Sasha Soreff Dance Theater: Rehearsal Blog

It is a Friday night in DUMBO. Outside, the rain is pouring and there is a slight fall chill in the air. Inside, my dancers and I are in the basement space, along with many other dancers – there are about 30 of us, moving around quietly as a dance festival unfolds above. We are preparing to go onstage at the DUMBO Dance Festival, a wonderful annual event created by White Wave Dance, housed in the John Ryan theater, down at East River water’s edge.

Dancers are always adapting. I am sure, really, that all artists are, especially performing artists who find themselves in different venues all the time. The DUMBO Dance Festival is a great event – its free to the public, and shows a tremendous range of contemporary dance –in the course of the weekend of performances, more than 50 companies get featured, with 5-7 pieces shown every hour on weekend evenings.

As with many showcases with multiple performers, there is a tight turn around time for the technical (tech) rehearsal – establishing the lights and sound cues for the space. The John Ryan Theater, like many spaces in NYC, has columns. The columns are downstage, close to the audience. Adaptations – staging the piece with more width than depth and of course, ensuring that the dancers don't find themselves knocking into columns. Space dimensions vary wildly – depth and width are always shifting depending on the venue, and it can really change the way the piece looks and how it is received. We were on a huge stage in Portland at a classic high school auditorium, and the time before had performed it in a Queens warehouse-turned studio space. In each space, we want to stage the piece so that it makes sense choreographically and from the point of view of the audience. And sometimes, we have to do that staging pretty fast (20- 30 minute tech rehearsals are pretty standard for showcase programs).

During the tech rehearsal, we have to make as lot of quick choices – where to move at what point, how to frame the piece with different site lines, columns included. Those choices continue into performance – how to adjust in space. In performance, there are always subtle timing variations – a moment gets sustained, partnering happens a little more quickly or slowly, smaller spaces means less time traversing the stage. One of the benefits of getting to do the same piece over and over is being able to trust that the spontaneous spacing and timing choices dancers make are congruent with the intent of the piece, not to mention what everyone else is doing onstage (not crashing into another dancer has a lot of immediate value).

Timing choices, spacing choices. There is also, importantly, how to handle the floor. First there is the question of whether the floor is sprung or not (is it designed to minimize impact or is it a concrete floor, meaning one would want to be careful when jumping.) Another defining characteristic is the amount of slide/glide available: is the floor slippery or sticky (or mercifully, somewhere in between?). Barefoot dancers have a noble history of blisters, splits, and callouses and all manner of foot bruises navigating various floors. In my case, it’s all about the sneakers.

When we went to our tech rehearsal before the festival, the wood floor had just been mopped. I have a bunch of different sneakers, all with slightly different soles (as part of my orthotics maintenance, the soles of all my sneakers are refurbished as a rocker sole is added to the basic sneaker, and there are a few different materials that get used for this).

Pair 1: wood Capezio jazz shoe soles on my standard New Balance black sneakers. Me: sliding all over the place as if on ice skates.
Pair 2: gray new balance sneakers, black rubber soles. Surprisingly slippery, too. No traction.
Pair 3: my standard black New Balance sneakers with yet another kind of rubber sole. More purchase! Less slipping! Problem solved.

Fast forward to Friday night. The rainy night. It is steamy inside the studio, with all the dancers, piece after piece, sweating on stage, and then like 100 people who had been graciously waiting outside in the rain for that particular hour’s program shuffling in. The dancers are all downstairs, finding little corners to warm up in and listening to the music of the pieces above. I had just a moment in between shows earlier in the evening to get on the stage and check out the floor in my sneakers. Totally sticky. The slipperiness of the tech rehearsal had been completely replaced by the stickiness of a very humid, packed dance studio.

Sticky. All my sneaker checks earlier in the week didn’t prepare me for this floor, and most of my stage experiences have involved managing slipperiness, not stickiness. A new performing adventure! It took all the force I could muster to do a turn and overcome that resistance. On the other hand, I had more freedom in stationary moments/balance points -- I KNEW I wasn’t going to be moving, without a lot of effort.

Dance is a concentrated experience of adapting, in rehearsal and on stage. Sticky floors, slippery floors. Columns and changing dimensions. Real time adjustments and shifts. Pretty much like life.

My first international gig – Canada! The company with which I was dancing (Isabel Gotzkowsky and Friends, a wonderful company) was going to Toronto. Awesome. That was August. August 2000. The thing was, I had started having this pain in my right foot the month before. It had taken several weeks to even realize that maybe I needed x-rays – it hadn’t occurred to me that there could be something going on with the bones in my feet, as opposed to muscles or other soft tissue. I had no memory of landing particularly hard or some specific traumatic moment. I just remember that one day, around the 4th of July, I was out walking and there was this sharp pain by the ball of my big toe. But I was supposed to go on tour! My first tour, and all of a sudden, I could barely walk.

The x-rays didn’t show much. Nor did the bone scan, which can often detect stress fractures. Too much swelling in my little foot. Given the information we had, and my Doctor’s blessing, or at least, non-intervention, I went to Canada. On crutches. On crutches at the airport with seven other dancers helping me around. Crutches to the dressing room, to backstage, where they were abandoned as I took to the stage, right foot taped up with padding for those glorious moments of performance; then back offstage, back to the crutches, feet plunged into buckets of ice. Cabs to the swimming pool while the other dancers wandered around Toronto. Feet are so vulnerable, I think. But then, when we have any injury, any pain, we are all vulnerable. . .

There was a lot of why me-ing, in those early years, when they couldn’t even ever really tell whether it was stress fractures or a particular (and somewhat unusual) bone structure. There was more why me-ing a few years later when I started experiencing that inordinate amount of pain on the left foot (MRIs confirmed the particular and somewhat unusual bone structure, and other congenital issues on my left foot as well). Crutches came and went several times, as did various visits to orthopedists and anatomists and physical therapists. Surgery was ruled out as a viable option, so we focused on minimizing impact. There was a phase of taping gauzy foot pads onto the bottom of my feet in rehearsals and at performance time. It turned out to be pretty unstable, all that foot tape wrapped around both feet – I had no purchase. I was sliding all over the Kitchen, the Theater at Riverside Church, Dance Space Center and lots of other NYC venues.

The last significant round of impact injuries to the left foot, December 2004, pretty much clarified that, for the foreseeable future, I would be the Dancer Who Wore Sneakers (not to mention wearer of very elaborate orthotics that look like a contour map of the wilderness, with mountain ranges and valleys upon which my feet rest).

Like many people, I have developed this close relationship with pain over the years. I have been learning, always learning, constantly relearning, to balance that great necessity of foot pain – SLOWING DOWN, stepping thoughtfully, stepping judiciously – while struggling not to give into the paralysis that foot pain can induce. Any kind of pain, for sure, but there is a primal pain, I think, and a fear, when one’s ability to move is threatened (this was never more clear to me than on September 11th and the days immediately following: hobbling around on crutches, I wondered what would happen to me if running became a life necessity).

There are those that believe that specific kinds of pain/injuries suggest a particular “lesson” – hip pain may mean trouble moving forward, shoulder pain, taking the world on your shoulders (I didn’t look these up right now, I am confessing, but they sound like something I have heard and moreover, they kind of make sense). I know a lot of people have found this to be a valuable approach to pain and pain management, even resolution.

Maybe every injury does have a particular kind of message, a particular nuance relevant to that person in that time. But take a step back (slowly, gingerly) and I am coming to understand that it is all the same essential message: we are none of us in control. Maybe pain comes about for physical reasons, maybe emotional, maybe it is some inexplicable combination. But being in pain is some pointed reminder that we don’t call all the shots. We don’t call most of them.

This is what we get to do (I will speak for myself here, this is what I get to do): find the best way to live and live that way, as a daily and fallible practice. Even with pain. Even with fear. Even with the knowledge that dancing barefoot is not really on the table, and hasn’t been for a bunch of years. Dancing in sneakers is. And for that, I am grateful beyond words.

Joy and pain. Sunshine and rain. At the risk of dating myself, I am remembering that Rob Base song from high school days. This entry is about joy and pain. The joy of performance and the pain of, well, pain.

I have been thinking a lot about pain in the last few weeks. I had stumbled upon a relatively unusual kind of pain for me – knee – and working with a genius neuromuscular facilitator we were really able to get me realigned and out of extreme knee pain. Of course, it is likely that my knee was trying to deal with my body's attempts to take the weight off the vulnerable parts of my foot (the big toe/2nd toe area). That compensation eventually put another joint into jeopardy. Anyway, I had been thinking about how scary unfamiliar pain is, when you don't know how long it will last or what it means, in contrast to familiar, chronic pain. But in the last 24 hours, I have been remembering that, really, nothing about “familiar” pain feels good.

We performed this weekend, and it was wonderful. Wonderful. So alive, that experience of being on stage, of committing fully to those precious moments of expression, immersion in total presentess. The actor Freddie Kareman always used to talk about that, the unique experience of aliveness in performance. He had such reverence, describing actors who wait all day to get on stage, to be the most alive they could be. He made all of us who had the privilege of studying with him long to experience those moments. I kept thinking about that, performing this weekend in Maine: all day was about the anticipation of performing, of getting to dive into that aliveness.

We stopped at the beach on the way out of town on Sunday—how could I bring dancers to Maine and not bring them to the beach? We couldn’t go on a performance day, too draining of energy, too drawing away of focus. So we went for a few hours before getting caught in many, many hours of traffic. And it was there, at the beach, that I overstepped. And in overstepping, I came back into the truth of my foot pain, a truth I have come into many, many times over the last 8 years: I don’t know I am crossing the line until I am on the other side. My brave little feet do whatever I ask and it is only later that the deep ache begins. It has been a while since my last real flare up, and of that I am grateful. But the pain is sharp and jagged in my left foot right now, and I am wishing I could take a few steps back.

People often ask, or suggest, that it is dance that somehow did this to me. I always feels concerned about that notion, and a little protective of dance – this is, alas, a confluence of several structural issues, notably thin fat pads on the soles of my feet, congenital, bound to happen across my life. And, importantly, it is rarely from rehearsing or performing that I have the intense pain. It is usually too much of something else. In this case, at the beach yesterday, a few passes from the towel to the water’s edge in my specially-modified flip flops proved too much. Not even barefoot, not even barefoot (I am virtually never barefoot, at the very least I use the specially-modified flip flops that are designed to minimize impact on most vulnerable parts of my feet).

It wasn’t just the beach, for sure: the accumulation of performances and a lot of intensity/stress in life generally added to the impact. Shifting my weight back onto the center of my foot to help my knee out (the body’s genius for compensating) absolutely played a role. Not to mention that my sneakers are wearing out and I am due for another set. But I can’t help but think, with some dismay, that it does seem those few extra steps not in sneakers on the beach was a few steps too much.

Joy: I am relishing the performances, savoring how it felt, to be on that beautiful big Portland High School auditorium stage. I got to dance with three fabulous dancers to a beautiful original score by Evan Wilson. I am celebrating that we got both a preview photo in the Portland Phoenix and a reference in the Portland Press Herald review about the successful integration of music and movement – great news, especially considering there were 20 (!) pieces on the program.

Pain: I am back with ice every evening. I am back with the night pain that has been, over the years, achingly familiar, and, it turns out, still more than a little scary. I am back to lock down mode, pulling the number of steps I can take per day down to the barest minimum to do what i need to do.

Moving forward: I am not able to end on that pain note, I don’t want to. I am remembering that I have been here before and come through the other side; I reach for faith that this too shall pass. One step (or choosing not to step right now, as the case may be), at a time.

When I first found out that Pam wouldn’t be able to go to Portland for the performance in mid-August, I was pretty bummed out. Aside from the fact that Pam and I started dancing together almost 20 years ago (!) at school, Pam has been integral to almost every piece I have made in the last few years, and was instrumental in Stand Still getting to where it was. I couldn’t imagine replacing her for this set of performances. On the other hand, I am grateful for opportunities to show the piece, and as they say, and I don’t mean this glibly, the show must go on.

As I began to consider who the fourth dancer in the quartet would be, I realized that replacing Pam wasn’t really the goal: it would be impossible to find someone who would replicate her extraordinary dancing and performance quality, so why make that the intent? Instead, I realized I wanted to find someone who was a beautiful mover in her own right, who knew how to execute given movement fully and with strong focus, and who could learn quickly. I have found all of that and much more in Megan Krauszer. I couldn’t be happier that she has joined us for the August performances, and for some dates to come in the fall.

What started out as a less than desirable situation – having to bring another dancer in to a preexisting piece - has actually become a surprisingly good opportunity to go deeper into the work. In particular, it has helped us to reconnect with the idea of the piece, especially since it has been a few weeks since we were in last in rehearsal. With Megan joining us in the last week, I’ve been able to articulate what impulses led to what choreographic choices over months of rehearsal. Her questions and approach to the movement have brought my attention to certain moments and given us the chance to define and redefine according to the intention of the piece and how it looks/wants to look.

The other thing going on in the last week or so is some new kind of pain in my left knee. It is always very disturbing to have pain/an injury, and sometimes, it seems unfair and unjust. I know I have been prone to this kind of thinking sometimes. Even more so since I am already so bound by my feet's susceptibility to injury: I devote a lot of attention to how much impact I ask of my feet on any given day. Sometimes I have this idea that I have already (and on an ongoing basis) paid my pain dues, so how could I possibly have more injuries?

It doesn’t take long for me to remember that the world doesn’t necessarily have such ideas of fairness, and I have certainly had enough anatomy to know that in fact, the opposite is usually true: an injury in one place can easily trigger compensatory patterns that ask a whole lot more of another, previously unaffected joint. You know the song ("The foot bone connected to the leg bone. . .") It’s all connected. So, in addition to bringing Megan in and making sure that she feels confident and that we all feel connected and move cohesively in our quartet, I am keeping track of my left knee. Were that this weren’t so. But it is. So I am officially acknowledging the frustration (and, really, some fear), and the longing to move freely, and meanwhile attending to my exercises and monitoring my knee joint/alignment as best I can.

Despite the knee situation, I am pretty excited to be bringing Stand Still to my hometown!

Some families we are born into, some we come to along the way. When Lynn Simonson, Laurie DeVito, Charley Wright, Michael Geiger and Danny Pepitone founded Dance Space Center nearly 1/4 of a century ago, they created a family that extended its embrace to anyone who wanted to come dance there. Jim Garvey is universally remembered as he was at the front desk, registering dancers for class: always with a smile, always with a genuine interest in who you were and how you were. He was also, incidentally, almost always in very short cut off shorts and barefoot, his mane of hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck. He welcomed dancers as they arrived, sent them back into the world with well wishes, and was as generous of spirit as any i have known.

Today was the day we all came together to remember Jim, who died on June 3rd.

It was also the day that Pam, Yuki, Janet and I were performing Stand Still at WAXworks, a commitment we made months ago. So I went to the memorial service for just a little while before heading out to Triskelion Arts in Williamsburg. During those precious few moments, I got to see people I hadn't seen in years -- people whose class I have taken, people who have taken my class, people who I danced alongside in studios and theaters, colleagues and friends. We went to celebrate Jim and to express our gratitude for our time with him.

I headed to Brooklyn somewhat remorsefully, wishing I could have spent more time sharing the stories and laughing and crying with this community, this family. But we got to the performance space, did our tech, and got ready to perform. Just before we went onstage, we had our moment together. In addition to wishing Pam a happy birthday (happy birthday Pam!) we paused to think about Jim, and to dedicate our performance that evening to him, to his spirit, to all that he has and does inspire.

It was our best performance yet.

We have our marks, as performers, that we try to hit. We have these particular moments that we strive to fulfill. I was thinking about this after our recent performance at A. H. Dance Company’s premiere concert at Cunningham. It was wonderful to perform – we were very grateful to Alaine Handa and her generous offer to be on her program. It was also a little surreal – as a “pick up” company, we come together for projects and performances and, unlike more established companies, don’t necessarily have an extended calendar of bookings. The rehearsal/performance ratio greatly favors the rehearsals, in terms of allocation of time and attention. The performance itself? You could spend half a year preparing for two nights. Writing that, it is hard not to think there is something a little, what, surprising, crazy, disappointing, foolhardy, maybe even wasteful -- to spend so much time working toward something so fleeting. But then I remember, quite simply, what matters is doing the work. Doing the work – showing up in the studio, finding the expression, allowing the piece to emerge – as if those phrases could at all describe the creative process. Fred Kareman (the great actor and mentor to many an actor) always said, "the joy of the work.” You do it because you have to, you do it for the joy of the work.

So, leaving the theater, this phrase about hitting our marks came to me. And I have been trying to figure out what that even means, in dance (at least in concert dance, where there are no judges holding up numbers to rate the execution of a jump or a turn or whatever).
I guess it could mean certain moments – are we in unison when we should be, is the partnering strong and sharp, is our focus clear. Those are all marks a dancer might and does strive for, beyond even the more personal and technical, am I pointing my foot, is my arabesque line extended, am i where i need to be spatially. I am sure I was thinking about those moments, leaving the theater, playing the tape of the performance through in my head.

But there is the larger thing we are going for, something transcendent. Some concentrated, powerful striving to create what we set out to create. I don’t even know if hitting our marks is the phrase, but I really think that is so much of what we are going for – and maybe when we hit those marks along the way, it contributes to a certain wholeness of the experience. And maybe those transcendent performances are something altogether separate, ethereal, and defying articulation because it is only experiential. I don’t know. I do know that performance is a process like any other – it takes repetition, it takes practice, and you never know what will happen, so it takes showing up, again and again.

There is a rawness, by definition, to performance, and I came away from two nights so desperately wishing for a third night, a fourth, to dive into that thrilling rawness and immerse myself in that unique presentfulness. We will be on stage again soon -- June 22nd, at WAXworks (wax205.com). Til then, it’s back to the studio, to refine and work on everything about the piece so we can hit our marks, and go beyond, to be ready to move into the liveness of performance that ultimately defies words but is the essence of what we do.

“The joy of the work.” Amen.

I resisted it. Rehearsal after rehearsal went by, and I resisted it. I would look at the video after rehearsal, think about the piece as a whole, and still I resisted it. And finally, I couldn’t ignore it any longer: I had to drop a section of material. It wasn’t even that much – weeks earlier we had done a major cutting operation, taking several movement phrases and partnering sections that no longer made sense in the arc of the piece and either integrating elements into other sections or dropping them altogether. But this was different. I really loved this section. So did the people who came to our first open rehearsal – that section was commented on quite a few times as being resonant and memorable.

But somehow the piece outgrew it, or it no longer made sense in the direction the piece is going. And that is one of the hardest things about choreography, maybe any creative act – not just the building, the discovering, the, well, creating, but the cutting, the editing, the willingness to say, this doesn’t belong. I have a lot of composition class memories about the word “precious” (one must be willing to cut so as not to be too precious), “indulgent” (this is embarrassing, to have one’s work considered indulgent), and the general dismay of having one’s life blood taken to task for lack of pruning.

So I cut it. Pam consoled me (in fact, it is a section with her, and she kindly expressed the thought that it may find its way into another piece. And it may.) Ironically, it was a section whose sensibility inspired many other moments. And perhaps that was its service to the piece. After all, if we are to believe in the process, trust the process, give over to the process. . . well, this is what that looks like, right now.

We are performing at the Merce Cunningham Studio Theater, opening the program for A.H. Dance Company. Alaine Handa is the choreographer and was a wonderful performer in the Sneakers piece. We are thrilled and honored to have been asked to be part of her premiere season. Information on the calendar page. Maybe we will see you there?

Back in December, we did our open rehearsal in silence. It called upon us, and the audience, to have some kind of incredible focus. Moving into the next round of open rehearsals/work in progress showings, i am very excited to share the music for Stand Still, music we have just heard in its rough form this weekend. Evan Wilson is the composer, creating guitar sound that vibrates, that pierces, that gathers intensity and then eases off, leaving you (me) longing for more -- it is a beautiful complement to the movement.

The process has been incredibly integrated, given the short time frame. Evan has such an intuitive feel for the piece, conceptually and structurally, that the music and dance are coming together and becoming more than the sum of their parts (that's my sense, anyway, come watch rehearsal and see for yourself!).

The open rehearsals really helped move the piece forward. We got so much accomplished under the watchful gaze of the audience. Even though we have changed many things since those December days, the rehearsals generated a lot of material and gave us something to respond to, and gave us a glimmer of where we were headed. Every week for the last two months, there has been a major leap forward in rehearsal -- whole sections getting rearranged, rethought, stretched and shortened (it has been my experience that i always have to completey rearrange my choreography at least once over the rehearsal process, once the strcuture of the piece becomes clear).

Evan and his work has had a tremendous impact on the piece, beyond those moments of lining up movement and music: he called me one day and said, based on watching rehearsal in person and on video, that he was having the climax of the piece at a certain moment, and then was working on a melodic section to come out of it. All of a sudden, it became clear in rehearsal that the movement had to intensify in order for their to be a shift, an apex and then a slower coda. Somehow, hearing him describe it compositionally helped us find our way choreographically. I don't know what makes material go from not a piece to a piece, but somewhere in these weeks, it has happened. Every moment of the process leads to the next, even the moments where it seems like it will never be clear. Sometimes, those are the most important moments, where you stop for a moment and do nothing, and then somehow something else emerges. If you can't get there from here. . . Stand Still.

The 4th emergency muscle conference will be convening immediately. It has come to the leadership’s attention that there is an unequal distribution of work across the muscles of the legs, ankle and feet. The agenda for the conference is to address what has emerged as a bit of a crisis: there is an extremely unequal distribution of workload. We must immediately take steps to rectify this destabilization and create a better sense of balance across the hip, knee and ankle joints, among others.

That’s how it goes sometimes, in dance. The open rehearsal, overall was awesome. Pam Wagner, Janet Forward and Yuki Miyoshi moved beautifully. We got great feedback and in fact, questions and comments from the Friday rehearsal helped shape material for Saturday. One thing that was notable, in line with the emergency muscle conference, was this: I am out of shape! Or at least, I am not in performance shape. I wasn’t really ready for the intensity of being “on” for 1.5 hours, two days in a row. I think it is fair to say that we worked very efficiently – one doesn’t want to get too lost in thought in a setting where people are coming in to watch and waiting for the next thing to happen. Not that I was short-circuiting the process – we were very much as we usually are in rehearsal, experimenting, talking through, asking questions – it just happened with more concentration and alacrity than usual. And possibly more repetition (because after all, if you are coming to watch a dance rehearsal, I would hope you would get to see a good amount of dancing). And so now I know, that if I am going to dance my way through an open rehearsal, I had better prepare my muscles for the endeavor.

One of the most interesting things to come out of the open rehearsal was how engaging it was for people to see how dance actually gets made. At this point, we are very much in the creative stage – not just running a piece and cleaning details, though we are always cleaning as we go along (“let’s all turn our palms up to the ceiling here, and down when the arm gets lowered,” or what have you), but the nuts and bolts of trying on material and seeing how one thing flows to the next. A friend, an architect, said that he understood a lot more from the rehearsal and got more out of it than a performance; he especially enjoyed seeing parts more than once, as opposed to seeing something go by in performance and that being the end of it – it was an interesting response to a question I had had in a recent blog, about the use of repetition and what it means for a particular piece of choreography.

I had also been worried about the fact that I don’t yet have music for the piece – I am looking to collaborate with a composer. I debated putting some of the music we sometimes move to in the background but it didn’t feel right – I don’t want to limit how we imagine the score that will ultimately become a part of this piece. So we worked, as we have been recently, in silence, punctuated by our conversations (asking questions, talking about what we want to try) and of course, our breath – accentuated, as a cue, or the sound of a slightly out of breath dancer (that would be me) toward the end of a particularly active phrase. Sometimes, I would call out sounds rhythmically (that’s how we named the “bad a bing” section, for example). But there was a lot of quiet. I was told by people who came to watch that, if anything, the silence drew them in. It was a good lesson for me, in trusting the work and people’s interest in it. And in a way, it kind of echoes the idea of the piece, “If you can’t get there from here. . . Stand Still.” This is where we are in the process, and we are going to stand in this moment until we get pushed or drawn into the next. . .

I have a new pair of red sneakers. They are in fact, children’s shoes (it turns out my feet are pretty small). I had been trying for a long time to find the ones I used in earlier performances, to no avail. Finally this great shoe seller in New Jersey came to my rescue, with red sneakers that happened to be kid’s size 6. I have procured four pairs, and modified one pair so far -- I get all my sneakers modified (sneakers being pretty much the extent of my shoe collection these days). The sole of the shoe is altered to reduce the “toe off” phase of walking –- I spend more time on my heel. It’s called a rocker sole, so instead of rolling through the ball of the foot, I sort of rock on by. It helps reduce the impact on my forefeet.

Anyway, they feel pretty weird to wear, the new pair of red sneakers. Even with the modifications, I can tell that kid's sneakers are built differently than that of adults, at least this brand. But they are less expensive, which is a break since I get several pairs of sneakers modified every few months as they wear out. I am trying to be judicious about the use of these red sneakers given the absence of a surplus. I probably will need to learn to dye shoes at some point. Or better yet, manufacture them.

Meanwhile, rehearsal is coming along. We now have a little library of movement phrases to draw from, the longest being close to two and a half minutes and the shortest being under thirty seconds. There are some faster phrases and slower phrases and the beginning of partnering sections. We have enough now that we can start putting the phrases together and see what goes where and how we want to structure the whole piece. It is hard to articulate how exciting it is to know there really is a piece in there, emerging through this process. Thrilling.

It is also nice to have enough of a body of work in a particular piece that we can play with the material and build it into other sections. Yuki and I borrowed from a couple phrases we had already created for a duet in which we keep reconfiguring ourselves vis a vis each other. Finding new ways to use certain phrases helps create a consistency in the piece, or at least it is that way for me. I think the use of repetition is probably a very personal choreographic choice and I am remembering discussing it at length in composition classes –- is it important for the audience to see that particular material more than once? Is it boring, or even lazy, to have the same thing multiple times? Does it advance the piece? What does it mean to have a phrase change directions, change timing, be retrograded (reverse the order of the movement) so that it is recognizable but still evolving? All unanswerable questions, or maybe, really, best answerable within the context of specific pieces. In any case, we’re happy to play.

And since this is thanksgiving weekend: thanks to Pam Wagner, Yuki Miyoshi and Janet Forward for being awesome dancers and for contributing so much in so many ways. Thanks to Jessica Bonenfant for her assistance in getting things done. Thanks to Ben Soreff, my brother, always, and right now, for help with the open rehearsal flyer. And thanks to Gad’s Hill, the wonderful theater collective, especially Christopher Cartmill and Virginia Lowery. I am grateful to be choreographing again, and grateful for continuing support by the magic sneaker elves who modify my sneakers and keep me on my feet.

A funny thing has been happening in rehearsal over the last few weeks – a piece is starting to emerge. Two pieces, actually. And in a weird process situation, finding the title was the key. From “If you can’t get there from here. . . Stand Still,” (which was my attempt at being a Zen choreographer) came a proliferation of ideas for rehearsal – ways of interacting, partnering material and movement motifs. That first title also informed the name of the second piece (after Pam and I realized there were really two different sets of material in our early rehearsals): “If you don’t see what you’re looking for. . .Close your Eyes.” That piece will explore what it is to see without truly seeing, or seeing what you want to, not what is there.

One of my teachers always used to say that energy begets energy, and I know that to be true. Pam and I spent months in the studio, pushing through ideas and trying to find our way. After we found the title and a sense of what the piece is about, it felt very easy to start inviting more dancers into the process. Janet, who I had the pleasure of working with in the sneakers piece, has joined us, and it has been awesome to have her there. Last night, we started a new phrase for her (how do you articulate the excitement of finding some movement that really suits someone within the context of a piece?) And Yuki, who has danced beautifully in many SSDT works over the years, is back with us. Energy begets energy, and more material and, with more dancers, more possibilities.

I was recently filling out an application to show work and was asked to describe my creative process. This turned out to be not so easy. I kind of wanted to write glibly that if I could explain it I wouldn’t need to do it. And I kind of wanted to write that I don’t really want to think that much about my creative process – I spend enough time reflecting on everything I do and sometimes it’s really good to just go with what’s happening. I sort of mushed through it: I make decisions in the studio based on a feeling? It felt right to do something that way? It felt intuitive, happened organically? Because it feels like it happens in a place beyond words or explanation. Somehow, describing it feels derivative, an explanation after it happens to justify how it happened: it felt like more dancers were needed to convey what needed to be conveyed, so we started working with more dancers. I can say that I work collaboratively, which is certainly true, but i don’t know quite how to describe my creative process.

We are going to have an open rehearsal on November 30th and December 1st (see the calendar section of the website for details). Perhaps you’ll come and watch, and share with us what you discover. What questions and observations come up, watching movement get created, determining who does what, when, and how? And for the choreographer and performers, how does it inform the process, when viewing comes in during creation, not just the product/performance? I am looking forward to finding out!

When I was 17 years old, I was almost put on arts probation. That sounds like they lock you up in a room and make you create art continuously for the three days of confinement, or conversely, an alarm goes off if you attempt to do anything creative. Actually, it was the dance faculty’s way of saying that if I didn’t start improving in dance class, I wouldn’t be invited back. I was a 17 year old National Honor Society academic overachiever who had gone many hundreds of miles away from home to a performing arts high school to be warned that, based on my performance in class, I might not be invited back. Wow.

The truth was, a liberal arts education was very appealing to me. I had found the prevailing pedagogy of this particular performing arts program at the time --to break you and make you over into a “real dancer,” albeit a very well-trained one -- didn't really match my way of learning. I considered dropping out, but really wanted to finish the semester. Instead, I found it in me to let go: I stopped pushing so hard, stopped worrying that I would be put on arts probation, stopped holding my breath every time the teacher walked by and witnessed my imperfections. I became more interested in imagining my future life, thought about going on to a liberal arts college, where I could dance and learn about other things, too.

And then the strangest thing happened: I began to improve. A lot. I started taking up space in class and executing movements more fully; my improvisations got more dynamic and engaging, in composition class my movement vocabulary exploded– I started becoming the dancer I had given up on becoming.

That's my first conscious memory of the process of letting go, of not pushing quite so much. It had been so important to me to succeed at the school, and it was devastating to be going in the opposite direction. The beauty of letting go of the outcome is that one is in fact ok whether the desired outcome happens or not. To actually start improving once I had let go of that goal was an incredible joy.

That period of my life is a cautionary tale, and a reminder that letting go is often the thing for me to do (even if it is easier said than done). I have been feeling so impatient with my re-immersion into my choreographic life, believing I should have more to show for this amount of time. Yet thinking I should be “further along” in that imaginary linear chart of progress doesn’t put me further along. If anything, applying an abstract rule pulls me away from being present to what is really possible right now. So back to the work, unfolding in whatever amount of time it takes to unfold, and to surrendering to the process that is goes where it goes, when it goes there.

The working title for my new work: “If you can’t get there from here. . .
Stand Still.”

There is that thing about showing up, that really, showing up is the most important thing. And so I am showing up in the studio. Pam and I are showing up, have been for the last couple of months. There is this relief and purpose in just setting aside the time, even, and maybe especially right now, without the deadline of a performance. Like so many things, creativity is something that needs to be applied, it is like a muscle that needs to be exercised. So we are back in the studio, and I am getting back into shape physically and choreographically.

I am re-reading Bird by Bird, Annie Lamott’s delightful book about process. She is quite comforting, and I appreciate how she lovingly breaks concepts down into manageable ideas, like all you have to do is write one paragraph, the size of a small picture frame. And that is what being in the studio has been like: all I have to do is make one phrase at a time, one collection of movement. It doesn’t matter how good it is. It doesn’t matter anything except that the phrase gets made. And so, in collaboration with Pam, I make the phrases. And over time, we have a collection of phrases. And over time, we refine them, stretch them, truncate them, dance them until we are out of breath and realize we are all getting a little older, all the time.

Time brought me back into the studio (in more ways than one, I suppose). Time is to dance as breathing is to the body. It is always there, always operating. You can choose to acknowledge it and play with it, sometimes to great effect, but it is in play no matter what. Probably if you did a poll of choreographers there would be a high percentage who had addressed time as a theme, a working concept beyond the inherent negotiations with time – counts, rhythm, tempo, pacing, phrasing – that usually inform and shape any given piece. Maybe it is that way with all the performing and film/video arts, really. In any case, it seems like time is a pretty good starting concept, because we all have such a visceral sense of it. Although it can be challenging in dance to show time in tenses – past, present and future. That's really where the Christmas Carol ghosts come in handy. I have been interested in time at and after decisions points, finding different outcomes from the same origins.

Meanwhile, in recent rehearsals it has become clear that we have developed two sets of movement/two vocabularies: one very much rooted in this decision-point idea, and the second, more simply related to the two of us dancing. The former idea seems really much more suited to a larger group. The duet doesn't necessarily seem tied to the time idea, though the shape of it remains to be seen. It is just the vocabulary that is emerging right now, and we are choosing to follow it. Maybe at some point this will all become part of a larger work, two different sections or motifs, duets and quintets in who knows what configuration. But in this moment, we’re tracking the duet: we’re letting the process lead us to the next moment. And that’s what showing up looks like right now.

I am in danger, right now, a little, of falling out of the fold. I am a little in that space where it might seem just a little too far away, the place of creating. I have been on sabbatical from my artistic life, as it were, for the last year. I determined my passion, my energy, my intention should go toward another (very worthwhile) purpose, always with the understanding that, when the year was over, I would redirect.

The year is over, it is time to redirect. And I am, sort of. But I feel the challenge of it, viscerally. I feel the impatience of wanting to have something concrete that I am working on, to say, see, I didn’t lose my ability to create after all, it has just been dormant. Worse, I feel the ebbing of confidence, the type of confidence that allows you to be creative, to bare yourself in the name of taking risks and generating art.

Can you lose your creativity for good, or the belief that you have it? Can you shut down that part of yourself, the instinct to dig in and express what is real and raw in that particular way? Decide other things matter more for a while and find that becomes permanent, so that you question yourself right out of creating work as a life pursuit, or worse yet, don’t even question, just find it is not what you are doing?

My feet hurt. This more than anything stops me in my tracks. Once a week in rehearsal so far (testing the waters, as it were), coupled with the unease of getting around icy streets in New York, and my feet hurt. Pain, combined with this sliver of self-doubt that is poisonous to art-making: not a hopeful starting point.

“There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique, and if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium; and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is, not how it compares with other expression. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.”

Martha Graham. I don’t know, about being more alive or not, I can’t speak to that. But I can speak to her imperative, that it isn’t for us to judge, our own expression. It is only for us to create. To keep the channel open. So that is what I am striving to do. Keep the channel open. Let the doubts roll around as they will and come to sit on the shelf and look on as I go back to the studio, gingerly, and still, in the end, hopefully, and see what’s next.

here it is, on the cusp of fall. a year ago, i was just ramping up for the sneakers season. a year ago i was working on the script, preparing for auditions, working on choreographic motifs, trying to figure out how the whole thing would happen. and now. i have been working on other (non-artistic) projects for much of this last year. they have taken me out of the studio, at least for a little while. because i have devoted this space to talking about process, my process for creating, i think it worth noting that creativity exists even when there isn't another project distinctly on the horizon. i know that within the next half year, i will be choreographing and hopefully showing work again. i also know that now isn't that moment.

some choreographers are very prolific, able to generate a phenomenonal amount of work as they go along. some choreographers are able to establish full-time or ongoing companies that rehearse regularly. maybe that will come. i hope so. meanwhile: something strikes me, something moves me, something gnaws at me until i investigate. and so i investigate. this website might be quiet these days, but the process is not. . . who knows what comes next?

They say that artists have the equivalent of a kind of post-partum depression after a work is presented. I don't want to overstate the analogy but I have definitely been experiencing a sense of loss, moreso than with any project I have taken on previously. This new year's time, with its built in opportunity for reflection, seemed like a good moment to check in and check back.

It is also often noted how brief one's time on stage really is. All those months of work culminating, in our case, in three nights of performances. And that even with a substantial piece -- a little over an hour, it goes by in the blink of an eye. It does. It did. And that is part of the challenge of showing work, especially dance -- so much work going in, so little time on stage. One moment you are warming up, the next you are bowing. And then, what's next?

One month later -- I haven't looked at the video yet. Holding off just a little while longer, so I can get a little more distance. One month later -- I miss the cast and crew immensely, the closeness of that rehearsal community. I miss the exhiliration of going into rehearsal with a new idea just waiting to be explored and developed. I miss the singularity of purpose as all the elements mesh to form the whole. It is strange to go from such a tight focus and such close interaction with a group of people to the dispersed energy of daily life. And yet that is also part of the deal -- we invest ourselves wholly to the process, to the piece, to the performance, put everything into those precious moments, and then give over to whatever is next.

So here is to what's next, and to honoring the loss of what we just had to get there. And here is to a happy, healthy, fulfilling, creative 2006!

We have so little time to be born into this moment. It’s true, always true, and never more true than during a show. I don’t know if I can really write much about it, just yet -- I think I am still really really immersed in it, inside myself, and also a little shell-shocked –- so many beautiful moments on stage, so much richness of experience. To go from such intensity, purpose and strong sense of connection with the cast and crew to the quotidian (could I even find the kitchen table beneath all the mail and accumulated materials?) is jarring, uncomfortable.

But I do know this: being on stage was a huge gift. It was a joy to share this piece first with all those involved with it and then with the larger world, and finally to hear what people in the audience got out of it. The ending of the piece on the last night was particularly bittersweet – every moment really felt like it counted, and it did.

The cast got to keep their stage sneakers. I’ll miss seeing the row of them in the hallway leading to the stage. And I’ll miss the rituals leading up to the show, the ways we each took care of ourselves – make up and warming up, whether that was physical or vocal depending on one’s role, running choreography or running lines, finding moments to talk and connect with fellow performers or staying to oneself, thinking about who was coming that night or trying not to think about who was coming that night, remembering what the piece was about and how that story got told. Hard for me to leave behind. . . (and honoring that this is a new moment also being born).

Thank you from the bottom of my heart, to those that stretched themselves onstage and worked so hard behind the scenes to bring this piece to life:

William DeMeritt, Desiree DeToy, Janet Forward, Rossella Fusco, Deirdre Smith Gilmer, Michael – David Gordon, Isabel Gotzkowsky, Alaine Handa, Heather Heineman, Shannon Hudson, Stephanie Kobes, Lauren Currie Lewis, Virginia Lowery, Dawn Marcoccia, Jerly Marquez, Yuki Miyoshi, Gil Naveh, Rebecca Shulman, Sherenne Simon, Anthony Stropoli, Kerry Tortarolo, Pam Wagner, Kathy Whitham, Valencia Yearwood, Jon Zimmerman, Carrie Wood, Matt Stine and Cody Owen Stine, Dawn Marcoccia, Christopher Cartmill, Jaclyn Moynahan, Christopher Young, Carl Terranova, Marge Hauser, Kathleen Scully, Emilie Lavin, Chris Greer, Brian Dean, Rachel Boggia, Alaric Hahn, Nicole Robinson, Gannon McKayle and The New York Running Company.

So it’s show week. The week of the show. Moving into the time in which the show will be shown. And if maybe I am writing this like I am a little bit in shock, it is because I think I am.

This is the week of the show and it is a little disquieting that sometimes when people ask me if I am excited I feel like saying no, because there are so many things spinning around in my head right now, ranging from the artistic – how is the piece flowing moment to moment and overall, to the mundane – when am I going to buy make up? I know the excitement is in there somewhere, but it is competing with a bunch of other things!

Here in this show week, I keep coming up against things that lead me back into the piece. Spasms have been visiting muscles in my lower back. Maybe fatigue, maybe stress, maybe trying to take care of my feet and letting another part of my body do the work (clash of the body parts!) But in those moments of pain, and in the moments of frustration or helplessness about getting around or how I navigate certain sections with sneakers, I invariably have a second moment of remembering that it is from such experiences this piece was born.

Seeing as it is show week, we are at the point in the process where we have to shift from creating to executing, from conceptualizing to cleaning. Finalizing entrances and exits, lighting and sound cues, spacing (where are the performers when?) are the stuff of these next few days. Kicking and screaming that more time is needed, it really is time to let the piece be what it is. And that really is what performance is, in so many ways – letting the work grow and stretch in the aliveness of those moments.


Tomorrow is tech, Thursday dress, we open Friday. It is a common feeling among performers to feel like the stage time flies by. It is precious and it is fleeting. Something worth savoring. So now I am letting go – the piece is what it is, it will be what it will be. Shall we dance?

It finally happened. Today, it finally happened. In all my major pieces, there has been a moment when something significant changes – the way of the piece, the number of people in it, the arc of it, how the characters/ performers relate. Hydrogen and Oxygen started out with an actress speaking from the widow’s walk amidst a slew of dancers before it became a quartet of dancers with a voice over. un/shielded was dramatically reorganized and ended up with a live musician. And so I’ve been pretty edgy, getting closer and closer to show time for “The Dancer Who Wore Sneakers,” because though I have worked on a million things about it, no seismic shift.

Not that a seismic shift wasn’t warranted: For the last several weeks, something in the second third of the piece – the timing, the pacing, the layering of acting and dancing, hasn’t quite worked, and I haven’t had clarity about how it changes. Until today. Today, on the cusp of everyone disappearing for thanksgiving and show week not far behind, something became clear and the piece found its way.

And I am giving thanks.

And, in keeping with the spirit of the holiday, giving thanks seems relevant. And there are many, many people who ought to be and will be thanked in other settings. But right here, right now, I really want to acknowledge the creative forces at play here: The incredible music by Matt Stine and Cody Owen Stine, the lighting talents and instincts of Carrie Wood, the extraordinary costume design by Dawn Marcoccia. I also want to thank Christopher Cartmill, whose support as co-producer and adviser has been instrumental in bringing this work to the stage (not to mention the web).

I have tremendous gratitude to all the performers and the way they show up to the work and participate in its creation. There are so many beautiful moments in rehearsal – it is incredibly inspiring to see 20 people moving in a coordinated/ organized way. It is no less inspiring when we find a new partnering moment that really fits with what is happening in the piece, or the actors discover a new way to be in a moment and the whole scene gets more clear, or a segment of dance syncs up completely with a new piece of music.

And I do want to post a shout out to my brother, who has provided input on everything from the colors of the website to connecting me with his genius friend Brian Dean, who designed the postcard. When we were growing up, I was always running to dance class and even left my hometown at the age of 16 to go to study dance (at North Carolina School of the Arts, a far cry from Portland, Maine!) I don’t think it made a lot of sense to him then, and over the years I know he has tried to understand my commitment to and passion for dancing and this uneven artistic life. It seems this project has really resonated with him, which is awesome. So is his support. Thanks, Ben.

Wishing everyone a happy thanksgiving and safe travels.

I read recently that the West Fourth Street subway station had had no working elevators for over a month, and that New York City's Disabled Riders Coalition is suing the MTA and the TA for violating the Americans with Disabilities Act due to this and other instances of failure to provide accessibility. Anyone who has had an injury or tried to get a baby, and even more, a baby and a stroller, in to and out of subway stations knows how devastating it can be not to have elevators or even escalators available: the lag time in maintenance ranges from inconvenient to painful in human terms.

My “injury” isn’t particularly obvious, except maybe for the slight limp which gets worse when I am tired or in a lot of pain. So sometimes I have a weird moment when getting on a train – because impact taks a toll on my feet, it really helps me to sit down – I am just gritting my teeth when I have to stand and try not to lurch too much as I think light thoughts. I don’t look particularly frail or unhealthy, and so vying for a seat can be awkward or seem unwarranted. It has been suggested to me more than once that I keep carrying a cane so that it is clear I am infirmed, that I do merit a seat. But when I am able to step back from the musical chairs, I am reminded that I don’t know what is happening for other people, either: who knows, how long someone has been on her feet or what pain he might be in. We all have something. I do what I can: trying to avoid rush hour is a major goal, and I keep track of how far a destination is from subway station to determine travel plans.

I have pretty much gotten used to the sneakers and to the measuring steps, but the thing that still gets me more than I would wish is the search for cabs. It can be disheartening, and even humiliating, especially when I find myself in transit right when the cabs are changing over and no one seems to want a fare. The other day as I emerged from rehearsal, a cab was zipping by and I hailed a moment after the optimal moment for hailing had passed. A man going into a store literally stopped to tell me, as the cab moved further and further away, that I should have run for it. I couldn’t help responding that if I was able to run for it I wouldn’t need a cab in the first place. A New York moment I would rather forget.

Cabs are one thing, subways are another, and as the holiday discounts and more potential price hikes are in the headlines it is worth remembering that elevators aren’t working for months at a time at busy stations. One hopes that those repairs will be finished soon, one wishes for ease in transit, all around.

I haven’t worn heels in at least 3 years, and don’t really expect to again. That is one thing about the nature of my feet and their unusually fragile structure: it really clarifies the shoes I can consider. Some women have closets with Manolo Blahniks and Michael Kors, deals from Century 21 and colors for all seasons. I have a closet featuring a wide array of Saucony, New Balance and Nike. I’ve learned over the years that it’s better for me to have a set of sneakers in rotation, because my feet feel comfortable with different models day to day, and really, who doesn’t want some choice? Do I go for my standard most supportive white sneakers or do I want to spiff things up with the black or go crazy with the red?

I went shopping for sneakers the other day, which always requires quite an effort on my part – in fact, just getting to a place with adequate sneaker supply requires quite an effort. And that is only the first step: whatever I buy is subject to the approval of the orthotics specialist, since the sneakers themselves need to be modified in conjunction with the orthotics within. We have learned that to go more than 3 months without getting another pair of sneakers can be devastating for my feet. And in the spirit of calculated obsolescence, it turns out that many of the sneakers I come to fancy end up being discontinued. Consequently, I feel like I am always on a sneaker expedition.

So there I was at NY Running Company the other day (and with a hint of self-consciousness, I might add that they are generously serving as the sponsor for this season, outfitting us with the sneakers that epitomize this piece. All the folks who work there just ran the marathon and know a whole lot about sneakers. I myself, even pre-foot situation, could never run more than a block without shin splints, so I am impressed. And in my last moment of self-consciousness just want to say that if you are in New York and looking for sneakers and athletic wear, check them out at the Columbus Circle Mall and thank them for supporting the arts!)

I was grateful to have one of the dancers accompany with me on my most recent sneaker search. He didn’t know what to make of the process: I tried on sneakers for an hour. He had to listen to many discussions about limiting supination (when you feet roll to the outside, not uncommon with forefoot trauma as one tries to shift weight away from the affected area) as I considered and reconsidered several pairs. He had to watch me replace each pair of inserts with my orthotics and then walk up and down the store, plieing and turning in each pair of sneakers until I could get some sense of whether they would serve to protect and cushion my feet adequately.

I did come away with some options, not a moment too soon, or really, since my feet are a little worse for the wear, maybe a moment later than preferred. All sneakers all the time may not have been my first choice, but I am definitely grateful to have them. Whatever else I may think or feel, if it takes sneakers to be on my feet, so be it. Just one request: can I have those in red?

Today we had our first full cast Sunday rehearsal. How amazing: 6 hours, 23 performers on the scene for at least some of that time. Amazing. Today we ran through much of the piece, in terms of a rough outline. No easy task, since the piece alternates between two distinct dancing sequences as well as scenes played by the actors. It went something like this: I would call out what I thought would happen for a span of time, referring to the handy three color chart I posted (red for the “MRI dancers” – so named because of the radiograph images projected behind them as they dance, purple for me and Pam and our duets, and black for the actors in “Measured Steps”), and then we would try it.

Today was primarily intended to be a chance to run all the dance sequences to see what we have material-wise and see what still needs to be done. The actors came in to watch and get a feel for the dance sequences surrounding the scenes. So Pam and I would dance, and then the MRI dancers would take to the stage, and then I would point to the actors, who would ebulliently call out “We’re acting now!” Everyone would cheer and we would go on to the next dance moment. It was quite delightful, and a great first step for a first Sunday. After all, we have to take this step by step.

Or, to echo one of the standard-bearers of process: bird by bird. That’s Annie Lamott. I think Bird by Bird was probably mandatory reading for a whole generation of college students, at least those encouraged to write; maybe it still is. Essentially, it is this: take things step by step, moment by moment, task by task(writing this makes me want to sing, “inch by inch, row by row, gonna make my garden grow”) Even as I make light of it, though, I have the deepest respect for process and the way Lamott honors it. Because really, all we have is this moment and the next moment and the next, a chain of linked moments unfolding across time.

Those who have studied with me or worked with me invariably will hear me say “change is a process, not an event.” I heard this all the time from one of the teachers who most influenced me, and I say it all the time at least as much to remind myself as to share it with others. “Change is a process, not an event.” Not that dramatic things can’t happen in a moment, they can. But I think the context is important – in a space of learning, in pursuit of excellence, certainly in an art form, and probably many activities – it is the daily application of attention, concentration, will, that most often leads to change.

That is certainly the case in this piece. There is a constant triaging, and a constant need on my part to address what I can in each rehearsal and accept that some things require more thought, more space, more time. Not that I have much now – with under a month to go I am certainly feeling the pressure on all fronts. But the pressure isn't the thing, the process is. Step by step, moment by moment, bird by bird.

Sometimes you have this moment where you think you understand something and then you discover a whole new way to understand it. Or you are creating something and you think you are right inside it, only to realize there is more depth to its center. I should speak for myself: this weekend I came face to face with something real and hard about this piece, about working on a piece about injury, about working on a piece, ever: dancers can get injured. And knowing that abstractly or statistically or even experientially never prepares a choreographer – it certainly didn’t prepare me -- for that moment when a dancer lands oddly out of a lift and a new injury is born in to the world.

This whole piece is about physical challenges, about how we as dancers and as people are constantly navigating pain and discomfort to do what we want to do. And yet to see something happen - to witness a landing that produces an injury in a certain moment that seemed at first like any other moment – it is shocking. Literally shocking, because it is hard to react in those first few moments, hard to reconcile seemingly innocuous actions with such dramatic outcomes. And then, after the shock: panic, fear, confusion: how much damage has been done? What needs to happen now? And finally, a recognition of reality: in this case, there was swelling and bruising of the insulted toe, and beyond that, no clarity, not for a little while at least. The dancer spent the weekend icing her foot, she is taking whatever steps she has to. One step at a time, for all of us, no matter how much we think we can tough it out or will it away.

I grew up, like many dancers, with the message, voiced or not, that I was to work through pain, that in some ways it would make me stronger. Dancers often are infamous for a high–pain threshold and the firm belief that stretching will make everything better (even when a muscle overstretched is the cause). There are habits that help us get where we want to go, and sometimes those same habits challenge us in other ways. The disappointment of letting a choreographer or teacher down is high, and the repercussions of injury sometimes seem so punitive that denial seems a better route. And it is tempting for the choreographer and dancers involved with a rehearsal incident to have a sense of guilt that doesn’t fit the circumstances (I’m working on this!).

Meanwhile, the next day, I got a call that another dancer had torqued her knee teaching. Although the threat of a meniscus tear has given way to an inflamed and swollen joint that will be ok with some care, it was another jolt in the process of creating this work, any work. Things happen, in the studio, out of the studio. There is a word for it: accident. We can resist those moments and deny their validity; we can feel bad with nowhere to go with that feeling; we can try to work through the pain and against it all we want (and sometimes that even works) but at the end of the day, some things are beyond are control. And that seems important to know in this piece, vita even, worth exploring more. That amidst the aesthetics of the opening image and the movement vocabulary born of restricted motion, there are some pains that don’t go away, physical or otherwise. And that is very much worth owning, in a piece about injury.

I had twelve people in rehearsal on Tuesday, and I thought it would be an ideal opportunity to see how the opening of the piece as I imagined it would translate in the real world. We set up everybody’s sneakers (or other shoes, for those who forgot to bring their sneakers!) in a grid, and saved the center spot for me. One by one, the performers were to enter and fill their respective shoes. I was to enter last. Matt, the very talented sound designer, was there playing some of what he and his collaborator Cody had worked out for opening music, and it was all going quite well. As the last of the dancers entered, I switched gears from choreographer to performer, and walked out into the grid, arriving in the center spot. It was then I realized that I hadn’t stepped into my pair of sneakers as everybody else had. Because I was already wearing them. It wasn’t until I physically walked into the space that the inherent challenge to the image hit me: I am unwilling to walk the 17 feet to the center of the stage barefoot, with no protection against impact. And hence, a moment changes.

You have to realize that this image, of people walking out and stepping into sneakers, was the germ from which this whole evening-length piece was born. It was quite a moment, there in rehearsal on Tuesday, to realize that the only part of what I envisioned that didn’t work actually didn’t work because I can’t walk (much less dance) sans sneakers. Which is what led to the creation of this whole piece in the first place.

Clearly, some choreographic reshaping is in order. Perhaps I will change into a different pair of sneakers, or find some clever foot padding. Perhaps I will enter in sneakers and step into the space that is held is for me. Perhaps I will descend from the ceiling, suspended by the wires that have held the likes of Peter Pan and many other flying performers for decades. I'll need to try some of these strategies out in rehearsal. From the symbol of “The Dance Who Wore Sneakers,” a new creative problem to be resolved!

Dawn told me, after watching me teach in sneakers,that she wished she was dancing in them, too. That was so funny to me: I always imagine them to be like a crutch, the only way I get to dance. I am both unbelievably grateful for the opportunity afforded by my sneakers and still sometimes sad when a turn is impeded because my sneakers won’t glide, or someone asks me if I am pointing or flexing my feet because in the sneakers sometimes it’s hard to tell (I have a rule I now announce in rehearsals: assume my feet are pointed unless I specify otherwise!)

And so it took me off guard a little to hear Dawn wishing she was dancing in them. Hearing her reasons were illuminating: that it felt more powerful, somehow, for me to have this footwear on, and it seemed more springy, getting into and out of jumps. I don't usually think of it that way. In fact, I often try to minimize the springiness, especially in the landings, because even with the sneakers, the protection offered is finite (and the potential pain, well, painful).

Dawn has worked with me on basically every major piece I have created. She is a brilliant costume designer and collaborator. Some of my most enduring moments of insight about any given work come out of our discussions, and this project, with its many layers and interwoven themes, is no exception.

One of the most exciting developments is that of the “body part soloist” costumes. Four dancers represent injuries of the knee, foot, hip, neck. We are introduced to these dancers early in the piece as they move through solos with restrictions appropriate to an injury (later we will see them in the "clash of the body parts" battling each other). For example, the “knee” dancer bends his right knee minimally, the “neck” dancer pivots from her waist, as opposed to turning her head. Costume-wise, we wanted to call attention to that area without it being a marker when the dancers are not representing an injury. (In contrast to me: of necessity, I wear sneakers for the duration).

The solution Dawn and I came to: a two-side scarf/fabric on the appropriate “injured” area, red when doing that solo and neutral to match the rest of the costume otherwise. The "injury" will thus be marked but only sometimes accentuated, just as we often have injuries but they are not always the source of pain/in need of immediate attention. I can’t wait to see how it looks when we move from the discussion to the reality. And meanwhile, I am going to walk (carefully!) with a little more spring in my step.