Is Dance Too Insular? A Seasoned Critic on Why We Shouldn't Shun Outside Perspectives
When I first came to dance criticism in the 1970s, the professional critics were predominantly much older than me. I didn't know them personally and, as the wide-eyed new kid on the block, I assumed most had little or no physical training in the art.
As slightly intimidated as I felt at the time—you try sitting around a conference room table with Dance Magazine heavy hitters like Tobi Tobias and David Vaughan—I smugly gave myself props for at least having had recent brushes with ballet, Graham, Duncan and Ailey and more substantial engagement with jazz and belly dance. Watching dancers onstage, I enjoyed memories of steps and moves I knew in my own bones. If the music was right, my shoulders would wriggle. I wasn't just coolly judging things from my neck up.
Yet in my own way, as an amateur practitioner who took classes for fun and emotional healing rather than professional ambition, even I had a bit of an outsider eye. It's this perspective—not so much the years-ago dance training still softly twitching in my sexagenarian muscles—that actually has given my dance writing its accessibility and often subversive kick.
It never felt right to me for dance to be an insular field where artists largely make work that rarely reaches beyond close colleagues who already understand and approve of it; where the language of choreographic theories, intentions and processes are elusive or esoteric to those not in the know. As a young critic, I longed to bring this gorgeous, powerful, transformative art to the people—not just the people immediately around the studio or the stage or the ivory tower of academia.
Scott Shaw, Courtesy Asantewaa
So now I say, Bring on the outsiders! The writers and journalists who can't raise their legs to their ears but can ask a brand-new, real good question and keep asking until it gets answered with clarity. The dramaturgs who think deeply about the broader context of a work, about what lies on the farther shores of the world, and know how to bring fresh sensibilities and concerns inside the creative process. And, of course, all dancers—like the terrific Jerron Herman or Kayla Hamilton, both disabled artists—who rock bodies once considered ineffective and unappealing, inappropriate for dance. Bring all of it. Dance is a richer field when it lets the outside in.
Speaking of outsiders, it is still atypical for a writer of my race to devote a life to observing and writing about dance. (While I'm not the only black critic, I'm still one of the few—largely because it makes even less economic sense than it did back in the 1970s and '80s.) With this, we circle back to another issue about outsider-hood. Can one claim the right to critique work—especially work rooted in particular cultures—made by artists not of one's own culture? White critics sitting down in front of an Urban Bush Women show, for instance. Or, me watching, enjoying and then writing about classical dances of Japan or India.
It gets tricky for outsiders. But here's the thing: Outsiders who never forget that they are just that; who show up ready to pay sensitive attention and humbly engage with the art; who experience and report with honesty and without self-importance can help bridge a gap between expert insiders and a world of people eager to learn something new, vital and exciting. Dance requires nothing less from us—that we let change in and let it move us.
For decades the name Alicia Alonso has been virtually synonymous with Ballet Nacional de Cuba, the company she co-founded in Havana in 1948. Alonso died on October 17, just shy of what would have been her 99th birthday. In recent years, she had stepped back from day-to-day decision-making in the company. As if preparing for the future, in January, the company's leading ballerina, 42-year-old Viengsay Valdés, was named deputy director, a job that seems to encompass most of the responsibilities of a traditional director. Now, presumably, she will step into her new role as director of the company. Her debut as curator of the repertory comes in November, when the troupe will perform three mixed bills selected by her at the Gran Teatro de la Habana Alicia Alonso. The following has been translated from a conversation conducted in Spanish, Valdés' native tongue.
"The show must go on" may be a platitude we use to get through everything from costume malfunctions to stormy moods. But when it came to overcoming a literal hurricane, Houston Ballet was buoyed by this mantra to go from devastated to dancing in a matter of weeks—with the help of Harlequin Floors, Houston Ballet's longstanding partner who sprang into action to build new floors in record time.
New York City Ballet principal Sara Mearns wasn't sure she was strong enough. A ballerina who has danced many demanding full-length and contemporary roles, she was about to push herself physically more than she thought was possible.
"I said, 'I can't. My body won't,' " she says. "He told me, 'Yes, it will.' "
She wasn't working with a ballet coach, but with personal trainer Joel Prouty, who was asking her to do squats with a heavier barbell than she'd ever used.
Her Dying Swan was as fragile as her Juliet was rebellious; her Odile, scheming, her Swanilda, insouciant. Her Belle was joyous, and her Carmen, both brooding and full-blooded. But there was one role in particular that prompted dance critic Arnold Haskell to ask, "How do you interpret Giselle when you are Giselle?"
At eight, Alicia Alonso took her first ballet class on a stage in her native Cuba, wearing street clothes. Fifteen years later, put in for an ailing Alicia Markova in a performance of Giselle with Ballet Theatre, she staked her claim to that title role.
Alonso received recognition throughout the world for her flawless technique and her ability to become one with the characters she danced, even after she became nearly blind. After a career in New York, she and her then husband Fernando Alonso established the Cuban National Ballet and the Cuban National Ballet School, both of which grew into major international dance powerhouses and beloved institutions in their home country. On October 17, the company announced that, after leading the company for a remarkable 71 years, Alonso died from cardiovascular disease at the age of 98.