Last night I had the privilege to see the Nederlands Dans Theater 1 performing Sehnsucht / Schmetterling.
I just stand in so much awe of the truly creative people that can make such an evening happen.
Schmetterling ( “butterfly”) was one of the strongest works I have ever seen. It truly captured me, it got into my heart and ran me through the full spectrum of emotions from laughter to profound sadness.
But most of all it made me feel energised, passionate and involved. I left the theatre feeling so very, very alive.
I was so desperate for it to keep going, to never end.
And in a way that is exactly what a performance of such greatness achieves – it is within many of us who shared that evening and so will never truly end. Ripples of thoughts reach out to so many parts of my life, changing perspectives, shining a light on such difficult subjects to talk about.
And that is one of the thoughts that has stayed with me – how dance can be so eloquent at phrasing such difficult subjects as age, death and love. The human body is capable of so much – and words are sometimes such an approximate and closed way to articulate complex ideas.
So much of what I love to do is described by people I respect as a journey.
People seem to be talking about it everywhere – the growth in the business is a journey – tango is a journey. It’s all “part of the journey’ ..
Why? What does it mean?
I suppose on one level it just means change. As you improve your understanding changes – perspectives change. What seems to be important shifts again and again.
But journeys as an analogy normally have some kind of destination in mind, some kind of finish. What I sense from the deeper subjects in life is that the journey is endless – that just when you thought you were getting somewhere you realise that you have been missing the point of the whole thing. You reach some level of competence that temporarily satisfies you then you meet someone who has gone deeper, further and you feel like a child again.
When there is no destination but everything around you is changing the only frame of reference left to cling to is the journey itself. Meaning shifts around me like insubstantial shadows of dancers on a wall – calling me nearer with outstretched arms only to dissolve as I approach, as the light changes yet again. My own shadow gets in the way – it is too strong – it’s heaviness interferes with the spirits that beckon me on.
We are not alone in these journeys but always accompanied by a guide – a Virgil – who themselves undertake a complex role. If we do not have a guide we seek them out, the way is just too hard without them.The guides themselves are active participants in your journey and complex in themselves. They manage a difficult relationship with you, offering just enough to keep you true and not so much as to drown you. At times they might be a father figure, a coach, a harsh critic or someone who quietly smiles – reassuring you that he indeed knows the way and that such understanding might one day pass to you.
I know enough now not to ask the foolish question of where this journey is going. But who truly choses their journey – for what reason am I walking here now, how did I end up on this particular journey, with this particular Virgil?
What keeps me going – ignoring the easier paths that litter the landscape of my mind?
For me when I travel to Seville I think of the light, the music, the dancing and the surprising street theatre that just pops up and entertains you at the most unexpected times..
So these are a couple of images from last week – a band having fun at lunchtime on a cafe terrace and a woman playing with soap bubbles on the Plaza de Espana.
In our dancing there is as yet nothing familiar. As a couple we wait for each other, we embrace to open a door to the future. Tango gives us a space in which to explore ourselves.
I ask and she responds. She indicates, and I in turn follow her.
We dance in the pauses, in the spaces that open between our worlds. And in those pauses we begin to see what is possible between us.
We are learning a new structure, a new vocabulary. We are learning each other.
As her extended foot slowly traces a graceful curve on the floor my world stands still – all time is suspended.
Great session this weekend with Wendy Ann Greenhalgh using art to inspire our writing.
Very enjoyable 3 hours – including three guided exercises as we moved on a journey from lyrical and figurative art to complete abstraction – creating drafts for a Flash piece and two free form exercises to develop further.
I really enjoyed this – in a basic sense this is very similar to how I work with my own photos to get creative writing started – but on a very different level in terms of the art work involved and the great guidance offered by Wendy.
Just need to turn those drafts into at least one article to publish – two weeks to go!
Exciting news – but poignant and sad – my Ménage à trois in the bathroom has been successfully brought to a conclusion – but sadly all of the magic – as well as the spider and much of the conversation – has gone.
This sounds a bit like a Burgessian introduction to a blog – so to explain.. I have always been bad in the bath. By which I mean I can’t stay in them for longer than a few minutes – which means my expensive organic muscle repairing whatnots are largely wasted. This is a shame, because my bath has jets and foam and all of those things. Plus music.
Recently – by which I mean months – the tedium – and hence the length of the bath – has been reduced/increased by the participation of a very large spider and a plastic duck, the former voluntary and the latter not so much.
I say voluntary – the truth is that the spider likes being in the hole where one of the jets is, so every time I have a bath I carefully wash him ( or her ) out, rescue it with tissue – and place the tired thing on a shelf to recover. This has been going on for weeks. For some unknown reason it will always slide back into the bath after a few hours ( I assume – I have never seen this happen ) and be ready to repeat the exhausting journey the next day.
The fascination for me has been that out of the corner of my eye I have increasingly been convinced that the duck is happy to be put in the water – it smiles – which of course is completely silly. I never really paid this much attention – just a peripheral vision trigger, sub conscious response kind of thing – but I have been gradually talking to it – like “Yay – there you go”… bob bob smile smile … “Too much foam? Jets on or off do you think?”
I did the other day have an extended conversation, asking it whether it was happy because it could see the spider and therefore felt less likely to be grabbed, although to the best of my knowledge spiders don’t hunt ducks and this spider I absolutely know is as even worse swimmer than I am..
So my point is that today I felt that this strange triangle of relationships needed resolving. The spider was easy – I carefully took it outside and installed it in a crevice in a garden wall. I will regularly check for updates. The duck, however required a more painstaking analysis.
And this is what I found.
The duck smiles when you put it in the water because it goes from eye level – on the shelf – to below eye level – in the water. And their beaks are cunningly designed so that when seen straight on they look a bit lost- but from slightly above they are quite obviously thrilled with life.
Here :
Bemused DuckHappy Duck
It’s the same duck [ Borges would love me ]
So what I desperately want to know is – did the toy companies plan all of this?
I am just 14 months into learning Tango and still trying to be acceptable as a social dancer by the end of this year. As I continue on this journey I am beginning to feel the sense of expectancy that dancers often discuss – that one day, in some as yet unknown place, I will have the perfect dance with someone.
My attention is more on this possibility, it seems to define a new part of this experience – a phase that now looks outwards as well as inwards.
It occurs to me that in a sense the journey that I am on, my slow progress, is gradually defining that perfect follower for me. By becoming clearer in my own dance I am also describing the woman that will be that perfect partner for me, in that undefined moment in the future.
At the moment everything is imprecise and lacking in definition, and so the follower is also one of so many possibilities.
But as I slowly improve so she begins to be clearer to me. My half of our embrace is defining hers, as in the future we must fit together in a precise but as yet unknown way. My musicality must compliment hers, and her energies should flow with my own.
But of course the reverse is also completely true – that follower, somewhere in the world, is on her own journey – and therefore she is in fact defining me.
I find this so exciting, that a woman somewhere is unknowingly defining a path for herself that will ultimately intersect my own, that decisions and experiences in her dancing and emotional life are gradually choosing me from all of her own multitude of possibilities.
I had such a great day in the rare London sunshine yesterday, and spent some of that in the wonderful urban space that is the Tate Modern.
I so enjoyed taking some images of people there.
There’s something so wonderful about people in modern art galleries. Their reactions, their juxtaposition against works of art, or in the setting of such an imposing space.
Decades ago I read Sartre for mostly the wrong reasons, like people of my generation did when we wanted to look cool. But this evening I remembered so strongly one passage from Nausea. The moment when Antoine sees the horror of something for what it is, without cloaking it in names. It is a root – specifically the root of a chestnut tree.
It made me feel physically sick at the time. I don’t think I ever really got to grips with Sartre but this particular passage caused a very deep and intensely physical reaction in me – wholly appropriate given the title of the novel and the general malaise of the main protagonist.
“So I was in the park just now. The roots of the chestnut tree were sunk in the ground just under my bench. I couldn’t remember it was a root any more. The words had vanished and with them the significance of things, their methods of use, and the feeble points of reference which men have traced on their surface. I was sitting, stooping forward, head bowed, alone in front of this black, knotty mass, entirely beastly, which frightened me”.
This evening I took this photo, simply inspired by the spring evening light in my garden. The Willow tree is light and reaches outwards, by contrast my own mental images of the half buried root were entirely black, and squirming down into the earth. Apart from the coincidence of trees there seems little connection.
But then I remembered this other darker tree on a recent walk.
When I look at these images I just see so many patterns, so much I cannot understand without hiding behind the shield of language, smug in my elevated safety. There is so much energy, such different timescales, but so little that I truly understand in any meaningful way.
It really disturbed me again this evening, 30 years later, that familiar sensation that if my mind allows me to see things for what they truly are, without names, then I am simply lost.
