White Room, Black Shoe

Photo by Guy Bourdin
Photo by Guy Bourdin

It is a searing October, one that you wait for, yet are still surprised by when it flares in the quiet of morning. From the bed, we can see in the distance a few orange and ruby leaves fall against a blue sky. Here the buildings are densely packed and light struggles to wend its way through shadow. I roll out of bed, disturbing Ian in the process. Padding across the hallway, I half-expect her to be there, packing the last few things that had been strewn around her sleeping bag. The furniture was taken the night before. She only stayed overnight because another friend nearby was picking her up. Later she had a plane to catch.

The bedroom holds a cloying dampness that escaped her foggy bathroom. She might have raised the window sash and dried things out. Encouraged the outdoors to inhabit the new emptiness. But she isn’t one to adore nature’s wiles. A difference between the two of us. She only tolerates city offerings, whereas I am a glutton for both.

Pale. A silent, pale room. Not like her overreaching life. That is what I think as the room stares back. Whiteness overwhelms me, its sheer blankness, how it pulses nothing in my direction, a clean slate for someone else’s urgent imagination. Not mine. I only see her still, as she was a week ago, narrow bed pressed against a corner farthest from the window, her powerful, long legs draped across the sheets as she leaned against a large pillow. She said the color white soothed her, kept things simpler and the mind freer. There was one picture on the wall: she was wearing an ivory dress, playing in the expanse of green grass behind her childhood home. He mother reclined in a chaise lounge by the pool; her father sits beside her in a wooden chair that seems to have been moved from the house. It was all the vivid colors she needed there, she said: green and blue-green. Her parents actually wore greys and taupes. Blended in with the greyish background. It was a family preference, a quietness of color, of style. Sotto voce. Even the impressive stone house was pallid. She loved that picture; it was the last taken with them, she told me, before she left home. Before her growing renown distanced them.

On second thought, her sateen pillow had tiny rosebuds on it. She liked the idea of roses. When once we got a bouquet and placed it on the dining room table she caressed them, then pinched her nose with thumb and forefinger. They were reminiscent of her mother’s failed garden.

“They were dreary, their heads drooping, petals ruined. Mother cut them off without a thought, planted things that required little care. Yes, she was thoughtless–I so loved them once.”

Her recalled words jar me. I know she spoke of roses as if she was speaking of her youth. Speaking of her parents. They wanted her to be a lawyer or surgeon, like her aunt or father. She was their only child but she danced, anyway. Could not do otherwise.

I hear Ian as he rouses in bed, then pads up behind me.

“Well done.”

I can feel his smile. He means she has left just a small trace of herself. He means she has done what was promised: all but disappeared. I think he worried last night that she might change her mind, hang on to the door frame as he pushed her out.

How little he knows her, her strength. So unlike him.

Ian’s eyes meet mine, revealing tentative relief. He places his hand on my cheek, kisses me though I can barely feel his lips. My eyes are open. He is trying to not make any ripples, to keep the morning calm. And also trying to ferret out my love for him without my noticing. This, despite the words that rattled the walls a week before.

I stare at her shoe and turn to him. He shrugs, hands held up, then moves toward the kitchen. He will make omelets with potato and onion and bell pepper. The coffee will be freshly pressed and poured into small china cups resting on saucers. It was how I liked it once, before last week. Now the china we found at the antique store begs to be chipped, even thrown.

The shoe looks dangerous on the floor of the white room. I know it well. Today it assumes the presence of a weapon, a benign object that really is an explosive. It is strange it fell from her bag and she didn’t pick it up. It’s one of a pair I admired; she wore them with black slacks and velvet jacket lined with Chartreuse silk, a favorite color to wear recently, a color I chose for her. Monochromes are becoming less prominent. I wonder how she, a dancer, could neglect it, even in a terrible hurry to get to another city, another ballet company audition. The far-flung stages. A virtuosic life.

It was not unexpected, what happened. Only a matter of time, I thought from the start. Ian: beautiful, strong, lean and graceful despite an embarrassing virility. And terribly well-mannered. People love or hate him easily. And he feels he can pick and choose.

Ian knew her weeks before I did. He dances–danced–in the  same company. She needed a room after her last boyfriend grew tired of her long hours rehearsing and performing and a few eccentricities, she said. We had an extra for six months before our long-term roommate returned from Italy. She moved in and made it hers immediately until last week, when she unmade it, left us, then returned to pack two days ago. The bedroom was occupied by her presence for five months and one day.

“She had to leave, anyway, because Lee soon comes back,” he reminded me yesterday. “She’ll bounce right back in Germany. We’ll be better than ever.”

I was brushing my hair with hard strokes, dislodging every snag. He kissed my neck as I swallowed tears.

She: Marisa. Marisa Tellis-Delgado. My finest of friends. Extraordinary principal ballet dancer.

Ian is not as gifted but his charisma makes up for it. For now. I don’t dance, did once. Yes, for eight years. I do not miss it. But Marissa and Ian are two who cannot live without it. I, on the other hand, can live without almost anything. I see what such obsession does to people whose undying passion is their very lifeblood as well as their work. It insinuates itself into their innards, becomes their breath of life. The past, present and future. There are more options than that, and I need choices to make my living whatever I want it to be one day to the next. I love pastry-making and jewelry design, apple trees on the half-acre we maintain outside the city and riding horses in the woods. I need less activities, perhaps. More friends.

But even when he fails me, I stay with only Ian.

Yet what would you do if you connected to someone and that someone cared in return and it was all you ever hoped for in true friendship–until your husband decides otherwise? It was a revelation, becoming friends with this woman. But he said it was too much. I needed to spend more time with him but what he meant was less time and energy with her. His insatiable hunger for attention and appreciation! His relationships must support his needs, first and last.

Ian dances his life. He is selfish with it. I have to live mine. And I give it away. Maybe too often.

So he drove a wedge between us. It didn’t take long. He placed himself where he should not have been.

“Marisa and I had lunch together,” he said when it started. “We suddenly realized how much we have in common.”

“Suddenly? Hasn’t she been living in our flat for months? She’s quiet but not that quiet. Why the lunch talks now?”

He yawned as if bored with the topic yet it was necessary to report. “I don’t talk about much, just interests like dance and music. You. We work together. I don’t want to interfere. She likes me, not just you. I can have friends as well.”

“I hope so. What do you mean by ‘interfere’?”

“Your … devotion to her.”

I was polishing a silver ring I had just finished. It shone in my hands.

“You mean, our friendship? You mean, that I have found someone I enjoy talking with and sharing my time with while you devote yourself primarily to dance?” I shook my head in disgust. “Ian, I have made a close woman friend at last. Don’t ruin this.”

“Marissa is important out there in the dance world. Charismatic, smart, incredibly talented. Everyone adores her, not just you.”

I saw him make a moue with his mouth, like a little child.

“Oh, stop. Marissa makes time for me for reasons you don’t understand. It’s like we’re sisters at heart…sympatico. You have time for you.”

He mentioned the next day he met her for lunch again. Marisa said nothing of it to me. Sometimes she and I walked together early in the morning or met after rehearsal for tea. We might stay up after dinner once or twice a week, talking for hours in her room or the living room if Ian could stand it. Two weeks passed, then a month, but I didn’t realize what was happening until Marisa finally mentioned it.

“I keep running into Ian at the dance studio but also Beauford’s Restaurant. He practically waylays me even when I’m with someone else. I suggested we see enough of one another at work and here. But he is either pursuing me or he thinks we’re such good friends.” She put her hand on my wrist, shook it a little, gave it a squeeze. “Like you and I are. Imagine! I don’t even connect to him unless we are dancing. You know how that goes. And he talks about you, little gripes. I’m sorry, but can you suggest he be less relentless?”

I told him I knew he was bothering her and to back off. Marisa was not only important to me. She was, after all, a tenant.

“Don’t run her off as you have others.”

“I just meant to be friendly. And don’t rehash what’s done and over,” he hissed and turned on the television.

He has issues with people sharing our space but he must have this expensive flat. Must have his way. Must have me to himself. I trust him despite his beauty because I know his secret, that he is afraid he is no one valuable. Jealousy lurks in his blood, a sickness waiting.

The last night we three were together he spoke up as he served coffee.

“So, Marisa, I think we should address things.”

She placed her willowy arm along the back of the sofa. “What things?’

Ian sat between us on the easy chair. I was in the rocker, rocking, the green cashmere throw draped over my legs, thinking about lighting a fire in the fireplace. I stopped moving and braced myself.

“You know…whatever you want to call it, how you’ve gathered up both of us, how you seem to require us each to share more with you than we’d like. To follow you around like lovelorn puppies, like groupies.”

“Speak only for yourself, Ian,” I said, trying to control myself. “You are being ridiculous and rude.”

“I’ll say what I observe to be true.”

He shot me his offended look and turned back to her. She seemed bemused, as if she couldn’t interpret his language. He continued.

“Marisa, you’re greedy. Isn’t it enough that you’re a star? You can’t have my wife, too!”

Marisa’s jaw dropped. Her amber eyes glimmered in lamp light, her dark wavy hair swayed.

“Ian, that’s absurd. You think I’m in love with her, or both of you? Or just you because you’re so dashing, wonderful? What an ignorant idea. I cannot get rid of you, my friend. I dance with you and see you here and you try to get me to spend more time with you…you seek me. I do not seek you.”

She gazed at me, eyelids heavy with misery, then back at him. A deep breath was inhaled and released.

“You are utterly mistaken. I care so much for Helena. She’s honest, frank even, yet so kind. She’s smart and savvy and likes to laugh. At silly things! How often do we find that in our mad, competitive world? It is a relief to have Helena in my life–someone who understands dance but is not swallowed by it. Who is good to me for my own sake! Not for what I accomplish. Not how much money I can bring in. Not how I can make someone look better on stage. She just knows me, like that! ” She snapped her fingers sharply. “I would choose her over ten of you. And I suggest you examine your motives.”

Marisa stood up, every muscle moving in perfect alignment. A queen unafraid. She put hands on her hips. “You haven’t a clue to your unhappiness. You can’t bear to share her? Well, of course not. She’s a treasure! While you, Ian, are a fool. And, I might add, a bore.”

Marisa left. After a few seconds I followed. Ian was immobilized by her steady rush of words, each aimed with precision at his ego. But he called out, anyway.

“You don’t belong here! Get. Out. Helena, please stay here!”

I wanted to yell back at him, but nothing left my lips.

So now, this morning, the room is cleared out, stripped of Marissa’s quietly burning presence, left like a bone to bake in the last flame of October. I go back and pick up the shoe from the polished wood floor. I take off one of mine and put hers on. It fits as it first fit. I walk out her room, past Ian in the kitchen where he is whistling and cooking. I keep walking, out the front door. I want things to go on as before but I don’t think they can. Love of a partner may be less crucial than that of a friend. It depends on who loves best.

Still, right now it’s just Marisa’s shoe on one foot and my old one on another. She is sitting at the Headliner Cafe with scones and coffee. We’ll talk about something good before she heads to Germany and is dogged by fame. We will plan visits, promise “for always”. I may be gifted her other shoe. But the opulent glow of that room has already begun to dim.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Graffiti

 

Photo by Rennie Ellis
Photo by Rennie Ellis

Sure, it bothered him but he wasn’t sure what to do. Pops Haverson could repaint it, of course, but how long would it stay fresh and clean? It wasn’t like it had dirty words or racist drivel or threats, was it? That’s what his wife reminded him as he left their house and also: “It’s not the Ritz, not the best we own, you know.” No, but the painted words spoiled the half-wall, behind which were stairs to a locksmith. The small business owner on the west end of the building hadn’t said a thing. Pops decided to find out who’d made the art work. It’d probably take him weeks or he could call the police–fat chance of anything coming of that–but he didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want retaliation. He had fair relationships overall. And Pops wasn’t a fighting man. For the most part his tenants were decent, hard-working folks; they reminded Pops of himself before he invested in real estate. That is, they were a bit worn thin but full of grit.

His twelve tenants liked him enough. No one went out of their way to be real friendly and he didn’t encourage it. Pops believed that you get chummy and before you know it, trouble rolls in. They might want an extra week to pay rent or skip out of their lease, try to get more for their money and then take it personally when you deny them.

No, vandalism wasn’t a problem for him before. But inoffensive or not, why that? Why paint “No standing, only dancing”? A weird thing to say. What did they mean by that? He’d rarely seen anyone dance in front of his apartments. There were a dozen kids around there (four teens in the building) but they liked to smoke, gossip, watch other kids go by. They sat on that wall a lot. He found busted beer bottles sometimes, end bits of joints, and sometimes a dirty sock or a tennis shoe, a trashed motorcycle magazine. Someone had a thing for Harleys, as the magazines got left behind every few months. So he repeated, Keep the doorway clear, stay off the wall, move on down the street. He even put a hefty trash receptacle by the entrance.

He came by once a month to collect rents. Sometimes he’d yell at the group to stop hanging around the door. They’d refused to quit congregating   and he’d had enough, so posted a No Loitering sign. That lasted a week. When he came by last week-end the graffiti was there. Some nerve these kids had, he thought as he mounted each step slowly.

The tenents had the option of putting their rent check in the mail or waiting until he came first of the month. Usually they didn’t answer their door bells, just slid their envelopes under the door or handed it through a half-inch crack. A few chatted, at times complained more than he wanted.

He rapped hard when nobody answered the doorbell of apartment one, floor one.

“Della. Come on, I don’t have all day. Here for the rent in case you don’t have your calendar open.”

He could hear shuffling, then silence as Della peered out the peephole, as usual. He could almost feel her significant body weight from the other side as she leaned in. It finally opened three inches and one rheumy eye stared at him. Her hand clutched the envelope and he grabbed hold. She held fast. It was her way of resisting, of telling him she was boss. She used to be a high school principal. At eighty-four, she still could have been.

“Della, please. And I have a question, so could you open up a little more?”

She put her white cap of curls against the opening and her raspy voice asked, “What is it now?”

“The writing on the outside wall. Who did that, you know?”

Della pulled back, raised her eyebrows and smiled a tight little smile at him, then let go of the rent. He tried to wedge his foot in but she was too fast and slammed it shut.

“Sorry, Pops, you’re on your own,” she called through the door. “And my bathroom faucet still drips, keeps me up at night. Fix that and we might talk.”

Pops took out his notebook and made a note of it, then rapidly walked to number two. He saw the rent envelope from Jarrod Tuttle held fast in a clothes pin he’d affixed to the door. This was usual. Pops saw all sorts of things dangling from that clothes pin–poetry (if that was what Jarrod wrote), ribbons glued to prayers for ailing strangers he’d read of, seasonal decorations, notes to others in the building. Pops had met with Jarrod twice, when he applied for the place and then paid and moved in. He was up front about having a severe anxiety disorder, couldn’t leave his place much at all. He was on disability. The man was in his forties and hadn’t worked for over ten years. But he kept his place up from what he heard from Della and repair people, and paid on time.

Pops took the envelope down, unsealed it, pocketed the check and then wrote in his notebook: Jarrod, if you know who vandalized the building, please get in touch. Much appreciated, Pops.  He  tore the page out, put it in the envelope and clipped it with the clothes pin.

Number three. He rapped on the door hard four times because Thomas Johns never answered door bells. He’d told Pops that he didn’t need to feel like a trained dog. Besides, he knew who was at the door by the knock, usually, and that was interesting to him. That is, if he wasn’t working on web design with his headphones on. Thomas loved classical music, primarily Bach but sometimes Dvorak. Pops liked classic country but why would he care? He never had complaints about Thomas.

The door opened. Thomas still had ear phones on and held a bowl of salad in one hand. The other held out the rent check. He was very tall, pale-faced, long-haired. Pops was a rotund five foot six. It sometimes felt as if Pops was reaching up to the lowest branch of a birch tree to snag the check. Thomas laughed, lowered the check, then slid the headphones to his neck.

“How are things? Collecting all that is your due and then some?”

Thomas could be sarcastic but Pops didn’t always know when. He was in his late twenties, he guessed, and was trying to make headway in his field. Self-employed. Della had mentioned that Thomas was about to launch himself “into the stratosphere” as he was getting good offers from companies now.

Pops looked behind Thomas. “I see Anton hasn’t moved.” The tabby cat sat on the window ledge in front of Thomas’ desk.

“Right, Anton likes me and sunshine. Plus he catches the mice twice a day.”

Pops laughed. “I need to get a few more cats in here.” But there weren’t mice in this building as far as he knew; he saw to all that.

“Say, Thomas, could you tell me who painted the graffiti on the front?”

Thomas looked amused, then shrugged. “Not a clue. I’m too busy to pay attention to people here, really. Pretty soon I’ll be moving on. But you might try the second floor. Wally and Darcy always seem to know things no one else does, even if you aren’t interested. Or get Della some brandy.”

He put his headphones back on and turned away. Pops stepped out and closed the door.

“Hey, you’re looking fine today!”

That voice zinged him like a shreik. He stumbled up the steps. He was hoping he’d miss Darcy. She was happily tripping down the stairs, a dark red lacy shawl lifting from her shoulders, a rather too-short blue skirt impeding her progress, coppery red hair flying out of a loose bun. She had bright earrings that swung back and forth. Pops instantly thought of the chandelier in his office building downtown.

She stopped him with her hand, rings winking in the stairwell light.

“I finally got a call from my agent. I may have a decent part, Pops! Of course, it’s not the lead but it is a widow who is accused of murdering her husband, very black comedy. I have to go, dearest, but the check is stuck in the door jamb. If it rips, call me and I’ll mail one.”

With a flourish of her shawl– she looked a little like a toreador, he thought–she waved and ran off. He watched her high-heeled boots as they clicked on the tile. Saved, he thought, by an audition. He wondered how much longer she was going to pursue this dream when he knew for a fact that her father gave her the money for rent half the time. Darcy was forty-five if she was a day, funny at times, and excelled at talking his ears off when she wasn’t auditioning or rehearsing.

When he reached number five, he saw the door open very slowly, the hinges squeaking and making his neck shiver. He had some WD40 in his car so would get it later. Pops hesitated, then looked in.  Mrs. Lansing worked and her door was always locked; she mailed her rent.

“Mrs. Lansing?” He called out in a loud voice, alerting whoever it might be.

“No, she’s gone but just a minute.”

The voice was not known to him. A cleaning person? It was light and soft. He tried to think if Mrs. Lansing had anyone who she was close to but couldn’t recall; it was likely she never said anything about her life beyond her job. She was an RN, and she was often working extra shifts at the hospital so she could buy a condo, she informed him, before she hit retirement age. Ten more years to go before the deadline was up.

Pops waited a minute and when there was nothing more forthcoming, he put his head into the living room. A woman had her back turned. She looked like she was getting ready to go somewhere. She had a dark skirt on with a white blouse and somehow Pops thought she looked professional. But different. He cleared his throat.

When she turned round, he caught his breath. He recovered as she nodded at him, a warm smile wreathing her face.

“Mother just left for work. You must be Pops? I have it if you want it now.” She held a check in her left hand and a leather satchel in her right. “Oh, excuse me, I’m Francine Nording.” She dropped the satchel and shook his hand. “I decided to visit mother for a week after my tour in Europe.”

“Yes? That right?” he asked stupidly. “Uh, hello, Francine. I didn’t know she had children. Not that I should. But nice, thank you for the check. She’s always good about getting it in the mail.”

The truth was, Francine Nording was breathtaking. Not Hollywood pretty, not beautiful like his wife admitted she’d wanted to be as a kid. This woman deeply glowed. Her skin was ivory, her hair a white-gold and she was tallish and slender and held herself as if she was royalty. Maybe she was, he thought with a stab of panic and then felt foolish for everything he felt. Get a grip, he told himself. She held out the rent.

“Mother is so organized. Not like me. I get by well enough, though. As a member of a company that travels all the time I just follow someone else’s directives!” She laughed lightly and picked up keys from the entrance table. “Was that all you needed? Good. I have plans.”

They stepped into the hallway and she locked the door. He had the urge to take her elbow, guide her gently.

“No, just the rent. Good to meet you. Tell your mother hello.” He flushed. He barely knew Mrs. Lansing after three years.

He stifled the urge to watch her go down the stairs, then moved to the next door.

He rang the bell but it didn’t make a sound. He knocked four times and it swung open.

“Pops, my man, good to see you and here’s your cash.”

Waldo Zuma handed him a wad of bills which Pops shoved into his pocket.

“Thanks, Wally. Electrical in kitchen working now, right?”

“Fine, man, no problem. Now the bell doesn’t work but I don’t mind.” He looked past Pop’s head. “You talk to that gal, daughter of Mrs. Lansing? A beauty! She’s a professional dancer, travels the world, amazing stories. Very classy, like her mom. Out of my reach, but she’s moving on soon, anyway. To Sweden, she said.” He rubbed his bald head, mouth agape. “Scandanavia, man!”

Pops frowned. “Yeah, I just met her but I didn’t get she was a dancer. Like ballet stuff or…?”

“I don’t know, she said something about it but I didn’t really understand, didn’t ask. It was just a hallway conversation with her mother there. Early this week. Haven’t seen her since.”

“You didn’t talk to her or see her again? How about the others? You know if they met her? Really, now.”

Wally shook his head, mouth a tight line.

“Come on, Wally, what’s she up to here?”

Wally held up his hands. “What you worrying over? Nothing. She’s visiting her mama, then travelling more. Ask Mrs. Lansing. Now I gotta go.” He started to shut the door, then added, “Pops, nice to have a door bell that works, right?”

Pops ran down the stairs, passed Thomas in the front hall, then was out the entrance. He looked up and down the street. He studied the words painted on the cement half-wall. In the distance he could hear music and people calling out. He felt pulled to the park, wanted to see what the commotion was about. All the while he scanned passersby to see if she was among them. Yes, that Francine.

When he got there, he was winded, sweaty, so he sat on a bench and mopped his face. The music was something spacey-jazzy, maybe it was all the rage, and a radio was turned up loud as could be. There was a circle of people near the fountain.

Pops made his way to the edge of the crowd, then wormed his way through.

It was Francine Nording. And she was dancing in that slim skirt and white shirt, her arms and legs moving in ways he had never seen before. She was lithe and elegant, lively and joyful and sparks were coming off her. She was like liquid energy as people watched and clapped. A clot of teenagers were dancing near her, free-form he guessed, whatever that fancy stuff was but even though they did amazing contortions they didn’t hold a candle to Francine. Not one bit. Everyone was mesmerized. It was one of the most moving things he had ever seen. Like seeing someone share being in love. A woman in street clothes, moving to sweetly crazy music, her body a ribbon of light, hands speaking, feet mixing up patterns in soft shadows on the sidewalk, the fountain rising into sunshine that was cheering her on.

Did Francine paint those words on his property? Did the kids tell her  what he said and then ask to meet them because she was a conduit of the dance, all wonderful with lively ways and an exotic existence? Pops didn’t care how it all came to be. He just let himself surrender to her wiles, felt himself lift off to another world, another way of being and called it all very, very good.

Image from Frances Ha
Image from Frances Ha

Taking Flight

Paul Taylor Dance Company, photo by Paul B. Goode, Public Domain
Paul Taylor Dance Company, photo by Paul B. Goode, Public Domain

I am busy writing when one of my sisters calls and invites me to a dance concert at the last minute. I want to decline–I’m writing, after all– but what she describes sounds too innovative to miss. And I have a passionate appreciation of dance. Getting out will be a nice break for me, too.

Two other sisters, one able-bodied and one a quadruple amputee, were dancing together and the final part of their documentary was being finished during the performance. SOAR: Dance Concert and Documentary Finale was comprised of not only these two dancers, but four other dance troupes, including Polaris Dance Theater, The Portland Ballet, Kemba Shannon Dance Ensemble, and the exceptional high school group Jefferson Dancers. I had to save my writing and go.

The moment Kiera Brinkley begins to dance with the Polaris Dance Theater, the effect is startling. Everyone else is longer-limbed and can stand fully upright. Kiera sits and stands, but differently, her legs being what most of consider our thighs only. Having lost most of her lower limbs as well as her forearms and hands due to a catastrophic infection as a toddler, she has had a lifetime of practice getting around with her unique body. I imagine the rest of the audience wonders what they are in for. How can she possibly engage with the other dancers effectively and skillfully, contribute a creative spark that was integral to the choreography?

Easily. Or at least that is how it appears. What will power was developed to dance this way? She reaches and turns, swoops and sweeps alongside the others, mirrors their movements in ways that are refreshing and surprising. Her torso is very strong, her focus intense. Yet there is a lightness, a transcendent quality to her dancing from and across the floor. She is devoted to each movement as much as each dancer, perhaps more so. In time her differences seem less so. My eye is drawn to the overall troupe, the designs they configure, the story they impart. She is a rigorous, essential part of the whole as it organically shapes the spaces and then breaks apart. Makes the stage an organism that functions only as well as each dancer, including Keira.

Later, Keira and her sister, Uriah Boyd, whose body is what we might expect a dancer’s to appear, dance together the piece choreographed by Melissa St. Clair. Their interactions are intimate, so connected that it is hard to tell where one’s energy departs from the other’s. Their bodily communications are crisp and clean, sensuous and cerebral all at once, a telegraphing of complex feelings. Their adoration of dancerly movement and their faith in an absolute porousness of physical boundaries wields power.

The documentary is being completed after two years. It tells of the sisters, their lives together as they grew up, their individual love of dance that became a shared living dream. When a clip is shown, my heart comes forth to welcome and applaud their work, their visions.

But that concert has provoked many thoughts, not just of their performances, but of how all bodies are shaped and what that means to us privately and collectively in our culture. Last night I admired many female dancers who did not meet the long-held expectations of a dancer type: reed slimness, good height, lightness and grace, length of neck and fine shape shoulder. Willowy, perhaps. I don’t know all the requirements, as I am not a dancer, but we, if we care to admire and support dancers, may hold a certain image in our minds. The fact is, times have changed considerably since I studied dance sporadically as child and youth. Modern or contemporary dance offers more opportunities to those who do not fit a classical ballet build. And how we, the audience, benefits. What I saw heartened me. It wasn’t enough that the music was exceptional and the choreography was excellent. These dancers were not uniform at all. They were short and tall, stocky and slender, moved softly or with bravado, were dynamic, intriguing, self-defining even as they merged with the whole.

The communion of creativity, the union of many talents is a marvel to see, even if we don’t always feel comfortable or agree. There are many sparks in the world that ignite flames of creative energy. I wonder who out there gives up because they feel they are too “different.” Who tucks away a dream due to being told they do not fit the bill? And why should it take such courage to present the best of what we have? The truth is, it takes a strong ego within a persistent person to forge ahead despite the odds.

I danced once, long ago. Decades ago I attended an international arts camp, called Interlochen National Music Camp when I was young. I studied cello and voice, a little harp, and writing, as well. But my secret desire was to learn modern dance in the dance building overlooking a shimmering blue lake. I had stopped by the studios for years (my father taught at Interlochen many summers, as well), heard the rhythmic thump of bare feet on the special floors, watched perspiration soak their leotards, noted how they laced up toe shoes with meticulous care. I’d taken a few dance classes over the years but had focused on music, writing, figure skating and other endeavors.

But one year I chose as an elective class in modern dance. I started in a beginning class, then was placed in an intermediate class. I was anxious about failure but my happiness overcame temerity. I worked hard to keep up, pushed my body in ways I had never experienced, felt pain and knew fulfillment. This was nothing like the long hours practicing a stringed instrument or singing art songs. Here, I could move. I could express everything, mold feeling, morph the lines of body with effort and discipline. Everything about dance began to animate my being, even when I wasn’t there. It opened doors that took me to the depths of wordlessness, into silence. It was diving into a still pool only to discern other worlds. I often felt as though I should give up but he instructor one day kept me afterwards.

“You should dance,” she said. “You have natural ability. You have the passion. You come to it from your heart.”

My face reddened. “Oh, no, I haven’t really studied. I am so behind others here. And I am fourteen–it’s too late now.”

“Nonsense. I first began earnestly to study dance in college. And I have danced professionally and also teach. Think about it.”

Her words were carried like a gift to my next orchestra rehearsal. I thought of my hometown, the lack of serious dance instruction. The expectations of my musical family and the way singing and playing cello made me feel–really, as good as dancing, just different. My unrelenting love and need of writing. I returned to each modern dance class and worked hard and felt freed, entranced, inspired creatively. But I didn’t take more classes beyond the camp. I didn’t agree with my teacher. I knew to dance truly well took more than I could give in many ways, not the least being time and dedication. And I envisioned myself being a writer or a singer or combination.

I stayed with music for a few more years, but writing–it was ever with me, in my thoughts and dreams and doing. To perform before an audience required many opportunities. Writing was available every moment–a pencil and paper, a typewriter, then a computer. I didn’t need so much to be read as to just write something every day, make it shine. Oh, I have danced in casual situations and now at Zumba at the gym. I think of taking flamenco; the May schedule is nearby. Early heart disease changed the way I  accomplish physical goals; it doesn’t have to stop me from trying and enjoying myself..

But I wrote a novel about a dancer ten years ago, yet to be submitted for publication. Here is the gist of it: Sophia is six feet tall. She has a body that is powerful and elegant but not thin. She has managed her own dance company of intergenerational dancers who have bodies of all shapes and sizes, with skills as diverse as their skin color and age. But then Sophia experiences a loss beyond understanding when her husband dies mysteriously and she is harmed in the process. She cannot dance. She cannot even speak. She has lost her truth and power. The story takes us into her well of grief and out again, follows her footsteps as she learns again to trust her body and mind as well as her soul. Sophia discovers those who can accept and love her when she cannot yet love herself. And she begins to heal and give back, to even aid a photojournalist who is lost in a state of burnout and a woman under the spell of a cruel man. And creative work helps untether Sophia from her own misery.

This is what I was thinking last night as I watched the dancers on stage, was moved by Kiera Brinkley and her sister: Art can transform both artist and viewer like little else. It gets the job done when our imaginations light up. Liberates. Edifies. Not that these are new ideas, of course, but what impact they have when I stop and observe others carefully. Dance is a part of a vast network of disciplines and persons who love creating so much they devote their lives to it. Take difficult risks to share what matters most. But everyone can create some way, some thing. All can share their story, at home or in the world. It is a matter of beginning. Why not make something wonderful of what we have and who we are? Give ourselves whatever wings fit us, fly a little more.

The Dancers by Arthur Mathews
The Dancers by Arthur Mathews

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