The Arts in NYC Fall 2012

The curtain withdrew into its shell and the lights fell heavily upon the stage. Though the veil was lifeted and only a few feet separated my restless legs from theirs, I still felt as though there was a permanent rift in place.

Perhaps it was the wall of sweat and moisture clinging to every bit of exhaled air. Perhaps it was the thin sheet of light that separated the ticket holders from the stage. Or perhaps it was the sheer grace with which the dancers moved. It was almost mechanical, the hinging of their limbs and the freezing of muscles mid movement. Their cold and cobbled stone backs, their white dover abs, their carefully cleaved legs. One can only wonder where the sculpted shavings are.

Either way, the dance itself did not interest nor intrigue me. I do not have a taste for modern dance nor a care in the world for the messages they attempt to convey. It is my personal belief that though dance is a beautiful form of expression and perhaps the most abstract and artistic form at that, it is not a convenient way to tell a story. I feel as though the focus is too much on form and impressment rather than storytelling.

I can’t help but appreciate and be utterly impressed by the ease with which they move. Their limbs sway weightlessly as if bits of dust suspended in the sunlight. I can rant on for days regarding the sheer beauty I admire in their movements. The most impressive to me was the timing with which they matched Nin Simone’s voice. Hearing Nina bellow and falsetto while the dancers matched their windmill legs along to the beat stunned the cynic in me. Just knowing that I could never be capable of such muscular discipline, such separation of body from mind, such soul in my movements, is enough envy to make me stare on in awe even if the thought of dance commonly makes me sick.

Watching the dance from a new perspective, not the obligatory boyfriend support role, allowed me to appreciate the grace and diligence required to ensure such a performance is possible. The complexities of the human body are simplified under sweat and fluidity, and the motions with which they express their message reveal to me that language is simply a conduit, not a necessary form of communication. The complexities of the human body, though often hard to grasp, produce the most beautiful forms of art. In this case, the songs sang by the human body.