who set the expectation that I would suddenly be able to land a triple pirouette, or soar through the air on every leap? I can't do those things yet, and I don't have to. And where did I get permission to treat myself so unkindly? I often wonder why I think it's okay to talk to myself in tones or with language I wouldn't even use with someone I didn't like very much, let alone someone I cared about and wanted to see succeed. I made a resolution to advocate for myself as an artist, and apparently some times that will mean advocating for myself with myself, as I tend to be my own harshest critic. I have to remember why I do this in the first place. I don't dance to be a great dancer, to get applause or critical acclaim. I dance because I have to dance, I have to keep dancing, I have to tell my stories. And someday I hope to be able to use this art to help other people. Good technique is important, but I'm always trying to be better, not necessarily the best.

And then there's the art perspective. How many times have I wanted to tear my hair out when a piece of writing was not going well? How many times have I ridden the rollercoaster between elation and despair in the editing process? How many times have I wailed that everything I've ever done is crap and there's nothing left to do but curl up in a ball and die? How many times have I discarded work because it just wasn't working out? Over the years, I have developed a very thick skin as a writer, but because the dancing life is much newer, I feel very fragile, and the slightest tremor feels like the whole structure is going to collapse. Also, it has been helpful to remember that everyone has been artistically down in the dumps at some points, and there's really not much to do besides slog through it. Although it seems like a distant memory, I know I've had days where breakthroughs were exploding across my sky like fireworks, and I felt like everything I did was beautiful and I couldn't take a wrong step, which means that I'll inevitably have days where every song seems uninspiring, and my feet barely seem to leave the floor.

So what can I do? I have to go back, I have to keep dancing and unfortunately, I have to keep taping myself until I'm no longer afraid of it (bleh!), until I can perform at 110% of capacity no matter who's watching. I have to keep going, because in the artistic life, (aside from the occasional detour of flopping down right where you are, flailing on the floor and whining for a while) there is no way but forward.

S.