I'm up early, before my alarm, with tears still wet on my face. My eyes are fogged with sleep and the tears left over from the most hideous cry I had last night. I stayed up to watch Misty Copeland on Independent Lens. I know her story and have devoured so much about her as she's made her historic rise to principle dancer with the American Ballet Theater (ABT). Like so many women, black women, with daughters and a love of dance and the arts, I have gravitated toward this tiny, elegant force, found myself spinning around her like a mama moon. I am up early, before my alarm, because I am moved in the most spiritual of ways by an artist and her work and a moment that was a long time coming.
To say that Misty Copeland is inspiring is to discover that the word has been overused and that there are hardly words to describe this woman, her talent, and her trajectory. This is the story of a prodigy, of an artist come to life, of a consgilieri and a coven (written in the best way so don't go in) of "firsts" and strong, able, successful black women who brought a baby light into the fold. I was as moved by this group as I am by Misty's absolute command of her craft, her body, and her art. That these women were called to be her guides by the incredible Susan Fales-Hill, a writer/producer/patron of the arts and education, that they met the call to protect and nurture this artist who was sure to take her place in the pantheon they'd begun creating with their life achievements, filled me with a love and pride that is indescribable.
I have loved dance since I was a small girl dreaming of all the major roles in classical ballets and watching Michael Jackson and Solid Gold. Much of the latter part of my childhood was spent in the studio and I trained many days a week. My dance teacher, a ball-breaking Russian dancer, hurt by her turn as dance teacher to the suburban kids of New Jersey in her basement studio, still found a way to push and pull me and try to make me into something. She told me there were very few black dancers out there and that those were not players in the mainstream dance companies. She did not say this with callousness but matter of factly. I did not know about the Dance Theatre of Harlem and though I had enjoyed Ailey, I wanted to wear pointe shoes and perform the classical pieces I'd been spoon fed. I can't say that I even let myself dream of a chance at a career or a life in dance as I believed that there was no place for me in the arts and that though the arts were enriching, there were better things for one to do with one's future.
I was no Misty Copeland, she's an incredible talent, a force, but I was good. Good enough to dream about it and phantom dance through every song, sound, and watched performance. Good enough to hear the muse calling to me, but not quite sure what to answer back or how. This is the struggle of a young artist or performer. Feeling full of the spirit but needing commitment and guidance from a master. I gave up before even trying to find such a mentor, convinced that to dance was a pipe dream for me, that there were more "serious, important, pressing things" in my future. I have regretted this for all my life. Not because I thought I should or could be a dancer, but because I stopped speaking a mother tongue, a language I loved and understood to babble on in one I could only mimic.
I am absolutely mesmerized by the delicate balance of power and grace in this young woman. I have loved other ballerinas, followed their lines, studied their hands and their feet, seen the longing heaving in their tiny ribcages, watched their sternums expand and contract with each gesture. I have moved with them, hypnotized as they moved across the stage in a seemingly effortless dance that masked the years of training and hours and hours of work to prepare. But to share with my daughters a dancer that looks like them, that is shy and sensitive as they are, who, despite her fears and loneliness persevered is a precious gift. To be the first, the one and only, forging a path of one's own are themes that I have sought to share with the girls in literature, movies, stories, music, and art. Girl power and black girl magic has to come from me. I cannot wait for them to find it on their own or worse, never discover it or not believe it.
As a small girl, I had the great fortune to meet and even dance for Judith Jamison and the Alvin Ailey company backstage. My mother had gone to college with "Jam" and we'd gone to see them perform. I remember the sound and the fury of backstage life, seeing the dancers in street clothes but full stage make up, smoking cigarettes, laughing, flirting, smiling. I remember their beautiful bodies, their taut, black and brown bodies, and the feeling of the stage behind me and the seats of the empty theatre in front of me. For years after this wonderful moment, I carried that rarefied air in my lungs, all that hope and desire, that longing, until it slowly faded. When I watch Misty Copeland, I feel like that girl again and I am soaring behind her, carried along in her wake and pushing her forward with my hope and love for her. I have been taken in by this historic moment and feel such pride.
I don't know if my daughters will keep dancing, don't know if this is what calls to their spirits, but I am grateful that they have seen a dancer achieve what seemed impossible and hope that whatever they might believe is impossible now seems a little less so.
(c) Copyright 2016. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Showing posts with label arts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label arts. Show all posts
Monday, February 22, 2016
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Self portraiture/Selfie revelations
I have been away from the blog for nearly two months. Keeping up with any regularity, any true perspective during the crazy, heady summer months proved to be impossible for me. Both of my children are now enrolled in "big girl" school and save the early season calendar crunching, I have time to get back to me. I'd started this post months back when a friend on Facebook tagged me in a photo of a T-shirt that said, "Hold on, I'm taking a selfie." I do take them. Have for years before they were called "selfies" except then I was not using my iPhone or computer to take snaps, I was staring into my face in the mirror and drawing or painting. I did and continue to use self-portraiture as my medium of exploration. Whether in the visual arts, writing, acting/voice work, or dance, I have used myself in the work, sometimes as the work. I am searching, seeking, looking, longing. I don't mean it to be indulgent, snaps and right-back-atcha winks, or reverential. As an artist, I am trying to understand, define, relate, connect with the world.
I had two painting professors that I adored. One I not so secretly crushed on and the other was truly one of the best people in my life, a true, dear friend and mentor. They both guided me to portraits and self-portraiture in Western art, classical and academic as well as modern and post-modern. In both art history and my studio classes, I devoured the canon and sought answers in life painting, focusing on real life, true light, a strong degree of academic emphasis, still life, portraiture, figure drawing and painting, landscape. I admired work that was imaginative, imbued with fantasy, and whimsy but felt safer and more grounded (I am, indeed, a Capricorn) with the familiar. I can still recall the afternoon when the focus shifted and I saw myself as subject, not only as author.
These two wonderful teachers gave me permission, even demanded that I look for something in my own gaze, in the curves of my face, in the soft angles where light hit my skin, creating shadows and depth I'd never considered. I was a little embarrassed really to be staring at myself so long, gazing, demanding, imploring, seeking answers to all the questions, moving paint or charcoal, graphite or pastel to tell a story, maybe about me and maybe about something else, something more. But I did prove to be an always available subject, one whom I felt comfortable tearing to pieces, putting back together, pushing and pulling the paint in ways that were not always beautiful or safe or pleasant. I was less fearful making mistakes when using myself as model or subject, more willing to look past the surface and scratch for something else, something that transcended just that moment in time. When I failed to find what I was looking for, I could try again and again and again, the onion skin always peeling back to show me something else. I am always peeling back and looking for something else.
Other than adolescent punishing sessions of miserable inner dialogue in the bathroom mirror, I didn't like to gaze upon myself. As a teenager my skin was terrible, I wore braces for years, and frankly, any therapist of mine will tell you, it took me years (or until yesterday or the day has not yet come) to find myself appealing. Maybe it was the 80's aesthetic where I was surely not listed in the beauties table of contents or my developing self-deference to make myself smaller and more invisible, but regarding myself left me deflated. Only in dance, where I studied more the lines I was able to make with my body did I emotionally and spiritually connect with my body, my image, myself.
And now I am here. I take pictures of myself and make pictures of myself and reveal, little by little, something of myself in the writing--stories, blog posts, Things My French Husband Says About Me. To me, the portraits, the selfies, the posts, the stories, the scripts, interpretation of dance choreography helps me serve the muse. I am not the first to use the medium to explore, to discover, to share. Western art has a endless number of self-portraits and other portraits that reveal much more beyond the beautifully handled surfaces or even intentionally challenging ones. The cool part is being drawn by the image or the page into something greater than was expected. For both artist and audience there is a dialogue, language, challenge or confrontation, reassurance or connection. When I am looking, when I ask, when I cry, scream, yell, whisper to be seen or heard, it is not because I believe I am the only one to search. It is because I believe we all are. I don't believe, wouldn't dare think that only I have found myself in front of the mirror staring into my eyes, searching for my soul, marveling or mourning some experience in life. That's not my intention at all. I am saying use me. Use me to reassure yourself, to steady yourself, to believe yourself, to react, to assault, to doubt, to question, to challenge. To find solidarity or solitude. To be human in all its torment and glory.
It is humbling, sometimes crippling. It is challenging and sometimes sobering. It is lonely and sometimes isolating. It is uplifting and sometimes otherworldly. Looking at myself, in my study of just a life, mine, I hope I have found a way to connect to humanity and to the divine muse. If you cannot find a way in yourself, use me.
(c) 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
I had two painting professors that I adored. One I not so secretly crushed on and the other was truly one of the best people in my life, a true, dear friend and mentor. They both guided me to portraits and self-portraiture in Western art, classical and academic as well as modern and post-modern. In both art history and my studio classes, I devoured the canon and sought answers in life painting, focusing on real life, true light, a strong degree of academic emphasis, still life, portraiture, figure drawing and painting, landscape. I admired work that was imaginative, imbued with fantasy, and whimsy but felt safer and more grounded (I am, indeed, a Capricorn) with the familiar. I can still recall the afternoon when the focus shifted and I saw myself as subject, not only as author.
These two wonderful teachers gave me permission, even demanded that I look for something in my own gaze, in the curves of my face, in the soft angles where light hit my skin, creating shadows and depth I'd never considered. I was a little embarrassed really to be staring at myself so long, gazing, demanding, imploring, seeking answers to all the questions, moving paint or charcoal, graphite or pastel to tell a story, maybe about me and maybe about something else, something more. But I did prove to be an always available subject, one whom I felt comfortable tearing to pieces, putting back together, pushing and pulling the paint in ways that were not always beautiful or safe or pleasant. I was less fearful making mistakes when using myself as model or subject, more willing to look past the surface and scratch for something else, something that transcended just that moment in time. When I failed to find what I was looking for, I could try again and again and again, the onion skin always peeling back to show me something else. I am always peeling back and looking for something else.
Other than adolescent punishing sessions of miserable inner dialogue in the bathroom mirror, I didn't like to gaze upon myself. As a teenager my skin was terrible, I wore braces for years, and frankly, any therapist of mine will tell you, it took me years (or until yesterday or the day has not yet come) to find myself appealing. Maybe it was the 80's aesthetic where I was surely not listed in the beauties table of contents or my developing self-deference to make myself smaller and more invisible, but regarding myself left me deflated. Only in dance, where I studied more the lines I was able to make with my body did I emotionally and spiritually connect with my body, my image, myself.
And now I am here. I take pictures of myself and make pictures of myself and reveal, little by little, something of myself in the writing--stories, blog posts, Things My French Husband Says About Me. To me, the portraits, the selfies, the posts, the stories, the scripts, interpretation of dance choreography helps me serve the muse. I am not the first to use the medium to explore, to discover, to share. Western art has a endless number of self-portraits and other portraits that reveal much more beyond the beautifully handled surfaces or even intentionally challenging ones. The cool part is being drawn by the image or the page into something greater than was expected. For both artist and audience there is a dialogue, language, challenge or confrontation, reassurance or connection. When I am looking, when I ask, when I cry, scream, yell, whisper to be seen or heard, it is not because I believe I am the only one to search. It is because I believe we all are. I don't believe, wouldn't dare think that only I have found myself in front of the mirror staring into my eyes, searching for my soul, marveling or mourning some experience in life. That's not my intention at all. I am saying use me. Use me to reassure yourself, to steady yourself, to believe yourself, to react, to assault, to doubt, to question, to challenge. To find solidarity or solitude. To be human in all its torment and glory.
It is humbling, sometimes crippling. It is challenging and sometimes sobering. It is lonely and sometimes isolating. It is uplifting and sometimes otherworldly. Looking at myself, in my study of just a life, mine, I hope I have found a way to connect to humanity and to the divine muse. If you cannot find a way in yourself, use me.
(c) 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
I don't want to go to ______________ practice/game/class.
Jumping off the bus into my arms, a head of bouncy curls tucked under her black, hooded, quilted jacket, my seven and a 1/2 year old was a sight for sore eyes. Her tiny, pink-lipped smile and shy glance took me right back to her sweet, baby-cake toddler years. She is a little beauty and as sweet and kind as Little Mary Sunshine or some other such character. Imagine my surprise then, when I reminded her that her Dance Fusion class, a combination of modern, ballet, lyrical dance for the young set, was in about 30 minutes and that we'd need to have a quick snack before heading over. (We generally walk over as it's very close to home.)
*Falling to the floor, crinkling up her nose, grabbing her head in a "Woe/Whoa is me" grip*
"But Mommy, I don't want to go to Dance Fusion! You are not being fair! [insert neighbor child's name] gets to have play dates all the time! I NEVER get to have play dates. (Though she'd had two that weekend) All I ever have to do is go to Dance Fusion. I just don't want to go. Is this the last week?"
"It's not. Next week is the last week. When that class is over, you do not have to commit to dance again, but we started this and we are going to finish it. You are a wonderful dancer. Why don't you want to go?"
"You forced me! You know I don't like dancing in front of other people--"
"What other people? The kids in the class? You have been going all term. This is crazy. You have to go."
"I don't want to! It's not fair. You force me to do things. I don't want you to ever force me ever again to do anything."
"I did not force you, small girl, and I will not make you go in the future, but we are going to honor our commitments and be respectful of our teacher and our responsibilities. Please get your dance clothes on so we can go. It's getting late."
"I won't."
"I'll say this much. If you do not go to class, you are not having a play date. You will be reading for your reading log for the full hour."
"One hour of reading?"
"Yes. And you will take French next term if you do not want to dance."
"OK."
This went on longer than I care to admit and so I won't. Let's just say that there is a lot more "dialogue" to include here. I texted my friend part of the way through the argument and asked/demanded what I should do. I have a tough time with this stuff. The girls are so young and I know how kids are fickle and cannot always commit to things they set out to do, but we did sign up for a certain number of weeks. And frankly, she is so talented and such a beautiful dancer I feel like I must guide and direct her towards her "calling." And then I stop myself. Am I forcing her?
I regret having been allowed to quit piano when I was nine years old, though I do recall just how miserable I made my mother as I begged and pleaded and then just gave up practicing altogether. Sitting in front of the keys with Rick, a kind, bearded music teacher from the local music school, I'd plink away having just looked at the music moments before his arrival. I could not see how these scales and little exercises were going to take me to a place where I could actually play and possibly create beautiful music. The same went for the flute (which I at least played into high school but then gave up when other interests called), the guitar, Girl Scouts, Spanish lessons, gymnastics (Though that I'd quit because my dance teacher told me it was giving me too muscular a butt. Little did she realize that I was a black girl. It was gonna be that way ANYWAY.) Now as an adult, I wish I could play the piano or the guitar, that I could tie more than the square knot and didn't get less than a thrill from camping.
Kids start and quit activities all the time. We have them signed up for so many things so early to give them exposure and get them out of our hair for an hour or so. When Lily wanted to quit soccer, a sport where she showed promise, I made her finish the season but allowed her to stop. In our town, the teams were co-ed until the kids turned eight and though Lily loved the drills and the practices, the games were often wild free-for-all's, and they did not appeal to her at all. I also didn't care for the Saturday morning early wake up, but if she'd loved it, I would have continued. With dance, an art that carried me through my young life, that gave me joy and discipline and passion and commitment and love, I am struggling to let her let go. I have been reminded by so many that stopping does not mean quitting. Perhaps she will come back to it. And maybe she won't. Maybe, for all her talent it just does not inspire her in the way it did me. Maybe (with a wink) I do not get to determine her "calling" after all.
But what's a mother to do when confronted with the shift, the change in the middle of a session? When disinterest creeps in after the fees are paid and the place in class has been saved? I made her go. I let her cry it out, kick things, beg. I let her wear her jeans to class instead of dance clothes and I gave her a snack to take with her. She danced. She enjoyed it and she will, sadly, not sign up for the next term. It is here where I must let go. Let her be her own girl and develop interests and dreams and desires that I cannot control. That evening, we ordered dinner from the local pizza place that she loves and we sat, the three of us (little sister too) and talked about discipline and passion and commitment. I explained why it is important for me that they find something to offer them guidance and discipline and teaches respect and responsibility. That the arts and other activities bring joy and meaning to life. I told them I would allow them to participate in choosing whatever it is, but that I would not allow them to give up on everything.
There are so many more choices and options now than I when I was a little girl. I danced from four until my teen years and continued to come back to it in my twenties, thirties, and now forties. I speak the language, know the vocabulary, and feel a comfort when I return. All the choices now mean so many starts and often not enough time to let the love for something germinate and grow. It is that I fear most. That they try everything and give in to nothing. I want to help lead them to their passion without forcing them to do as I have done or what I'd like them to.
The little one still loves her ballet class and is desperate to start Dance Fusion when she is old enough. She loves art and wants to learn how to ride her bike. Lily is older and has already tried so many things. We will next look for an instrument and possibly tap and everyone will have to take French. It's with a firm hand and an unwavering voice that I insist when they want to give up without a real attempt at understanding. I introduce them to the arts by taking them to performances and concerts and galleries; sports by taking them to games and pick up games; life's surprises by waking them up for the sunset, showing them cool experiments, planting, baking, cooking, living. It's alright if they flip and freak and act a fool while they sort out their feelings as long as they get back on that horse and finish the race. Finish what they started.
So yes, you have to go to class. I hope you will be better for it.
(c) Copyright 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
*Falling to the floor, crinkling up her nose, grabbing her head in a "Woe/Whoa is me" grip*
"But Mommy, I don't want to go to Dance Fusion! You are not being fair! [insert neighbor child's name] gets to have play dates all the time! I NEVER get to have play dates. (Though she'd had two that weekend) All I ever have to do is go to Dance Fusion. I just don't want to go. Is this the last week?"
"It's not. Next week is the last week. When that class is over, you do not have to commit to dance again, but we started this and we are going to finish it. You are a wonderful dancer. Why don't you want to go?"
"You forced me! You know I don't like dancing in front of other people--"
"What other people? The kids in the class? You have been going all term. This is crazy. You have to go."
"I don't want to! It's not fair. You force me to do things. I don't want you to ever force me ever again to do anything."
"I did not force you, small girl, and I will not make you go in the future, but we are going to honor our commitments and be respectful of our teacher and our responsibilities. Please get your dance clothes on so we can go. It's getting late."
"I won't."
"I'll say this much. If you do not go to class, you are not having a play date. You will be reading for your reading log for the full hour."
"One hour of reading?"
"Yes. And you will take French next term if you do not want to dance."
"OK."
This went on longer than I care to admit and so I won't. Let's just say that there is a lot more "dialogue" to include here. I texted my friend part of the way through the argument and asked/demanded what I should do. I have a tough time with this stuff. The girls are so young and I know how kids are fickle and cannot always commit to things they set out to do, but we did sign up for a certain number of weeks. And frankly, she is so talented and such a beautiful dancer I feel like I must guide and direct her towards her "calling." And then I stop myself. Am I forcing her?
I regret having been allowed to quit piano when I was nine years old, though I do recall just how miserable I made my mother as I begged and pleaded and then just gave up practicing altogether. Sitting in front of the keys with Rick, a kind, bearded music teacher from the local music school, I'd plink away having just looked at the music moments before his arrival. I could not see how these scales and little exercises were going to take me to a place where I could actually play and possibly create beautiful music. The same went for the flute (which I at least played into high school but then gave up when other interests called), the guitar, Girl Scouts, Spanish lessons, gymnastics (Though that I'd quit because my dance teacher told me it was giving me too muscular a butt. Little did she realize that I was a black girl. It was gonna be that way ANYWAY.) Now as an adult, I wish I could play the piano or the guitar, that I could tie more than the square knot and didn't get less than a thrill from camping.
Kids start and quit activities all the time. We have them signed up for so many things so early to give them exposure and get them out of our hair for an hour or so. When Lily wanted to quit soccer, a sport where she showed promise, I made her finish the season but allowed her to stop. In our town, the teams were co-ed until the kids turned eight and though Lily loved the drills and the practices, the games were often wild free-for-all's, and they did not appeal to her at all. I also didn't care for the Saturday morning early wake up, but if she'd loved it, I would have continued. With dance, an art that carried me through my young life, that gave me joy and discipline and passion and commitment and love, I am struggling to let her let go. I have been reminded by so many that stopping does not mean quitting. Perhaps she will come back to it. And maybe she won't. Maybe, for all her talent it just does not inspire her in the way it did me. Maybe (with a wink) I do not get to determine her "calling" after all.
But what's a mother to do when confronted with the shift, the change in the middle of a session? When disinterest creeps in after the fees are paid and the place in class has been saved? I made her go. I let her cry it out, kick things, beg. I let her wear her jeans to class instead of dance clothes and I gave her a snack to take with her. She danced. She enjoyed it and she will, sadly, not sign up for the next term. It is here where I must let go. Let her be her own girl and develop interests and dreams and desires that I cannot control. That evening, we ordered dinner from the local pizza place that she loves and we sat, the three of us (little sister too) and talked about discipline and passion and commitment. I explained why it is important for me that they find something to offer them guidance and discipline and teaches respect and responsibility. That the arts and other activities bring joy and meaning to life. I told them I would allow them to participate in choosing whatever it is, but that I would not allow them to give up on everything.
There are so many more choices and options now than I when I was a little girl. I danced from four until my teen years and continued to come back to it in my twenties, thirties, and now forties. I speak the language, know the vocabulary, and feel a comfort when I return. All the choices now mean so many starts and often not enough time to let the love for something germinate and grow. It is that I fear most. That they try everything and give in to nothing. I want to help lead them to their passion without forcing them to do as I have done or what I'd like them to.
The little one still loves her ballet class and is desperate to start Dance Fusion when she is old enough. She loves art and wants to learn how to ride her bike. Lily is older and has already tried so many things. We will next look for an instrument and possibly tap and everyone will have to take French. It's with a firm hand and an unwavering voice that I insist when they want to give up without a real attempt at understanding. I introduce them to the arts by taking them to performances and concerts and galleries; sports by taking them to games and pick up games; life's surprises by waking them up for the sunset, showing them cool experiments, planting, baking, cooking, living. It's alright if they flip and freak and act a fool while they sort out their feelings as long as they get back on that horse and finish the race. Finish what they started.
So yes, you have to go to class. I hope you will be better for it.
(c) Copyright 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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