Last night I ventured into the heat to see Innervation Dance Cooperative's "Of One Mind." (Now, two caveats. 1. I have many friends in IDC. I would NEVER trash talk my friends in a blog post, so there is a filter here. 2. I am VERY critical of dance, so I'm not going to sugar coat this entirely....)
I LOVED IT. Honestly, I rarely skip out of dance concerts. Usually I sit around and fix the choreography in my mind and leave disenchanted. Even Hubbard Street has received a "mnah" review from me from time to time. Nope. "Of One Mind" gets a "YEAH BITCH! Work it!"
I left this show not only having thoroughly enjoyed it, but also so inspired and so optimistic about the possibilities for dance in a recession.
First, a little about IDC. The company is a Cooperative. Five members comprise the cooperative and they have ten company members. They also hire out seasonal dancers. None of these members are compensated for their hourly time. But as I understand it performers receive a small fee for performances as well as company class. (FRIENDS CORRECT ME IF I SPEAK WRONG!) This is still a reasonably desirable working situation for even full-time dancers.
Through a grant they have a residency at Thurgood Marshall Middle School where they conduct after school programs for students and also rehearse. (the reason I can never audition- I work when they rehearse :( ) ADDITIONALLY the company tours their work to schools. Currently, I believe, Gods Monsters and Heroes (a fitting show to instruct on Greek mythology while likewise exposing students to dance) is touring.
This is a lot for a small 501(c)3 to take on. By small, I mean in terms of finances. They're not backed by Hubbard Street's grants or Joffrey's rich donors. They don't perform at the Harris or Auditorium Theater. They aren't employing dancers full time. And certainly no one's getting health insurance. They have a couple grants, donors, and fundraisers, but these are on a humble scale.
And yet, in spite of this, IDC continues to amaze me. Last night they still put on a really quality show. Not just, oh it was nice for a community theater version of Les Miserables....no. I mean it was really good.
The story of Trudi Chase, a woman who suffered from extreme multiple personality disorder, and abuse at the hands of her stepfather and mother, was gripping. The choreography was lovely and honestly, at times quite impressive. The dancers were beautiful. Never once did I find fault in their movement- they fully realized all their movement potentials within the choreography and moved as one unified cast even though most of them have other jobs. The costumes were cohesive and relevant. The projections were interesting and added to the work.
IDC managed to cram a cast of 23 onto Prop Thtr's modest stage, and never once did it look like the cast was struggling to move. Everyone was moving fully- navigating the space like one instead of 23 cramped dancers.
None of the normal problems that would restrict a company from reaching its full potential seem to hinder IDC. Need a lot of dancers? Get a lot of dancers. Space is too expensive? Get a residency at a school. Need costumes for 23 dancers? Use pedestrian clothes as a base for the costumes. Need a theater? Get a little theater! No a/c? NO PROBLEM! Got a small stage? Use every inch of it. Need a cohesive concert? Choreograph an evening length work. Want to get involved in the community and give back? Tour your concerts to schools. Need an audience? Get 23 dancers and the audience will come. And, they'll probably be so impressed they'll blog about it or send their friends.
Congratulations IDC on creating a model for how to make quality, meaningful art in a recession. This company serves as one of my greatest inspirations for my future hopes and dreams and I can't wait to see what else they do in their future.
Sid Smith's Review: http://seechicagodance.com/company/41
Go see the show this weekend: http://www.innervationdance.org/performances.html
Donate to IDC: http://www.innervationdance.org/support.html
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Saturday, June 9, 2012
The Bird's Cage
But as the day went on the cage was still empty. Other ugly creatures flew into the cage, hairy little winged monsters with teeth and claws. I shooed them away, but still my birds did not return.
I sat down to wait for them, patient and hopeful. But deep in my heart there was a sadness because I had already steeled myself to the truth that I would never see them again. My cage would remain empty and my little birds free in the sky, soaring high.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Kitchen Heat
It's too hot up here in my azul attic.
The thermostat says 87 in the room, but the oven's on in the kitchen and I can feel the blast of heat as I pass inbetween.
Covered from head to toe in flour and sweat, I've slowly stripped to just my bra and panties, wondering if I could, or should, cook naked.
I'm wondering if there's a moral ground demanding one must at least cover their genitals when baking.
What about the nipples?
I wonder if it's hot enough to cook the pizza without the oven.
Cat glares at me, begging to be let downstairs where he can flop on the tile basement floor. Instead we take turns sitting in the shower.
The summer heat is here.
Without warning. It just appeared one day, catching us unprepared.
"Whatcha Doing?"
"Making Ice."
"How Much Ice Do You Need?"
"All Of It."
I splash water all over the kitchen, all over me.
It feels good on my grimy skin.
Cat lays in the puddles, a black and white rug at my feet.
Eyes slide shut.
Too hot to stay awake,
Take a siesta in my abode-
I'll wake up and clean the mess up in the morning, before the sun is high above my attic roof, when it's cooler.
The thermostat says 87 in the room, but the oven's on in the kitchen and I can feel the blast of heat as I pass inbetween.
Covered from head to toe in flour and sweat, I've slowly stripped to just my bra and panties, wondering if I could, or should, cook naked.
I'm wondering if there's a moral ground demanding one must at least cover their genitals when baking.
What about the nipples?
I wonder if it's hot enough to cook the pizza without the oven.
Cat glares at me, begging to be let downstairs where he can flop on the tile basement floor. Instead we take turns sitting in the shower.The summer heat is here.
Without warning. It just appeared one day, catching us unprepared.
"Whatcha Doing?"
"Making Ice."
"How Much Ice Do You Need?"
"All Of It."
I splash water all over the kitchen, all over me.
It feels good on my grimy skin.
Cat lays in the puddles, a black and white rug at my feet.
Eyes slide shut.
Too hot to stay awake,
Take a siesta in my abode-
I'll wake up and clean the mess up in the morning, before the sun is high above my attic roof, when it's cooler.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Summer Hunger
Summer's here and the wanderlust sets in.After months of content I am the cat- clawing at the windows of my life seeking an adventure.
I am no better than my students as the warmth infects me with restless energy.
I feel hungry- there's an emptiness in me and the more I fill it, the larger it grows.
I want.
I want to bury myself in my imaginings and stare at the clouds lilting overhead,
finding in them the landscapes and adventures from my childish imaginings.
I want to explore a castle, or stumble over a mountain peak, or turn the corner in a foreign city.
I want to lay on a sunny bed with the green leaves rustling outside of my window.
I want to sit on a dock of a sunny lake with the dragonflies circling, little fairies greeting me.
I want to sit on the edge of a flowering gate and fill my journal with anxious scribblings.
No amount of adventure will be enough- my satiation is impossible.
In spite of everything the wild child is freed-
stupid and irresponsible and carefree- alive.
Dreaming of adventures beyond this world.
I thought this summer might be different- so content with my life and my work.
But then the breeze rustles the hairs on my bare arms and awakens in me the missing piece of my puzzle-
the wild wakefulness that had been laid to rest and stirs again.
The embers in my smoldering pit have flamed into a fire.
Here comes the insatiable hunger and the endless wanderings of my mind leading me into weeks of daydreams.
Hours spent in reverie.
Summer's here- I'm awake and necessarily discontent.
The impossible search for the world of my imaginings is on.
Like the mosquito bites on my leg, no matter how I scratch I cannot calm the itch.
Come on an adventure with me- let's discover this summer together.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Why You Shouldn't Worry About My Finances
....I mean, besides the fact that Mom, Dad, and I do enough worrying for everyone else.
So APPARENTLY money is a taboo subject. But, as a person who was born without any sense of social conduct, I never worry about dropping the "less than _____ K"'s. And then, inevitably, things get awkward. It goes something like this:
You tell me I simply cannot live like this. I explain that I'm above the poverty level, but taxes can still upset my finances for months and a restructuring of the tax system may be in order. You say that I deserve to make more than ____K. When I agree, and suggest you write your congressman or woman and suggest more funding for the arts, you suggest I "sell out." When I explain that I like my job, you are worried about how I'm surviving. When I mention I love my Latino neighborhood and attic abode, you are concerned for my safety. When I mention that my landlord lives in the building and keeps an eye on me, you suggest I find roommates. I say I love living alone, you insist I can't live in these conditions any more. When I say I'm perfectly happy and have everything I need, you suggest grad school. Then I agree that grad school is on the books and leave out the fact I'm looking at an MFA in dance just so we can talk about something besides my apparent misery.
Yes, I need to be paid more for the work I do. Yes, arts funding needs to be more available and dancers need to stop taking jobs that don't pay when the directors are paying a tech staff for one night of work. But I LOVE my job, and I LOVE my life and you can't tell me for a second I should sacrifice all the love I have and give and get everyday just so I can move into a bigger apartment, buy a newer car, eat more expensive food, take vacations, and go out more. I don't want any of these things. All I want is a day off and a French baguette with a glass of red wine. And maybe an annual holiday- but beggars can't be choosers.
Last Saturday night I worked a bat mitzvah and crawled into bed at 1 am in my clothes. Then I was back awake and at work by 9:30 Sunday morning. I worked until 9 pm then woke up at 7 am Monday morning to haul my ass to 3 separate teaching jobs before stumbling into Aldi's for groceries at 9 pm, then coming home to a cat that just wants to be held like a baby.
And tonight I'm the happiest woman in the world. Yes, my apartment is a mess and I have an awful stomach ache because I only ate a bag of Combos all day. I have deep circles under my eyes and I'm praying the 9th virus of the winter isn't on its way into my sinuses....but I got to spend my whole day doing what I love.
Kids are phenomenal because they give back what you give to them. I teach with love. I hold hands, I give high-fives, I tell funny stories, I ask about my student's lives, and I share dance. In return I get hugs, assurances that I'm fun, hilarious stories and anecdotes, and phenomenal dancing. Ok, so it doesn't work like this all the time. But today I'm feeling pretty positive.
Today was the first day of my new Chicago Public School job. I headed down to 104th street where I managed to convince the kids I was a leprachaun because I was so damn pale. I'd been warned to be prepared for unruly CPS kids, but these were the best kids I've ever taught. Oh sure, they were kids. And for some reason their reaction to everything was to hit their bestie beside them. (Ladies- rule #2- Hands to yourself.) Sure I had to yell and ask for their attention and threaten to take away free time. But, I mean, that's the usual, and I got like 7 million hugs before I left.
The thing is, these kids were so excited to be dancing. It was such a treat for them. And it should be. Kids know that they're lucky to come to dance class: they get excited. That's why they lose their heads, and then I lose my voice. It is exciting. And I get to be a part of it. I get to tell them what a great job they're doing. I get to help them do better. I get to laugh until I cry when they do something hilarious, I get to share their success, and I get to pass on all my passion to them.
So I know it's cliche, but you don't need to worry about my finances. I am rich in joy. If you want to help me, write to your congresspeople and remind them that arts jobs are jobs, and that people need and love art. Art feeds the soul. That's why we make it. Like education, like food, like safety, art needs to be accessible to all. Whether you're at 104th St or in Lake Zurich, 2 years old or 75, you deserve to dance, and sing, and paint, and to be given the chance to experience and participate in the world as a human full of potential and vibrant feelings and beautiful imaginings. Art is all around us, in advertisements, in architecture, in design, in fashion, in the street performer at the corner. Support it- you partake in it.
And if you can't do that little bit to help me out- because of whatever bullshit excuse you've got about small government and how great the free market is- and you can't donate to a not for profit because you're only making twice what I make, at least stop and thank a teacher. Let me start- thanks to my ballet teacher Nick Pupillo who inspires me as a teacher and dancer. Thanks to Jessie Murphy and Brian Murphy who work everyday to better the lives of the students in their communities. Thanks to Susanne Arens for working so hard to ensure your kids are being challenged and inspired. Thanks to Lori and Tim who let me play 4 days a week in their studio, and thanks to all the teachers who inspire me as a teacher and as a human.
I love my job. Now, to bed so I can do it all again tomorrow.
So APPARENTLY money is a taboo subject. But, as a person who was born without any sense of social conduct, I never worry about dropping the "less than _____ K"'s. And then, inevitably, things get awkward. It goes something like this:
You tell me I simply cannot live like this. I explain that I'm above the poverty level, but taxes can still upset my finances for months and a restructuring of the tax system may be in order. You say that I deserve to make more than ____K. When I agree, and suggest you write your congressman or woman and suggest more funding for the arts, you suggest I "sell out." When I explain that I like my job, you are worried about how I'm surviving. When I mention I love my Latino neighborhood and attic abode, you are concerned for my safety. When I mention that my landlord lives in the building and keeps an eye on me, you suggest I find roommates. I say I love living alone, you insist I can't live in these conditions any more. When I say I'm perfectly happy and have everything I need, you suggest grad school. Then I agree that grad school is on the books and leave out the fact I'm looking at an MFA in dance just so we can talk about something besides my apparent misery.
Yes, I need to be paid more for the work I do. Yes, arts funding needs to be more available and dancers need to stop taking jobs that don't pay when the directors are paying a tech staff for one night of work. But I LOVE my job, and I LOVE my life and you can't tell me for a second I should sacrifice all the love I have and give and get everyday just so I can move into a bigger apartment, buy a newer car, eat more expensive food, take vacations, and go out more. I don't want any of these things. All I want is a day off and a French baguette with a glass of red wine. And maybe an annual holiday- but beggars can't be choosers.
Last Saturday night I worked a bat mitzvah and crawled into bed at 1 am in my clothes. Then I was back awake and at work by 9:30 Sunday morning. I worked until 9 pm then woke up at 7 am Monday morning to haul my ass to 3 separate teaching jobs before stumbling into Aldi's for groceries at 9 pm, then coming home to a cat that just wants to be held like a baby.
And tonight I'm the happiest woman in the world. Yes, my apartment is a mess and I have an awful stomach ache because I only ate a bag of Combos all day. I have deep circles under my eyes and I'm praying the 9th virus of the winter isn't on its way into my sinuses....but I got to spend my whole day doing what I love.
Kids are phenomenal because they give back what you give to them. I teach with love. I hold hands, I give high-fives, I tell funny stories, I ask about my student's lives, and I share dance. In return I get hugs, assurances that I'm fun, hilarious stories and anecdotes, and phenomenal dancing. Ok, so it doesn't work like this all the time. But today I'm feeling pretty positive.
Today was the first day of my new Chicago Public School job. I headed down to 104th street where I managed to convince the kids I was a leprachaun because I was so damn pale. I'd been warned to be prepared for unruly CPS kids, but these were the best kids I've ever taught. Oh sure, they were kids. And for some reason their reaction to everything was to hit their bestie beside them. (Ladies- rule #2- Hands to yourself.) Sure I had to yell and ask for their attention and threaten to take away free time. But, I mean, that's the usual, and I got like 7 million hugs before I left.
The thing is, these kids were so excited to be dancing. It was such a treat for them. And it should be. Kids know that they're lucky to come to dance class: they get excited. That's why they lose their heads, and then I lose my voice. It is exciting. And I get to be a part of it. I get to tell them what a great job they're doing. I get to help them do better. I get to laugh until I cry when they do something hilarious, I get to share their success, and I get to pass on all my passion to them.
So I know it's cliche, but you don't need to worry about my finances. I am rich in joy. If you want to help me, write to your congresspeople and remind them that arts jobs are jobs, and that people need and love art. Art feeds the soul. That's why we make it. Like education, like food, like safety, art needs to be accessible to all. Whether you're at 104th St or in Lake Zurich, 2 years old or 75, you deserve to dance, and sing, and paint, and to be given the chance to experience and participate in the world as a human full of potential and vibrant feelings and beautiful imaginings. Art is all around us, in advertisements, in architecture, in design, in fashion, in the street performer at the corner. Support it- you partake in it.
And if you can't do that little bit to help me out- because of whatever bullshit excuse you've got about small government and how great the free market is- and you can't donate to a not for profit because you're only making twice what I make, at least stop and thank a teacher. Let me start- thanks to my ballet teacher Nick Pupillo who inspires me as a teacher and dancer. Thanks to Jessie Murphy and Brian Murphy who work everyday to better the lives of the students in their communities. Thanks to Susanne Arens for working so hard to ensure your kids are being challenged and inspired. Thanks to Lori and Tim who let me play 4 days a week in their studio, and thanks to all the teachers who inspire me as a teacher and as a human.
I love my job. Now, to bed so I can do it all again tomorrow.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Ice Queen
This is my cave of ice.
It is safe like a fortress.
Here, in the ice, I dipped my scalding flaming heart.
Here, in the ice my emotional inflammation soothed
and my love numbed.
Here, in the ice, I put out some of the fire in my soul.
My color used to be burnt orange like the heat of a cinder.
What color am I now? Am I finally yellow like I wished?
A bright joyful color, but a weak flame, dimly lighting the room?
I am not the bright, hot-headed girl I was.
I am not the eternal flame that couldn't go out.
Some of that flame finally burned all there was to burn.
I am calmer. I believe I am happier. I know I am older.
Maybe I am not me anymore, now that I don't react with an instant fiery passion
But instead present my ice-encrusted self to speak on my behalf.
The girl I was is in an ice block and the ice block is in this woman's chest.
Whoever she is.
It is safe like a fortress.
Here, in the ice, I dipped my scalding flaming heart.
Here, in the ice my emotional inflammation soothed
and my love numbed.
Here, in the ice, I put out some of the fire in my soul.
My color used to be burnt orange like the heat of a cinder.
What color am I now? Am I finally yellow like I wished?
A bright joyful color, but a weak flame, dimly lighting the room?
I am not the bright, hot-headed girl I was.
I am not the eternal flame that couldn't go out.
Some of that flame finally burned all there was to burn.
I am calmer. I believe I am happier. I know I am older.
Maybe I am not me anymore, now that I don't react with an instant fiery passion
But instead present my ice-encrusted self to speak on my behalf.
The girl I was is in an ice block and the ice block is in this woman's chest.
Whoever she is.
Monday, March 19, 2012
The Heavens, the Weather
I'm just another victim of seasonal depression
spirits sailing on the spring breeze brushing through my bedroom windows,
lying in my underwear on the floor, feeling the air on my skin for the first time in months.
Renewed optimism revives me as I perk up the same way my plants have:
drooping leaves spreading to the sun, soaking in the healing rays.
Is it just the weather that has lifted my spirits?
Or is it that the ebb and flow of life is in my favor?
Living in a sunny attic on a quiet street,
spending my days playing with little ones,
dancing, rehearsing, writing, reading, creating.
The stars have aligned in my favor for the moment.
How can I hold onto the heavens and the weather?
Lock this euphoria in a jar and refuse to let it out?
Trap my contentment?
Or must I move to sunny California, or dusty Arizona, and never let my branches wilt in the winter's cold.
Or must I hold onto my successes somehow and keep pushing my life safely forward?
Memories of misery terrify me.
Let's lasso the sun and stop the time from turning.
I am unusually happy.
I am nerve-wrackingly pleased.`
spirits sailing on the spring breeze brushing through my bedroom windows,
lying in my underwear on the floor, feeling the air on my skin for the first time in months.
Renewed optimism revives me as I perk up the same way my plants have:
drooping leaves spreading to the sun, soaking in the healing rays.
Is it just the weather that has lifted my spirits?Or is it that the ebb and flow of life is in my favor?
Living in a sunny attic on a quiet street,
spending my days playing with little ones,
dancing, rehearsing, writing, reading, creating.
The stars have aligned in my favor for the moment.
How can I hold onto the heavens and the weather?
Lock this euphoria in a jar and refuse to let it out?
Trap my contentment?
Or must I move to sunny California, or dusty Arizona, and never let my branches wilt in the winter's cold.
Or must I hold onto my successes somehow and keep pushing my life safely forward?
Memories of misery terrify me.
Let's lasso the sun and stop the time from turning.
I am unusually happy.
I am nerve-wrackingly pleased.`
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