I’ve been otherwise preoccupied, a long thought, some wilder-ness coming down the lines that slice the fog, seven crows black shadows cast on the rose brambles below. The sunlight shines hazy rosy through the gray swath, bundled dirty little town on the riverbanks. I can hear from here the train yard clanking, humming, whistling, the crashes of connections.
We went gravestone walking on Sunday through the clouds come down to earth, careful don’t walk windershins around the trees. Dogs intent on red squirrels, a hundred mushrooms brimming up from underground, acorns and fir cones scattered. Burning muscles, residual fatigue from Saturday’s day-long strenuous dancing, the simple act of walking up stairs reminded me of that curious blend of life and pain.
Saturday I was a body in motion from dawn to dusk, with four classes and two performances and no pause in between. In the morning I taught basic motions, much control and isolation, and then learned some secrets of drum rhythms, and flamenco skirts, and double veils.
The drumming and zills workshop helped me focus on tempo and timing, two essential elements of the dance. The Spanish skirts class was enjoyable and enlightening, taught by a beautiful flamenco dancer of soft voice and great strength. We kicked like horses and pawed the ground, and shook and twisted and swirled our big skirts. I wore the blue one my mother and I made, fifteen yards at the bottom hem, long enough to hold both sides out at arm’s length, or wrap again around my body, while still covering my legs. The weight of the fabric adds a weight to the dance motions; flamenco is earthy and solid, gravity gives it grace. Come let us stomp and clap and fight bulls.
The double veils lesson taught me new tricks. There is a fine line between artful veilwork and fancy gimmickry. Often, the tricks are just that, and take little time and less effort to learn and execute than the audience can imagine. For my own self, I think art must precede artifice. Call it integrity; I would rather see hours of hard work and sweat for an excellent technique channeled into genuine interpretation of a song instead of a clever flip of sparkly fabric.
After the dance workshops the performance began, with a long lineup of dancers, an extravaganza, a festival. The group choreography I have been practicing with trepidation went well, or at least it was over quickly and nobody made any glaring mistakes. One photograph looks as though I’m asleep, and another girl is about to fall off the stage, and a third dancer is about to kick me in the ass. Which is, after all, appropriate. I danced solo, also, and was given good feedback from both loved ones and my instructor. I don't recall anything in particular that I did, the whole thing was a blur. S said I looked tired, and then mentioned he thinks he's the only one who could tell. Some of the usual spring was lacking from my step, he said. I was tired. And hungry, since I had only eaten two hard boiled eggs and a small slice of pizza during my ten hour day.
S took me out to sushi dinner and then home, and I went to bed before 8 on Saturday. Sunday found me exhausted. Monday? What happened to Monday? I moved furniture and dusted and did laundry and dishes, and worked on my sewing project, which involves lots of silver beads and lavender velvet, and will hopefully work as a dance costume when I'm done with it. I got a good look at some of the imported costumes for sale at the festival, and dare say I can make a custom costume better. Especially since the mass-produced cabaret costumes cost anywhere from $500 to $2,000; even if it takes me a year to make it, it will not only fit me, but will be one of a kind.
Tuesday was double the usual work, with two people on vacation, and then in the evening my dance class helped stretch the rest of the muscles loose again. Tonight I'm missing class to see a concert with JJ and S, and also to watch the last Presidential debate and eat soup in a house with a big blue door.
We went gravestone walking on Sunday through the clouds come down to earth, careful don’t walk windershins around the trees. Dogs intent on red squirrels, a hundred mushrooms brimming up from underground, acorns and fir cones scattered. Burning muscles, residual fatigue from Saturday’s day-long strenuous dancing, the simple act of walking up stairs reminded me of that curious blend of life and pain.
Saturday I was a body in motion from dawn to dusk, with four classes and two performances and no pause in between. In the morning I taught basic motions, much control and isolation, and then learned some secrets of drum rhythms, and flamenco skirts, and double veils.
The drumming and zills workshop helped me focus on tempo and timing, two essential elements of the dance. The Spanish skirts class was enjoyable and enlightening, taught by a beautiful flamenco dancer of soft voice and great strength. We kicked like horses and pawed the ground, and shook and twisted and swirled our big skirts. I wore the blue one my mother and I made, fifteen yards at the bottom hem, long enough to hold both sides out at arm’s length, or wrap again around my body, while still covering my legs. The weight of the fabric adds a weight to the dance motions; flamenco is earthy and solid, gravity gives it grace. Come let us stomp and clap and fight bulls.
The double veils lesson taught me new tricks. There is a fine line between artful veilwork and fancy gimmickry. Often, the tricks are just that, and take little time and less effort to learn and execute than the audience can imagine. For my own self, I think art must precede artifice. Call it integrity; I would rather see hours of hard work and sweat for an excellent technique channeled into genuine interpretation of a song instead of a clever flip of sparkly fabric.
After the dance workshops the performance began, with a long lineup of dancers, an extravaganza, a festival. The group choreography I have been practicing with trepidation went well, or at least it was over quickly and nobody made any glaring mistakes. One photograph looks as though I’m asleep, and another girl is about to fall off the stage, and a third dancer is about to kick me in the ass. Which is, after all, appropriate. I danced solo, also, and was given good feedback from both loved ones and my instructor. I don't recall anything in particular that I did, the whole thing was a blur. S said I looked tired, and then mentioned he thinks he's the only one who could tell. Some of the usual spring was lacking from my step, he said. I was tired. And hungry, since I had only eaten two hard boiled eggs and a small slice of pizza during my ten hour day.
S took me out to sushi dinner and then home, and I went to bed before 8 on Saturday. Sunday found me exhausted. Monday? What happened to Monday? I moved furniture and dusted and did laundry and dishes, and worked on my sewing project, which involves lots of silver beads and lavender velvet, and will hopefully work as a dance costume when I'm done with it. I got a good look at some of the imported costumes for sale at the festival, and dare say I can make a custom costume better. Especially since the mass-produced cabaret costumes cost anywhere from $500 to $2,000; even if it takes me a year to make it, it will not only fit me, but will be one of a kind.
Tuesday was double the usual work, with two people on vacation, and then in the evening my dance class helped stretch the rest of the muscles loose again. Tonight I'm missing class to see a concert with JJ and S, and also to watch the last Presidential debate and eat soup in a house with a big blue door.
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