Rediscovering Why I Dance

Dancing atop the grand staircase at the Asian Art Museum

It’s been another hiatus, but I’m happy to report that I’m back and going strong! After a somewhat low period, my love of dance has been thoroughly reinvigorated. How? By performing! In the months nursing my injury, I’d forgotten what I was working for. It wasn’t until I was called for a job performing for a private event at the Asian Art Museum in San Francisco a couple of months ago that I remembered, with full force, just how much I love to dance.

I’d designed a program that spanned different ethnicities, in styles that would maximize the cultural breadth of China: Yi (southern), Uighur (western), and Han (northeastern). In terms of color, it was: bright pink, bright orange, and bright pink! It’s funny, because blue is my favorite color and I hardly have any costumes in that hue. Still, I’d selected dances and costumes that were diverse from one another and beautifully designed and made.  

I had four sets, from the moment guests arrived in the beautiful foyer to the very end, as they exited. Hello, and goodbye! I received numerous compliments and questions about what ethnicities my costumes and dances represented, which gave me such joy. Although, I do my best to limit any conversation with guests; when performing as a dancer at a function it’s important to stay professional. But, I didn’t want to be rude and ignore people point blank. And of course, I enjoy sharing with people the cultures behind the dance styles.

I warmed up amongst beautiful Chinese porcelains while waiting to perform. 

On the heels of this job was a stage show in which I performed a Yi ethnic minority dance from Yunnan in the south of China. Still on a high from performing at the Asian Art Museum event, I found a renewed energy during my rehearsals. Suddenly, instead of going through the movements, I was actually living the dance. I was ... dancing!

It’s really true; knowing the movements and being able to accomplish the technical requirements of a dance by itself does not constitute dancing. You could call it movement, or a series of linked movements. Dancing, however, is imbued with life. There is a breathing, an ebb and flow, a sense of direction embodied by rhythm and energy. There is a spirit that the movement serves to set free.  

I’d temporarily lost that spirit in the months before. I’d worked diligently on keeping in shape and learning dances, but my heart wasn’t in it. It’s hard to feel motivated when the the most basic movements required in my style of dancing causes sharp pain. Still, I’m glad that at least my sense of basic dedication (and the strong influence of habit) to dance, stretch, and exercise kept me going.

The difference in my experience after regaining my inner spirit for dance was palpable. When rehearsing, I felt my face break into smiles so natural and fitting for each moment of the dance. There was nothing premeditated or forced. I knew then, that the dance had finally begun to become a part of me, and that I was becoming the dance. 

Let’s just say I also knew I was doing something right when my teacher said at the end of my rehearsal one day, “It’s better. It’s improving.” She does not pay compliments when she doesn’t mean it, so even though she’d delivered the message rather tersely I was thrilled. And most important, it had felt *good* dancing the piece.

Just about to head backstage!

I had my usual nerves backstage, but once I was out there a strange sense of calm overtook me. It was just me and the stage again, the bright lights flooding me from the wings and above me, and the darkness out in the audience. In the back of my mind I worried that I wouldn’t be able to find center mark or the front of the stage after my series of turns, or that my slow front walkover would go wrong. But when I got to those parts, I felt no fear. My body knew what to do.

And when it was over, I lay awake at night going over my performance over and over again as I am wont to do. While I was tired and would have gladly welcomed more sleep, I knew what kept me up. I was excited. I couldn't wait to get back into the studio and work. Every chance, every moment I get to dance, is precious to me. My joy in rediscovering this knows no bounds.

Fitting In: A Mini-Study of Motivation in Ballet Dancers

A version of this piece is cross-posted at anthropologist Mike Barnes’ site, Anthropology en Pointe. For this mini-series, I was inspired by Mike’s research goals of exploring motivation and the ballet dancer: "How do professional ballet dancers accommodate shifts in motivation through a lifetime of change, success, and disappointment?" I highly recommend taking a look at Mike’s site. He poses intriguing and relevant questions, the ensuing exploration of which provides valuable insight to motivation for dancers and non-dancers alike!

Although there is a particular “look” of a classical dancer - slim body, long neck, legs, and arms, arched feet and open hips - what is a dancer but a human being, and each of us is unique. It may not be immediately evident in a line of corps dancers in a traditional classical ballet company’s production of Swan Lake, but if you look closely enough or watch each of those dancers in class or rehearsal I guarantee you will see distinct qualities not only in their bodies, but in their approach to movement. In other ensembles, the variety of physicality is a key element to the aesthetic.

Given the unique qualities of body and movement, how does a dancer find the right place for his or her career? I took a quick dive to explore this through live interviews with several professional ballet dancers of varying backgrounds, supplemented by online videos and my own experience as a dancer of non-traditional proportions. While it is not an empirical study by any means, it has given me precious insight into one of the key factors that makes or breaks a dancer’s motivation to carry on.  

What I came away with is that the journey of finding one’s own place is ultimately less about fitting in to a particular company or style; it is about trying on different “skins” - whether artistically and culturally - and asking oneself the difficult question of whether the current job is right.  

In the stories these dancers shared with me, I heard the following thematic questions emerge: 

What is my own skin: my internal artistic style and personality? 

Where can I be in my own skin and still have a fulfilling, ever-growing, and collaborative experience?

I’ll share these stories with you in a multi-part series, since each dancer is an instrument and vehicle not only for an artistic director or choreographer’s vision, but for his or her own self-actualization. I believe they deserve to be heard one at a time, to further convey the sense of individuality.

Junna Ige - Finding Home

In her fifth season dancing with Ballet San Jose, this bright-eyed dancer is pint-sized but dances with an expansiveness that makes her limbs appear miles long.  “There are very limited opportunities for the serious ballet student in Japan,” she laments, and in her mid-teens Ige left for northern Germany to further her studies.

While she consistently received top marks at the academy, when it came time to find a job she came out empty handed time and time again. After a huge effort auditioning in some eight countries in Europe, Ige headed back to Japan - the worst possible outcome for her - dejected and lost.  

In Japan, Ige taught ballet to little girls, and worked at Starbucks.  “Why was I even doing this?” she asked herself, referring not only to her predicament, but to all her years training in the hopes of becoming a professional, classical ballet dancer.  She was told over and over again at auditions that the reason there was no contract for her was: “You’re too short.”

Somehow, despite the heartbreak of so much rejection - not to mention money spent traveling for auditions - Ige decided to give herself and ballet one more chance.  She flew to North America and auditioned for several companies. “I’d never been to America.  I thought, maybe they would see things differently.”  

At Ballet San Jose, she was encouraged upon seeing dancers of different sizes and heights.  When then artistic director Dennis Nahat told her that he saw artists and not just bodies, she felt hope.  When she was offered an apprentice contract four years ago, she took it and never looked back.  

“Now I feel like I can be myself,” Ige smiles, and her voice cannot hide her joy.  “I realized I’d spent so long wanting to be something I wasn’t. I wanted not to be short.  I wanted to be tall, to be something else.  But I’m not; I’m me. And at Ballet San Jose, I was hired because I’m me!”

This fortunate circumstance has allowed Ige to gain confidence as a person and as a dancer, and it has paid off: she was promoted towards the end of the last season and is now a soloist with the company.

And, this year she carried the tremendous pressure and privilege of dancing the lead character of Kitri in Wes Chapman’s production of Don Quixote on opening night, partnered by no less than international superstar José Manuel Carreño. She pulled the full-length ballet off with determination, sass, and showed us glimpses of pure abandon.

“I love it.  Why?  It’s the dance,” she says in her lightly accented English.  Her eyes sparkle, and she doesn’t need to say any more.  She’s found her home.

Pain and Pleasure

Mid-air, trying not to think of the landing

Pain and pleasure ... who hasn't experienced this before, when it comes to something one loves? I haven't been to technique class in a very long time as I cannot point my left foot without a sharp, stabbing pain. It's as if the top of my ankle is being lanced with great gusto by a thick, sharp needle. When it first happened, I was executing the most simple tendu a la seconde. The pain was quite shocking and before I knew it I was on the floor, pushing myself off the marley with my hands to get out of the way of the other dancers.

Of course, it wasn't the tendu itself that had caused the pain. I admit that my left foot had been bothering me for quite some time, but not enough for me to have stopped and gotten it checked out. Who doesn't dance with one or more nagging discomforts at any one time? My left foot had been feeling stiff and "crunchy" for months. It suffices to say that a number of misaligned small bones, slightly swollen tendons, and a whole slew of big jumps finally did me in.

But why did it have to converge on the day the show opened?

Don't get me wrong; I'm not whining. Much greater heartbreak has occurred to dancers everywhere. But when it happens, you just have to think: Why now? You've worked so hard to prepare for the stage, and now you either can't present your work or you'll have to dance it to less than your potential. I honestly don't know which one is worse; it entirely depends on the extent to which you can dance full out with the injury.

But we dancers are gluttons for punishment, but not because we simply like suffering: Think of the burning desire to get out there and dance! That's what we've trained and rehearsed countless hours for. Dance is performance art, after all.

I couldn't give it up, so when the time came I took painkillers and tried to warm up my stiff muscles; no matter what I did I couldn't seem to warm up. I now realize it was psychological. Doubts raced through my mind: How am I going to do those big jumps? How am I going to get through anything if I can't point my foot? I'd gingerly test a movement and my heart would plummet as the pain shot through me.

In the end when I got out there, I danced my heart out as I am wont to do. When performing, it's extremely difficult to hold back or to "save" yourself to nurse an injury or to preserve endurance for subsequent shows. You want to give your all.

So, I gave it my all. Despite having taken the painkillers, the stabbing sensation was intense. Miraculously, a feeling of calm flowed through me and I smiled without having to force it. I felt real joy. I was dancing!

It goes without saying that I didn't dance the next day. Or the next day, or the day after that. But, I was satisfied; I had danced the show. Maybe the jumps weren't so pretty, but the energy was there. Now I must be patient. The extent to which I miss going to class is painful in its own way, but I will be good. It's better to be out now than push an injury too far and be out for longer ... or forever.

I can hold out for self-preservation, and even more so, for the chance to dance one more time. I'll take pain now, for the pleasure to come.