There is nothing
so public yet so intimate as a dance concert where feet squeak and thump on Marley floors,
sweat glistens under stage lights, and breath audibly expels. I’m afraid it
will go the way of conversation. As conversation moved to text messages on a
cell phone, live performance is fast becoming a You Tube submission viewed on a
handheld screen, the dancers the size of insects.
This weekend I was
fortunate to be an audience participant at my daughter Cara’s faculty dance
concert at High Point University, featuring, among others, her twin sister
Mackenzie. I’ve been watching Cara and Mackenzie put on shows almost from the
time they learned to speak, though they didn’t start dancing until they were
thirteen. They have always moved cooperatively, harmoniously, and in
synchronization the way twins do: in utero, as babies sharing a crib during their
first few months, as children creating shows and reenacting movie scenes for
our pleasure, and, now, as adults, who perform on stage and in film.
Both have used
dance as a launching point to engage in other performance arts. Cara writes and
performs songs and stories and makes film; Mackenzie performs aerial dance, ala
Cirque du Soleil. This weekend’s concert had all of that: original songs sung a
cappella by a wonderful ensemble of women, contemporary dance, film, and aerial
performance.
I like to sit up
in the balcony. I think dance is best viewed from above so the whole structure of
the dance can be seen or one can zoom in easily on an individual dancer. I’ve learned to train my eye to do both
almost simultaneously. It enhances
the whole experience.
Ronald and I sat
in the last row of the first level balcony on Friday night and the first row of
the same balcony on Saturday night. The reason we sat four rows lower on
Saturday was that I noticed we were just slightly too high on Friday night, and
Mackenzie, when she reached the top of the fabric on which she performs her
aerial work, was partially obscured by the proscenium curtain.
In the opening
work Raven choreographed by Belinda
McGuire, Cara and Mackenzie wove, ran and dove amongst a web of light. Lighting
is integral to live performance in that it focuses the eye, sets the tone of
the work, and facilitates the movement. This photo belies the beauty of the
lighting but captures the beauty of movement.
The next piece was
a short film by Cara titled On Learning.
It is a memoir in
movement and voice as Cara talks about one of her mentors who taught her dance
and inspired her to be a dance teacher.
It was not my first time seeing the film, but I tear up each time,
because it reinforces the tenet that it takes a village to raise a child. We
did not do it alone, and I am ever appreciative of all the people who assisted
us. Trish Casey, the teacher featured in the film, was in the audience Saturday
evening. After the show she could only voice how humble the experience left her.
Mackenzie
performed her aerial piece next. She was a bird in flight, gracefully moving up
and down the fabric until the end of her piece when she wound herself in the
fabric almost to the rigging twenty feet above the stage floor, then dropped
about fifteen feet in a spin that caused me to gasp aloud each
performance. Here she is, wrapped
in silk.
Linda Donnell
performed Compartment choreographed
by Cara. Linda is my age, and I was mesmerized watching her lithe
ballet-trained body adapt to Cara’s physical and unstructured movement. Vintage
commercials from the 1950s were played on a screen behind her, an ideal time
captured in the ideal world of advertisement, in contrast to the reality of how
we live in a world of stress and constant motion.
I love the clear
sound of a cappella voices, too, and after a brief intermission, Eve at the River opened with an a cappella
solo titled Our Quilt, written by
Cara and sung by Toni Manuel in her resonant, beautiful voice. The song, stark
and soulful, is about the work of women. Her voice reached down to my soul,
like the chill of dipping toes in cold stream water that both surprises and
refreshes. Later in the piece, singers Toni, Suzy McCalley, Linda Donnell, and
Cara each told a story then blended together unique voices in song, and I felt
lifted as their voices rose and suffused the theater while surrounding the
dancers, Breanne Horne and Mackenzie, in the fount borne of women’s work, love,
sorrow, and joy.
Cara shares her
art by having a conversation with the audience at the end of each concert,
inviting them to ask questions or share thoughts about what they’ve witnessed.
It is her way of extending the intimacy of live performance and making art
accessible. On Saturday night, Ronald raised his hand. His was not a question
but a comment about the way the performance had moved him.
Art has a way of
transporting one from everyday worries and concerns. Certainly I spent last
week glued to the television, watching the Democratic Convention that was held
just down the road from where I live. I cheered; I cried; I fretted; I
applauded; I felt hopeful. But in reality, politics don’t often make their way
directly into our homes nor impact our lives on a day-to-day basis. No matter
what goes on in Washington, no matter who is elected, as appalling, or even
heroic, as it all seems at times, life goes on in spite of it. (That’s no excuse not to vote, though!
That’ll be another post topic on another day!)
So I was happily transported
on Friday and Saturday evenings into a whimsical world with light and voice and
music and movement, interrupted by occasional darkness as the stage was set for
the next piece and dancers changed costumes.
I know Cara and
Mackenzie’s interest in the arts was inspired by their childhood. I exposed
them to story in print, on film, and in live theater, and Ronald exposed them
to visual arts and music. Then we made the choice to support them as they
pursued dance, a choice we were able to make as middle class parents, though it
was still a financial challenge.
Any foray into the
arts is fraught with hard work, missteps, isolation during the creative
process, lack of funding, lack of opportunity, and competition for audiences.
As I’ve experienced in my writing career, it isn’t easy on the ego either, and
I admit my skin is thinner than theirs and, yet, they still feel the hurt of
rejection and critique.
Often I share
their emotional, and sometimes physical, pain as they take their journeys both
together and separately. Sometimes
I still want to stick my nose in and give my opinion, and I do and often I regret
it later and only hope I caused least harm in the process. Sometimes they want
to know what I think or just want to talk about their frustrations or the
creative process or new ideas, and I am there for that, too, just as Ronald is.
(For more on the topics of parenting and creativity see my posts Parenting Creativity and Parenting Creativity Part 2.)
I think that’s the
best roles we can play as parents and as artists, too: listening to their
creative ideas and processes, and being part of the audience. Even as
adults, they look to see where we are, and they know that if there is a
balcony, that’s where they’ll find us.
I was transported and
transformed by the beauty of live art, and I hope I transported you for a few
minutes as you read this blog, viewed the film On Learning, and looked at the lovely photos taken by Kenneth Jackson during the dress rehearsal.
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