The Six Questions

i
ii
The Six Questions
Acting Technique for Dance Performance

Daniel Nagrin

University of Pittsburgh Press

iii
Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, Pa. 15261
Copyright © 1997, Daniel Nagrin Theatre, Film and Dance Foundation, Inc.
All rights reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America
Printed on acid-free paper
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging–in–Publication Data and acknowledgments of permissions will be

found at the end of this book.

A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the British Library.

iv
These pages are dedicated to Helen Tamiris
1902–66

She gave me and many others the liberating insight

that the art of dance and the art of acting were rivers
waiting to be joined as one.

v
vi
Contents

a c kn o w l e d g m e n t s xi
introduction xxiii

Part One. The Theory

1. Work on the Self 3

Pride in Your Physical Presence 4
When You Dance, You Can Lose Your Mind 6
Relish the Game of Pretending 7
Recall Your Earliest Performing Instructions 9
Observation, Imitation and Imagination 13
Keep a Journal 16
Read a Book 17
Too Much and Not Enough 18

2. Eroding Elements of the Performing State 21

The Crutches of Style 21
Performing for the Audience: Seen and Unseen 25
The Intolerance of Uncertainty 27
Vanity Versus Self-hatred 29
Reaching for the Result 31

vii
 3. The Six Questions: The Syntax of the Performing State 33
Who or What? 35
Is Doing What? 37
To Whom or What? 44
Where or When? 45
To What End? 47
The Obstacle? 48
Emotion Memory 49
Direction 50
Summary of the Six Questions: Questions, Doubts, Paradoxes
and Contradictions 52

4. More Work on the Role 58

Impulse Analysis 58
Relationship to the Music 60
Sense-memory Work 61
Passive or Active? 62
Controlled or Released? 63
Focus: Internal or External? 65
An Event, a Recurrence or a Ritual? 68
The Inner Rhythm of the Role 68
Contradiction 69
Living with the Magic “If ” 70
Justification 72
Living with the Game of Oscillation 73
Taste 75
Pursue the Mannerism/Probe the Cliché 76
Determining Style 76

5. Performing 87
Lining Up Your Energies 87
Rivers of Energy Pouring Into Each Moment of Performance 94
Stage Concentration Versus Oscillation 99
Dealing with What Is, Not with What Was 100
Interacting with the Others and the Environment 100

viiii Contents
 Energy: Too Much/Too Little/Just Enough 101
Competition 102
The Stage Space 103
Dealing with Failure or Negative Criticism 103
Success Is a Serious Problem 104
Taking Risks 104
The Next Step 105

Part Two. The Workbook

6. Introduction and Outline 125

7. First Assignments 128

8. Exercises: Level 1 133

9. Exercises: Level 2 144

10. Exercises: Level 3 157

11. Exercises: Level 4 173

12. Exercises: Level 5 176

13. Exercises: Level 6 182

a ppe n d i x a : Anecdotal Material 195

a ppe n d i x b : A Beat Analysis of Dance in the Sun 200

appendix c: Susanne K. Langer on Performance: A Critique 203

appendix d: “The Duende,” by Federico Garcia Lorca 208

index 217

ix Contents
x
Acknowledgements

I am blessed with a widely disparate group of friends and colleagues. With no conscience
at all, I exploited a favored few by sending them the manuscript for their review. Sooner
or later all responded and all from wildly different points of view. Some seized upon
every misplaced comma, others circled garbled expressions and best of all some wrote
“Yes!” in the margin. Some hoped I would trim the text and others longed for more.
There was one sour note, some doubts and enough praise for me to risk offering
this to the dance public. I list their names alphabetically and absolve them from any
responsibility for what appears in this book. I alone am accountable for all that follows
and yet I am profoundly beholden for the perspective and help they offered me; for
this I thank them all:

William Akins, Ph.D., David Barker, Dominika Borovansky, Christy Funsch, Claudia
Gitelman, Ryan Gober, Jacques Levy, Ph.D., Kathie Longstreth, Meredith Monk, Mel
Rosenthal, Ph.D., Meriam Rosen, Suzanne Shepard, Phyllis A. Steele-Nagrin, Paul Taylor,
Arthur Waldhorn, Ph.D. Out of this alphabet of thanks, I will in all justice pluck the
name of my wife, Phyllis Steele-Nagrin, who helped me immeasurably by being the first
to read and comment upon every page as it emerged from the printer.

xi
xii
Introduction

How many dancers believe that work on the internal life of a dance performance is
every bit as demanding as work on the physical? Most professionals labor unstintingly
to achieve absolute command of all the motions, spacings and musical problems of the
choreography and then, as the climactic time of performance approaches, seize upon a
quick fix for the questions of why and for whom they are dancing.
There is a very good chance that many dancers who read the table of contents on the
previous pages will back off with dismay. “What? Does this man imagine that in order
to perform, I must think of avoiding all those pitfalls and choosing all of those ‘right
ways’ just to dance? I learn my moves, rehearse them, try to get into them and then go
out and give it all I have. What more can be asked of a dancer?” More is possible. There
are some brilliant dancers out there gracing our stages, but the problem is that they
are simply “on,” like a 2,000-watt lamp that glows without variation until the switch
is flipped to “off.”
At the heart of why we dancers do all that we do is an experience to which we all
hunger to return if we are to continue. These are the times in classes, rehearsals and best
of all in performance when we are dancing with power, authority and the uninhibited
outpouring of all that we are. This free flow of the body is the expression of our feelings,
our intellect, our inner vision, our beliefs—our totality. Having a solid dance technique
paves the road to this place but it is only a beginning. Few experiences are so harrowing
as performing when this state of being is lacking and when we try to appearr to be deeply
involved. We are forced to put on a show of immersion in the dance when in reality we
are outside watching ourselves: a cold place to be.
There is a technique available to release all our powers in the act of performance,
even in roles that do not come easily to us. It is a technique borrowed from the actors.
In the late twenties, the actors and directors of the Group Theatre, who were pioneering

xiii
 in the use of Constantin Stanislavski’s teachings, saw value in the work of the emerging
modern dance and added dance to their training as actors, and still today actors do this.
It is a bit late, but we can still return the compliment and find the tools to dance better
than ever by studying and applying what actors have to teach us.
The moment a dancer enters the stage arena, he.she has assumed a role and the
performance of a specific act, whether the choreography is abstract or dramatic and
whether its style is ballet, modern, jazz, Flamenco or whatever. To be able to dance with
clarity, authority and the consistent ability to release the deep sources of one’s person,
requires a technique. No spoken dialogue or scenes from plays will be used. This book
will explore in terms of movement alonee the acting techniques that can enhance and
liberate dance performance.

The term specific imagee was the keynote of my previous book Dance and the Specific
Image: Improvisation (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1994) as it is of this
book. A peach is a peach if it has a pit. One doesn’t see the pit unless one digs into the
peach. The specific image for the performing artist is rarely known or seen as such by
the audience. It may be sensed or felt, and when a performance is truly successful, the
audience supplies a pit—a specific image—out of its own life and imagination. It is
then that what we all strive for is happening: the audience is involved and the dancer,
for whom the specific image is as real as the pit in the peach, informs all that she.he does
with strength and conviction. Thus the act of a dance performance becomes a mutual
act of creation by artist and audience. As these pages unfold, the meaning and use of
specific imagee will be explored in detail.

Many of the exercises, games and structures described in Dance and the Specific
Image: Improvisation (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1994) are vital to
an understanding of acting technique for dance performance. They were originally
conceived and developed to serve the life of the Workgroup, a dance company which I
directed from 1970 to 1974. Its risky goal was the performance of improvisation. In my
biased opinion we did succeed, and when the company disbanded I continued to teach
and develop the techniques and exercises as I toured and worked in the university circuit.
About eighty of these are here in this book: selected, modified and directed toward our
present concern. The theory is the same, but the problem at hand is different. The earlier
book was about improvisation—dancing without knowing what will happen next. This
one is about knowing what will come next but experiencing it as spontaneously as an
improvisation. It is about taking dance material that has been rehearsed in every detail
and giving it the semblance of life.

This book has two major sections. Part I, “The Theory” (chapters 1 through 5) presents
the theoretical aspects of acting technique for dance performance, referring the reader

xivv Introduction
 to specifically relevant exercises that are described in detail in part II, the Workbook
(chapters 6 through 13).
It should be noted that the linear structure of part I is not necessarily the best
sequence of approaching the work of developing an acting technique for dance. In the
Workbook, the sequence of exercises is structured as a step-by-step guide for study and
work.
It is too easily assumed that proper study is done in a group situation, either that
of a dance company or a class. In fact, some of the most intense research, study and
practice of our dance art is performed by solitary figures. I myself took fewer and fewer
classes, spending hours and hours alone probing, testing new ideas and ways. All the
exercises will serve groups of two or more dancers. Some can be explored profitably by
a dancer working alone; each of these will be clearly tagged by a superscript dagger (†).

Wherever I teach, I suggest or require that my students read My Life in Artt by Constantin
Stanislavski. It is long, 572 pages, but it is a fast read, written simply and directly. It is
the epic struggle of a man intoxicated by the theatre and a passion to be part of it. He
stumbles from error to error and from revelation to revelation to emerge finally as a
great artist. As his journey proceeds, an insight into his inspired method evolves more
clearly than in any other book I have read on the critical matter of integrity and artistry
in performance, including his own writings on acting technique.

I find it difficult to listen to anyone expounding a point of view without having some
idea of who they are and what are the roots of their experience. Here are my sources:
my initial training in dance was with Ray Moses in the Graham technique and later with
Martha Graham herself. My first ballet study was with Mme. Anderson-Ivantzova and
subsequently with Nenette Charisse and Edward Caton. I never achieved a significant
control of ballet technique. Over the years, at different intervals, I studied acting with
Miriam Goldina, Sanford Meisner and Stella Adler, all fine teachers of the art. In dance,
my most significant teacher and associate was Helen Tamiris, one of the founders of
modern dance and the one who helped me integrate my facility as an actor with my
newly acquired skill as a modern dancer. For fifteen years, I worked with Tamiris in
musical comedy on Broadway, during which time I danced lead roles and had a few
minor speaking parts.
Professionally, I have worked as an actor in stock and Off-Broadway. In 1978–79,
I adapted a novel by Albert Camus, The Fall, as a one man play and performed it Off-
Broadway without dancing a single step. Subsequent to my fifteen years on Broadway,
the major portion of my career has been as a dance soloist. What distinguishes my work
from that of most of my colleagues is that whatever I do—as a dancer—I do not try to
look like something, I am someone doingg something. I never do abstract dance. Having
said that, I will claim that the approach to performance presented here is nonetheless

xvv Introduction
 valid and useful to those who do perform abstract dance, and I may speculate that
the best artists in that genre gain their strength from involvement with a poetic use of
specific images.

Since Helen Tamiris figures so prominently in what follows, it is well to give this brief
portrait, which I first wrote for How to Dance Foreverr (New York: William Morrow, 1988):
Young, she found interpretive dancing in a settlement house on the Lower East Side
of New York. As World War I ended, she joined the ballet of the Metropolitan Opera
House. A few years of that was followed by dancing in Broadway revues, tours on the
movie-vaudeville circuit and night club appearances. Dissatisfied and unconnected
to all the dance training and dance culture she had experienced, she went into the
studio and a year-and-half later emerged with her first solo concert in 1927, one
year after Martha Graham’s debut and a year before that of Doris Humphrey and
Charles Weidman. The language of her body, infused with the energy of her time;
the music contemporary, Debussy, Gershwin, Negro spirituals; her themes, human
and immediate—all were the hallmarks of what came to be known as the Modern
Dance. In her lifetime, five names were always credited with the creation of Modern
Dance in America; Graham, Humphrey, Weidman, Holm and Tamiris. As a dancer
she was a breath-taking panther and as a choreographer she was always probing
and searching for new forms to express her central concern for human dignity.
In the early forties she turned to work, with great success, in the field of musi-
cal comedy; choreographing almost twenty Broadway shows and a few Hollywood
musical films. Finally, in 1960 she returned to the concert field to form the Tamiris-
Nagrin Dance Company.
In addition to her astonishing beauty and power as a dancer and her innovative
choreography, she had a brilliant mind capable of searching analysis, exquisitely
clear exposition and some of the best teaching I’ve ever observed. We were married
and together for over 20 years. (Pp. 267–68)
In many of these pages, I speak from personal experience. I do not do this out of
vanity or to claim that I have the answers. I do it precisely because I do nott have the
answers. There is no attempt here to present a general theory of dance performance
that will apply to all for all time. All I have to offer are my own experiences, studies,
hunches and guesses. If, at times, the tone appears dogmatic, don’t be deceived.
I may believe fiercely but I am sure of nothing. It is my hope that the reader will
always be aware that this is the position of one man and that nowhere does he lay
claim to the truth. By that token, the reader should be all the more ready to think,
choose and reformulate for him.herself. Putting any of this in writing represents a
peril. In some obscure little journal on Buddhism, I read that the Tantrist master

xvii Introduction
 never puts anything in writing because the minute it is on paper it is becoming false
or irrelevant. In his book The Presence of the Actorr (New York: Atheneum, 1984),
Joseph Chaikin, the seminal theatre director wrote, “Theories and systems on paper
are seldom what they are when they are an active process. Once on paper they get
frozen by their most serious adherents, become intractable, and are applied for all
occasions” (p. 34). Read it, study it, think on it, practice it, bend it, twist it or reject
it. It’s all here for you to use by your own lights.

xviii Introduction
xviii
Part One THE THEORY

1
2 The Theory
1 Work on the Self

In the complex task of becoming an artist, there are profound yet subtle differences
among the arts, all hinging upon the question of how much of the self is involved.
The gap between an organist and a dancer is immediately apparent when one consid-
ers the instruments involved. One engages a multiplicity of ranked keys and pedals
with the fingers and the feet; the body of the organist supports every action, but the
focus is in front of the body. The dancer, however, is in her.his instrument—as is the
singer and the actor. The difference is great and imposes special problems. There is
no question that the persona of the musician is in the music but it is the organ we
hear, not the organist.
The dancer-singer-actor fraternity is naked as it were. No instrument separates
them from their audience. They themselves are the matter of their art. Yet there are
differences among them. For the singer, there are the objective elements of the score,
the breath, the vocal quality, the pitch, the rhythm and the pronunciation. Because these
exist in their own integrity apart from the person, it is not at all unusual for them to
become the prime focus of a performance style. We have all heard such singers. They
have glorious voices, exquisite musicianship and yet, they leave themselves out of it.
Dancers similarly work to master the objectives of their craft: strength, limberness,
balance, musicality, linear elegance and the elements of virtuosity in balances, turns
and elevation. The task of achieving these interlocked skills can be overwhelming,
leaving little energy or even interest for further work. The self is there, but is it on a
par with those other concerns? So many times it tags along to the performance, puts
on a smile, a yearning expression or most simply, allows no expression at all.
I will speculate that the actor is the most naked of all. True, there are the objectives
of vocal quality, vocal projection, clarity of pronunciation and a general physical facil-
ity, all of which need to be mastered. But actors can not escape the reality that the raw
clay of their craft and their creative process is their own personality. No matter what

3
 new and unexpected character a Dustin Hoffman or a Meryl Streep creates; the raw
material is their own humanity. Undoubtedly, some actors are so technically accom-
plished that they can manage to keep themselves at a distance in their work and their
performances. In fact, until this century, most actors worked that way, using skillfully
devised gestures and expressions that were a part of learned, traditional, theatrical
conventions. The use of self was limited to a few actors.
Everything in this book seeks to mine the self as the companion of the awesome
beauty and power of an accomplished dance technique. Is there any excitement to equal
the roiling ecstasy of two rivers joining? That is the joining attempted here. This first
chapter examines what it takes to grapple with the complexities of a dancer mastering
the art of performing as a complete human being.

Pride in Your Physical Presence

When I became aware that at some point in the future I was going to write this book,
I began to tape-record classes for two reasons. First, it is much more difficult to write
about this stuff than to teach it in a class of living, bumbling human beings. Their errors
and triumphs are experienced firsthand and analyzed on the spot. Writing demands
a good deal of anecdotal material to melt down the generalizations to vivid specifics.
Second, in the heat of class interactions occasionally one speaks with a graphic clarity
less easily achieved while seated at the computer. Witness this bit of a recorded outburst:
If you want to be a dancer you must have pride in your physical presence. Even
the wildly beautiful have a reservoir of self-hatred and confusion about their bod-
ies. Some women with visibly beautiful breasts are terrified of them because of
the frightening and unwelcome attention they draw. People with long legs have
trouble moving quickly and that embitters them. Both are envied by others lack-
ing these qualities. Everybody is into crucifying themselves. We are our own worst
enemies. And yet, some of the most successful people have something funny in
their bodies. Have you ever noticed the inordinate length of Mikhail Baryshnikov’s
rump—and on such a short man! It happens to be what gets him up in the air,
and when he steps out upon the stage to do his work, wherever his foot falls, you
can read, “Misha was here!”
Every art has a spine upon which the entire structure rests. A singer with the
most luscious voice and a range of four octaves is nowhere with a poor sense of
pitch. A pianist can have a weak pitch sensibility but with an iron rhythmic control
he.she can be one of the best. A percussionist too, can be tone-deaf but still be
convincing and compelling. An actor with a magnificent voice, perfect articula-
tion and a glamorous presence is not an actor unless she.he can play the game of
“pretend” with relish and conviction.

4 The Theory
 A pianist can not go onstage thinking, “I must have good rhythm tonight.”
That has to be learned long before he.she adjusts the bench to play the concerto.
The singer weighted with anxiety about pitch is gone before the mouth opens. A
dancer standing in the wings can suffer all the self-hatred in the world, but at the
moment of stepping into the lights, swells up with the feeling that says, “I’m here!
I didn’t rehearse enough, but I’m here! My legs aren’t long enough, but I’m here,
and at this moment there is nothing else in the whole world!”
Your pride in your physical presence should not depend upon being beautiful.
Beauty is too cheap and too perishable. Too much garbage gets by on the basis of
dreamy looks. All that matters is that you are here! You’re a person with a big bust
or an invisible one, with powerful shoulders or skinny blades, with long legs or
bowed legs—whatever. You’re one of us and you know something that nobody else
knows. When you begin to dance you are doing something for us; you are helping
us live with ourselves. What could be more beautiful or powerful than that?
A dancer without pride in her.his physical presence onstage is a mere shadow.
There are dancers who have a linear elegance that other dancers would kill for,
or with a complete battery of technical skills who, in effect, can disappear before
our eyes. Odds are there never was a dancer who did not hate some part of his.her
appearance, including the very best performers in the profession. But, and this is
a big but, whatever self-loathing they might feel while standing in the wings, the
moment they shift into that other world, the stage, they are transformed, and no
cocky Gypsy in the caves of Andalusia has one bit more conviction that “It is now
time for the world to stop and pay attention to only one thing. Me!”
Until recently it was a given that the complete dancer spent some time studying Span-
ish/Flamenco dance, not so much to perform it but to absorb that poem of pride into
the bone and muscle of the spine. With Flamenco dancers, the conscious theme of
much of what they do is precisely this “song of myself,” to steal a phrase from Walt
Whitman. With wondrous dancers, this pride is not in the forefront of their minds;
it is the electricity that flows up and down their spines and radiates out through the
legs, the arms and particularly in the carriage of the head.
It is sad if this force is weak in “life.” It is a condition that cries for attention, but
not from this book. But, what to do when it is fragile onstage? There is work to be done.
For starters, reading a sixty-page poem might open a few doors or tear a hole in the
ceiling and let you fly. The name of the poem is “Walt Whitman,” written, of course,
by Walt Whitman, in Leaves of Grass. After that, there is “I Sing the Body Electric,” also
by Whitman. Both will provide repeated joy and enlightenment.
One graduate student, Christy Funsch, had this to say on the matter of pride:
Pride onstage to me is the simple willingness to be onstage (which is not simple). I
take pride in the blatant vulnerability that performing demands of me. Not many
can stand so naked and offer up their “shortcomings” (their human-ness). The
ability to do this at all should make one prideful above any physical imperfections.

5 Work on the Self

 workbook Why Do You Dance? †
exercises Your Familiar†
The Spine of Style†
Possessed by a Mannerism†

When You Dance, You Can Lose Your Mind

Anyone truly caught up in dance has had an experience which may never have been
consciously examined. We are dancing in class, rehearsal or onstage and, without notic-
ing it, there is a shift. The music is coming from everywhere, there are no walls, we are
everywhere, our powers know no limits, our senses are revved up. We are the music,
the floor, the lights and at one with our fellow dancers. In street talk, it’s a “high.” Our
language is rich in expressions and words that attempt to pin down this elusive state
of being: ecstasy, bliss, delight, delirium, euphoria, in heaven, rapture, transported,
beatitude, felicity, inspiration, fury, frenzy, sent, unselfconscious, out of one’s mind,
involved, submerged, with it, in it, out of it, flying high, trance, dream, reverie, loss of
self-awareness, intoxicated, involved, absorbed, engrossed, immersed, rapt, rapture,
(and finally, more than anything) losing all sense of time.
Whatever we call it, it happens unexpectedly and cannot be willed except by some
very stupid and self-destructive means. Among performing artists one can discern
three differing attitudes toward this loss of self-awareness: mad for it, in fear of it and
ready for it.
Those who are mad for it demand it as the condition of all performing, all the time.
Liquor or drugs hold the promise of guaranteed highs. The hazards of performances
that coast on inspirations fired by the bottle or the needle are all too apparent.
Dancers who fear and avoid it prefer to be in conscious control at all times. They
distrust spontaneity and the fluidity that welcomes every performance as a new experi-
ence and fear the surprises that well up from their secret caves.
Some performers do everything to make it possible, letting it happen as it may,
never forcing it and never shunning it. This third way brings everything to bear upon
the task at hand. If the performing ecstasy envelops them, they embrace it; if it doesn’t,
they plow forward, carried by all the thought, rehearsing and integrity needed for the
performance.
When we are dancing immersed in this state of “losing our mind,” we are not quite
accountable, but we are responsible for how we get there. The route lies along a road
carved by hard work, our taste, our training and our philosophy of dance and of life.
That road is a synonym for who we are. It is my hope that in the work ahead, readers
will discover a tool or two to cut through the thickets of debilitating self-consciousness
to find those moments of timeless freedom.
The problem in starting any creative session—a rehearsal, a class, a workshop or

6 The Theory
 a performance—is in getting the heart/mind warm, free and ready for any adventure,
whether intellectual or emotional. The heart/mind is an elusive beast, a secret garden, a
private hell—depending on what you have hidden there behind your body/face mask.
Getting to it is one of the central problems of being an artist, and for that matter, of
being a human being. It was the question that haunted Stanislavski and spurred the
development of his seminal technique of performing.
A premise of our time and one that I accept is that we humans operate with two
distinct areas of awareness: one, the intellectual, the cerebral, the mind; and the other,
the irrational, the heart, the dream world, the unconscious or the subconscious. I fan-
tasize an ideal way of being: that these two areas coexist, merely separated by a beaded
curtain through which one can pass at will and, while in one area, maintain a glimpse
of the other. Heart/mindd is the word I like to use, thinking of the slash as that beaded
curtain. I am troubled by anyone who elevates or values one of these more than the
other. I tend to define mental and emotional illness as the domination of one or the
other. We have health when the heart and the mind exist as an interactive unity.
The first techniques I found for myself and others of making it possible to ar-
rive at “losing the mind” focused on the use of rhythm. Rhythm sparked my earliest
work with actors, with dancers and with the Workgroup. It can be the ritualistic way
to start work sessions and performances. Like a meditation—a movement medita-
tion—it is a way of entering the body, getting it going, cutting loose from the mess of
the outside, relaxing the militant control of the mind, turning the wall between the
two consciousnesses into a “beaded curtain” and best of all, connecting with where
we are at the moment.
workbook Spinning†
exercises The Mind-Wash†
True Repetition†
Evolving Repetition†
Lose Your Head†

Relish the Game of Pretending

What we do onstage, we did as children: we “make believe” that what is not so is so.
If this embarrasses, the performer is in deep trouble. Whoever feels silly in this game
of pretending has taken the wrong train. It must be pursued actively, or only a part of
the job is being done. I believe that there is no way to enter the stage space, to appear
before the “others,” the audience, without assuming a role, regardless of what the post-
modern theorists claim in their manifestos. How can you present your dance material
without having a specific character to which you will adhere until that time when you
leave the stage and become something/someone different than you were a moment

7 Work on the Self

 ago? You change when you step on the stage and you change when you leave it. In
that interval between entering and leaving is what Stanislavski called “the magic if.”
It is as iff you were bits of hard light leaping off polished metal. It is as iff you were
a woman trapped in the body of a swan. It is as iff you just lost the one who was most
precious to you. It is as iff you want nothing more than to please and amuse the audi-
ence. It is as iff you are the living re-creation of a fragile, elegant design. It is as iff there
is nothing more important in the world than your skillful and precise execution of
a string of movements given to you by a great artist. It is as iff you see before you an
endless vista of a rich land which you will plow and plant. It is as iff you are the son of
the king and your body can do anything you dream of. It is as iff you are certain that
your wife is deceiving you. It is as iff you are making love to the music.
There is no end to these “as ifs.” With each new choreography, each new role, each
return to an old role, a dancer finds a new “as if.” The dance comes to life when the
“as if ” is poetically relevant to the dance work, when it is believed with the conviction
that a child brings to the game of “let’s pretend” and when it charges the dancer intel-
lectually, emotionally and down to her.his very bones.
Among actors and directors, one may occasionally overhear the phrase, “Oh,
he.she makes such daring and wonderful choices.” Within the context of preparing
a particular dance there are always many choices possible—many ways of doing the
same role. It is here that the choreographer can help the dancer by giving him.her the
freedom to create a personal “as if ” or, if the dancer is floundering, giving an “as if ”
that will challenge and spark the energy and the imagination in the game of pretend
which is what we call theatre.
workbook All of the work asks for pretending to one degree or another. The exercises on this list
exercises emphasize the poetic leap of imagination.
Visualization†
Who or What Is Alive in the Music?†
Gesture Permutations†
Seeing Through the Eyes of Another†
The Inner Rhythm of the Role†
The Obstacle†
Passing Through a Physical Object†
Slalom†
Faces
A Duet
Not Naming†
The Other
Each Alone†
The Duet as a Structure
Prison†

8 The Theory
Recall Your Earliest Performing Instructions

One year, before I taught acting technique for dancers for the first time, I attended a
performance of one of our major dance companies. Though I was always critical of
the direction of the work, I much admired the choreography and the beauty of the
dancing. The three dances on the program were all abstract in nature but differed
radically from one another. Somewhere deep into the third work, I became aware of
something I had not noticed before. Despite the differences in costumes, music and
choreography, the dancers were doing the same thing all evening. Not that the dancers
were similar to each other. Far from it. One man was a severely earnest acolyte who
flashed his lithe legs about like lethal sabers—all evening long. One woman continually
tossed a shiny head of hair, letting everyone know how wonderful it all was, her face
lit with a subtle smile. Another woman was grimly devoted to every moment. A man
danced the most complex intricacies with a distant and passionless objectivity. And
so it went. Every dancer had his.her own inner agenda which never changed over the
course of three completely different works nor at any time during a particular work.
The leader was another matter: he was never the same from one minute to the next.
I knew from talking to former company members that the choreographer gave
movements and that was all. It was unthinkable to ask or even assume that a dance
was about something or that there were individual characters to be developed for
each piece. The only responsibility was to the movement, and much of it was elegant,
virtuosic and full of surprises. That night, I suddenly had a vision of these dancers as
very young children in their cute little costumes, gathered backstage for their very first
performance. Their dance teacher is giving them what will become the most important
instructions of their lives on the stage and they will never ever forget what they are be-
ing told. More accurately, they forget what they have been told but will always do what
they were told.
When I arrived at the American Dance Festival to teach Acting Technique for Dance
Performance, the first assignment I gave was to answer the question, “What were the
instructions you received for your first performance?” In the years since, every such
class started with that question. Following is a collection. (There is a reason for that
little line to the left of each of the urgent injunctions listed below. Mark up this book
with a check next to the ones that apply to your own earliest forays into the theatre.)
Linny had the longest list:
___ Smile at the audience.
___ Stop trying to be the star.
___ Look straight at the audience.
___ Stay with the group.
___ Never allow your “butt” to face the audience.
___ When you’re onstage, turn on.

9 Work on the Self

 ___ Give everything you got.
___ Never look down onstage.
___ Always try to be in the front.
___ Be aggressive.
___ Watch the other dancers.
___ Be natural, not fake.
___ When you perform—give!
___ If you make a mistake, don’t let anyone know.
___ Be more dramatic.
___ Be less dramatic.
___ Never wear panties under leotards and tights.
Sharon:
___ Look over the heads of the audience to avoid eye contact.
___ Keep your expression neutral, but likely.
___ Keep going at all costs.
___ Smile only when it’s appropriate.
___ Get into “character” before you go onstage.
Cecily:
___ Always a sense of giving, giving, giving, more, more, more, and out,
out, out to the audience was emphasized, but what and how were left
unattended. I often did not know what I was smiling about or projecting.
Denna:
___ Enjoy yourself and don’t frown.
___ If you look like you’re having fun, the audience will too.
___ Pale people need to wear lots of eye makeup.
___ Try to make all movements as sharp and clear as possible.
___ Never let the audience know when you are uncomfortable, whether you
forgot something, you’re hurt or whatever.
___ Don’t cry onstage, because then you are no longer in control.
___ You can fake a cry, but don’t really do it.
___ Don’t upstage your fellow performers.
___ Try not to offend your audience.
___ Try to be as involved as possible with what is going on onstage.
___ Don’t use a fake smile—but do try to let the joy of performing show
through your eyes and let the audience know how much you love what you
are doing.

10 The Theory
 ___ The show must go on—no matter what.
___ The material that is being performed and the performance of it is far more
important than makeup, costume, lights, etc.
___ You must perform your material as honestly and fully as you can.
___ Do your very best and hope the audience likes it.
Gail:
___ I was told to rub a generous amount of Vaseline petroleum jelly on my
teeth, before going onstage.
___ Stare out to the audience with a pearly white smile.
___ The one rule I follow and will never forget was given to me by my father,
“Give ‘em Hell, Gaily.”
Matt:
___ Broaden each emotion and gesture, because everyday, natural movement
was not big enough and wouldn’t reach beyond the first few rows of seats.
___ Be vulnerable, be open, be willing to exchange energies with fellow dancers.
Heidi:
___ The fruits of success could be ours if we had a great smile and really sold it.
The smile was practiced by placing the index finger between the upper and
lower set of teeth so there was a nice big space and pulling the lips back so
all the teeth were showing.
Carol:
___ Smile, project, focus on exit signs above the audience. Do not glaze the
eyes.
___ Put vaseline on teeth to prevent smile stickage.
___ Use extra strength deodorant.
___ Do not count with lips moving.
___ The teacher walked around whacking dancers in the stomach and
screaming, “Look like you enjoy yourself. No one wants to watch a dancer
in pain.”
___ Work intelligently.
___ No jewelry.
___ Avoid tension. It develops violin strings in neck.
Donna
___ Absolutely NO talking.
___ Absolutely NO crying.
___ Absolutely NO gum chewing.
___ Absolutely NO eating backstage.

11 Work on the Self

 ___ Absolutely NO jewelry with costumes.
___ Absolutely NO panties with costumes.
___ Absolutely NO dancers are to talk to the teacher the night of the
performance, she has too many other responsibilities.
___ Never look at your feet.
___ Don’t be nervous: Your mother will be backstage with you until the show
starts.
___ You must do good because your mommies, daddies and grandmas will all
be in the audience watching to see how much has been learned.
___ Dance to the fourth balcony.
Connie:
___ Never go onstage without false eyelashes.
Dorina:
___ The performer before going onstage has to concentrate everything of
himself into the fact. He has not to think about himself or about the
audience, he has just to consider himself and the audience into the same
fact. If he makes the fact vivid, from this vitality there will come a growing
life between the audience and the performer, between the audience and the
audience and between the performer and the performer. To existt as much
as possible onstage with himself and all the opposition factors he includes
lightness and heaviness, wideness and narrowness, highness and shortness
and play with freedom and control and all the colors in between them.
Every performance should be like a birth till death and a death till birth. A
circle in perpetual movement. Be generous in movement. Believe in what
you are and what you’re doing.
No name:
___ Breathe!
Among the psychologists who study learning, there is a phenomenon called im-
printing. As described in the Encyclopedia Britannica (1973): “The phenomenon of
imprinting is an example of behavior primarily learned . . . by which an early experi-
ence of a young animal determines its consequent social behavior. In one of the first
experiments investigating this process, Lorenz [Konrad Lorenz, an Austrian psycholo-
gist who studied animal behavior in reference to human behavior] divided a clutch of
eggs laid by a graylag goose into two groups. One group was hatched by the goose, the
other was incubator hatched. The goslings hatched by the goose followed it as soon as
they could walk; the incubator-hatched offspring, however, were exposed not to the
goose but to Lorenz, whom they followed about as the others followed the goose.”
Humans do this too. Invariably, when I introduce an exercise or game in an im-
provisation class or workshop, the pattern chanced upon by the person who begins

12 The Theory
 the movement is picked up by almost everyone. The instructions given to children
prior to the traumatic experience of that first time onstage are potentially an imprinted
pattern that, unbeknownst to us, may be controlling us today in our adulthood.
Not good. Though many of them are ridiculous, pathetic and vulgar, a few are
genuinely valuable and some are even poetic. It is worth more than a moment to relive
those times when you were initiated into the theatre and to cull what may be guid-
ing you to this day. Enrich it if it still serves to release your powers and shun it if you
recognize it as pathetic.
workbook Your First Performance Instruction†
exercises
Perform according to your first performance instructions.

Observation, Imitation and Imagination

These three—observation, imitation and imagination—can be seen as the pillars
supporting the bridge that arcs from “life” into art. Weaken one and the bridge will
wobble or fall. Let the force of each bolster the other and there is a chance of arriving.

Observation
If you believe that there is more to dance than elegant athleticism, if you believe that
beyond all those pliés is the possibility of becoming an artist, you will want to spend
most of your life observing, observing, observing—not because you should but because
of your insatiable greed to blot up all you can experience. You will be committed to
the work of continuous observation whenever and wherever you are, without dis-
crimination and without fastidiousness. You will be curious about the design of coat
hooks, the texture of adobe walls, the movement of people’s rumps, their intonation
as they tell you how wonderful you look, and you will not be able to take your eyes
from your sleeping cat.
Our work is to pay attention, to become a storehouse of information, all the time
accepting an enormous responsibility: each of us is seeing things no one else sees.
Each of us is experiencing things in a way no one else does. In this infinite universe,
each of us knows very little, but some part of it no one else knows but you. We become
artists when we know what it is we know that no one else knows and are possessed by
the compulsion to tell the others of it. We peer into the dark and catch a glimpse of
what we feel compelled to share with the others. What we observe is the raw material
of our art.
The following is a transcript from a class at the American Dance Festival:
Daniel: Being truthful to an object other than you is the beginning of learning
your craft. The inner life of a person who hardly moves could be a tornado. I

13 Work on the Self

 suspect that most quiet people whom I know contain a tumultuous turbulence.
It takes place deep in their salt mine, and all there is to observe is a barely
perceptible tremor. If you penetrate into the salt mine you may find out what is
there. How are you going to get into the cave, the salt mine, from the outside?
You don’t know what’s inside, you’re on the outside. The armor may be steel-
plated but somewhere the wall is thin. Somewhere what’s inside is entwined
with the outside. You’re looking at someone and, “Ha! What’s that going on
with the hands?” Sometimes the only time you can tell what’s going on inside
is by the angle of the neck. Everything else is concealed or controlled. You need
sharp eyes. More, you have to want to know w because some things in the salt
mine may be upsetting.
Student: Yea, okay, and so you can identify what is going on in the salt mine.
Then what?
Daniel: Then you either get scared and run away or you say just as quickly,
“Now I am beginning to see. Now I think I know something of what’s going
on.” What will you do with that hunch or insight? You will never know until
and if it suddenly appears in the context of a creative act.
workbook What Quickened You?†
exercises Seeing Through the Eyes of Another
Walk Behind Another†
Slalom†
Rhythm Portrait†
Take a Walk in Your Own World
Faces
The Minnesota Duet
Tandem Solo
Relay Solo

Imitation
Imitation is the method by which we learned to say “Mama,” learned to spot turns,
learned to do something like the artists who made us breath faster, and finally learned
the moves thrown at us by choreographers. A professional dancer is a professional imi-
tator. A dancer who finds imitation difficult may be a rigid person, fearful of changes,
deliberately creating and protecting a particular manner. There are dancers who amass
a formidable technique encased in a cast-iron personal style. They audition well and
drive crazy the choreographers who hire them.
As I was preparing the final revision of this text, I was reminded by the above
paragraph of the profound influence of one woman and three men on how I grew in
dance. I saw Louise Kloepper perform a solo in Hanya Holm’s Trend. Her elevation

14 The Theory
 was magical. It looked as if she were descending from the stage flies. She did a turning
jeté I must have practiced a hundred times. I saw Leonid Massine in two of his own
creations, Three Cornered Hatt and Gaieté Parisienne. I was awed by his speed, double air
turns finishing with absolutely perfect stops, intricate, articulate footwork and above
all, the ever-present glittering intelligence and zest that carried him about the stage.
Avon Long was Sportin’ Life in Porgy and Bess. His jazz was unlike anyone’s. He barely
touched the ground. He too had speed—like a hummingbird’s wings. His intricate
footwork and fluent legs dazzled me. Most miraculous of all was a breath-taking split
leap that came from nowhere. Hans Zullig was quite a short man, exquisitely shaped
and in command of the most immaculate technique. Every position was an ideal, every
move was like sweet cream and his turns like dreaming. Recalling him, I would spend
hours launching into arabesque turns that started in deep demi-plié and in the course
of the turning rose slowly to stop in full relevé. I think I succeeded once.
How many hours did I pursue the glories of this woman and these gentlemen?
Not to be counted, and it has to be said that unbeknownst to them, they were among
my best teachers. I studied for a couple of months with Edward Caton. His feet were
like butter, and powerful. It was a delight to see him move, but my real teacher in that
class was another student, the brilliant Leon Danielian. I came to dance with strong
elevation but from the moment I entered that class, I became aware that Leon, who
was a phenomenal jumper, was doing something different—something I was not do-
ing. From then on, I saw to it that I was positioned behind him on the floor or in the
diagonals, particularly when there was any jumping to be done. Being a good imitator,
I could feel something better and after a few weeks, I realized that he used a blindingly
fast and shallow w plié. It was radically different from the deep, powerful plié of André
Eglevsky, and it worked for me.
In the history of art, there are countless stories of artists making deliberate “cop-
ies” of those who fill them with awe; it is one way to learn important elements of the
craft. This does not contradict my previous discussion of style and imprinting. Indi-
viduality is not lost through imitation but rather it is asserted, first because the choice
is personal, and second because the artist uses what has been learned in shaping his.
her distinctive statement. The process enriches the young artist and can be practiced
in class, as I did with Danielian, or in the privacy of the studio. To quote Miles Davis,
“You have to play a long time before you can play like yourself.”
workbook Gifts
exercises Medicine Ball
Outrageous Travel
Seeing Through the Eyes of Another†
Walk Behind Another†
Take a Walk in Your Own World

155 Work on the Self

 Imagination
Imagination is the third pillar supporting that bridge into art. Without it, it’s all dry
craft. Imagination is really a form of recombinant memory. You can’t imagine anything
beyond your experience, but you can take pieces of your experience and put them to-
gether in ways that no one has ever imagined.
Observation and imitation feed the skill of imagination. These three will shape your
art. Your audience will probably never know your specific image, your X, but unless
your artistic feet are grounded in experiences that have touched you, you are in great
danger of telling lies, dancing generalizations, offering us fabricated information you
barely experienced, interpretations you don’t care about or a heat wave of physicality
covering up an inner void.
If there’s any world that has ever needed attention, it’s the one we live in. If we
don’t pay attention to it, it may rot in our lifetime. I hope the artists take the lead. The
scientists pay attention, but all too often they give us only better pesticides and missiles.
workbook Any and all will serve. How can you begin to dance without the springboard of
exercises imagination? Still, in a quiet moment, resting, going to sleep, try either or both of
these as journeys of the mind:
Backdoor†
The Hub Meditation†

Keep a Journal

Daily, you are bombarded by impressions, experiences and golden bits you are resolved
to remember and perhaps even use one day in your work. You will certainly remember
some of these precious nuggets, and it is equally probable that too much may be lost.
A remark by a teacher in the middle of the class illuminates your mind like lightning
at midnight. A theatre reviewer’s comment on Ophelia gives you a shocking insight on
love. Looking at a maple tree blazing red in the fall, a wild line of words sings through
your head. A crazy idea for a dance is there in front of you as you are late and dressing
for class. What is going to happen to all that stuff?
If you do not write it down as soon as possible, half the time you will remember
that you had a great idea but can’t recall what it was. Do not write it down on a piece
of paper which is fated to be lost the next time you clean out your practice bag. Write
it in a bound blank book that goes with you, everywhere. Find a style that you like and
buy a dozen—lined or unlined, locked or unlocked, scented or unscented—date them,
and one day when you haven’t an idea in your head, you will open the book and your
motor will be running in high again.

166 The Theory

Read a Book

“Read a Book” is short for being cultured, knowing where you come from and what
your contemporaries are doing and what your ancestors did, not only in dance, but
in painting, literature, music, architecture, film, history, anthropology, politics and
whatever else is out there. “Read a Book” is not simple or easy, so plan to spend your
life doing it.
It behooves every dancer to know what’s happening in the field. And yet, seeing
too much dance can crowd your mind and your creative machinery particularly when
deeply involved with creating new material. There is a remarkable book by a British
biologist, W. I. B. Beveridge, The Art of Scientific Investigation (New York: Norton,
1950). I have used it as the text for advanced choreography classes because I think it
is the best book on the creative method for artists as much as it is for scientists:
The research worker remains a student all his life. . . . It is usual to study closely
the literature dealing with the particular problem on which one is going to work .
. . however, . . . some scientists consider this is unwise. They contend that reading
what others have written on the subject conditions the mind to see the problem
in the same way and make it more difficult to find a new and fruitful approach.
There are even some grounds for discouraging an excessive amount of reading in
the general field of science in which one is going to work. . . . When a mind loaded
with a wealth of information contemplates a problem, the relevant information
comes to the focal point of thinking, and if that information is sufficient for the
particular problem, a solution may be obtained. But if that information is not
sufficient—and this is usually so in research—then the mass of information makes
it more difficult for the mind to conjure up original ideas. (Pp. 3–5)
Successful scientists have often been people with wide interests. Their originality
may have derived from their diverse knowledge. . . . originality often consists in
linking up ideas whose connection was not previously suspected. Therefore reading
ought not to be confined to the problem under investigation nor even to one’s own
field of science, nor indeed to science alone. . . . [The scientist] rarely has enough
time to do all that he would like to . . . and so he has to decide what he can afford
to neglect. . . . However, I do not wish to imply that subjects should be judged on a
purely utilitarian basis. It is regrettable that we scientists can find so little time for
general literature. . . . One of the research worker’s duties is to follow the scientific
literature, but reading needs to be done with a critical, reflective attitude of mind
if originality and freshness of outlook are not to be lost. Merely to accumulate
information as a sort of capital investment is not sufficient. (Pp. 7–17)

177 Work on the Self

 Probably the biggest problem of all is keeping one’s balance in a world of paradoxes.
“Read a book” andd don’t read too much!
workbook The Reading List†
exercise

Too Much and Not Enough

Every time I read about the serious problem of “hyperactive” children, a suspicion lurks
in my mind that some of these “problem” children are actually high energy, spirited,
creative individuals who terrify limited and unimaginative teachers and yes, parents.
How many high energy, spirited and creative dancers have been squelched by limited
and untalented teachers?
Speaking for myself, I will always welcome “too much” in a student and be dis-
tressed by those students who make virtues of control, “good taste,” restraint and any
number of rationalizations for doing less rather than more. My logic is simple. It is
easier to trim, hone and polish raw, explosive energy than to light a fire under damp,
unadventurous dullness. There are teachers who are literally threatened by the volatile
and the unpredictable; their weapons are words like “too personal,” “self-indulgent,”
and “You are emoting!” The tone of voice is clearly an indictment of bad taste.
Sadly, there are some students who have settled for mediocrity. At some time in
their search for the ecstasy of dance, they decide that their talent is a limited one and
resign themselves to work within safe and easily reached parameters. They acquire the
basic skills, learn to look as if they are really dancing and after a while work their way
to the status of a teacher of dancers and even a choreographer for others. These are
probably the ones I am describing, the repressors of the irrepressibles.
Perhaps the saddest of all are the gifted ones who trash themselves as inadequate.
They are the hardest to help and even harder to notice.
If dance is what you really need, know your limitations andd your strengths. Reach
past the weaknesses and around them. Hone your powers. Learn to see the full range
of your talent in a clear light. This is not an easy task, but it is a required one. With
the courage of a secret self-perspective, your limitations can become a part of your
charm. Here’s how I phrased it once in class:
Raise your r.p.m.’s throughout, not just in the gestures that “connect” for you or
in the technically hard places but also in the transitions and places where there’s
nothing “hard” to do. Find the movement motivation and its opposite. Find mate-
rial that “lights your fire.” Don’t be afraid of taking up too much room or making
too much noise. Assert your spine. Dance all the way. Don’t be afraid of the big
motion. All dancers are too short. What would happen if you allowed it all to
come out? You would be rich, for you would have much from which to choose!

18 The Theory
 This argument is not for everything to be on a massive scale; one should not be
afraid of the small motion either. What I advocate is the fearless response to what is
needed at each moment—a shout or a whisper, a furiously percussive motion or a
floating stillness.
This brings up the matter of taste. Taste is what you acquire if and when you be-
come what we call “cultivated” or “cultured.” It does not mean that your values agree
with the majority or the cognoscenti (who are usually some fashionable clique). It
means that you have an awareness of how you have evolved as an artist and a person,
what is happening in life and particularly in art, and in the light of all that knowing,
you have made choices. These may be choices which no one else may accept. If that is
the case, all you will need is the courage to stay with what you found is true for you.
Poor taste or no taste are the marks of one who weisst von gurnichtt (one who knows
from nothing). Taste means choosing from an internal sense of rightness, by one who
has the awareness and the capacity to make a wide range of choices. W. I. B. Beveridge
uses the word in a more specialized way, identifying taste with the intuitive ability to
pursue productive lines of research (The Art of Scientific Investigation, pp. 1005–08).
In dance, there are talented people who make the fatal error of choosing and staying
with a teacher or a choreographer who is wrong for them. It is called “failed taste.” By
the time the mistake is recognized too much time may have gone by.
To return to the matter of the fear of “too much,” women frequently exhibit this
syndrome. Someplace along the way of growing up, most probably very early, they
learned that to be a girl, you mustn’t make too much noise or take up too much room.
Delicate, elegant, fragile and modest are the ladylike tickets to success as a female.
Whatever move the teacher or choreographer gives out, these dancers trim it back to
good taste and a “reasonable” proportion. Nothing could be more self-defeating. It is
sad when a woman tries to appear female when that is what she is, and so it is when
a man tries to appear manly—whatever that might be. There is no ideal template for
female or for male, there are only the infinite variations and blends that go to make
the complexity of humans. As the Beatles sang long ago, “Let it be,” and do what needs
to be done. Pay attention to the moment. If the door is stuck, push hard; and if it isn’t
stuck, open it with your finger. Don’t perform. Forget style. Do each thing as fully as
it needs doing.
Student: The energy in me feels genuine. I don’t feel hysterical but people say to
me, “Gee, what a hysterical woman.”
Daniel: You have the loveliest error of all. I’d rather deal your problem of too
much than not enough.
Student: Yes, but though you’re not afraid of too much, most people are.
Daniel: Well, we have a serious question: What are you afraid of? Most people?

19 Work on the Self

workbook Every exercise in the Workbook is a challenge to deliver all that is necessary and
exercises nothing superfluous. What is the key to this delicate balance? There is the constant
call to give up a focus on self and pour all of the attention upon the task at hand. If
that becomes the way you work, the question of too much or not enough should not
appear. If the door is stuck, push hard.

20 The Theory
 2 Eroding Elements of the
Performing State
By the time most dancers are ready to become professionals, they have already ingrained
in them qualities and ways of working that profoundly affect whatever it is they have
to offer as artists. Some of these are taken for granted. Take the matter of style. It is a
given that one must have style. For many, this means that one must be “stylish” (up
to the minute). It is generally assumed that one must cultivate an attractive style. The
belief presented here is that each of these three thrusts—having a style, being “stylish,”
and working to be attractive—is precisely what destroys the most precious gift an artist
can offer: his.her individuality.

The Crutches of Style

The Crutch of a Personal Style
If a dancer cultivates a particular style, there is a whole world of otherness that is
closed off to that artist. By proudly asserting, “This is what I do and I do it very well,”
there is the admission that, “There is very little else I can do.” No. If you’re a human
being, your range of possibilities is awesome. You open them up by your unrelenting
need to observe others, your skill in imitation and your faith in the boundless range
of your imagination. You free yourself to dance in many ways by not protecting and
defending one way.

The Crutch of Peer Style

Young people tend to be the victims of peer pressure. The terror of being “different” is
the terror of being isolated from the group. Why is this fear so intense? For most, being
young is a hard passage. At the core of this unease is the question of identity. The time

21
 of commitment and the entrance into responsibility is approaching. “Who am I and
what am I going to be and do?” The closest hook to an identity are your companions.
Step out of their circle and you’re nothing. It is at this stage that the mentoring of a
compassionate teacher means so much. Think of Edward Villela caught up in dance
but surrounded by a community that considered dance for a man as inconceivable. It
was only by a delayed and convoluted path that he was finally able to plunge into the
work of becoming a dancer. Truth to tell, there are not too many adults who have the
nerve to walk alone, and many fall into imitative patterns unconsciously.

The Crutch of Charm

An article in the New York Times quoted the eminent actor, Frank Langella, discussing
his work as the lead actor in Arthur Miller’s After the Fall: “It could be the single worst
trap for an actor: to want to be liked. . . . It’s a stultifying insecurity. It’s in me, it’s in all
of us, and we must fight it. To want to be liked is to ultimately compromise. You begin
to live for other people. It shouldn’t rule your life and it shouldn’t rule the roles you
play” (November 5, 1984).
If this charm gambit is a trap for actors, it certainly is pervasive in dance. For
centuries, the chief focus of dance was entertainment, seduction and yes, charm. In
our field, there is the ever-present self-conscious decorativeness of dancers with which
every director and choreographer must deal.
During the second evening of an improvisation workshop, I slid a folding chair
out into the center of the room and deliberately pointed to an attractive, skillful and
elegantly decorative dancer and said, “I have a challenge for you. Can you pass under
that chair without moving it?” It looked to be an impossible task and yet, with care-
ful maneuvering and much concentration she emerged on the other side of the chair,
disheveled, panting a bit and somewhat confused. I asked, “While you were trying to
achieve what you thought was a ridiculous and somewhat impossible task, were you
aware of how you looked?” Wide-eyed, she shook her head. “Were you trying to look
good while you were doing it?” “No,” she said, still somewhat confused by this weird
assignment in a dance workshop.
Having given this task many times since, what am I getting at? Almost every minute
and detail of every dance class we have ever taken is an arrow pointed clearly at the
ideal of looking good, looking beautiful. That’s what the whole thing is about, isn’t it?
What’s wrong with trying to get an audience to think you look beautiful? For some,
this exercise is perhaps the first time they just do something without trying to look
good doing it. The object, to pass under the chair without moving it, is not muddied
with a focus on appearance or style.
Stanislavski has an even better story: An acting student is given a situation by the
director: her mother has lost her job and there will no longer be any money for her
tuition at the theatre training school. A friend, who has no cash to lend her, offers a

22 The Theory
 valuable brooch. The gift is refused. The friend, unnoticed, pins the brooch in the folds
of a curtain and as she leaves says, “I have left it for you somewhere in the room.” The
student rushes back into the room and flees from one spot to another with bold and
tragic gestures of anguish. There is a great show of searching everywhere and finally
the student returns to her seat flushed and triumphant. The director asks to see the
brooch. She, “Oh, I forgot that,” and rushes back to the stage to look for it. The direc-
tor calls out to tell her that if she does not really find the brooch, she will be dismissed
from the school and no longer be able to attend the classes. This time there was no
demonstration; the search was a search—intense, slow, careful and quietly desperate.
When questioned afterward, the student much preferred the first way, “I was excited,
I suffered.” The director told her that she was believable the second time. “Your first
search was bad. The second was good.” “Oh,” she said, “I nearly killed myself the first
time” (An Actor Prepares [New York: Theatre Arts, 1972], pp. 35–37).
Can one lose focus on one’s own person and throw all one’s attention to the object?
Is it possible that one can achieve a beauty, a self-realization, yes, even a virtuosity, by
this discipline of losing the self? What is being projected here is indeed an aesthetic and
an implied ethic, not unlike that of the ancient Chinese Taoists. The search is for the
revelation of what is, not with what is made. Beauty is identified with light, with vision,
with insight, not with ordering. Highly significant thinkers in art have said that art is
the bringing of order to the chaos of life. The Taoists of ancient China believed that life
is ordered, not chaotic, and that understanding, insight, science and art are engaged
in findingg that order. How to do this? For the Taoists, it lies in being open to The Way,
The Tao, to what is there. This means paying attention and being receptive on all levels
without preconception. It means that focus on the self neglects vision of the object. It
attempts to dispense with history—to see as a child sees. For adults this is difficult and
well nigh impossible on a pure and absolute level. How to even approach this way, this
mind-set? The first step is to forgo the deadly demand for the “pure and the absolute.”
The second is to look past the self and seek the object, the task, the other. Observe the
surfer who succeeds only when totally absorbed in the vagaries of the wave he.she is
riding at that moment. You can’t surf the last wave or the next wave, only this wave.
If at the center of your reason for being on the stage is to be liked, to be admired,
to be loved for any reason—for your skill, for your looks, for your sexuality and yes,
even for your great talent—there is a very good chance that you will be. How will you
achieve this “success”? You will flaunt your technique, your fabulous musculature, your
stunning figure or your refined profile. You will aggressively call attention to yourself
whether or not you are the central figure. What happens to the choreography, to the
intentions and design of the choreographer, to the character and quality of the role
you have been given? It is bent, distorted or lost in the blaze of your brilliance, your
sexiness, your gorgeous tresses or whatever treasure you so generously share with the
audience. More important, what happens to you? In this flirting with the audience, you
learn to give them what you think they want, not what you have to offer as an artist.

23 Eroding Elements of the Performing State

 And Yet What Is Style?
From my second year in college, I not only studied dance, but I worked in a few dance
companies. My first truly professional company was directed by Anna Sokolow. With
a barely adequate technique, I was taken into the company in the 1939–40 season that
culminated in my first Broadway performance in the Alvin Theatre. Late one afternoon,
I was returning from rehearsal in the company of one of the other dancers, a man called
Maurice Silver. He wasn’t very good either, but what was Anna to do? There were so
few male dancers, choreographers took what they could find.
As we were waiting for the train, Maurice, who was usually a kind man, said to me,
“It’s true, you are really working very hard, but you don’t have any style. That is going
to take a lot of time. You’ll just have to be patient.” Of course, I was jolted and hurt and
may have angrily asked, “What are you talking about? What the hell is style?” No reply
from Maurice sits in my memory, only my offended pride.
A few weeks later, also in a late afternoon, I had a few minutes to rest after a rehearsal
and before taking the subway home. I was alone, sitting on a park bench in Madison
Square Park, just looking at the bare branches and enjoying the crisp early spring air,
when from nowhere a sentence appeared in my mind: “Style is personal authority.” Just
the thought of it released a band of tension through my whole body. At the time, I did
not analyze why I felt so much better about myself, but recently, as I told this story to
my wife, it became clear to me. How could I, just a beginner, have personal authority
when my dance control and knowledge were so pitifully limited? Maurice was right. I
did not have style, but with work and patience I would acquire style and I would then
be responsible for what I did as an artist.
Good professional dancers do have style, defined as personal authority. They have
the craft and the knowledge and the taste to make the vital choices that go into the
creation of a dance role and a style that is inherent in that role. This is quite different
from having a particular style that curtails the dancer’s performance options.
workbook Medicine Ball
exercises Outrageous Travel
The Obstacle†
Passing Through a Physical Object†
Walk Behind Another†
The Inner Rhythm of the Role†
Your Familiar†
Each Alone†
Before, After and On†
Take a Walk in Your Own World
The Spine of Style†
Possessed by a Mannerism†
I Dare You†
The Minnesota Duet

24 The Theory
Performing for the Audience: Seen and Unseen

More times than once I have had my eyes opened to a new way of seeing what I have
been looking at for years. Many such illuminations have been provided by Joseph
Chaikin, the director of the Open Theatre.
On the Audience
One of the baffling questions for the actor is “Who is the audience?” . . . Every per-
former makes some decision about the audience in his own mind: personalizing,
making specific the anonymous. He makes a secret choice, in the course of events,
as to “who” the audience is. In attributing a particular quality to the audience,
one invites the participation of that quality. Who is he secretly addressing? The
casting agent present in the audience? The critic who could advance his career?
His parents? The ghost of Gandhi? His greatest love? Himself? The same action
addressing each of these has in it a very different message. To whom does the ac-
tor personally dedicate his performance? (The Presence of the Actorr [New York:
Atheneum, 1972], pp. 140–41)
Chaikin suggests here that this choice tends to be made without thinking, a choice
that becomes an integral part of our theatrical baggage without our being aware of it.
He is saying that we cannot allow these patterns to act upon us unquestioned. They
need to be raised up to the level of our conscious thought and consideration. Nothing
in what he says applies exclusively to actors. It is addressed to everyone who ventures
upon the stage and actually to all who present the self to the public in any art form.
You can dedicate your motion at any time: in class, in rehearsal, in performance, in
creating a dance. Rather than to “someone,” it can be to “an animal of which you are in
awe,” or to “a place of great beauty.” Many variations are possible. In an improvisation
session, when I call out, “Dedicate your motion to someone who is not here,” I always
witness a subtle change in the dancers, usually in the direction of greater intensity, a
sharpening of the movement and sometimes an elaboration of the original phrase.
Most striking is to listen to the dancers after they have done this for the first time.
There is often a preoccupation and a wonderment in their faces. It may have been the
first time they danced for, with and to someone or something that really mattered to
them. Not rarely, that “who” or “what,” that “someone” or “something,” was a surprise,
unexpected and strangely affecting. It becomes one of the first lessons in what it means
to fill a motion with action—an action from within. By action, I mean to do something,
to recognize that an arabesque is a metaphor for an action.
The reader and I are quite aware that there is a whole school of dance that totally
rejects what I have just written. To them, the paramount significance of an arabesque
is itself. To them, loading it with meanings and metaphors drags it down into senti-
mentality or sets it up as a mysterious sign which the bedeviled audience is required to
decipher instead of simply exhilarating at the movements they are witnessing. To me

255 Eroding Elements of the Performing State

 and to Tamiris, who schooled me in my beginning, the sheer elegance and physicality
of an arabesque is one of many ways of seeing and experiencing it, not the only way.
It can be a metaphor for flight, for offering oneself to another, to baring one’s vulner-
ability to others, or it can be an exquisite and awesome configuration. The list will go
on and on as long as there is choreography—in spite of the purists.
One could also give the challenge, “I dare you to dance for the audience,” and who
does that better than the dancers and artists of Las Vegas and Broadway? Their task is
clear and unequivocal: to entertain, manipulate and seduce the audience; an audience
that comes to be entertained, manipulated and seduced. What could be more honest?
But what of the concert stage? A work may begin with a profound interactive life,
a life that has no awareness of an audience; but in the finale, the dancers turn their
faces, attention and smiles, forward to signal the imminence of the end and the cue for
vociferous applause. Many performers involved with an inner scenario that does not
include an audience nevertheless dance face front, attention front. The only “audience”
for the Prodigal Son is his father, who is onstage. Romeo and Juliet are alone together.
The theatrical convention of “dancing for the audience” tells many dancers, and un-
fortunately choreographers, that the proper focus is front regardless of the material.
Although I am wary of all rules, I will state one now: Looking directly front tends
to recognize the audience as an integral part of the choreography. There are exceptions,
as when the metaphor is to address “society,” to be struck by some powerful vision, or
when front is clearly one of many places to focus upon, as in a ritual. Otherwise, to
establish a life onstage that does not include viewers, a dancer can look in any direction
except straight front.
Technical matters aside, the relationship with the audience boils down to an ethical
matter. The stage can have the climate of a creative, risk-taking world or an arena for
seduction, competition and judgements. It is possible to regard the audience as col-
laborators in the same world and in the same struggle which you had in the far country
from which you have come to them, to bring them into the full weight of the experience
that you have had and that you are trying to illuminate. Conversely, you can treat the
audience as dummies who need every subtle point explained, or as a gold mine that
has to be captured from the other performers. You can pander to the audience, or you
can challenge it. Whichever way you go, there are portions of the audience that will
cooperate with you and support you. Either you pass out rose-colored glasses or you
take all the risks involved by treating the audience like adults and letting them share
in the shit and the roses that make up the life you have discovered for them. It’s your
choice.
workbook Dedicate Your Motion†
exercises I Dare You†

266 The Theory

The Intolerance of Uncertainty

At a certain period in my life, I was preparing to reroute my energies to becoming

an actor. I had become negative about dancing, not realizing at the time that it was
the life of Broadway that was wrong for me. To further that direction, I convinced the
director of The Mt. Kisco Playhouse in Westchester, New York, to take me on as his
only regular actor. Everyone else was jobbed in for each play.
It was opening night for Anastasia. I had a minor role as one of the conspirators
assisting the Baron who was involved in the attempt to establish the legitimacy of the
supposed daughter of Czar Nicholas II. As the curtain went up on opening night, I
was lighting a cigarette, picking out a candied sweet and feeling very good about how
smoothly my stage business was going when, on cue, the Baron entered. I hopped off
the trunk I had perched on and stood there. There was a lengthy pause and then the
Baron roared, “Sergei, do you not greet me when I enter?” I mumbled, stumbled out a
lame, “Good evening, Baron,” three times without stopping. At intermission, I rushed
back to the actor’s dressing room to apologize for missing my cue. “Nonsense,” he said,
“Bobby Lewis said, ‘Always look for the obstacle.’” (Bobby Lewis was one of the great
teachers of acting in New York City and original member of the Group Theatre.) What
he meant was, “Always look for trouble. That’s where the life lurks. If you are full of
your intention and you know who you are, the unexpected and the unplanned are juice
for your battery.”
No honest performer, dancer, singer or actor will enter the stage without hours of
intensive, careful thought, preparation, research and rehearsal. The hazard wrapped
up in all that planning is rigidity. There are artists who resist the slightest change. They
cannot face the reality that no two performances are alike. The flexible ones delight in
surprises and literally gain energy when “things go wrong.”
Creatively, the rigid ones love systems that provide all the answers. The teachings of
Francois Delsarte (1811–1871) had a strong effect on acting in America, on American
dance, and particularly on Ted Shawn, whose book, Every Little Movement, gave his
understanding of this approach. Basically, Shawn said that “every little movement” did
have meaning. On page 56 of his book is a drawing of a man in profile extending his
arm in eleven different angles, each one of which has been assigned a precise mean-
ing, from the lowest, “It is evil,” to the highest, “It is enchanting.” To extend the arm
straight forward would mean, “It is.” Delsarte assigned a particular meaning to almost
every imaginable position of the body. Actors and dancers trained by mastering this
dictionary of attitudes and motions. (See fig. 1.)
The massive change in thinking introduced by Stanislavski directly opposed this
type of system and the set lexicon of broad operatic gestures that dominated the stages
of Europe in the nineteenth century, both in the theatre and in ballet. These conventions
are alive today in most opera, in much of ballet, in TV sitcoms—but have disappeared
from contemporary theatre. With Stanislavski, there were no stencils, no molds, no

277 Eroding Elements of the Performing State

 Figure 1. The Degrees of Affirmation.
From Ted Shawn, Every Little Movement (New York: Dance Horizons, 1954), p. 56.

28 The Theory
 clearly defined models to emulate. Each role and each performance created its own rules
and its own surprises. One of the marks of Helen Tamiris’s work was that it could not
be easily identified or characterized. Each new work was an unexplored country that
had to be recognized for what it was rather than portrayed in terms of what had gone
before. Her choreography did not just accept uncertainty as a necessity but exulted in
the thrill and adventure of the creative process.
You think those newscasters are speaking to you. You think they are looking at you.
No. In front of the lens of the camera is a tilted sheet of glass. Below the camera is a
continuous role of paper on which the script is printed, mirror image. As newscasters
speak to the teleprompter, the mirror image words unroll and are reflected correctly
for them to read aloud. The camera lens doesn’t see reflections, only the speaker.
It is possible for a person to appear to be looking, listening and responding to
what is going on when in fact he.she perceives everything in terms of preconceptions,
anticipations and prejudices. As noted above, Stanislavski used the term “stencils” to
describe the error that entraps many performers. They know ahead of time the “right”
way to do a role. They come to work with an ideal persona in mind. Many dancers suf-
fer from this way of working. Instead of coming into the rehearsal or the class with a
wide-open receptivity that asks, “What is new here? What is special and different in this
choreography and its demands?” they come armed with a certainty of a correct style,
spirit and manner of how they will dance. Such rigidity will erode whatever richness
of expressiveness the artist has. The dancer might even “look good,” but the work will
undoubtedly suffer.
No. Enter the work space like a blank sheet of paper. Wait to be inscribed by the
unexpected—and accept the premise that the ideal cannot be fully achieved. If, after
working it to the hilt, it feels wrong for any reason, do whatever needs to be done: talk
about it, express your unease, or leave. How to achieve this state of mind? The artists
of Asia have profound resources to offer us. Some use meditation, finding various ways
of emptying the mind as a prologue to their creative work.
workbook Any and every improvisation exercise is an exercise in uncertainty.†
exercises

Vanity Versus Self-hatred

Would it be false to say that at times most of us bounce back and forth like a pinball
between vanity and self-hatred? Bad enough, but what of those who get locked into
one or the other?
One of my cousins had a passion to become an actress. She went to New York Uni-
versity, majored in theatre, fell in love with her instructor, enlisted her father’s money
to back a production starring her and directed by the loved instructor. But whenever

29 Eroding Elements of the Performing State

 it was her turn to speak, she either had the greatest difficulty resisting the impulse to
turn to face upstage or, to her horror, she would give into that evasion and speak to
the rear wall. I admire the fact that when she realized what was going on, she gave up
acting.
Deep in the middle of a jazz class I noticed a student who had just come into the
class crossing in an energetic diagonal. I stopped the class, telling her it was hazardous
to enter a class in the middle. Near tears, she said, “But I was here from the beginning!”
I was embarrassed and apologized. The next week, I looked for her and after a while
found her in the farthest corner of the room with three people between her and me.
After the class, I beckoned to her and said, “I am now taking back my apology. I didn’t
see you because you didn’t want me to. You have been hiding in this class. You prob-
ably can barely see me, which would indicate you are making sure that I do not see
you. Do you not want me to teach you?” The next week, she was in the front row and
remained there for the rest of the semester, trying every moment to let me know that
she did want to be seen and to be taught.
Sadly, not everyone would be as courageous as this young woman. Some would
fade even further away when challenged to be seen. I have observed students who had
genuine talent choked by a demeaning concept of themselves. It is no simple matter
for a teacher to draw them out. In my teaching, there is a small collection of these self-
loathers whom I managed to coax from behind their screens. It distresses me to think
that with the kind of impatience and abruptness that I occasionally bring to bear in
classes, I may have lost sight of a frightened talent.
In 1947, Helen Tamiris and I went to London to stage Annie Get Your Gun, she to
direct and I to re-create her choreography with the British dancers. One of the very
best of the performers was the man who played the role of Charlie Davenport, the
business manager of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. He quickly caught the American
accent, and his vitality filled the stage in every rehearsal. Came the first dress rehearsal,
we could barely find him. He seemed to disappear, or rather seemed to be playing a
different role. It took a good ten minutes to figure out what was going on. Not only
was this slightly overweight man of over fifty still putting on a pink juvenile makeup,
but the whole vibrant characterization went into another gear. Not the abrasive, ag-
gressive wisecracker we loved but a charmer who was still wearing the first makeup he
ever learned.
In the audition, we were convinced we had made a great find that had been ignored
by the British theatre. It was a mystery why he wasn’t a star. In the rehearsals, he was a
stunning performer but here in the dress rehearsal he had slipped into—what? Tamiris
said: “He’s got to get rid of that makeup. Go backstage and see what you can do with
Milligan.” (I can’t recall his name so I’m inventing one.) I found him in his dressing
room: “The scene is wonderful, but there is something very unreal about your makeup.
You have a fabulous face but you’re covering it up. Could you do a more natural make-
up? You have wonderful brows and you covered them up to make thin elegant brows.
Why?” Well, he was so charged up about being in that show, wanting to please and

30 The Theory
 thinking Helen and I had been dropped from heaven, anything we said had to be true.
“Oh, of course, you are so very right.” He grabbed a towel and began to work on his
eyebrows, rubbing away the thick grease with such intensity that he tore off a piece of
skin above his eye and blood trickled down his cheek.
Obviously, much was involved in that face he was rubbing out. This was the makeup
he learned when he was eighteen, and he probably had a bit of success with that face.
Now, he had a plethora of lines, jowls and fierce wonderful brows over piercing eyes,
all of which he had tried to conceal with the face of a juvenile. This was the pathetic
piece of vanity to which he had been clinging all his adult life.
Sensing I had done all that was possible for the moment, I said, “Helen needs me
out front. Let’s talk about it later.” Before the next dress rehearsal, he and I sat down
and worked on a strong makeup that revealed his own crafty, cynical face. We never
again lost sight of his vibrant presence.
Vanity or self-hatred are exactly the kinds of self-focus that destroy the very mean-
ing and purpose of performance; concern for self supersedes the actual stage task.
The great artists of the theatre have one quality in common: They are ruthless in their
perception of themselves, their strengths and their weaknesses. One knows she has
no waist and will badger every costumer to cover up that fact. Another knows he has
a miserable arabesque line and finds every way to avoid it in profile to the audience.
Still another knows he isn’t tall enough to cope with a costume that cuts him in two. A
cool self-appraisal is required as admission to the profession. Once on the stage, those
successful ones find a fierce focus on the role—not on the self.
workbook Any of the following mayy expose some tender area that affects your work as an artist
exercises and is asking for your attention.
Your Familiar†
A Duet
Why Do You Dance?
Possessed by a Mannerism†
I Dare You†
Inside the Outside†
Rituals of Power
The Minnesota Duet

Reaching for the Result

In many ways, this innocuous phrase, “reaching for the result,” encapsulates everything
I’ve said in this chapter. How many choreographers have called out in desperation to
their dancers: “Come on! Give it some life!” “Move it!” “Feel love!” “Be more lyrical!”
“Some energy, please!” “Be strong!” “Express wonder!” “Be abstract!” “Reverence!”

31 Eroding Elements of the Performing State

 “Stop emoting and just dance it!” “Joy, I want some joy on that stage!” Every one of
these all too common pleas reaches for a desired result, for the emotion, for a gener-
alization or an abstract dynamic.
The peril of these goals in performance is banality. Asking a group of dancers to
feel pride or to be lyrical or “to make it beautiful,” is to guarantee a studio awash in
clichés. And yet, this is exactly the kind of direction dancers so often receive. Perhaps
the dreadful and unconvincing performances that flow from this mind-set are the
reason so many dancers and choreographers have opted for the classic stone face of
modern dance. To them, facial expression of any kind is in bad taste and dismissed
contemptuously as “emoting.” By avoiding the bad taste of synthetic emotion depic-
tions, these apostles of “good taste” have lost much of the humanity that could enrich
their work—if they could find an honest path to that goal.
The central aim of this book is to open the door to genuine, deeply felt emotion
in performance by learning how to get there. Most simply stated, the “result” should
be the product of a specific action in a specific context, and what that result is will in-
evitably contain surprises not only to the audience but to the artist. Working this way,
the dancer never knows quite what the result will be and is patient enough to wait for
it to appear.
The next chapters present an acting technique for dance performance. As noted
earlier, it may appear far too complex. It is and it isn’t. The fundamental concepts that
bind all the parts together can be encompassed by six simple questions, but the parts
are many and all deserve awareness and thought. However, they are at no time to be
regarded as a checklist when “real” life takes over and performances are being prepared
for the stage. Every dancer finds at one time or another a part that fits so well that the
less thought and analysis the better; all that is needed is the plunge into the material.
Then there are the roles that don’t work—at first. They demand a long reach and resist
coming to life. It is at these moments that the professional is armed with a battery of
techniques to penetrate the complexity. In fact, the ability to bring a vivid beauty to
difficult roles is what qualifies a dancer for the term, professional.
workbook A well worked understanding of the following chapter will make it possible to reach
exercises profound emotional states in the act of performing without reaching for them or
worse, without the curse of making them up.†

32 The Theory
3 The Six Questions
The Syntax of the Performing State
Alice: Marjorie, when you did the crooked walk this last time, it looked
different than when you first showed it.
Marjorie: No, it was the same. Well, I was thinking something completely
different this time.
—from a class at the American Dance Festival, 1987

Syntaxx is a lovely word defined as “the way in which words are put together to form
phrases and sentences.” The performing state, similarly, is at its best an elegantly linked
structure. When it’s right, all the parts feed each other to make a single expressive entity.
The analytic work on the role described here need not be done in every situation. There
are artistic expressions that burst forth like a spring flood. A wise person accepts them
gratefully, rides the crest, asks no questions and doesn’t analyze. But a dancer dedicating
her.his life to the profession cannot expect that every role will emerge effortlessly, right
and inspired. Some will be downright difficult. The style of the choreographer may be
alien, the music unattractive and the character, a far cry from what comes naturally.
The professional dancer can have the craft to understand what is needed and have the
tools of analysis that will make an awkward and difficult role every bit as beautiful
and as successfully realized as the one that came spontaneously.
We analyze only when we have to, and when we have to, it is well to have the
tools. One of the most important contributions of Helen Tamiris was her recognition
that Stanislavski’s method of breaking down a role for actors was there waiting to be
used by dancers. At the heart of Stanislavski’s teachings and Tamiris’s development of
them lies a creative act which amazingly enough tends to be ignored most of the time
by much of the dance profession. It asks the imagination, the heart and the mind of
the dancer to build the entire performance around a specific set of images which are

33
 linked as if they were a model sentence having a subject, a predicate and an object with
subordinate clauses. The entire process can actually be encapsulated in one sentence:
Who (or what) is doing what to whom (or what) and where, in what context and under
what difficulties and why?
It may appear ridiculous but this one sentence is what most of this book is about.
Diagrammatically, it looks like this:
1. Who or what?? (the subject)
2. Is doing what?? (the verb)
3. To whom or what?? (the object)
4. Where and when?? (the context)
5. To what end?? (the reason for the action)
6. The obstacle?? (justifies theatrical viability)
These questions are disconcerting to some, inartistic to others and liberating to
many. Considering how most dancers are trained, the heart of this technique is noth-
ing less than revolutionary. The tradition has been to focus on abstractions: on energy
levels, on an emotion, on movement per se, on technical virtuosity, on generalized
vivacity, on charm, on being attractive, on being brilliant, on dancing beautifully and
finally on anything except what the dance is about and the particularity of each dance
role. The specifics, when they are needed, are provided by costume and set designers.
A funny hat can make a dance comic. A romantic dance needs but a slight expression
of yearning or perhaps a beret will do. An abstract movement piece has the de rigueur
expressionless face. How many dancers carry on the identical inner life in every dance
regardless of the role? All they do is change hats and dance “beautifully,” whatever that
may mean.
Before we go further, it is well to recognize that some very great artists would
regard what is being pursued here as pernicious nonsense. “I can teach and explain
to pupils what to do better, but not because there’s a reason. . . . You have to be very
careful when you use your mind . . . or you will get into trouble. . . . Don’t ask why it
must be like this. Don’t analyze. Just do it.”
These words are attributed to George Balanchine by Gelsey Kirkland in Dancing
on My Grave (New York: Doubleday, 1986), pp. 48, 78. She claimed she was continually
mocked or ignored by him whenever she tried to discover the meaning of what she
was dancing. Of course, Balanchine continually contradicted himself. Suzanne Farrell,
who worked quite closely with him for over twenty years, tells of one of the first times
she danced for him in a ballet called Meditation:
I was to enter from the back corner behind him [Jacques d’Amboise] with three
simple steps—full step on my right foot, up to pointe on my left and then pointe
on my right, stopping in fourth position. . . .

34 The Theory
 Mr B, of course, didn’t mention any story line; he described only what he
wanted physically. It was as if I were parting an invisible curtain, parting clouds. .
. . “You just hold on to the air when you’re up there [on pointe],” he said. “You’re
riding on air.” (Holding on to the Airr [New York: Summit Books, 1990], pp. 12–13)
It’s a perfect illustration of that contradiction. He disdains to give a “story line,” but
because she was having a balance problem he gives her a truly exquisite specific image,
“holding on to the air.” She herself creates her own lovely image of parting clouds with
her arms. Why did Gelsey Kirkland get a blank door and Suzanne Farrell the gift of a
bit of poetry? Perhaps because, although we try hard to be consistent, we invariably
slip into contradiction. Undoubtedly, if anyone took the trouble to seriously examine
what I have stood for as a choreographer, teacher and writer, they would encounter
contradictions. Here, in this book, I state my conviction that sheer movement is one
of ten thousand exquisite reasons for dancing.

Who or What?

Who or what is dancing? This question is the key to the entire process. All dancers, be
they principals or one of the ensemble, need to shape their internal life around the core
of a specific identity within the context of a specific image. Who gives the answer? In
the theatre, the play script defines the specific character for the actor. In dance, ideally
the choreographer should do this, but some bridle when asked, “Who am I supposed
to be?” or “What am I doing here?” They give Balanchine’s answer, “Stop thinking and
just dance.” Then the dancers are thrown upon their own resources and must resort
to a private session of imagination.
There are an infinite number of images possible for each dance part. How do you
know when you have found the right one? A hard question with no easy answer. First
off, did the image come of its own accord rather than by a logical and rational choice?
Second, does it (to adapt the immortal words of Jim Morrison), “light your fire”? Does
the image and its action excite, energize and free your motions? Third, is the specific
image one that illuminates the poem of the dance work? Fourth and critically, is the
choreographer happy with your interpretation of his.her choreography? If yes, dig
in and keep developing what you have found. You don’t have to tell anybody what
imaginative inner life is driving your dance; that is your own private artistic property.
If it’s working, discussion and analysis would probably water down the intensity of
your work.
If the choreographer rejects your danced interpretation of her.his work, you must
listen very carefully to what is not being accepted and grasp at every indication of what
she.he does want, no matter how vague or generalized the words are. Pay attention not
only to the words but to the tone of voice, and note the facial and bodily expression.
Use all of that for a new meditation on the role (Hub Meditation—see chapter 10).

355 The Six Questions

 With these directions, the spoken and the unspoken, let the image find you rather than
the other way round.
At no time let yourself be seduced by a blurred or generalized image, no matter how
interesting, intelligent or inspiring. Pursuing a generalized image will result in clichéd
interpretation of your role. You will discover what has been discovered and look like
what has been seen in generations of dancers who have gone before you. The awesome
power of the specificc image, and the specificc identity, is that it is a poetic metaphor that is
yours alone—yours as the singular person that you are. It will help you discover details
and textures that will not only surprise the audience but you as well.
The two columns below illustrate the generalized versus the specific image. One
is a huge, ill-defined area; the other is always characterized by an action and not by a
feeling. The point is that the action will generate the feeling.

Generalized Specific
A balmy wind A cooling, moist wind racing across a dry, hot
plain.
A brooding prince A young man who has everything and nothing he
wants and senses that what he is searching for is
not of this world. (Consider Nureyev in Romeo
and Juliet. He seemed to be fully alive in the last
century and absorbed the details and the specifics
of romantic ballet as if it were the first time they
had ever been done. Hence, he was not banal.)
A lyric force Any strong force balanced by an equally strong
force: a pair of lovers, each with his.her own face
and name; a dancer pitted against a soaring piece
of music; a votary seeing in his.her mind’s eye an
elusive god and reaching for it.
A virile peasant dancing A man dancing under the duress of a gun pointed
at him; a man dancing to arouse the woman he
desires.
A bravura dancer Legs and arms are flashing swords, flexible foils,
the eyes shine as brilliant jewels and every finger
displays a precious ring.
A dancer in a work The dancer as a dancer luxuriating in the move-
choreographed by ment, aiming for precise control of every motion.
chance methods

366 The Theory

 Generalized Specific
A sexy jazz dancer Auditioning to be a Dallas Cowgirl, knowing you
have it all.
One in love One who cannot tear his.her eyes from the be-
loved; one who cannot bear to be far from the
beloved; one who shields the beloved from harm;
one who feeds the vanity of the beloved; one who
would keep the beloved warm in the cold. (Trying
to feell love, banality will reign, but doingg any one
or a combination of these will create a feeling of
love in the doer.)
workbook The Two Dances
exercises In every viewing and analysis of these performances this matter of identity calls for
attention.
Who or What Is Alive in the Music?†
The Inner Rhythm of the Role†
Circles†
Gives the muscular and physiological texture that forms the basis for becoming X
and achieving the quality of movement that belongs to the role.
A Duet
The Hub Meditation†
This is the central tool for finding the specific image.
Before, After and On†
The Spine of Style†
Ham and Clove
Rituals of Power

Is Doing What?

Whether it is the stage, film, opera or dance, we go to the theatre expecting to see
something happen. To say that action is the driving force of dance is obvious but, as
in the matter of identity, its expressive force is too often blurred and oversimplified.
In modern dance, there is an early tradition of a dance of happiness, a dance of
celebration, a dance of work and play, a dance of mourning. This tradition of general-
ization is kept alive in choreography classes all over the country where studies focus on
high energy or low energy, in curved space and angular space, in joyousness or in grief.

377 The Six Questions

 The rationale is that these supposedly less complex problems are appropriate for begin-
ners in choreography. (The argument may be valid—I have rarely taught beginners and
have never used this approach.) The imprint of this early teaching makes generalized
feeling and emoting the accepted practice throughout their careers. As choreographers
create they create works that carry the same mood or action from beginning to end. If
it’s the same at the end as it was in the beginning, has anything happened?
In traditional ballet, literal pantomime conveys all the fluctuations of the story
line, and when everything is made clear, the dancers are free to dance. What goes on
in the minds of the dancers when they float above their brisé volés? In the rarest of
cases, this devilishly difficult step becomes a part of a constantly evolving poem. In
an Anthony Tudor ballet, like Jardin aux Lilas, every step, turn and pause is weighted
with shifting meanings and actions without unnecessary time-outs for pantomimic
explication of the plot. Tudor’s work is a rare exception in the world of ballet where
most of the time the dancers are just dancing full out on the crest of a feeling without
any shift from beginning to end. There is no question that the great artists of the bal-
let like Galina Ulanova, Alicia Alonso, Jean Babilée, Nora Kaye, Rudolf Nureyev did
not get buried in technical preoccupations nor in simplistic moods to carry them
through a performance. They came onstage with a mission—to do something quite
specific—and acted on it either to fail or triumph.
Action analysis is a process in which the action, the “who is doing what,” can
become clearer if three aspects are considered: the spine, the beats, the subtext.

The Spine
At an American Dance Festival class in acting technique, a truly lovely dancer from
Hawaii, Karen Miyake, performed a substantial chunk of José Limon’s magnificent
solo, Chaconne, which she had the good fortune to learn from Betty Jones. The line
and the placement were impeccable, as was her musicality; and yet what she did had
little impact. It was stiff, self-conscious and mannered. The phrasing was disjointed.
Always asking the students to give their opinions first, I heard consensus that it wasn’t
working. One student talked about disconnected phrasing, another about the uncer-
tain focus, another that it lacked a lyric force, another that the arms should be more
expressive, and so on.
At times, I will draw a student aside and give a direction out of hearing by the rest
of the class. My reasoning is that if the other students hear what I am suggesting they
may see it happen even though it doesn’t; or, they may expect a certain result that fits
their personal imagination and fail to see the value of what the dancer actually does.
Less frequently, I speak my suggestion for all to hear because I sense that the public
statement will charge the dancer. This time, I addressed Karen from my seat and for
all to hear:

38 The Theory
 Daniel: Do you think this is a good dance?
Karen: Oh yes!
D: Did you ever know José?
K: No.
D: Do you admire his work?
K: Oh, I do!
D: Do you owe José anything?
K: Oh yes! (And her eyes fill quickly.)
D: So why not thank him for what he gave you?
There was an uncertain pause and then she indicated to the student who was
running the cassette player to cue it up and play the Bach score again. She danced
almost weeping and we almost wept too. She had a sweep and a fullness that would
have drawn thanks from José.
The questioning with its final, “Then why don’t you thank him?” ignited an action
that filled the whole dance. An action that does that is called “the spine.” One can-
not always hit upon a spine of a dance so simply and so energizingly. Usually there is
considerable fumbling before the right spine, the right over-arcing action is clarified.
This time, I did hit it and she caught it entirely.
There is no rule or law that a spine cannot be radically altered at some point as the
dance develops. There is no rule or law that a spine has to be crystal clear. How many
in our culture thrash about without knowing what they want? How many fight without
knowing the face of their enemy? How many carry the burden of guilt for crimes they
have forgotten? Any one of these can be a dynamic spine to drive a performance. It has
been the self-appointed task of artists to probe deeply into vague and uncertain areas
of our lives seeking something more specific than a hunger or a fear without a name.
Art is a seeking, but to seek does not ensure finding. An uncertain feeling or a nebulous
vision can be a specific image that will significantly infuse a strong performance.
workbook The Two Dances
exercises Your Familiar†
Possessed by a Mannerism†
Each Alone†
The Hub Meditation†
The Duet as a Structure
Why Do You Dance?†
The Spine of Style†
Inside the Outside†
Rituals of Power
Adam and Eve

39 The Six Questions

 The Beats, Bits or Units
The spine alone is not enough. American teachers of Stanislavski technique say that the
action has two aspects: the spine and the beats. Actually the term beats is a misnomer.
Stanislavski called them units. Elizabeth Reynolds Hapgood, who edited and translated
An Actor’s Handbook (New York: Theatre Arts, 1963), speculates that the first great
teachers of Stanislavski’s methods in America were Russians who would thunder at
their awed students, “Where are your bits?” But what the American actors heard was,
“Vere arre your beets?” Certain that the acting gurus were not asking for a vegetable,
they heard it as “beats.” Stanislavski wrote:
In order to work out the score of the play . . . we had to break it up into small units.
. . . Remember, the division is temporary. . . . It is only in preparation . . . that we
use small units. During its actual creation, they fuse into large units. . . . As you
put on your makeup, you will think of the first unit. . . . You play the first unit and
are carried along to the next and the next. (P. 154)
On occasion, he used the word “bits.” The spine is the main action that pervades
the role; it is the highway. The bits are the shifts and changes that occur along the way.
Many dancers do go past generalizations and find an action or a spine that carries them
through the time of the dance, but all too few have the slightest idea or awareness of
bits. They are on a superhighway, constructed as straight as it can be. If there is a curve,
it’s long and soft—no sharp curves, no hairpin turns and rarely a right angle. The path
of a good actor is the country road that constantly yields to the contours of the earth,
buildings, trees, fields and so forth, though never losing sight of the main objective.
When a superhighway is built, homes are demolished, farms shaved thin, forests
split open and the sides and summits of mountains sliced away. Sounds brutal doesn’t
it? Well, too many dancers tend to do the same. They ignore the convolutions and
changes going on about them and hew to one overriding action or mood. If it is good
choreography, there are bound to be subtle or abrupt shifts and changes from mo-
ment to moment, the music is constantly evolving and the actions and configuration
of the other dancers may flicker like a fire. How many dancers pay attention to all
that? Dancers can learn from good actors. Every change in the inner and outer life
demands a response if the performance is to be alive. These small changes within the
major action, the spine, are the beats, bits or units. In the creation and performance
of a role, a rigidity that hews to the spine remorselessly risks being unbelievable, one-
dimensional and, worse, boring.
In the summer of 1992 at the American Dance Festival, a class in Acting Technique
for Dance Performance was honored and blessed by the presence of a major talent,
a dancer-choreographer from Indonesia, Martinus Morito. In several of the first im-
provisation exercises, he danced with magnificent daring and imagination. He was
electrifying in his imaginative use of personal movements and chunks of traditional

40 The Theory
 Indonesian gestures. All the more disappointing was what he did when he presented
his first of The Two Dances. (It would be helpful at this point to read this exercise in
the Workbook, chapter 7.)
Mr. Morito’s first presentation was a traditional Indonesian dance in honor of a
king. It was like witnessing an exquisitely detailed teak carving come to life. All the
more reason to be confused by the fact that I was watching it from afar—untouched
and uninvolved, though in awe of his craft. Whatever the reason— the lack of a proper
costume and makeup, the setting of a classroom rather than a ceremonial area and
occasion—it was a flat, uninvolved performance with limited inner life, in spite of
its technical excellence and polish. It may have been a dance he had performed with
success but which had never felt right to him. That I never learned.
I threw a mess of questions at Morito: Who is doing this dance? A loyal noble
pledging allegiance? Another king who has been vanquished? A professional dancer?
A conspirator distracting the king preparatory to an assassination attempt? Are there
any changes in the course of the dance? Is the dancer saying one thing all through the
dance, “I revere my king,” and that is all? Or, does he, in the beginning offer his rever-
ence, then show how brave he would be defending his king, then how heroic the king
himself is and finally how all must bow to the gods, the king and the soldier? I told
Morito that I gave him this scenario as an example and that his task was to forget the
details of what I said, only to remember the questions and to answer them for himself.
A few weeks later, he came back to repeat the dance, but to our eyes it was very
different; the dance for the king came to life. Did he answer in his own terms all the
questions I had put to him? Did he create an inner life composed of changing bits that
carried him through the dance? When something really works, I am reluctant to ask
questions. I fear that analysis and exposure will cool the heat of the dancer’s concep-
tion and inner life. I never learned what Morito did to make the dance for the king
so moving this time. The class and I were merely grateful. We applauded, murmured
our appreciation and we went on.
In the appendix I present a close unit analysis of one of my own solos, Dance in the
Sun. This goes against all my resistance to ever explaining any of my dances. I betray
this one dance, which is not being performed by me or anyone else, in part because it
can be seen on videotape and be used for study by those interested in this technique.
Another good reason is that this is a lyric dance without the strong dramatic overtones
which characterize so many of my solos.
Does every dance need a close analysis noting when each and every beat impacts
upon the dance? I believe that any dancer who is taking this book seriously should
subject at least a couple of dances in her.his repertoire to exactly such a process. After
a time, she.he will know in what way to make use of bit analysis. My guess is that if
there is clarity on the six questions, a moment-to-moment analysis would usually not
be necessary. The specifics of the role will give birth to the bits one by one without a
deliberate and conscious checklist. When and if a section of the dance is muddy and

41 The Six Questions

 unfocused, a bit analysis would probably save the situation. Of course there is the
paradox present in every complexity: extensive and prolonged analysis can be deadly,
not unlike an operation—the longer the patient is lying on the table opened up, the
dimmer are the chances of surviving. (You want simple answers? Read another book.)
workbook The Two Dances
exercises Justification†
How Does Your Tree Dance?†
In the course of a dance, or even in the course of a dance phrase, the source of the
movement impulse can change.
Before, After and On†

The Subtext
How many times have your dance teachers exhorted you to do the opposite of what
you are apparently doing? You are going into a grand plié and they hiss at you, “Pull
up! Pull up!” Or they sing out, “Press the air down with your arms!” Or when you are
spinning they shout, “Aim for stillness!” To be in balance is to be constantly recovering
from losing balance. My first real teacher, Ray Moses, who had been an early member
of Martha Graham’s company under the name Lillian Ray, said to us, “You must learn
to move your legs as if they were your arms—with the same lightness and articulation
of your arms, and learn to move your arms as if they have the architectural power
and weight of the legs.” When I see a dancer always moving in a thin atmosphere, I
question whether he.she is really dancing. A dancer has the capacity to make the air
through which he.she moves thick. A port de bras can be a victory. If the very texture
of dance movement is infused with counteraction, what of the mind?
The theatre is an arena of conflict. Music, from the polyphony of Bach, to the
theme and countertheme of harmonic music, to the tensions of modernism, gains its
vitality from conflict. If there were no trouble there would be no need for art. Conflict
in art is a metaphor for the strife found in life.
The first place to locate conflict is within the person. We appear to be such and
such, but what is going inside? Think of any of the arts and this principle is visible.
Consider the dynamic figures of film: Marilyn Monroe—the manner of a slut with
the persona of an innocent; her flaunted, fleshy sexiness versus her awe, childishness
and air of constantly being surprised. Marlon Brando—a demonic force contained
by a soft-spoken man who barely moves. Brando speaks softly because it’s obvious
that if the wrong buttons were pushed, he would explode; he doesn’t need to make
that obvious by yelling. Heard the other night while scanning the TV channels for
something to watch: Charles Bronson looks into the darkness, speaking from under
the deep shadow of a Western hat to a man beside him:

42 The Theory
 “You know what I hate more than anything else?”
“No. What?”
“. . . being afraid.”
That says it best. Find the opposites: a gunman whose angry pride conceals a
feeling of inferiority, a clown whose physicality and daring stem from impotence and
childishness, a tightrope walker whose calm, debonair persona conceals her terror of
falling, the gentle charmer who is a con man.
Every dance role is incomplete without its contradictory elements. A student
brought in an extraordinarily well-danced solo of the most unabashed declaration of
love to an indifferent person. The moves were rich, personal and virtuosic, but neither
I nor the students of the class could experience more than watch him go through his
agony from a distance. His fault lay in a simplistic focus on the pure pain of an un-
requited passion. That made it his problem—not ours. I gave him this challenge: Do
everything with a shell of calculated, controlled moves so that the declarations of love
take on the air of mockery. All the while be determined not to let your deep devotion
show, but without realizing it, the inside tears loose, intermittently and unexpectedly.
He understood the direction, performed it fully and we were caught up in his longing.
A dancer brings in a very well executed tango which she has worked up with a
modestly competent partner. They want to enter a ballroom contest. The work is clean,
occasionally exciting and flat. To them I say, “Forget this is a tango in a competition.
Who are the two of you? What do you want of each other? The man is the leader in
the tango. Perhaps the woman should take over? How does the man cope with that?”
They look at each other doubtfully. Suddenly, the woman says, “OK, let’s try it.” Their
tango becomes a duel and she appears to be winning until the last vicious lift and he
has her, but does he? She whips spinning out of his grasp to smile triumphantly and
bow before he does, opening up a whole new set of possibilities. He bows uncertainly
and they look at each other from a distance. We bang on the floor and clap our hands
in excitement.
It is not enough to know there is a subtext, an inner contradiction to what appears
on the surface. One must enter the stage with it alive and present even though it is not
visible. I recently witnessed a powerful duet choreographed by a colleague. Two women
progressed at a painful slowness diagonally from upstage left toward downstage right,
one woman supporting the other. Several times, they paused as if unable to continue
and then suddenly flung their arms up in the air with a violent gasp only to resume their
deadly progression. The unexpected arm fling should have been startling and drawn us
deeper into their struggle. Instead, I was distanced a bit from a dance in which I had
been strongly involved. I am assuming that the error lay not in the choreography but
in the minds of the dancers who came to that moment and thought, “Now is the time
we do that gasp.” They should instead have had the impulse to do the gasp from the
beginning, even before the lights came up. The impulse is there but is held in check,

43 The Six Questions

 for whatever reason that is appropriate to the inner life of the dance. When the gasp
finally occurs, it does so in spite of the repression.
The subtext—the contradiction—needs to be alive within the dancer from the
start and, better still, part of the preparation for the performance.
workbook Inside the Outside†
exercises

To Whom or What?

There are dancers in group works who do not relate to the others except in the most
formal, abstract fashion, even when the choreography calls for interaction. Not to
relate is the equivalent of not doing the choreography. For the soloist, the imagination
populates the stage with people and objects no less real than if they were actually there.
In a group work, the imagination plays just as rich a role because the other dancers are
all pretending to be what they are not. There is and must be a focus for one’s actions
at all times, whether internal or external. Actually, the mind always has a focus of one
kind or another, even in sleep during dream intervals. Thus, in performance, not to
direct one’s attention within the context of the choreography and the nature of the
role is really a breach of performer’s discipline and responsibility. The body may be
doing the work, but the mind is not.
My theatre training was on the job. With comparatively little performing experi-
ence and less dance technique, I got my first professional job in 1940 (Depression
time), dancing at a summer theatre in the Pennsylvania Pocono Mountains. It was
Unity House, the summer resort of the International Ladies Garment Workers Union.
The company included actors, dancers, comedians, singers, writers, composers, a full
orchestra, and almost all first-rate professionals. We did original revues, plays and gave
concert nights. Getting ready for a performance, I learned makeup by watching my
neighbor or by being scolded by him for not recognizing that I had no upper lip worth
talking about. “Build it up. Build it up.” (Build it up I did—and do so even today.)
But the voice of Jack Berry, an awesome young actor, threw something into the
air that helped me more than anything to cope with the outrageous challenges of that
first season of work. He had been studying with Benno Schneider, one of the leading
actors of the Habimah Theatre, a part of Stanislavki’s Moscow Art Theatre. On the
first night, or soon after, I heard Jack shout from the other end of the long dressing
table at which we all sat, “. . . and Benno Schneider says that the shortest distance to
the audience is through the other actor!” (Everything Jack said had an exclamation
mark after it, but this comment deserved it.) “The shortest distance to the audience is
through the other actor!” became my slogan. I had so many justified fears at that time:
my technique was at its bare beginning, my experience in professional theatre nil and

44 The Theory
 my self-esteem was continually deflated by my failures. This slogan always brought my
focus back from the audience to the work at hand: absorption with the life onstage.
Best of all, by relating to the other—an actor, singer or dancer—I was able occasionally
to forget my panicked self.
workbook Every exercise or dance role calls for a focus of one’s attention and energies upon an
exercises object, be it a person or a thing, beyond oneself or within oneself.†

Where or When?
The awareness of context enriches a performance. The time and the place of any event
or of any dance movement are factors which must affect and color what is done, but
only if the reality of the time and place live vividly in the mind of the dancer. I have
always had difficulty with neat schemes and systems because I think all that we live
and do is messy, complex, layered and anything but pure. To me, Rudolf von Laban’s
categories of movement qualities were a noble attempt to simplify the complexity of
human motion. I think it went too far, and so I offer here my own mess of qualities.
They are all about the where and when that must be present in our awareness as we
dance. Ideally, every one of these abstractions needs to come alive in a specific image. If
movement is either controlling or being controlled, active or passive, finding a specific
image enriches the work of the dancer: it is not simply a passive motion, it is a warm,
moist wind that moves the limbs so gently.
The Dichotomies Which Mark Out the Limits of Movement
and Imply the Possible Points Between
Weak/Strong
Light/Heavy
Linear/Rotational
Random/Organized
Flowing/Spasmodic
Slow/Fast
Accelerating/Decelerating
Still/Moving
Vibrating/Sustained
Accepting the given parameters/Resisting the given parameters Small/Big
Released/Controlled
Focuses on positioning/Focuses on the motion
Moving in relation to an object (“it”)
Controlling it/Being controlled by it
Carrying it/Being carried by it
Pushing it/Pulling it

455 The Six Questions

 Moving in relation to a surface, where the surface or “it” is the other part of the
dichotomy. “It” could be a hard slick ramp or a trampoline. Each “it” changes the
movement quality.
Resting on it
Sliding on it
Rubbing it
Pressing it
Hitting it
Piercing it
Pushing off it
“It” can also be:
Air/Solid
Slippery/Sticky
Soft/Hard
Dry/Wet
Flat/Inclined
Rough/Smooth
Weighted/Weightless
Cold/Hot
Resilient/Rigid
Movement can be initiated by:
A part of the body/The whole body simultaneously
Movement can be initiated from:
Within the body/The peripherals of the body
Movement by a part of the body or the whole body can be:
As a unit/As a flowing, wavelike succession
To deliberately and specifically choose among all these possibilities is not necessary.
All that is needed is for the performer to visualize vividly and specifically where and
when the dance is taking place and the answers will fall into place without even being
named. It’s called imagination and is the best set designer in the world. A dancer in
command of the six questions will have no need to think or plan or select the appro-
priate dynamic for any motion. It will happen as unconsciously as the energy exerted
by a student late for a class on the top floor of a building without an elevator.

466 The Theory

 workbook The Two Dances
exercises Or any dance in the repertoire of the dancer.
The Schizoid Little Fishes of the Bering Sea
Justification†
Dedicate Your Motion†
An Event, a Recurrence, a Ritual†
Each Alone†
The Hub Meditation†
Visualization†
The Duet as a Structure
Emotion Memory†
Inside the Outside†
Processional†
Adam and Eve
Prison†

To What End?

“To what end?” is inextricably bound up with the spine of the dance, but it is essential
to keep in mind that the action that initiates and drives the dance, “the spine,” can be
diverted anywhere along the way. Think of all the changes that race through the Moor
in the course of José Limon’s The Moor’s Pavane. As in life so it is onstage. It is possible
on any journey or endeavor to get lost in the moment and lose sight of the intended
goal only to pick it up again or lose it forever.
One of the most moving duets of recent years is by Lar Lubovitch. In Mozart, K.
622, two men enter from opposite sides of the stage and greet each other with a gentle
warmth. The duet itself is an extended series of intertwining moves and exhilarating
lifts that speak of dependence, mutual admiration, ambivalent love, and then they
take leave of each other, exiting on opposite sides of the stage. What brought them
together? What did each of them want? What happened between them in the course
of their time together? Why did they choose to leave separately?
You could say, “because the choreographer told them to.” No. I worked as a move-
ment director with a brilliant theatre director named Gene Frankel on several plays.
One of these was The Umbrella. It should have been a smash: Geraldine Page, Franchot
Tone and Anthony Franciosa. A mangled script and contradictory conceptions were
wearing down all of us. At an afternoon rehearsal, while on the road in Philadelphia
(where the show died), Gene was giving notes to the cast on the previous night’s
performance. “Tony, don’t say that line to her afterr you’re in the taxi. Do it just before

477 The Six Questions

 you enter.” “Gene, you told me to speak afterr I was in the cab.” Gene, one of the fastest
men with a reply, said, “Tony, by now you must know that that is the worst reason in
the world for an actor to do anything.” Yes!
Going further, it is the worst reason in the world for a dancer to do anything. Re-
gardless of what the choreographer says, at some point, beforee the time of performance,
the dancer must reinvent her.his own inner scenario and reasons for performing the
stage actions. Does it have to appear to the choreographer that the dancer is following
the directives? Yes. Is the objective that empowers the actions of the dancer a secret
known only to the dancer? Yes!
I once attended a Town Hall concert by Cecil Taylor, the avant-garde jazz pianist,
and a group he had assembled for the occasion. Cecil opened with his dazzling speed
and thunder. He was followed by a trumpeter, who though remarkably facile, barely
commanded my attention. After him, a saxophonist stepped up to the microphone.
He was much older than the others and in no way as theatrical as either Cecil or the
trumpeter but I found myself hanging on every note. It took several minutes to real-
ize why. He was trying, really trying, to get someplace. Where? How would I know? As
proof that I was involved, I had found my own answer—vague, but an answer. And
the trumpeter? Why was he boring? He was caught up in his own fleet, convoluted
phrasing that displayed his superior technique and went nowhere.
From that concert on, I was so much more aware of this difference among perform-
ing artists—in any field—music, dance, theatre. Some are caught up in technique and
virtuosity, while others are reaching beyond the moment to become what they are not
or to arrive at where they are not. Unloading all the words, it is called the objective.
workbook Every exercise given will come to life if it is energized by the object that is inherent in
exercises it.† Certainly The Two Dances could be analyzed in respect to the object that drives
them.

The Obstacle?

There are two kinds of obstacles to the action: internal and external. An internal
obstacle creates a conflict within the character. A simplistic performer, one who lacks
ambivalence, is boring. What is alive pulls two ways.
An external obstacle: If you are healthy, you are a constant battlefield in which
your immune system almost always wins out. Sometimes you get a cold and there is
a slight setback. The most beautiful tree is swarming with bugs bent on destroying
it. The essence of organic life is layered with positive and negative elements. From
this, I draw the belief that there is no role onstage that is not in fact layered with a
complex agenda. It may be played or danced as if it were a pure essence—a simple
oneness—but that is moving away from what it is to a fantasy that to me is neither
credible nor interesting. Purity does blossom in performance in those wonderful,

48 The Theory
 unplanned moments when the performer “loses his.her mind”; when all the work
and all the complexities come to a swift flowering. Generally, consciousness onstage
is anything but single faceted.
Passionate Romeo under the balcony is never for long unaware that he is being
very bad and in great danger. This woman is a Capulet, a hated enemy. Juliet knows she
is bad, talking to a boy without her chaperon. The cool of Carolyn Brown delivering
those immaculate, perfect and near impossible balances blankets the terror of one who
has no choice other than being perfect. Merce Cunningham may disagree. He may be
right. John Cage’s program notes denying meaning to Cunningham’s movements may
be the truth, but I’ve never seen Merce Cunningham move without shadows, signals
and signs of hidden hungers and passions flickering behind a densely wired fire screen.
Granted, I create some of them, but I also believe Merce’s stage is crowded—in his
mind.
Resistance to the actions, internal and external, creates a vibrant life. The obstacles
energize every motion that fills the stage. The ax is defined by the tree trunk. In the
section above on the subtext, I made the point that movement life depends on op-
position, a point that cannot be stressed enough. Historically, it was the awareness of
this principle of opposition in motion that was one of the distinguishing marks of the
emerging modern dance.
workbook Again, every exercise would be enriched by the awareness of an obstacle. For the few
exercises that are listed here, that awareness would be more obvious than most.
The Obstacle†
Justification†
A Duet
Slalom†

Emotion Memory

Among American directors and teachers of Stanislavski’s technique there is a sharp

schism on one point. Lee Strasberg, originally of the Group Theatre and later the di-
rector and guiding spirit of the Actor’s Studio, laid great stress on the use of personal
experiences emotionally similar to those in the script. Sanford Meisner, also an original
member of the Group Theatre and a seminal teacher, taught that truth in the role could
be found from an imaginative life within the text. He believed that concentrated atten-
tion on an inner life based on a personal experience would of necessity be away from
the context of the script and thus produce distortion. Both teachers sent out into the
world staggeringly brilliant actors and yet they were diametrically opposed! Strasberg
used a strongly psychological approach, suggesting to an actor playing Hamlet, for
example, that he ponder his relation with his own father. Meisner, on the other hand,

49 The Six Questions

 thought that if you focused compassionately on the character’s time and context, your
own life experience would reverberate within the role.
I studied with Meisner and found his approach exactly what I needed. It is quite
apparent that for actors, the difference between the two teachers is great and makes a
significant difference in how they work. When I have worked as an actor, using Mei-
sner’s approach, I would study the character and find all my images and metaphors
within the script. It is not so simple to analyze what I have done as a dancer. Dance by
its very nature is more fluid than the spoken theatre. There, words have a precise pro-
gression of meanings, while dance has a fluidity that brings it closer to poetry. By and
large, my images and metaphors flow out of the context of each dance, but I suspect
that more than once I have found them from some part of my personal history, even
though they were far removed from the framework of the particular dance. Regardless
of which approach you adopt, the greatest gift of an artist is to dig deeply within the
welter of your life experience, within the self and beyond the self, and to shape what
is found for the rest of us.
workbook Every one of these contains the possibility of using emotion memory, memories out of
exercises your own experience, as material for your imagination.
The Two Dances
Emotion Memory†
The Duet as a Structure
Ham and Clove
Inside the Outside†
Rituals of Power
Prison†

Direction

Giving Direction
Giving direction is a rare talent, difficult to analyze, to teach and to do. Some of the
best directors are tyrannical horrors and some are supportive angels. The ideal director
regards each dancer as a singular entity requiring a particular kind of incentive. Some
dancers need only a hint in order to work out the inner life of a role. Others do best
when they are given a good deal of information. Treat them like muscular automatons
and expect either the performances of automatons or a stage full of performers each
infused with a radically different point of view distantly or not at all related to the
thematic material of the dance. I have often heard from dancers that the choreographer
never told them what the dance was about or who or what they were in the dance.
Movement was given, plus various exhortations about quality, energy, or loyalty and
that was it. This is true not only of my student choreographers but of any number of

50 The Theory
 professional choreographers, some of whom have produced major dance works. Style
and method are a matter of philosophy and taste. You take your choice and you go
your way. If the desire is to direct dancers in the ways outlined here, something more
must be given to direct, lead and inspire the mind-hearts of the dancers.
workbook The Two Dances
exercises Have a student redirect the performance of one of the dances.

Taking Direction
Some directors can be quite evil; they enjoy exercising their power, manipulating and
denigrating their dancers. Some are not only insensitive to dancers’ fatigue but push
them into hazardous work. Do you accept this? If you need the job, perhaps you do.
Perhaps it is not worth it. No one can decide for you whether you stay or not.
Some dancers are quite evil and competitive. Finding a choreographer who lacks
self-confidence, they will challenge the leadership, break discipline and be openly
critical in a way that deflects the authority that should hold the group together. Hope
that your professional work is never cursed by either of these.
workbook The Two Dances
exercises Work with a fellow dancer or student who is directing one of your dances.

“Bad” Direction; “Bad” Choreography

The responsibility of the director or choreographer is obvious. The responsibility of
the dancers should be just as obvious. It matters not whether the choreographer is
world famous or a fellow student struggling with her.his first dance assignment. The
dancer has only one function: To realize the choreographer’s vision and to make whatever
movement is given look beautiful and sublimely inspired. Anything less is unprofessional.
Are you being given good or even great choreography? Congratulations are in order.
Most dancers, most of the time, perform choreography that is mediocre or occasion-
ally even bad (the same is true of direction). You are really good when you try to see
the world created by the choreographer through his.her eyes. One of the reasons that
people go to the theatre is to see the world through your eyes. Can you do less for your
director/choreographer?
Question. Can a dancer ever give an opinion—a criticism—of the direction or
the choreography? First, assume that every director/choreographer is a singular entity.
Some would actually welcome feedback from the dancers, some would feel threatened
and some would be aghast at the temerity of such behavior. Best to know to whom
you are talking. Assuming that it is appropriate to speak up, the next question is when?
Unless the director or the choreographer pauses to ask for an opinion, wait until the
rehearsal is over. A discussion during rehearsal, particularly one initiated by a company

51 The Six Questions

 member, breaks the rhythm of the work, and that rhythm is the most precious tool of
the director/choreographer.
There is the choreographer’s metaphor and there is the dancer’s. They are not
necessarily the same. Learn, sense, absorb, imagine the choreographer’s metaphor. If
it works for you, if it ignites you, fine. But supposing it doesn’t? You must find your
own, searching until the image that drives you from the inside results in what the
choreographer wants to see on the outside.
workbook The Two Dances
exercises

Summary of the Six Questions:

Questions, Doubts, Paradoxes and Contradictions

One of the hazards of the six questions is that they seem to demand a rational logic as
the inner life of a dance. No. Our business is mystery. As artists, our attention is drawn
to what baffles us. Our creative process seeks to probe the enigma of some part of our
experience that ensnares all our senses. If we pursue it, some coherence may appear
while more of the unknown is hinted at.
I had the good fortune—and the misery—to have a scholarship with Martha
Graham for the 1938–39 season while I was still a student at the City College of New
York. I was raw and barely tutored in dance. Who was in the class? Erick Hawkins,
Merce Cunningham, Jane Dudley, Sophie Maslow, Frieda Flyer; in other words, these
were the glory days. I said “misery” because I was so painfully aware of my shortcom-
ings. Who knows? I may have been better than I thought, but what difference did that
make? I was living with my self-condemnations.
There was one exercise that I always welcomed. I had good control of the first part
of it. (Toward the end, I fell apart.) It was Martha’s defiant reply to the grand plié of
ballet. Standing in first position, there was a relevé and the arms were lifted above the
head and the upper torso with a straight spine slowly tipped forward until the back
was parallel to the floor, at which time we began to move into a full, deep plié with
the back still horizontal. At the depth of the plié, to become erect, we contracted and
began to rise with the arms curved over the head to a full extension of the legs and
feet at which time we went to our heels, released the arms out to the side, let the head
fall back as we lifted the sternum looking like one of William Blake’s angels swimming
upward beside a page of his poetry. The phrase climaxed with a contraction that lifted
us to relevé and sent our arms and our energy piercing through the ceiling. The next
move was a quarter turn to the right, the right foot in front of the left, to repeat the
entire sequence facing right.
Was it the first time I did the exercise or was it when I had a slight grip on the

52 The Theory
 moves that I saw the leaf? Whatever, as I faced right and tipped forward, I clearly saw
a pebbled sidewalk, wet with a recent rain, and there before my eyes was an autumn
maple leaf: red with a faint blush of yellow. I saw it all the way down in that perverse
Graham grand plié and lost it in the contraction that brought us back up. In the
course of those eight counts tipping forward and into the grand plié, I was alive with
a powerful excitement in an island of my own. There was no Martha, no Erik and not
even Frieda, on whom I had a futile crush. There was only a wet autumn leaf on the
sidewalk, and while I saw it I was very strong and sure of myself.
I did not see the leaf when I did the phrase to the other side. Why? There are certain
questions that should not be asked. All I recall, as vividly as if it were an hour ago, is
the strange quiver of excitement as I looked down and saw that autumn leaf draped
over the tiny, stony bumps of the wet sidewalk. Where did the image come from? Don’t
ask. What did it signify? Don’t ask. Was it a sign? Don’t ask! It appeared but it was not
sought. I was very young at the time and quite foolish about many things, but I was
wise when I took that quarter turn to the right and saw the leaf and never tried to
analyze what was happening. The image of a wet autumn leaf appearing unbidden
was a souvenir out of the dark. I used it to give me strength and the frail beginning of
my personal authority as a dancer. If I were an artist, which I was not at the time, it
could have led me to a new place. Who knows? It may still do that.
How specific does the image have to be? Should you be specific all the time? We live
in a sea of powerful forces that move and excite us while they elude precise description:
things without names, shapes with foggy outlines, feelings concealed behind clouded
intentions and irrational actions pulling us in all directions. They are what our art is
about. It is exactly these that we are trying to confront, see clearly and release or bury.
A powerful specific image is the metaphor that hooks into the mystery and opens us
and our audience to the forces within. If our art is meant to bring a little light into
this dark turbulence of our lives, then how lovely it is to find a metaphor that gives a
clue to the nameless and draws a face out of the shadows.
Can a specific image be nameless or foggy or barely visible or shadowy? My predi-
lection is for the concrete. If you are close to a creative idea, having a feeling that rocks
you but is no more than vague, you’re on a hot track, but don’t stop there. Resort to the
Hub Meditation (see the Workbook, chapter 10), placing the feeling at the center of
your awareness. Allow that feeling to generate a multitude of images until one refuses
to budge, regardless of how many new ones float by. (That strongest image may even
be the first to emerge, but continue on, testing its staying power.) Then, regard the
image and sense the feeling. Do they resonate? Does one call up the other? Yes? You
have your specific image. No? Return to your Hub Meditation and continue the hunt.
In spite of the above, I suspect I have danced extended passages with images that
were not concrete. Experiment. If it ignites your dance, hang on to it.
In traditional theatre and dance, the central focus has been on the “how” of a per-
formance: “How to look?” “How to walk?” Considerations of style take precedence over

53 The Six Questions

 matters of substance. Picasso, in his most abstract period, only wanted to find different
ways of looking at things. The things he chose were a café table, a wine bottle, a news-
paper, a pack of cigarettes—all objects with little intellectual or emotional weight. The
buzzword that kept the presently exhausted avant garde inspired for twenty-five years
was process. Whatt was said was not as important as how w one said it; whatt was danced
was not as important as how w one danced. It is the premise of this way of working that
the howw is determined by answering the six questions, “Who or what is doing what to
whom or what and where, in what context and under what difficulties and why?” It
must be noted in passing that for some choreographers the “how” is what their dance
is about.
A man slaps his hand on the table. How w does he do it? No, whatt is he doing? Qui-
eting a meeting? Making a point in an argument? Killing a fly? If he wants to kill a fly,
he will not pause to ask himself how he is going to do it.
It was while I was in my third year at City College that I decided I had to try to
be a dancer. The cautious solution for this incautious ambition was to change from
a psychology/sociology major to health and physical education, with the prospect of
teaching dance in a college. Aside from the rules of badminton, we had to experience
a full range of gymnastic work including what was called a “swan.” One stood at one
end of a not very soft mat, jumped from our two feet into a swan as do the divers,
landing on the mat on both hands and keeping the arch, rolling down the chest, to the
thighs, to an arched lift resting on extended arms and the insteps. It looked so pretty.
I can still see a slender blond fellow student spring up in the air and down into the
most mellifluous roll-up. The swan terrified me and I managed to get a Bachelor of
Science in Health Education without ever doing one.
More than twenty years later, I was working alone in the Tamiris-Nagrin Studio on
lower Fifth Avenue, choreographing a solo for a larger work called American Journey. On
tour, the year before, I had traveled up the West Coast from Los Angeles to San Francisco
and had been dumfounded by the rolling hills and dips of green coming right down to
the waters of the Pacific. In the solo I was making, I wanted to draw the contours of that
coast with my body. It was late and after an hour or more, I felt that I had carved out
a good chunk of the solo and thought, “Enough for the night.” I gathered up my stuff
and headed for the dressing room. As I got to the door, I was stopped by the realization
that in the course of the choreography, I had just done two swans! “Oh no! How did I
manage that?” I dropped my shoes, sweater and practice bag and headed back into the
space to try it again. Two steps into the studio and the old terror closed in. I thought,
“No. Wait until tomorrow,” and with great speed I dressed and left.
That night and the next day, I constantly shoved the thought of the impending
swan out of my head. By late evening, the studio was emptied of all but me and my
rehearsal time. As I began to dance what I had done, I forced myself to concentrate
on one action: drawing with my body the undulating coast of California. Woosh! I

54 The Theory
 effortlessly did one swan and the next one and continued working on the solo—and all
of this on a hardwood floor! I never dared practice the swan in isolation, only within
the context of what I was doing in the dance. It was every bit as smooth as the swan
of that blond man I envied so.
Since the time Helen Tamiris helped me take down the wall between acting and
dancing, I have continually found virtuosic moves through inner actions, even when
my technique was still quite raw. (One of her greatest solos was Joshua Fit the Battle
of Jericho in which she convinced all who saw it that Joshua did not use a trumpet to
level the walls of Jericho—he had to have danced them down.)
One of the most upsetting experiences for a dancer is returning to a role that always
worked and finding it empty and cold. That irrational, unnamed but perfect flow of
energy and passion can all too easily go dry, and we face the worst embarrassment of
all: appearing as if we are filled with a torrent of energy when in truth we are empty.
It is precisely in this kind of situation that a technique of performance must come
into play. The worst solution is to put on the face of the proper emotion. Better to
seize upon the spine and the actions as they develop, staying with them with patience
and without trying to pump up the performance beyond what is felt at the moment.
The technique of action keeps the performer on the road to inner truth and gives the
best chance of finding the heat again. The heatt is an unpoetic and simplistic term for
what Stanislavski called these hidden forces which we need to give us the magical lift.
He used the then fashionable term, the subconscious. The words matter little; we all
know what we are talking about and how utterly essential it is to perform and sooner
or later experience that “high,” that “inspiration,” that “lift,” that release of our hidden
creative forces.
I had always suspected that the tragic deaths of Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and
Jim Morrison were hooked into the need for “getting high” at each performance.
They were the apostles of ecstasy; what were they if they had a show and didn’t feel
it? Could they put it on—like a hat? The suicide note left by Kurt Cobain, leader of
the rock band, Nirvana, hammers home the point: “I haven’t felt the excitement for
so many years. I felt guilty for so many years. The fact is, I can’t fool you, any of you. I
don’t have the passion any more. The worst crime is faking it” (The Arizona Republic,
April 11, 1994).
Yes, faking it is a crime. What the six questions offer is a way to find your way back
to feeling the passion. How? By finding the specific metaphor and the specific action
that will create a valid performance; one that is different than every other. Some will
be hotter than others and some more resonant of subtler meanings. Did Cobain have
a rigid idea of what constituted a valid performance? If he did, he was automatically
in trouble. If he did, he was locked into the error of reaching for the result instead of
finding out what was different there on the stage—every night.
The act of performance contains a tension that cuts through every other human

555 The Six Questions

 endeavor: paradox. It is a lie which is trying to reveal a truth. To perform is to pretend
to be what you are not.
The Judson Church gang, who generated postmodern dance, set out to dissolve this
paradox and I think for awhile they fooled us, certainly the dance critics and themselves.
I recall seeing Robert Morris wearing work gloves and overalls playing with a four-by-
eight sheet of masonite and pretendingg to be a workman, while a naked woman reclined
on a couch covered from head to foot with talcum powder and wearing only a black
velvet neckband, pretendingg to be Manet’s Olympia. What was in her mind as she lay
quite exposed and stretched out on the couch in the dark waiting for the lights, and
was there a change when the lights came on? Was it the same? Why was she motionless?
And Morris, standing in the wings slipping on his work gloves, balancing the sheet of
masonite and then striding in with it. Was there a change in him when he entered?
I see Yvonne Rainer going through a long technical movement sequence while
a tape of her voice droned on about her intention of writing an essay on sleep. She
was doing a workout, but it was a pretended, organized and choreographed workout
that looked like a workout, and I’ll wager she did a workout in order to perform that
workout properly. By performing it with that impressive deadpan expression, she was
reenforcing the ideal of not performing. The odds are that for the first performance,
if not at every subsequent one, while she appeared so “cool,” her heart was beating
violently in response to the excitement, challenge and hazards of performing that long
technical sequence.
Observing someone at work, it is easy to assume that that is what they are doing.
Can you be sure that the carpenter driving in the nail is simply driving in that nail or
is it a metaphor for something entirely different? Could he be “giving it” to his boss?
Ironically, I didd carpentry onstage in an evening long 1977 work, Ruminations. I built
a small bench during the intermission and at the performance’s end either gave it
away or auctioned it off to the audience, the money to go to a “good cause,” all to be
determined by audience vote. These were sturdy little stools and I’m certain many still
exist and find use all over the country. As I was making the bench was I pretending or
was I performing? Or, was I proving to my long-gone father who had magical hands
with tools that I was not as inept as he considered me?
Before anyone catches me in the contradiction of this entire book: I constantly rail
against neat systems and schema, and yet what could be simpler or more schematic
than the six questions? Does it not appear that I am holding this method forward as
the best way to work?
There is no doubt in my mind that there are any number of good and great artists
in dance who work in ways radically different than I describe. We are all guessing, and
this book is my guess. Do I think it better than other approaches? Yes. I wouldn’t use
it or teach it if I didn’t.
The strongest reason for my belief in the six questions is how open-ended they
are. Using them as a guide, the performer is let loose to follow her.his own imagina-

566 The Theory

 tion and values. In the hunt for the who or what, the amazingly complex universe of
each individual’s life experience is there for the artist to choose from—with no one to
guide or lead. No style is glorified, and the inner life is the creation of the artist, not
the director or the choreographer. The dancer can take a suggestion or a direction,
but from that point on, it can be transposed and transmuted to a personal metaphor
which need not be known by anyone, ever. In fact, it is best for an artist not to share
an inner vision. It too easily loses its vigor when exposed to the social air. Some of
the most potent images may sound silly or even childish to others. What they do for
the artist is what counts. This is the reasoning behind calling the character X, i.e., the
unknown, because it is the private property of the artist performer.
This is a good moment to explain my use of the term X. It represents a someone
or a something that takes shape in the mind of the dancer while learning and rehears-
ing a dance role. This identity can initially be established by the choreographer, but
it must be developed and enriched by the dancer. Or, it is an identity that the dancer
creates in his.her mind if the choreographer chooses not to communicate this infor-
mation. In either case, as this conception of X develops it becomes part of the creative
storehouse known only by the dancer. What is created by the dancer arises from ob-
servation, imitation and imagination. Ideally, the matured image of X is shared with
no one. It becomes the private creation and seed of the dancer. In mathematics, X is
the unknown factor in an algebraic equation. Study the problem and perform all the
operations that point to X and you will find an answer. Can we say that the dancer
begins with his.her X and if the performance is well-conceived, deep and rich, every
person in the audience will arrive at their own answer as to who X is?
workbook The Two Dances
exercises The Duet as a Structure

This chapter is the heart of the book. Everything else is essential but peripheral. Under-
stand and put into practice the six questions and you will have at your command a way
of dancing that is alive, textured, full of surprises and, best of all, that will use what you
are from the depths of your being. Working on The Two Dances and the six questions
can be the foundation for your understanding acting technique for dance performance.

577 The Six Questions

 4 More Work on the Role

In chapter 3 we examined the fundamentals of analyzing and creating a role. This

chapter will cover a miscellany of techniques and considerations that help polish the
initial work. Inevitably, there will be a few overlaps, but discussing the same thing from
a different angle can bring new insights into view.

Impulse Analysis
Sometimes, even the magnificent English language fails us. In teaching the business of
movement impulse in modern dance technique, there have been the obvious terms:
centripetal and centrifugal, internal or peripheral. Without exception, the terms are
cold and unpoetic, exactly what one does not need for a dance class. “Move from the
center!” “Do a succession!” “Lead with the right arm!” Such language gives the chills.
A few years ago, I saw a Peking Opera troupe at Lincoln Center in New York. I
caught a pervasive quality in their dance movements of which I had never been con-
scious. I realized that I quite often used just such a way of initiating movement, as do
Flamenco dancers and many of Martha Graham’s phrasings. Watching those Chinese
dancers helped me see that there were not just two ways of initiating dance moves,
from the inside or from the outside. There was a third way: all at once. Searching for a
language to call up vivid images of each of these three ways of moving, I consulted my
scholarly colleagues at Arizona State University, hoping to find just what I needed in
the Greek or Latin or Chinese languages. Nothing. Finally, someone said, “Take a leaf
from the Chinese who have such wonderful names for moves in T’ai Chi Chuan, such
as, “embrace tiger” or “return to mountain.” I liked that suggestion and came up with:

58
 How many ways does the tree dance?
from the flowers, the leaves and the branches
from the trunk
the whole tree dances.

The first two are obvious and well taught. Some will say that ballet initiates move-
ment from the flowers, the leaves and the branches and modern dance initiates move-
ment from the trunk, but in fact both dance forms use both ways, sometimes within
the same phrase of movement. But in none of the dance classes or rehearsals that I
have attended, have I ever heard the following thought articulated (though I have seen
it demonstrated): the whole tree dances. There are dance moves wherein the impulse
comes from the entire body all at once and the move is completed by the entire body
all at once. If you are a dancer, spend a bit of time in the studio playing with this. It is
bound to be familiar, but it is rarely described and thus is just as easily lost as done. If
you are not a dancer, watch for these three ways at the next dance concert.
I have omitted one important movement impulse, perhaps because it does not easily
fit the metaphor of the tree dancing. A succession is a movement impulse that can start
at any part of the body and flows or ripples through the rest of the body. Wood does
not take easily to flowing or rippling. This impulse came from the German modern
dance and though it is present in some American teaching, it is not in the forefront of
our consciousness. It can be quite lovely, yet it is rarely seen in dance today.
In approaching work on any dance role it is well to ask, What is its dominant
impulse source? Discerning this should not lead to the oversimplification of making
that dominant impulse source the only one. Allowing for the shifts and turns of the
choreography, the other two impulses will surface, making for a richly textured dancing.
There are obvious metaphors for the three ways. “Leading with the flowers, the
leaves and the branches” tends to gives the sense of the mind being in control. “Lead-
ing with the trunk” gives the feeling of responding to deep inner forces. “The whole
tree dances” gives the sense of a passionate involvement where the mind and the body
are synchronized. (Metaphors for succession movements are not so obvious: waves,
evocations of sensuality, passive response to an external impulse.) For each of these,
there will be as many metaphors as there are dancers, and some of them will certainly
contradict what I have just said. The goal is not agreement or consensus but awareness
that the impulse source of each role, phrase and movement should be known by the
dancer and be a part of his.her expressive warehouse.
workbook The Two Dances
exercises How Does Your Tree Dance?†
I Dare You†

59 More Work on the Role

Relationship to the Music

Student concerts can be fairly interesting, despite the limited experience of the young
dancers, but the opening of one of them yanked me upright in my seat. A dancer I
had never seen was alone, downstage right, slashing virtuoso arcs with the strongest,
most eloquent pair of legs I had seen in some time. Her whole body was engaged in
a bold, bravura statement. Who was she? As the dance progressed, two other dancers
joined her, and the group moved downstage left where they engaged in allegro unison
activity that was of mild interest. I suddenly became aware that I had lost track of the
dazzling dancer; but there she was, in full view at the peak of the triangle of dancers.
What had happened? Squinting, as if to back off analytically, I caught it. She was behind
the beat! The other two were, if anything, a little ahead of the beat.
The lesson is obvious. The dancer who is behind the beat is bringing the news
afterr the others who are on or ahead of the beat. This suggests uncertainty or a ten-
dency to follow. A dancer who is always ahead of the beat may be unduly aggressive;
one who is always square on the beat may be cautious, safe, uninteresting. (See How
to Dance Forever, p. 189.) On Broadway the style is predominantly ahead of the beat.
That accounts for the frenetic, unrelenting, show-business energy that is designed to
overwhelm the audience. On the concert stage, an indiscriminate use of this musical
phrasing is bad taste.
It is only a naive musician who regards the written score as the exact way to per-
form the music. Some things cannot be written—they are inherent in the style, the
intent and content of the music. Similarly, a dancer is truly musical if she.he regards
the beat as a fluid possibility. Riding with the style, the moment, the phrasing and
the intent, the dancer can and should have the freedom and musical skill to slip in an
imperceptible hair ahead of the beat, slide in with a lingering breath behind the beat
or step full square on the beat. Most unmusical of all is the dancer who never alters
his.her relationship to the beat.
Then of course, one can counterpoint the rhythm of the music. Who does this
and why is a complexity. Technically, going against the beat requires a high degree of
musicality and, in terms of character, suggests an independence or a rebelliousness or
an indifference to what the music calls for.
workbook Who or What Is Alive in the Music?†
exercises The Inner Rhythm of the Role†
Before, After and On†
The Spine of Style†

60 The Theory
Sense-memory Work

Though sense-memory exercises are a staple of the actor’s training, no dancer can
afford to neglect them. It means what it says: having a vivid, sensual memory of ac-
tions with a real object and the ability to re-create those actions without the object.
In performance the real object is imagined or remembered or sensed, and the motion
of the performer is determined by the truth of the remembering. It is the essence of
the theatre—pretending that what is not, is.
Sense memory is the foundation of imagination. Any game of sense memory is
an exercise in imagination, and imagination is a muscle. Use it and it will get stronger
and more vivid. Ignore or forget its value and it will atrophy. Sense-memory exercises
are the pliés of your imagination.
The moment I knew that I had to be a dancer, I also knew I had to begin the study
of ballet. My initial training and loyalty focused on modern dance, but I was quite aware
that if I was ever to gain employment as a dancer, I would need more virtuosity than
was then being taught in modern dance classes. In ballet classes, I felt like an awkward
visitor in a foreign country. One day, early in my induction into the ballet form, in a
class given by Mme. Anderson-Ivantzova, we were doing a particularly florid batte-
ment phrase at the barre with baroque arms flowing everywhere. I was embarrassed
and inhibited. “What is a nice boy from the Bronx doing making these fancy gestures
like some eighteenth-century fop?”
The moment that question streaked through my skull, I saw myself as a sixteenth-
century fop. I knew exactly what I was wearing: very expensive, black silk tights; a black
velvet doublet belted with twisted silver; great puffed sleeves slashed to show green,
red and white satin; all surmounted by a great white starched ruff that lengthened my
neck. Best of all, I had precious rings, one for each finger! All my technical problems
remained, although the extra lift and the bland assumption of an authority to which
I had no right did give me my first few double pirouettes and did wonders for my
carriage and port de bras. Ah, but my style! Madame Anderson-Ivantzova: “What iss,
Danyell? You make such magnificent preparation for grand pirouette and then poof,
you are on floor! What iss?”
The following was recorded in one of my classes at the American Dance Festival:
Fifth position is an imaginative act. Posture is an act of imagination. When it is
done in a way that achieves poetry for you and for those watching it, you have
made a leap from now to there—a new construct. A ramrod was used to load
rifles with gun powder—stiff and straight. Now, sit up with spines like ramrods!
That’s an act of imagination. Let your head float far above your chest. And, that
too is an act of imagination.
Sense memory is used many times unconsciously in performance. A really
poetic person may be dealing with the wind without being conscious of it. In the
welter of living, we have all been caught in a wind strong enough to make prog-

61 More Work on the Role

 ress difficult and exciting. . . . There are people who run across the floor and they
become the wind or they breast the wind.
One literal sensory experience can bring back a world. Proust called up a
memorable scene from the smell of a cookie. The possibilities for sense-memory
exercises are all about you. Wet your face, pluck a towel from the rack and dry
your face. Put it back and do it all over again without the water or the towel. Pick
up anything and put it down. Do it a few times. Remember it, then do it without
the object. It’s a fundamental leap of imagination: to pick up something that’s not
there. Keep this exercise simple for a while and take all the time you need.
In the theatre, all we have is 700 to 2000 square feet, a hole on one side, a canvas
at our backs and flats or drapes on either side—and that’s it. We do need a strong
imagination muscle.
workbook In addition to those listed below, see the chart of movement dichotomies in chapter
exercises 3. Dozens of sense-memory exercises can be spun out of these many categories, if a
specific image is found for each of the qualities.
What Quickened You?†
Passing Through a Physical Object†
Visualization†
Slalom†
Faces†

Passive or Active?

Is the force creating the movement coming from the mover or from outside the mover?
It is hard to imagine anything other than these two alternatives, and yet any number
of dancers actually achieve what appears to be a neutrality. They lack vitality and
presence. It is as if they have not thought through who and what they were and what
they have been doing.
Most dancers can give a convincing and exhilarating performance of an active
impulse wherein the body is the triumphant expression of an inner will. Even the
best dancers have a difficult challenge dancing a passive role. The danger is slipping
into a limp mode. Actually, passive movement gains excitement and drama when the
body that is being moved maintains its integrity and heft. A giant tree in a high wind
may bend but it will still keep its configuration. A keen sense memory will add to the
texture of the movement. Passive movement presents a subtle and difficult problem
to any dancer.

62 The Theory
 workbook The Two Dances
exercises
Analyze each from this perspective.
Goldfish bowl
Blind Journey†
These will require an oscillating blend of active and passive actions.
Before, After and On†

Controlled or Released?

I never thought about control versus release until I began to teach. I had fiercely sought
to gain control of a body that came late to dance, all the while contending with an innate
inclination for going wild and letting go. Then, when I left Broadway for the concert
world, teaching became a necessary economic lifeline. In too many classes, I would be
frustrated as I observed obviously talented dancers moving within the compass of a
tight rein. “Let it go!” I would implore—and too often fruitlessly. The few wild ones
with their lack of discipline were the kind of challenge I much preferred.
Control and release color every act, choice and motion that we perform. The bal-
ance, the proportion between them is the profile and the very texture of how each of us
dances—and lives. One can even use these terms to characterize epochs, cultures and
nations. In the court of Louis XIV, even the removal of a handkerchief from the pocket
was performed as if it were a prescribed and controlled ritual. Seventy-five years later,
during the French Revolution, France, and particularly Paris, exhibited a storm of re-
leased passion, jubilation, triumph, individual freedom and rage. In the next century,
also in Paris, a new “war” raged between two beautiful dancers, Marie Taglioni and
Fanny Elssler. To quote the erudite Lincoln Kirstein, writing of Taglioni: “Under the
vague outline of skirt and bodice, there is pure strength; geometry the base of every
arabesque” (Dance: A Short History of Classic Theatrical Dancingg [Dance Horizons, 1977],
p. 244). Theophile Gautier on Elssler: “Fanny is quite a pagan dancer. . . . exposing her
thigh. . . she bends freely from her hips, throwing back her voluptuous arms” (p. 247).
Many promising careers in dance are either cut short or are never quite realized
because, in spite of talent and technique, there is a destructive imbalance between
control and release. To insure clarity, I’ll define the terms. Controll is the ideal of know-
ing clearly and specifically what it is you wish to do and doing exactly that, no more
and no less. Release is “going with it,” “letting go,” and permitting an impulse to flow
without needing to know or control what will happen next.
Control, if exercised at all times by a performer or a choreographer, creates dispas-

63 More Work on the Role

 sionate and alienated work; the only emotion visible is the passion to be “correct.” Yet
lacking control and always “going with it” are literally definitions of self-indulgence,
sloppiness and the loss of craft. In spite of having a secure technique and all the skill
needed, such dancers disregard their power of control in favor of needing to “feel
deeply” what they are doing at every moment.
If the balance between these two essentials is so vital and delicate a matter, how
much conscious choice needs to be exercised? I think none, unless you sense something
is not right with a phrase of movement or a particular role or, most serious of all, what
is happening to your career.
This interplay between control and release may operate within a single measure
of music. The waltz can present a stumbling block for young dancers if they try too
hard to be correct by precisely and deliberately spelling out each beat. It becomes a
waltz when they learn that the downbeat must be done and the “2, 3” just happen. A
musical and dynamically right downbeat or “1,” creates, gives birth to, the “2, 3.” To
dance the waltz, you don’t do the “2, 3,” you let them happen.
Every movement, every performance and our entire lives are sculpted by where we
choose to direct our actions and when we allow ourselves to flow with the moment.
(See How to Dance Forever, pp. 205–06.)
It is well not to confuse control-release with the oppositional pair of active-passive.
One can be controlled and still be in either an active or a passive mode. Similarly,
release can be performed actively or passively.
The climate of the creative process is turbulent and constantly subject to change.
Those who feel they cannot function as artists unless they are always in full heat and
flowing are in serious trouble. Similarly, those who constantly seek the cool, objec-
tive detachment that gives them complete control over all that pours out of them are
unwilling to risk the surprises and full life of an artist. For most artists capable of
expression, there are periods of work where an intoxication possesses them and the
work flows like a mighty river. These same artists are quite capable of slaving away
for long periods of time in the cold tunnel of creation, remembering, re-creating and
laboriously editing. They willingly bear tedium and hours of detailed concentration
that to an outsider would appear dealing with minor minutiae.
How many dancers have at the crest of an improvisation felt that they had flown
beyond the limits of gravity, and in the cold moments that followed knew that they
might never recapture that ecstasy and those elegant phrases? The great artists patiently
and stubbornly pursue that ineffable moment, and in time they hammer out a shape
that may not be precisely what they have lost but is, in effect, a lovely poem about it.
The journey of artists is a gamble through the fire and ice of the creative process.

64 The Theory
 workbook The Two Dances
exercises The balance of controlled/released movements should be examined for each of the
two dances.
Spinning†
This sets the stage for released dance.
Why Do You Dance?†
Doing this fully may reveal your predilection in regard to control/release.
Lose Your Head†

Focus: Internal or External?

Is there ever a time when we are not looking at something, whether in dreams or
awake? I don’t think so. Even in the most disordered state, something—perhaps a
chaotic mess—is there. Certainly, everyone who steps out onstage does so with the
passionate hope that the entire audience is focused upon him.her. What is the audi-
ence looking at? Someone who is looking at something. The important thing here is
not to confuse or limit seeing with what we do with our eyes. There is, as Shakespeare
put it, “the mind’s eye.” If the attention of the dancer is continually alive to the intent
and action of the choreography at every moment, there would never be a need to even
raise the issue of focus.
Undoubtedly, there is a noticeable difference when a dancer is focused externally
as opposed to internally. To make the point, I have faced a student and asked, “Am
I looking at you or something else?” As the student watched, I would shift my focus
from the specifics of that person’s face to an image in my own mind. Invariably, the
student can perceive the difference; an audience, even in a big house, can do so as well
if the dancer is clearly focused.
When the focus is external, it should not matter whether the object of attention is
a palpable object visible to the audience or exists only in the imagination of the dancer.
For the dancer, they should have an equal reality. This is particularly the problem of the
solo artist. Having worked extensively as a soloist, I have been asked, on occasion, what
special skills are required. I have never had a good answer but as I write this paragraph,
I finally do: a good soloist has the facility to create an all but palpable world onstage.
Looking directly front presents a special problem that needs addressing and aware-
ness (see also the discussion in chapter 2). Many dancers and even some choreographers
accept it as a given that they are communicating with the audience when they look
front, even though within the choreographic context there is no audience. To look at
something is to create its existence. Choreography that asks the performers to be aware

655 More Work on the Role

 of the audience permits direct visual contact out front. If within the imaginative realm
of a particular dance there is no audience, looking directly front can be misleading
and a betrayal of the work’s premises.
In Afternoon of a Faun as choreographed by Jerome Robbins, the two dancers use
front as the mirror in a dance studio. Done well, they create a wall between themselves
and the audience, because gazing at oneself in a mirror is not at all the way one looks
at an audience. Much depends on the context. Looking front can be seeing a vista a
great distance away. In my memory of one of Martha Graham’s early solos, Frontier,
she spent the greater part of the dance looking forward. I’m certain that not one of
us in that audience thought for a moment that she was addressing us. It all depends
upon what’s in your head—or rather the head of your X. Whether the mind is scattered
or crystal clear will determine the quality of the focus. You should be able to create a
place that is turbulent or serene. Your imagination and its instrument, your focus, can
create whatever is demanded by the choreography.
With an external focus, there is a technical detail that needs attention. In most
cases, and particularly in large performing spaces, one should not look with the eyes
but with the cheekbones. Merely sliding the eyes left or right without moving the head
is to perform an act that in the broad context of dance movement in a large theatre
space is either not seen or has little impact. For the focus to be visible to an audience,
the full face must turn toward the object being looked at. The exception that comes
to mind are the extraordinary eye movements of East Indian dancers. They, however,
are performing an art that was originally designed to be seen in intimate spaces, and
further, their makeup has a wildly stylized highlighting of the eyes. I have the impres-
sion that when an East Indian dancer is doing something that relies heavily on the use
of the eyes, head motions are amplified, the body’s motions are reduced to a minimum
and there is less movement in space. In western dance and in western theatre spaces,
eye movements independent of head movements tend to be ineffective.
I am not suggesting that Western dancers emulate East Indian dancers in regard
to their makeup but it should be noted that modern dancers, especially the men, tend
to make up the eyes ineffectively. If the material of the dance is abstract, with little or
no human interaction, a strong eye makeup is not a critical necessity. If expression
plays a part in the choreography, effective eye makeup in required. The face has two
outlines: the outer one that follows the shape of the skull, the ears and the jaw; and
the inner outline, a triangle from the corners of the eyes to the mouth. This latter is the
only part of the face that is expressive. Thus it follows that it must be seen. Depending
on the size of the theatre, the mouth and eyes need a makeup strong enough to be
clearly visible to everyone in the audience.
Since focusing is not merely a matter of the eyes but also of the mind, it is not
unreasonable at this time to ask the question, should one think ahead while danc-
ing or is it better to live in the moment, letting it give birth to the next moment? Are

666 The Theory

 there different answers to this question depending upon whether we are talking about
rehearsal or performance? This chapter is basically devoted to preparation, that is, to
rehearsals. My premise is that rehearsals reach their objective when it is possible to
dance at “concert pitch.” Does “concert pitch” mean being finally free to be immersed
in the present?
When the work is new, in classes and rehearsals, when it is unfamiliar, not memo-
rized, not mastered, thinking ahead is a necessary tool. A cool, observant mind thinking
ahead makes for swift learning. One of the chief reasons for “repetition,” which is the
more accurate French word for rehearsal, is to link the sequence of events so firmly in
the neural patterns of the performer that the moment comes when there is no need
to think ahead. For a well-rehearsed performer, the completion of one motion reveals
the need and inevitability of the next motion. The time to let loose is when the moves
are all etched deeply into the nervous system and the muscles.
“Living in the moment” and “focusing on the immediate action” need some
clarification. “The moment” at the center of the attention may not be the actual move
being done; the thought, energy, drive are directed to the end of a phrase, which may
be quite long. In talking about pirouettes, Tamiris would say, “Don’t focus on the turn.
Go for the finish.” Try it. It works. Even if the turn is shaky, an authoritative finish will
make it appear to be solid.
At times, it may be appropriate to think ahead. If X is a liar, his.her answer will be
carefully constructed before being uttered. If X must be in absolute control at all times
X will tend to think ahead. Otherwise, most actions are responses to the present, not
the consequence of previous planning. It is called spontaneity, and when it is present,
it gives dance a sparkle that makes every performer with that quality endearing.
workbook Any exercise that calls for intense observation is automatically an exercise in
exercises focusing. All the Workbook exercises for observation demand clear and intense focus.
See also chapter 1.
Gifts
Medicine Ball
Outrageous Travel
The Hub Meditation†
Visualization†
These two involve internal focus though the body is at rest.
The Duet as a Structure
Rituals of Power
Both of these begin with an unwavering focus on the other(s). Where they go as they
progress will be a variable depending on developments.
Focusing

677 More Work on the Role

An Event, a Recurrence or a Ritual?

This is a critical question that needs a conscious answer from the choreographer;
if that is not forthcoming, the dancer must make her.his own choice. “Is what I am
dancing an event that is taking place for the first time, or is it a recurrence, or is it a
ritual?” A recurrence is merely something that has happened before, while a ritual is a
prescribed act or ceremony that must be enacted exactly as tradition demands without
variation or improvisation. Quite obviously, the style and quality of the identical dance
phrase would be radically different performed as an event in its first occurrence, as a
recurrence, or as a ritual honed by time and tradition. Always be ready to recognize
that within a ritual, an unexpected event may intrude. Any one of these may be mixed
with one of the other.
When I lived in New York, I never failed to get a charge riding the subways, par-
ticularly in those cars where all the seats line the sides and face each other. The range of
people always stimulated me. I would get a special kick out of trying to guess whether
the couple across the aisle were out on their first date or whether they had been out
together many times—or even married.
workbook The Two Dances
exercises Each dance not only needs to be seen but danced from this perspective.
An Event, a Recurrence, a Ritual†

The Inner Rhythm of the Role

There is a remarkable book by Chieh Tzu Hua Chuan called The Mustard Seed Garden
Manual of Paintingg (trans. Mai-Mai Sze [Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press,
1956]), written in China in the seventeenth century:
In estimating people, their quality of spirit (ch’i) is as basic as the way they are
formed; and so it is with rocks, which are the framework of the heaven and of
earth and also have ch’i. . . . Rocks without ch’i are dead rocks, just as bones with-
out the same vivifying spirit are dry bare bones. How could a cultivated person
paint a lifeless rock?
One should certainly never paint rocks without ch’i. To depict rocks with
ch’i it must be sought beyond the material and in the intangible. Nothing is more
difficult. . . . If I may sum it up in a phrase: rocks must be alive. (P. 127)
All the practice, all the control and all the thinking that go into work on the role
go just so far, and yet there is an existence impervious to the conscious mind that
needs to be reached and unleashed if the role is to attain that level where it is not
merely good, but where it glistens. No matter how thoroughly one researches the facts

68 The Theory
 and imagines the life and details of the character, there is just so much we can know
about anyone—including ourselves. Each of us is different and each contains a unique
physical-emotional motor that drives us through our lives in ways we hardly suspect
and rarely notice. Performing the inner rhythm of the character stirs up the animality
that lurks in the shadows of everyone. The inner rhythm stirs up elements that cannot
easily be reached by reason or analysis. Everything is shaped by rhythm and I think
of rhythm as central to the creative act. Rhythm is the pulse of the irrational center.
If one finds the rhythm of the person or the thing one is supposed to be onstage, one
is closer to penetrating the truth of what is being danced.
How does one go about finding an inner rhythm? It can be as elusive as a barely
remembered dream or as palpable as your left hand. Elusive or palpable, it is there to be
seen, sensed, felt because everything has a rhythm: the clouds before a storm, the kitten
studying its image in a mirror, the breath of a lover, the scuff marks on your dance floor,
the stride of Othello, the virtuoso in a demi-plié before a double air turn. It is there wait-
ing for you to take it into your body. You fill yourself with the object of your attention
by looking, touching, remembering, visualizing and imaginatively entering into it.
Does the inner rhythm have anything to do with the rhythm of the dance—with
the rhythm of the music? Of course it does, but it is not the same. It has a life of its
own that is alive within the other rhythms. It should be an integral part of every per-
formance, a part known only to the dancer.
workbook Rhythm Portrait†
exercises The Rhythm Series†
Inner Rhythm

Contradiction

We are—all of us—a mess of contradictions, and thus it follows that the theatre and
the dance are arenas for conflict. This point has been made earlier, but I mention it
again because (1) I think it is a critically vital aspect of the dancer’s art. (2) It is easy to
work hard and fully on a role and not realize that this dimension has not been explored.
(3) Not many teachers of dance and acting speak of it at all. Every vital performer
and work of art is animated by inner contradictions. Or as The Mustard Seed Garden
Manual of Paintingg says, “attains ch’i.”
workbook The Two Dances
exercises The Obstacle†
Dedicate Your Motion†
Hot to Cold to Hot†
The Duet as a Structure
I Dare You†
Inside the Outside†

69 More Work on the Role

Living with the Magic “If ”

Constantin Stanislavski, an eloquent and passionate man of the theatre, had a profound
influence on the theatres of the world, on Helen Tamiris, on myself and all that I write
and teach. The following passage was precipitated by his dismay upon returning to
roles he had played with some degree of success in the past. To read it properly and
gain value from it, it would be well to keep a few things in mind: first, take into account
that this was written in 1924 and it is couched in the romantic mode of expression
of that time, not our “cool” time. Second, the thinking is not dated and is as valuable
now as when it was first uttered. Third, try to act like a computer and do a “Search
and Replace.” Every time you see the word “actor,” replace it with “dancer,” and it will
make sense for those to whom this book is addressed.
Why was it then that the more I repeated my roles the more I sunk backward into
a stage of fossilization? . . . God, how my soul and my roles were disfigured by bad
theatrical habits and tricks, by the desire to please the public, by incorrect meth-
ods of approach to creativeness, day after day, at every repeated performance! . .
. What was I to do? How was I to save my roles from bad rebirths, from spiritual
petrification, from the autocracy of evil habit and lack of truth?
. . . At one of the performances given by a visiting star in Moscow, I watched
his acting very closely. In my capacity of actor, I felt the presence of the creative
mood in his playing, the freedom of his muscles in conjunction with a great gen-
eral concentration. I felt clearly that his entire attention was on the stage and the
stage alone, and this abstracted attention forced me to be interested in his life on
the stage, and draw closer to him in spirit in order to find out what it was that held
his attention.
In that moment, I understood that the more the actor wishes to amuse his
audience the more the audience will sit in comfort waiting to be amused, and not
even trying to play its part in the play on the stage before it. But as soon as the ac-
tor stops being concerned with his audience, the latter begins to watch the actor. It
is especially so when the actor is occupied in something serious and interesting. If
nobody amuses the spectator there is nothing left for him to do in the theatre but
to seek himself for an object of attention. Where can that object be found? On the
stage, of course, in the actor himself. The concentration of the creating actor calls
out the concentration of the spectator and in this manner forces him to enter into
what is passing on the stage, exciting his attention, his imagination, his thinking
processes and his emotion. That evening I discovered the greater value of concen-
tration for the actor. . . . The entire physical and spiritual nature of the actor must
be concentrated on what is going on in the soul of the person he plays. . . .
The actor must first of all believe in everything that takes place on the stage,
and most of all he must believe in what he himself is doing. And one can believe
only in the truth. Therefore it is necessary to feel this truth at all times, to know

70 The Theory
 how to find it, and for this it is unescapable to develop one’s artistic sensitivity to
truth. It will be said, “But what kind of truth can this be, when all on the stage is a
lie, an imitation, scenery, cardboard, paint, make-up, properties, wooden goblets,
swords and spears? Is all this truth?” But it is not of this truth that I speak. . . .
The actor says to himself: “All these properties, make-ups, costumes, the scen-
ery, the public nature of the performance, are lies. I know they are lies, I know I
do not need any of them. But if they were true, then I would do this and this, and I
would behave in this manner and this way towards this and this event.”
I came to understand that creativeness begins from that moment when in the
soul and imagination of the actor there appears the magical, creative “if.”” While only
actual reality exists, only practical truth which a man naturally cannot but believe,
creativeness has not yet begun. Then the creative “if ” appears, that is, the imagined
truth which the actor can believe as sincerely and with greater enthusiasms than
he believes practical truth, just as the child believes in the existence of its doll and
all around it. From the moment of the appearance of “if,” the actor passes from
the plane of actual reality into the plane of another life, created and imagined by
himself. Believing in this life, the actor can begin to create.
Scenic truth is not like truth in life; it is peculiar to itself. I understood that on
the stage, truth is that in which the actor sincerely believes. I understood that even
a palpable lie must become a truth in the theatre so that it may become art. For
this it is necessary for the actor to develop to the highest degree his imagination, a
childlike naiveté and trustfulness, an artistic sensitivity to truth and to the truthful
in his soul and body. All these qualities help him to transform a coarse scenic lie
into the most delicate truth of his relation to the life imagined. All these qualities,
taken together, I shall call the feeling of truth. In it, there is the play of imagination
and the creation of creative faith; in it, there is a barrier against scenic lies; in it is
the feeling of true measure; in it is the tree of childlike naiveté and the sincerity
of artistic emotion. The feeling of truth, as one of the important elements of the
creative mood, can be both developed and practiced. (My Life in Artt [New York:
Theatre Arts, 1952], pp. 458–67; italics added)
In these few paragraphs, Stanislavski enters the heart of the entire approach. If
you can spare the time, reread them.
workbook There is no single exercise which leans upon the magic “if ” more than any other. The
exercises whole business from beginning to end is a game of pretend. A grand plié will attain
magnificence if we pretend it is the architectural motif of the Doges’ Palace in Venice,
or it can be a squat with a straight back.†

71 More Work on the Role

Justification

“Justification” in the theatre means finding an inner reason for doing anything and
everything you are asked to do. For “inner reason” read your own reason and one that
quickens your pulse, not a mechanically correct intellectual reason. If the dancer is
lucky, the choreographer or teacher provides the impulse. If nothing is forthcoming,
the dancer is beholden to his.her craft to find a powerful reason for being onstage and
doing the moves that have been given.
There is an ideal place and time to develop the skill and the poetry to do this: the
technique class, whether ballet, modern, or jazz. The moment you have mastered a
given dance sequence is the moment for your inner poet to go to work. What is this
like? What does it feel like? Who is doing this? What was the spirit or the devil that
inhabited the teacher when she.he demonstrated the sequence? What is it in the voice
of the choreographer/teacher as he.she is counting that is telling me what this is really
all about? “Oh! She is on to something so beautiful. I will walk right into her body,
become her and find out what is there.”
Never fear this ploy of “becoming” the teacher or someone in the class that inspires
you. You will not lose your identity. You will be you dancing yourr understanding of
that person. This is unquestionably one of the fastest ways to learn anything, and if
you pick the best, you have everything to gain.
To sum it up: in performing technique or choreography, every moment needs
justification, either clearly understood or deeply felt on a less than rational level. The
performer’s task is to justify whatever is given, good or bad. Penetrating even deeper
into the matter, the performer who is an artist finds the contradiction within the
justification—a reason or reasons for not doing what is to be done. Everything holds
its opposite.
workbook Again, one could make a case for every exercise as an exercise in justification. Those
exercises listed below, at least on their surface, call on dancers to more consciously find the
justification that brings their dance movement to life.
The Two Dances
Each should be examined in terms of justification.
Dedicate Your Motion†
This is a teacher/director’s device to lead the dancers into the practice of justification.
The Hub Meditation†
Who or What Is Alive in the Music?†
Each Alone†
The Duet as a Structure
This is the classic structure in which the justification evolves into the complexity of
improvised interaction.

72 The Theory
 workbook Why Do You Dance?†
exercises Make a Phrase
Inside the Outside†
Prison†
Signs of the Times†

Living with the Game of Oscillation

I was in a small college in the South and spent an extra day there after the performance
before moving on to my next engagement. I borrowed one of those old workhorse tape
recorders from the piano teacher for a rehearsal. Finished, I returned to her studio with
it and stayed for a bit to have some tea at her invitation. She was a Chinese woman,
quiet, reserved and probably in her mid-thirties. In the course of our conversation, I
asked her whether she toured or performed.
“Oh no. I could never be a performer. I learned that a long time ago.”
“What do you mean? How did you learn that?”
“My teacher told me that I did not have a pure concentration. In fact, that is why
I found your performance last night so awesome. You have that pure concentration.”
Until that moment I had never even considered whether my concentration onstage
was pure or impure. When I am onstage, I am a very busy man with many things on
my mind, in my mind and under my mind. As for purity—”Oh no,” I said, “My mind
is a swirling vortex of more things than I can count or be aware of. I am deep in the
heart of the dance and there is no audience and no Daniel—only the life of the dance
and suddenly I realize I am too near that splintered area upstage right and carefully
maneuver away from it. That throws the rhythm and I work to dig back into the music.
Without knowing it, I slip back into the colors of the swirling vortex and Daniel and
his problems with a splintered spot and a muddied musical phrase become one more
bit in the turbulent mosaic of my mind. And that is the way it goes, in and out. A hyper
self-awareness or audience-awareness brings a loss of self within the folds of the dance.
No professional is ever purely in a piece for its entire length. There is a constant oscil-
lation, in and out.” She listened and said nothing. We talked of other things, I thanked
her for the tea and I never learned whether my speech changed anything.
At this juncture, the reader probably will interject that Stanislavski does not seem to
allow for such impurity. Just a few pages back, I quoted this sentence: “I perceived that
creativeness is first of all the complete concentration of the entire nature of the actor.”
This the language of the nineteenth-century romantics for whom the words “complete,”
“entire,” “pure,” “unconditionally,” “utterly” contained the gems of truth. Stanislavski
may have thought and written that way, but I will wager that is not the way he acted
onstage. He hadd to oscillate between total absorption in the life of the character and an
awareness of self and the stage space. Failing that, he’d fall into the footlights.

73 More Work on the Role

 After his autobiography, My Life in Artt (1924), Stanislavski wrote three more books
on the actor’s art and technique. They are cast in the same dramatic form: a director,
named Tortsov, is teaching a group of young would-be actors. Their interactions are
the books. In Building a Characterr (New York: Theatre Arts, 1981) he deals directly with
the oscillation of the performer’s concentration. Two of the brightest and most aggres-
sive of Tortsov’s students, Kostya and Paul, are devastated when he speaks Othello’s
lines that begin, “Like to the Pontic sea . . .” and between the lines says out loud what
would be in his mind to make the speech effective.
Ne’er ebb to humble love . . .
The moment has come to pull out all the stops!
To mobilize all means of expressiveness!
Everything to the rescue!
Tempo and rhythm!
And . . . I’m afraid to say it . . .
Even loudness!
Not a shout! . . .
’Till that a capable and wide revenge
“Swallow them up. . . . (Pp. 163–64)
Kostya and Paul are horrified and confused by this exposition and beg to talk
with Tortsov. He invites them to his home that evening. Kostya explains to him how
crushed he had been
to find that inspiration had been replaced by theatrical calculation.
“Yes . . . ,” admitted Tortsov. “One half of an actor’s soul is absorbed by his
super-objective, by the through line of action [the spine], the subtext, his inner
images, the elements which go to make up his inner creative state. But the other
half of it continues to operate on a psycho-technique more or less in the way I
demonstrated it to you.
“An actor is split into two parts when he is acting. You recall how Tommaso
Salvini put it: ‘An actor lives, weeps, laughs on the stage, but as he weeps and
laughs he observes his own tears and mirth. It is this double existence, this balance
between life and acting that makes for art.’” (P. 167)
For my taste, this mathematical division of the consciousness of the performer—
half of this and half of that—is an oversimplification. Out of my own experience, I
prefer to think that what is going on in our minds onstage is better described as an
organic, asymmetrical oscillation, rather than a twin track of equally active thought
processes of conscious control on the one side and an unthinking, emotional involve-
ment on the other.
workbook Every exercise will call for this balancing act in the course of rehearsing or
exercises performing.†

74 The Theory
Taste

In The Art of Scientific Investigation (New York: Norton, 1950), W. I. B. Beveridge offers
these insights on the matter of taste:
Taste can perhaps best be described as a sense of beauty or aesthetic sensibility,
and it may be reliable or not, depending on the individual. Anyone who has it
simply feels in his mind that a particular line of work is of interest for its own sake
and worth following, perhaps without knowing why. How reliable one’s feelings
are can be determined only by the results. The concept of scientific taste may be
explained in another way by saying that the person who possesses the flair for
choosing profitable lines of investigation is able to see further whither the work
is leading than are other people, because he has the habit of using his imagina-
tion to look far ahead instead of restricting his thinking to established knowledge
and the immediate problem. He may not be able to state explicitly his reasons or
envisage any particular hypothesis, for he may see only vague hints that it leads
towards one or another of several crucial questions. (P. 106)
Among the characteristic remarks by sophisticated actors discussing the work of
other actors are “She makes wonderful choices,” or “I really like the risks he takes in
his choices.” In this all-important game of imagination, the choices of images, the taste
we use to create what no one else sees, all play critical roles in how we dance. What
can one do to have a “wonderful” taste? Nothing will guarantee that, but some things
might help: knowing history, poetry, the music of the Bushmen of the Kalahari desert,
visiting museums constantly, an awareness of your dance culture, thinking about it
all, writing poems and more of the same. Certainly having a hunger to absorb these
things will open up the range of your choices. And then there is taking your time, do-
ing nothing sometimes, learning to tap into your insides and having the nerve to stay
with what “feels right,” even if a part of you is aghast at what you find and particularly
if others are horrified by your choices. Being a nice person has nothing to do with it.
If you rein in your vision because you fear it will be disturbing to pervading tastes,
you betray yourself and your talent. Almost every abrupt and inspired movement in
art was greeted by charges of “bad taste.” Good manners parading under the banner
of “good taste” spawns dull art. The essay “The Duende” by Federico Garcia Lorca that
concludes this book confronts all of this head on.
workbook Live. Taste many things. Be alive to every moment. Read a book. Listen to your guts.†
exercises

755 More Work on the Role

Pursue the Mannerism/Probe the Cliché
Any dancer who is locked into mannerisms or invariably falls into clichés of perform-
ing has serious problems. Teachers, directors and choreographers have good reason to
be distressed by such a dancer. Sadly, the usual and least productive solution is to tell
the dancer nott to do something: “Stop jutting your head forward!” If only it were that
simple. One of the least productive lines of thought in rehearsal and/or performance
is nott to do something.
Joseph Chaikin dealt with the cliché in his direction and writing. “The temptation
to play the cliché is always present. If the actor is spending a lot of energy keeping it
censored, the actor may be staying inside the temptation. Sometimes if the actor plays
the cliché out, he is more likely to go beyond it” (The Presence of the Actorr [New York:
Atheneum, 1984], p. 20).
In the Workgroup, we actually built works around our clichés. The premise was
that whatever mannerism we had was a covert metaphor for something that was very
important to us. The games we learned used them, exercised them, developed them,
all to dig deeply into them. We found that we could make our mannerisms and clichés
little gold mines.
workbook Your Familiar†
exercises Possessed by a Mannerism†
I Dare You†

Determining Style
If the dance artist works at answering the six questions in preparation for a role, the
odds are that a basic style will emerge. However, when there is an uncertainty in this
matter of style there are more questions that will reward the attention paid them.

Wearing What?
Even in the rehearsals, long before the costumes are available, fitted and worn, it is well
to dance in a makeshift version of the costume-to-be. Sometimes, all that is needed is
a hat to give the feeling of an entire costume.
workbook The Two Dances
exercises If possible perform the two dances in costume.
The Duet as a Structure
In this one there must be a costume, either imagined or pulled together for the studio
work. Either way has value.
I Dare You†
Props Fantasy†

766 The Theory

 Where Is the Action?
Again, long before the settings and the lights are experienced, the imagination should
be called upon to do its work as a scene designer during the rehearsals. Movement
is transformed by the space, the floor, the weather, the entire physical context that is
implicit in the particular dance work. The work of the imagination is to re-create a
context that is true to the dance.
workbook The Two Dances
exercises Who or What Is Alive in the Music?†
The Duet as a Structure
Inside the Outside†
Ham and Clove
Rituals of Power
Adam and Eve
Prison†
Signs of the Times†

What Are the Hands Doing?

The hands need attention. It matters not at what age a student enters a dance class
for the first time, the hands are the most highly trained and skilled part of the body.
By that very token, they are the most mannered part of the body. Each discipline of
dance immediately seizes upon the posture and use of the hands, controlling the shape,
motion and style to a fine degree. Before the dancer is aware, a manner is born, and
for some it never alters from the beginning of a performance to its end—and for that
matter from the beginning of a career to the farewell performance.
Play a game. Extend either arm in any direction. Seated where you are, and without
looking at your hand, do the following actions:
Try to touch the wall to your side.
Use your hand as an instrument of benediction for someone.
Reach your hand out in the dark.
Make the salute gymnasts return to the judges before they start.
The hand is poised to caress the head of an infant.
The hand is poised to kill a gnat.
The hand is the simplest extension of an extended arm.
The hand is a decorative model of elegance.
The hand is a lethal weapon.
The hand is in the ideal configuration of a classical fifth position.

777 More Work on the Role

 Obviously, there is no limit to the hand’s range and expressiveness, yet rigid
mannerisms freeze the hands of many dancers. There is not enough attention paid to
what the hands are doing from moment to moment in relation to the specifics of each
dancer’s role and actions. Is there any multiplicity as dazzling as the many shapes of
leaves the world over? Yes there is: the infinite number of shapes, actions and poems
possible with the hands. What will determine the shape of the hands? If the six ques-
tions find their answers in the body in motion, the question of the shape, motion and
style of the hands will never arise.
workbook Hot to Cold to Hot II†
exercises Focusing on the hands.

The Arms?
What follows is addressed to modern dancers, teachers and choreographers, not to
the ballet community. The best of the latter have a free and fluent use of the arms.
Many modern dancers, on the other hand, have, in a misguided thrust at “good taste,”
perpetrated a limiting and stilted use of the arms. In order to avoid the flossy, senti-
mental use of the arms endemic to “bad taste” ballet, they have opted for arm move-
ment which ignores the elbow and yes, the wrist. The consequence? Arms are used
like oars. Arms are rarely released to find the easy moment before the strong thrust.
Arms are always in the control mode and never in the released mode, thus making
for a limited style of dance. This is so deeply ingrained in contemporary dancers that
I find in every intermediate or advanced technique class at the most one or perhaps
two dancers who can accept a fluent, easy arm motion as a counterpoint to a strong,
controlled arm movement. The rest are surprised and confused by the challenge to
add another dimension to the use of their arms. You are blessed with a most fluent
instrument—your arms. Use its fluency when it is needed. Discover your elbows—and
your wrists—and your fingers! They are yours.
workbook Any improvisation deliberately focusing on the arms, particularly one that posits
exercises specific images that call for fluidity.
Hot to Cold to Hot II†

The Face Versus the Body?

Observe the young dancer, ecstatic because she has been accepted into a major dance
company. In rehearsal, she is flying across the studio with her powerful leap, legs stretched
to a delirious 180° and happier than she has ever been. The choreographer lets out a
shriek. “Stop! How dare you smile doing my choreography? My choreography smiles!”
In Chapter 2 there are a few words on this matter of facial expression—the face
versus the body. A significant number of dancers, both in ballet and in modern dance,

78 The Theory
 deliberately and carefully avoid any facial expression. They regard it as unacceptable
stage behavior, believing that dance expression belongs solely to the body and that an
animated face will detract from the purity of the body’s eloquence. This becomes a
deliberate style. Is it valid? Is it a better way of working?
Take note: this volume is not a brief for facial expression in dance. When I per-
form, I never know what my face is doing. It never occurs to me to “make a face” or to
inhibit facial activity. I have but one goal, an inner and outer unity around the specific
focus and action of the moment. With that as a way of working, it is inevitable that my
face will reflect what I am thinking/feeling/doing. Undoubtedly there have been those
who reject my “style.” Does that mean that I, on my side, reject the style of those who
restrain their faces? I have indicated a pejorative when I use the term “stone faces.”
Actually, I have experienced exquisite and moving performances by some who have
what one might call “stone faces.”
Only once have I, in a desperate moment, told a student or directed a dancer to
“make a face.” (It didn’t work.) That is not the purpose of my teaching. What I seek is
an aura that the performer brings onstage. It is what we all look for as human beings:
the light that comes from a union of the insides and the outsides. It’s what happens
when you get up in the morning, brush your teeth and greet the day or whoever you’re
with, and all of you is there. That’s not easy—onstage or in the bathroom. The excite-
ment of a performance occurs when you sense the rivers of a person’s existence being
present. To do that as artists is the great gift we can offer each other. It requires more
than good intentions. It wants a skill and a craft to be able to deliver this consistently.
Any number of “stone faces” have this light, this aura, this inner-outer dynamic.
There are theatre forms, like opera, where vivid facial expression is a necessity.
Musicals, revues, commercials, dancing in clubs all demand a lot of face and a lot of
smiles. That is an integral part of those arenas and no one should go near them unless
one joyously accepts that ground rule.
There is no question that it is possible to exert so much facial energy that it is
literally difficult to take note of what the body is doing. That makes no sense. The ideal
for which I strive is the unity of all that I am; the face is not an entity apart from the
body with special problems, etiquette and techniques. Within this context, I may go
from a “stone face” to a violent grimace. How does one decide how to work? It is one
of the major choices every dancer has to make. Your own taste and predilections will
lead you. Of course, if you are working with a choreographer who has an articulated
point of view, then as a professional, you will take that point of view, justify it and
bring it to a brilliant life.
workbook Making Faces
exercises

79 More Work on the Role

 Speech and Dance?
If you’re going to open your mouth, learn how to do it. Among my notes for a gradu-
ate class in choreography at Arizona State University I came across this critique of a
particularly talented student:
A very strong dance done to a monologue. The problem: the words are too often
hard to hear and understand. The suggestion—for her and all dancers who choose
to speak and dance: face the fact that if they find it necessary to speak while mov-
ing, particularly moving vigorously, they face a problem much more difficult than
that which confronts most actors. It behooves dancers who wish to incorporate
speech in their dances to work at pronunciation, vocal projection, vocal quality
and strategic choices about the direction in which the voice is thrown. The best
actors talking upstage or down into the floor suffer diminished vocal impact and
the clarity to be understood, let alone dancers who lack vocal training.
Actors study body movement, usually taught by movement specialists or danc-
ers. Dancers think nothing of deciding to speak in a dance without the training or
the sophistication of an extraordinarily difficult craft. The problems are many: being
heard, being understood, an appropriate pronunciation, having a vocal quality that
befits the material. Few people who speak in the theatre ever achieve a solid craft at this
skill without working seriously for a substantial amount of time with a vocal teacher,
privately or in classes. (Even this skill may be declining with the advent of body mikes
and sophisticated sound engineering.)
Some dancers think they have solved the problem by recording their voices and
assuming that playing the resultant tapes through a public address system at full volume
solves everything. Au contraire: it usually sounds terrible and unintelligible. It rarely
occurs to them to really listen to what they have recorded and, more important, to test
what they have done for intelligibility by playing the tape for several people who have
never heard the text. The human voice is one of the most difficult of sounds to record
with any degree of accuracy, clarity or truthful quality. Alas, there is the treacherous
trap of speaking into the pathetic little microphones that are built into our rehearsal
cassette recorders. Those mikes are ghastly and offer none of the remarkable adjust-
ments that good sound engineering can do for the human voice.
I myself have suffered enough hearing loss so that when I go to theatre, films or
conduct a class, I use a hearing aid. It works—up to a point. Many times I miss some
things and am distressed by my problem, only to learn later that people in the audi-
ence with excellent hearing did not understand either. How do you ensure that you are
heard and understood? By having very good theatre speech. In recent years, more and
more dancers are adding speech to their dance. If that’s the way it goes, fine. Whatever
problems there are can be solved, but only if the dancers realize that there are problems.
More from the notes on the dancer who spoke:

80 The Theory
 She handled very well at what most speaking dancers fail: the timing of words and
action. Her words slipped in and out of the dance with a music all its own that yet
counterpointed the physical rhythms, and when they did coincide, it was startling.
Almost all dancers who use words fall into the trap of synchronizing them with
their motions: emphatic words fitting right in and on beat with emphatic gestures
that mean the same thing. In ordinary human communication, this is the conven-
tion. In dance, it is gratuitous. Synchronicity of dance gesture and words becomes
illustration. It is no different than the TV advertisements for a revolutionary set of
knives that will never wear out. Emblazoned on the screen is “Only $19.95!” and
the voice-over exults, “Only $19.95!” at the same time. Words and motion should
have the same relation as the sophisticated handling of movement and music,
complementing and counterpointing each other so that each enriches, highlights
or even contradicts the other and only rarely and strategically concur. What is
stated here is both a performance and a choreographic problem.
workbook There are none here. If you are asked or choose to talk and dance, get some
exercises professional help on voice production and speech.

Brechtian Consciousness or Stanislavski Involvement?

Bertolt Brecht (1898–1956) was a German playwright who by his theories, writing and
direction had, like Stanislavski, a profound effect on world theatre. He rejected the the-
atre of illusion because he felt that it permitted an audience to experience compassion
and tears in the theatre; afterward, they could return to their self-centered indifference.
He wanted a performing style he called “the A-effect,” A standing for alienation as op-
posed to the empathy aroused in the theatre of Stanislavski. “The premise at the center
of Brecht’s work is that people can change. Things could be different. The epic theater,
as he came to define and redefine it, asks for a removal of pity by the performer and
audience, since pity is a response to that which cannot be changed” (Chaikin, Presence
of the Actor, p. 35). Brecht wrote: “It has been the aim of this technique of alienation
(Verfremdung), to make the spectator assume an enquiring, critical attitude towards
events” (“A New Technique of Acting,” trans. Eric Bentley, Theatre Arts 33 [January
1949]: 38).
Not many dancers, either as performers or choreographers, deal with this attitude
toward performing and this particular kind of confrontation with the audience. In my
own work, The Peloponnesian War, I continually faced and challenged the audience,
never letting them forget that this was a man dancing for them who was throwing
out ideas and situations that involved them and even threatened them. I even fired a
rifle in their faces. I used similar challenges to audiences in Poems Off the Walll (1981).
Bill T. Jones’s The Last Supper at Uncle Tom’s Cabin is a powerful example of this kind

81 More Work on the Role

 of dance theatre. Most “performance art” involves this relationship to the audience:
the performer is drawing the spectators into the action by deliberately relating to
their anticipations, clichés, hopes, fears and prejudices. I have seen Bill T. Jones do
this throughout his career, and to great effect. Pina Bausch, the artistic director and
choreographer for Tanztheater Wuppertal, makes this the central style of her work.
In my mind, whenever I did work like this, the audience became a character and
a force within the context of the work. I danced The Peloponnesian Warr in Guam for a
substantially unsophisticated audience. Early in the piece, “The Star Spangled Banner”
is played in a collage of at least six different keys. I rise to stand, hat across my chest.
In New York, no one in the audience stood, though there was some restlessness. On
the road, some would stand and some not. Whispers would fill the theatre, “Why are
you standing?” “Why aren’t you standing?” In Guam, everybody stood, including a
little boy who marched up and down in front saluting and facing left, right and about
face. At a reception after that performance, a young man blurted out: “I resented what
you did to us. You put us on a stage and you were standing there looking at us.” In his
anger and emotional turmoil, he cut right to the core of what I was doing and what
the entire evening was about.
This manner of working the audience has nothing to do with dances that ask the
dancer to look at the audience, to dance for the audience and above all, to charm the
audience. That way is close to traditional musical comedy wherein all the artifices of
the theatre are admitted and the audience is continually called upon to participate in
the action by laughing and applauding. We do get swept away by the romanticism of
the songs, the glitter of the costumes and sets and dazzling dancers. For a while, the
musicals of Broadway tried to emulate the unbroken flow of drama. Pal Joey, Oklahoma,
Fiddler on the Rooff all demanded a different kind of performer—and a different kind
of dancer. Few musicals today make this effort.
In this Brechtian approach, it might appear that Benno Schneider’s cry, “The short-
est distance to the audience is the other actor,” is being contradicted. Not at all. There
are times when the audience is the other actor, or just one more factor at the heart of
what is going on in the theatre. Thus, Brecht did not leave Stanislavski behind, he just
dragged him off the stage into the house with the audience.
workbook There are none. Question: Have you ever choreographed or been cast in a dance work
exercises where the dancer as the dancer unequivocally confronts the audience? What effect
did that have on your performance experience?†

82 The Theory
 Dancing in Unison?
Dancing in unison raises several questions. Is the point of it virtuosity? Aside from looking
leggy and sexy, the Rockettes do little that can be called virtuosic, but “Wow! Thirty-six
women kicking their legs to the same height at exactly the same time!” That is some-
thing. As individual performers, their mind-set is to be cheerful and exactly in line with
the dancer to their left and right. Anything more complex would be asking for trouble.
If only two dancers are doing identical motions, the difficulty quotient is diminished.
Something more is needed to justify and quicken such a performance. When do two
or more people do the same motions for an appreciable length of time? The military
makes a very strong point of its soldiers’ discipline, proving it with unison marching
manoeuvres. Hitler’s choreographers staged enormous demonstrations of thousands
doing the same thing. A number of choreographers who have been horrified by regi-
mentation of any kind have created choreography wherein unison is the expression
of that horror.
Lovers sometimes move in sweet unison, as in walking, but rarely otherwise. Al-
most all acts of loving are complementary, not identical. Thus, when choreographers
give dancers prolonged dancing in unison as a metaphor for love, they impose a test of
credibility and a difficult problem for the performers to justify. Communities that have
traditional dances expect unison, but usually there is allowance for individual style and
attitude to the given moves. Hence being precisely together is not an issue or even desir-
able. The individual joins in, joyously or not, and that opens the door to an individual
performance within a unison dance. For many unison can be an ecstasy. Witness the
madly intense involvement of high-school girls’ movement teams, with their tough guy
moves, sprinkled with bits of hip-hop and accented with pumping, fisted gestures.
What of the army of swans hopping across stage in arabesque? If Olga has an
impossibly high lift of the leg, should she permitted to show it off? No. No. Cut her
down if she tries that again. What should be her specific inner image? What is her
justification? She is fulfilling someone’s ideal of a flock of fragile, exquisite creatures,
each one subservient to that someone’s specific vision. An individual variation on the
theme of being a “fragile exquisite creature” would not be acceptable. Even though
their legs are not bared to the hip and they are not smiling cheerfully and the music is
Tchaikovsky not Ferde Grofé, their performing thrust is quite the same as the Rock-
ettes. Both try within the realm of their own style and aesthetic to “dance beautifully,”
whatever that means. We are treading close to a problem in choreography which is
not the province of this book. How many choreographers resort unthinkingly to uni-
son? Face it, it’s an easy way to keep a mass of dancers busy and fill out the music. Also,
a significant portion of audiences like it. It’s as easy to look at as it is to choreograph.
If the dancers are really together, we are looking at a form of virtuosity. It is difficult
for two or more dancers to do exactly the same thing on the same beat. A question to
consider: is unison choreography hard to perform with fullness and integrity?

83 More Work on the Role

 And now, a contradiction: by its very nature, we must assume that all unison dance
is either a recurrence or a ritual, that is, that all the moves have been rehearsed prior
to the time that we observe it. We have identified an event as something that occurs
for the first time. Of course, Fred Astaire denied this reality every time he danced with
a woman he just met—and we loved him for it. So where does that leave us?
workbook Performing in Unison
exercises

To Project or Not to Project?

My first modern dance study was in the technique of Martha Graham and my teacher
was Ray Moses. She was truly a magnificent teacher and I was excited to be cast in a
work she was choreographing for a concert at the New School for Social Research, a
major event for me. I had been studying dance for all of half a year! It was a brutal
anti-war dance (this was 1936) in which we marched off to war from down right to
up center, to down left to be shot down, to roll away across the apron to stage right
to rise and to resume marching in an unending triangle of death. It was certainly not
complex but it was strong and effective. We all knew what we were doing and why,
bringing much passion to the wild and dangerous falls we had just learned. The hall
was small, seating probably fewer than three hundred, and yet, added to the intensity
of our dancing, Ray gave us the fierce injunction to “Project!” Every period and every
grouplet gets tied up in the prison of its buzzwords. “Project!” was such a one, par-
ticularly in the Graham camp.
Being green, enthusiastic and learning all the time, from then on, I projected like
hell whenever I was let loose on a stage. In a few years, I was dancing professionally.
Like so many ideas absorbed early, I probably carried that injunction with me wherever
I was—unthinkingly. Later in my career, I was asked by one of the most fluent chore-
ographers of her time, Sophie Maslow, to dance the lead in a Madison Square Garden
pageant staged as a benefit for Bonds for Israel. She made an amazingly simple and lovely
solo for me to a lyric 5/4 section of Aram Khachaturian’s Gayne Ballet Suite. It depicted
David Ben Gurion’s first night in Israel (he was to become the first prime minister of
the state of Israel). He is so moved that he cannot sleep, and he walks out to breathe the
ancient night air of Palestine. I loved doing it, but when it was finally choreographed, I
asked, “Sophie, how am I going to dance such a quiet, lyric dance in a barn like Madison
Square Garden? I’ll have to project like crazy otherwise, I’ll disappear.” (This was the
old Garden, and it seated twenty-two thousand.) Sophie, an optimist, probably said,
“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine,” I let it go, continued to enjoy polishing the dance and the
work with the other two soloists, Beatrice Seckler and Ethel Winter.
Came the night and there I was at the foot of about ten steps leading up to a fifty-
by-seventy foot platform stage, backed up by a seventy-piece symphony orchestra and

84 The Theory
 lit by eight giant arc spotlights poised to follow me wherever I went. My entrance was
a minute away. I began filling my lungs getting ready to project as I never had in my
life. On the fifth exhalation, I looked around and up at the blur of all those faces (I am
very near-sighted), and from nowhere came these thoughts: “It’s like a giant bowl. All
those people way up there in those balcony seats will be leaning forward looking down
toward me. They’ll want to touch me and perhaps put comforting arms around me.”
The music for my entrance began, and I ascended the steps with a serene ease, stood
quietly at the edge of the stage and then slid my foot forward in the idle 5/4 walk So-
phie had made for me, looking up at the stars of the night. I did the dance. I projected
nothing, I simply did David Ben Gurion walking out into the night air exulting that
at last he had come home.
In my memory that was one of the richest and the fullest audience response I
have ever had, before or since. I never tried to project again. I seriously think the idea
of projecting contains a false premise: it says that, in addition to the work of realizing
what you are doing onstage, you also have to send it out into the audience; project-
ing suggests using force to that end. There is no question that without projection, no
musical comedy performer is going to succeed, but our field of concert dance, ballet or
modern, does not need that extra force. If what you dance onstage has the conviction
and force it needs, the audience will come onstage and be dancing with you. You do
your work and the audience will do theirs.
Backing off and considering the matter objectively, how do you project your
performance if you decide to do so? There are many devices available: an extra strong
and vivid makeup; making all the movements given in the choreography broader and
more energetic; staying consistently ahead of the musical beat to convey a heightened
energy; facing front at every opportunity to create a more obvious audience contact (I
won’t include smiling because we all know that is a bit vulgar and belongs to Vegas and
Broadway). Question: what happens to the choreography? Every one of these devices is
legitimate if that is what the choreographer desires. To project or not to project, that is
the choreographer’s question and only he.she has the prerogative to make a decision.
One more example: Emmett Kelly was the world-famous clown of the Ringling
Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus. Carrying a broom and costumed in a shabby,
patched, loose-fitting suit, unshaven, with the classic white face and red nose, he
never acknowledged the presence of the audience. Performing in such huge spaces as
Madison Square Garden, he found for himself futile little tasks like trying to sweep up
the spotlight that followed him about. His gestures weren’t broad and his tasks were
simple. The entire audience held its breath while he carefully swept the edges of the
light into his little pail until it was a tiny spot.
And now a minor contradiction. In a previous section I discussed Brechtian con-
sciousness and Stanislavski involvement. The “in your face” confrontation that marks
performing with a Brechtian consciousness literally calls for a form of projection. It
is one that I have used on occasion, specifically in The Peloponnesian War.

855 More Work on the Role

workbook Project if you must but consider leaving that problem on the shelf, unless the nature
exercises of the work asks you to engage the audience directly.
The Two Dances
As an experiment, you might perform either of the two dances concentrating on
projecting and then ask yourself, “What did that additional focus do to the dance?”
Who knows? You might decide that is the way for you.

So much for more work on the role. Now to finally get out of the studio and on to
the stage, that electric confrontation of doers and watchers who together create the
art of dance.

866 The Theory

 5 Performing

The act of performing has a built-in audacity. Few of us are quite as laid-back as Ethel
Merman. We were on the train from Philadelphia to New York to open Annie Get Your
Gun. Returning from the dining car, I passed Merman and dropped into an empty
seat beside her. We rambled a bit and then I asked her, “Are you nervous about the
opening?”
“Why should I be nervous? If they could do what I do, they’d be up there.”
She was a rock, a skilled, hard working rock. Most of us, no matter how skilled we
are, are nervous before we go on and that’s not bad, in spite of Ethel. The performing
state is a fragile, difficult thing to maintain, a tightrope—and all too easy to fall off. The
nervousness charges us up, heightens our energy and brings all the work into focus.
Nervousness is only bad when it chokes the flow of expression. Ideally, all that has gone
before should carry us on a free-flowing tide of energy and expression. To finally arrive
onstage, in the glare of the lights and the fierce gaze of all those people out there is what
all of this is about. All the pliés, all the rehearsals, all the tenderly healed wounds, all the
costume fittings, all the thinking, all the tears, all the hopes are but steps to that step out
on the stage. Once you are there, everything is different and everything you left behind
is there too, visibly and invisibly, felt and not felt. What follows in this chapter are the
multiple details that keep us going on that high-wire act called “performance.”

Lining Up Your Energies

Lose the Self

In a way, this phrase, “lose the self,” is unfortunate. It is a negative way of referring to
one of the most positive acts we can perform: becoming “the other” onstage. All the

87
 preceding pages of this book lead to this action of becoming the other. It reaches its
peak when we actually do lose ourselves in what we are doing (discussed in chapter 1).
Years ago, I wrote for myself a litany which I hoped would help keep my mind
clear and close to the work. It often did. As time went by, I began to pass copies of it
to my students and friends:

A Way
One way of many ways:
To find the self,
lose the self,
find the object.

Not a table, this table.

Not a minute, this minute.
Not a person, this person.
Words mark the place only,
eyes speak dark light,
words conceal, bodies reveal.
Walk into eyes, look inside bodies,
very difficult,
often painful,
even dangerous,
But at least wet with life.

Another time, I visited the dance department of a nearby university with some of
our dance majors. As all assembled, I noticed a certain wariness among the host danc-
ers—exactly the kind of thing that will provoke me to crash head-on into a surmised
resistance. From nowhere, I began to talk:
When I say, “OK,” leave the studio, go outside and find a quiet spot. Clear your
mind and resolve to leave yourself outside. It’s not unlike when you go shopping
and you tie your dog’s leash to a post and reassure the animal, “Worry not. I’ll
be back,” and then you go into the store. Do the same here, to yourself. Just leave
yourself outside and when you have done that, return and we will go to work.
“OK.”
My people, used to the unexpected, listened and, with a few grins, left as asked. The
host dancers seemed slightly paralyzed but finally when the studio was emptied of our
dancers, they very carefully rose and left. In less time than I expected, almost everyone
returned, except for four of the host dancers who I later learned never stopped going—
away. The returnees were peculiarly somber and thoughtful but the subsequent work,

88 The Theory
 improvisation, was quite wonderful. At odd intervals, when it seems the thing to do, I
throw out Leave Yourself Outside (see Workbook, chapter 8). For an unexpected number
of dancers it seems to make great sense. It’s a naive and simplistic way of preparing for
total devotion to the task at hand—becoming the other—that other that will come to
life on the stage. That other is not quite you. It is what you create out of yourself.
Another story, one that Tamiris told me. She was choreographing a musical called
Flahooley. The plot was too complicated for its own good, and certainly for these pages.
Suffice to say that Flahooley, the original doll, and the Genie are kept prisoner in a
hospital room by the evil manufacturers who want to make millions selling copies of
Flahooley dolls. The Genie discovers that he can get the window open and they will be
able to get away down the fire escape. As he goes through the window, he calls back to
Flahooley, “The lamp! Take the lamp!” Flahooley, the doll, grabs the table lamp instead
of the magic lantern that plays a pivotal role in the play. Just before dress rehearsal, the
young actress who played Flahooley came to the director with tears in her eyes. “Do I
really have to take the wrong lamp? People are going to think I am awfully stupid.”
Even among the most sophisticated, this confusion of self and “the other” is more
alive than is good for dance and the theatre. In any number of jazz classes, I have found
highly skilled dancers who were unable to do the simple pelvic undulations of a good
boogie step because it was something “they wouldn’t do.” Even though I say, “This is
a period style. This is them, not you,” the pelvis, for some, remains locked and frozen.
workbook Every Workbook exercise is an exercise in shifting the focus away from the self.
exercises
Leave Yourself Outside†
Gifts
Medicine Ball
Outrageous Travel
Passing Through a Physical Object† (sense memory)
Dedicate Your Motion†
A Duet
Who or What Is Alive in the Music?†
Seeing Through the Eyes of Another†
Walk Behind Another†
The Duet as a Structure
Lose Your Head†

89 Performing
 A Mind-Wash
Before engaging upon any complex activity, many people benefit from a time to delib-
erately clear out the mind. Meditation is worth a try, particularly if there is difficulty
in concentrating all the energies needed.

workbook The Rhythm Series†

exercises Though Breath Rhythm and Pulse Rhythm are leads into Inner Rhythm, you may
find them just what you need.
Spinning†
The Mind-Wash†
From Now†

Centering
What in a day is relevant to the night’s work in the theatre? Profoundly, everything
is connected but for us, we need to unload the details of the day—what we were and
did—to become what we will be for a few hours. There are as many ways of doing
this as there are theatre artists. For me, the ritual begins with washing my face and
putting on makeup. I’ve never been enamored of my face, and my makeup subtly
alters it in the direction of how I would love to look. In the process of creating the
“new” face, I begin to unload a good part of what is irrelevant to the night’s work.
With every subsequent element of the preperformance ritual, I get deeper into the
frame of mind I need to do the dance: a warm-up, a light run-through of a couple
of the dances, working over some worrisome passages, getting into costume, pranc-
ing about waiting for the curtain to rise. “Centering” may be a buzzword, and yet it
precisely describes the process necessary for any performer to line up all the energies
needed to dance on that tightrope.
There are as many approaches to performing as there are dancers, and if you’re
serious about it, you learn by watching others, by chasing it yourself, by succeeding
and by failing, by keeping a journal, by preparing for the performance itself and by
thinking about it all. (I think every artist can use a friend, one whose taste is trusted.
It is good fortune to have one like that in the audience and later giving feedback.) The
night of the performance is so personal that there’s nothing anyone can say about how
you’re supposed to do it except that if you know you need a certain kind of preparation
and you don’t leave yourself the time to do it, you’re dumb. You have to learn who you
are, what you need and then give yourself some elbow room. It’s hard to be an artist
in our country, and if the environment in which we work doesn’t make it easy for us,
the least we can do is make it easy for ourselves.
There is always too much to do. “I must get my hair cut.” “I must get that gift for

90 The Theory
 Uncle Mort.” “This is the last day of the sale on dance shoes.” By the time you get to
the stage, you’re half gone, not ready and all the beautiful work is blunted. The world
is seductive, food is seductive, drink is seductive, love is seductive, and then there is
the devastating world news and also the Olympics or the tennis match that demands
watching. It is an extraordinarily demanding thing that we do, and it contains a preten-
sion. We work, work, work and then we announce to the public, “Now!” We ask a mass
of people to leave their homes, run the risks of driving in an automobile, pay money,
sit patiently in a room all facing in the same direction—all to look at us. Pretentious?
Not if we’re good.
I had the good fortune to work with one of the loveliest and best dancers of my
generation, Pearl Lang. We were in a sweet little revue by Walter and Jean Kerr, Touch
and Go, with fine choreography by Helen Tamiris. Pearl and I did duets in a couple of
the dance numbers. We warmed up at the same time in the same backstage area. Pearl,
doing her barre, was usually like a lark at dawn, almost chirping with joy, happy and
bounding with energy. I, in my workout, was a container of several dozen anxieties,
fiercely trying to free my tight body, recapture that barely controlled balance, review-
ing the triple pirouette I should never have agreed to do. Came the performance, we
usually both glowed and meshed to make good dance together. The joke was that if all
went well, I left the stage happy as that bird while Pearl, being a perfectionist, would
often be in a high rage because of a slow tempo or a ragged light cue. The slam of her
dressing room door would shake the theatre.
Losing the self, meditation, centering—they each hover around the same action of
getting into the work and the role clean and unencumbered with irrelevant tensions. It
is a tradition among some Asian artists to find time for a prolonged meditation before
engaging in the work. Unless you are a soloist, privacy, quiet and a bit of solitude are
hard to come by backstage. Worse, there are those who will for their own stupid reasons
resent your strange behavior. I knew a man who would seat himself on a deserted iron
plate landing, cross his legs in the lotus position and meditate. He was not popular, which
was a wretched excuse for the occasional brute in the chorus sneaking up behind him
with an iron stage weight and slamming it into the floor. The poor man jumped up in
fright, facing a group of laughing men. A solution? If you really need to do something,
find a way to do it. Find your space and place out of sight of the beasts.
workbook The Rhythm Series†
exercises True Repetition†
Evolving Repetition†
Dedicate Your Motion†
Doing this while keeping in focus someone or something that fills you with peace or
high energy or a sense of power—whatever you need—may get you into the mind-set
you seek for the night’s work.

91 Performing
workbook The Mind-Wash†
exercises Not Naming†
Spinning†
Visualization†
This too, like Dedicate Your Motion, can feed the moment that will bring you onstage
in just the right frame of mind.
Emotion Memory†
From Now†
Rhythm Portrait†
Leave Yourself Outside†

Find the Inner Rhythm of the Role

The role or the character has an inner rhythm. It relates to the music and the rhythm
of the choreography, but it is not the same. As you wait for your entrance, find it, do
it, become it. Are you ready for your entrance? I think that many performers do this
in the wings as they rev up without being conscious of it. I have seen it. I have done
it myself, and in many of my workshops, dancers have experimented with the inner
rhythm as a preparation and then performed the dance, discovering an immediate
and effortless identity with the role and its inherent energy.
workbook Inner Rhythm
exercises

Becoming X, Assuming the Metaphoric Identity

This is the goal. This is what all the work leads up to. Once the premise is accepted
that the person standing in the wings is transformed the moment she.he enters the
stage, the focus of all the dancer’s energy becomes clear and uncluttered by irrelevant
vanity or self-hate, inhibitions and fears of personal exposure.
How you step into the role is an individual matter. There are no rules. Some in
the Stanislavski tradition are very fond of citing the great actors who came into the
theatre four hours before curtain time. Others, equally great, come in at the half hour,
put on their make-up and go! Actors have been known to sniff at a handkerchief with
a special scent because it draws them into the milieu of the world they are about to
enter. All of this is an individual matter. Just get there. Pick a method and try it. And,
what may work for one role may not work for another role. Hang loose.
In the early years of my career, I was either in musical comedies or participating
in concerts with other artists. More to the point, I was not onstage all the time. I had
time to prepare, and prepare I did. Having studied acting with Miriam Goldina and

92 The Theory
 Sanford Meisner, preparation was enshrined as a sacred part of the stage ritual. For
Strange Hero I would imagine the space and the people I was about to encounter.
Similarly, for Spanish Dance, as I waited there onstage for the work lights to go out,
the curtain, the music prelude in the dark—I would mentally find myself where the
man in the dance was and why he was there. Man of Action provided its own perfect
preparation. Every detail of the costume had to be just so—the hat at a precise angle,
some buttons fastened and some not. Fussing about each item provided just the right
amount of hysteria that made the dance what it was.
When I shifted gears and began to do solo programs, there was barely enough
time to get onstage from one dance to the other. Deliberate and careful preparation
was out. Having just spent fifteen years in the commercial theatre, I was sensitive to
the matter of timing. At innumerable dance concerts, I had writhed with impatience
and indignation as long minutes crawled by between dances. My rule was, get back
onstage—fast—and I was good at that. Extended mental preparations were an impos-
sibility. Was I thus in trouble? Not at all. I could slip into a role as fast as I could get
into a costume—faster. Why? Because the long hours making the material in the studio
were available the instant I turned my face toward each dance. Martha Graham said
she needed no preparation. The moment she hit the stage, she entered into who and
what she was supposed to be. Would this work for anyone else? I don’t know.
If X is who or what you become when you step onstage, you cannot play X and
simultaneously judge X. Your inner life as X should have no more objectivity about
X than X would have. You cannot play Iago thinking he is an evil man. Iago believes
himself to be innocent and wronged, not evil. Similarly, you cannot be X and make
judgments upon yourself as a dancer while you are dancing. Later, yes. The next day
a rehearsal might be in order, but during the performance, every mishap, every error,
every disaster must be something that has happened to X, and only X can be permitted
to reflect on or cope with the problem.
workbook The Hub Meditation†
exercises This really belongs to the period of working on and creating the role long before
performance time.
Who or What Is Alive in the Music?†
This too belong to the preparation time.
Gesture Rondo†
This is a fun and crazy game and may be a fertile way of warming up, seizing on a
key gesture of X and doing a rondo with it.
Each Alone†
If there is the time, the space and the atmosphere that would encourage this as a way
of entering into the role or character, I think it would produce staggeringly wonderful
results.

93 Performing
 workbook Rhythm Portrait†
exercises This is a more modest, restrained and less conspicuous way of getting into the
character. Is there a difference between the Inner Rhythm of a role and a Rhythm
Portrait? Yes. An inner rhythm is more basic, fundamental and repetitive. A portrait
rhythm could evolve and be more complex.
Inside the Outside†
This also belongs to the creative period rather than to performance time.

Rivers of Energy Pouring Into Each Moment of Performance

The Six Questions

Anyone who couples physical preparation with acting techniques for dance perfor-
mance will arrive onstage alive inside and out with the power to probe the mystery of
the role to be danced.
workbook The Six Questions†
exercises They are there, waiting to be tested, used, or discarded.

Controlling the Given Motions

The prerequisite to all art is the craft, the technique, the ability to execute what is
given, the bones of the choreography. Without that foundation, all the rest is spindrift
without a wave. Once the moves are mastered physically and musically, then the work
of bringing them to life begins. Can the two processes proceed simultaneously? They
do and they don’t. Most good learners are pretty cool dealing with new choreography,
gradually bringing to bear their deeper understanding until they reach performance
quality. They simply take note of everything that the choreographer gives out, verbally
or physically. Choreographers who demand blazing performances too quickly risk
making a nervous company that delivers shallow solutions to their roles.
Is the motion passive or an act of will? Is the source of energy the trunk of the body
willing the arms and legs to reach out, or are the arms and legs leading and shaping all
that transpires? Is there complete control wherein all the muscles spring simultane-
ously to the beat and all cut on the same beat? Do we need the exotic successions? Is
the rhythmic attack on the beat, after it or ahead? These are the choices that must be
made in rehearsals. How deliberate are these choices made during a living performance?
There is no clean answer to this because the mind oscillates in performance between
precise control and voluptuous abandon. Both ways are active and present when the
work of preparation has been pursued in depth.

94 The Theory
workbook How Does Your Tree Dance?†
exercises Before, After and On†
And a damn solid dance technique.

Balancing the Apparent Focus and the Hidden Intention

There are times when both the apparent focus and the hidden intention are leaping
about in the consciousness, and times when only one is in the forefront. Getting lost
in either one for too long a time will oversimplify what should be complex if the dance
is to be alive. How long is “too long a time”? The subtlest and most elusive yardstick
of all is taste.
workbook Bringing this consciousness to bear on the creation of any role is the secret to a
exercises performance with depth and mystery.
The Two Dances
Justification†
Dedicate Your Motion†
Who or What Is Alive in the Music?†
The Inner Rhythm of the Role†
Emotion Memory†
Each Alone†
Inside the Outside†

Performing the Metaphoric Action

It could be said that there is only one kind of action possible onstage: a metaphoric
action. The opposite could be and has been said: the best use of the stage is to strip it of
pretense and the imaginary, to create and perform moves that are no more or less than
what we see. About twenty-five years of dance has had a profusion of work based on
this latter view. Elsewhere in this volume this debate has been highlighted (see chapter
5, “Working on the Role”). In this book I align myself with Homer, Shakespeare, Gary
Snyder (a contemporary American poet) and all those who suspect that everything is
really a metaphor for something else.
The metaphor works for a dancer if it is appropriate to what is being danced and
communicated; if it is meaningful to the dancer; if it ignites the energy of the dancer;
if the dancer can make it as real as the floor upon which the dance lives. That is asking
a great deal. Sometimes the metaphor is just there, shimmering in the air, and the stage
is afire. Sometimes it loses its heat after a while. It becomes elusive or just “doesn’t
work.” What to do? Don’t wait for it to flare up again. Go back to the studio or get to
the theatre early and start digging for what will work. Without a strong connection
with a metaphor, the dance becomes mechanical.

955 Performing
workbook Every one of these can carry you into the metaphoric action, but they aren’t easy to do
exercises backstage as preparation for a performance. If one works for you, find a way to do it.
Justification†
Dedicate Your Motion†
Who or What Is Alive in the Music?†
The Inner Rhythm of the Role†
An Event, a Recurrence, a Ritual†
How Does Your Tree Dance?†
The Hub Meditation†
Each Alone†
Before, After and On†
The Spine of Style†
Inside the Outside†

Whom Are You Addressing?

Sooner or later this ought to be confronted, both in relation to how you feel about the
act of performing and what you believe is the nature of each specific dance role. Some
choreographies are directed quite precisely: to a particular audience, to bookers, to
your elusive dance partner, to your own insides, to a deity, to . . . ?
This is essentially a mind trip. When do you do it? In rehearsal? Just before you fall
asleep? While making up and getting into costume? Warming up? Peeking through
a hole in the curtain? (Very unprofessional!) On the crest of the last breath you take
before entering the stage? Or do you take six months off on a mountaintop to meditate
on the matter? Find what works for you and do it.

Accommodating to the Physical Environment of the Stage

Touring presents the obvious hazards of unfamiliar stages, particularly for a near-
sighted person like myself. My routine was the same, wherever I went. I made certain
to leave time to walk through every movement backstage that I could anticipate—with
my eyeglasses on. I hunted for every obstacle: electrical cables, props, flats, light tow-
ers or shin-busters. I developed such a precise memory that once I was betrayed by it.
In the year I met Tamiris, I became her partner and was fortunate enough to appear
with her in the glamorous Rainbow Room atop New York’s Radio City. The perform-
ing space was tricky, being the famous circular dance floor that revolved when the
customers took to dancing. I carefully mapped out every move, including the bows.
Opening night was smashing, until those very bows. As I bent fully at the waist, my
rear butted into something that catapulted me forward as if I had been kicked. What?

966 The Theory

 It was a little piano that Billy de Wolfe, the comedian who shared the bill, had put into
place afterr our rehearsal.
Nothing can be taken for granted, even on a familiar stage. One can never know
when Billy de Wolfe will move a piano, a prop, a cable or a flat to a different place.
Comes the performance, one is moving too quickly making crossovers and entrances to
deal with the unexpected. Once, in St. Louis, I was dancing in the small theatre of the
Kiel Auditorium that lay back to back with an enormous stage. I had carefully traced
an insane crossover that meant going down into a basement, up again to cross the rear
of the big stage, down on the other side and up to our smaller stage. That night, as I
dashed up the stairs to arrive at the backstage area of the big stage, I could see through
the wings dozens of berobed ones on the stage looking up to Christ on the mount, and
in my path, staring at me through lidded eyes, a squatting camel. Without a pause, I
cleared the camel and made for the other side of the stage. Best to look around.
There’s another element to all this. There is little onstage and backstage that is not
vibrant, in and of itself. The sets, curtains, light poles, the lights that resemble nothing
so much as artillery are all loaded and potent and yet most of it has nothing to do with
what is being danced. Even sets seen up close are merely dabs of paint with little or
nothing of the illusion that they project to the audience. The rehearsal studio tends to
be neutral. The stage and backstage are never that for me. I find every part and particle
of them charged and potentially unnerving. They all say, “This is it—the real thing.
You’re not in the studio, where a miss needs only to be corrected. Here there are no
excuses and you have to deliver.” How many times have I walked onto an empty stage
with one worklight and the black hole of an empty house? Each time I felt a chill at
the back of my neck, swayed by the silent space and thought, “I’m home.” Yes, but this
home is an unforgiving place.
What to do? The imagination can link and relate any two objects no matter how
divergent they might be. Find anything onstage or backstage that can feed and sup-
port what you will be doing in the dance. I get some of my strongest jolts from the
lights—from the subtle colors of the gels, the shafts of light and the mysterious black-
ness hovering above in the flies.
Possibly the most critical physical aspect of the stage for dancers is the floor—its
resilience and its surface. Some are floors for dance and some are floors against dance.
I would equate the perfect floor surface with the Holy Grail. Unattainable. Within the
same dance there are moments when one needs traction and other moments when a
bit of slide would be just right.
Hard, unresilient floors are discouraging and literally dangerous. Though this is
a book on acting technique for dancers, never pretend to yourself, in the interest of
doing a glowing performance, that you are dancing on a perfect dance floor. If it’s a
hard, ungiving floor, make a deliberate adjustment by softening all landings, pull back
on any stamping actions and be particularly careful with all falls.

977 Performing
 Nourished by the Ambience of Attention
I have had an experience while teaching that always saddens me. I see a student do
something both personal and brilliant. With excitement, I stop the class and ask this
wonder child to demonstrate how it should be done. What happens? Any number of
times, the lustre turns dim and the dancer fades into mediocrity. I am confused and
usually turn to the dancer with wonder: “What happened to that blaze of glory I saw
a moment ago? You are investing all these years of work in dance and the moment
people look at you, you diminish your talent and withdraw under a cloud. Do you think
you can reverse the process and learn to dance even better because we are looking at
you?” Anyone who has taught dance has had similar dismaying experiences. Any
number of people who are gorgeous in class or rehearsal disappear onstage. It’s as if
the eyes of the audience are drains that suck away their energy. They may be beauti-
ful dancers, but they have yet to find this key to performance. A realized performer
goes out into that space, and when the people turn the searchlight of their eyes on
them, they begin to glow and become more intelligent than ever. A performer bathes
voluptuously in the attention. Attention is like rain on a forest. The attention of the
audience is a nourishing atmosphere for the creative theatre artist; it is a threat for
someone who has a problem to solve and lacks the will to confront it.
Suppose there is that fear? Let us assume a dancer who has the talent, craft and
capacity to deliver really good dance and, at the same time, becomes choked by terror
when exposed to the audience. Will psychotherapy help? Perhaps. But we have within
the craft of our work the wherewithal to cope with the fear. We can summon the
discipline of turning the attention away from the self to concentrate on the reality of
what is there on the stage. We have Benno Schneider’s pronunciamento, “The shortest
distance to the audience is through the other actor!” (Change that to “dancer.”) We
can also reevaluate who and what the audience is. They wantt the artist to be beautiful.
Their hearts hunger to be quickened. They are not waiting for the dancer to fall down;
they’re waiting to see the dancer fly for them.
You either go out there feeling that you’re going to be shot down, or you go out
there knowing that you can get stronger because the eyes are not looking att you but
to you. Know it, but don’t focus on it, no more than you focus on the rain or the sun.
It might be raining but after a while you continue talking, walking and running. The
air you breathe as a performer is attention. Let that air invigorate you. Your sensitivi-
ties should sparkle, your strength should flow and the audacity of the risks you take
should grow. Your audience wants to be moved and changed by you. Above all, don’t
demand perfection of yourself. Mistakes dot the greatest performances. Midori, in-
terviewed at the start of her career as a violinist: “Do you ever make mistakes?” “Of
course. Everybody makes mistakes.”
Lawrence Johnson is a young pole vaulter. He won the collegiate indoor champi-
onship in March 1994 and set his goal to one day being the first to clear twenty-one
feet, beating the world record of twenty feet. Interviewed before the 1994 Penn Relays

98 The Theory
 he said, “The Penn Relays is an emotional meet for me. I really enjoy crowds. A crowd
of people gets me going more than anything else” (New York Times, April 28, 1994).

Stage Concentration Versus Oscillation

I discussed the “Game of Oscillation” in chapter 4, making the point that pure con-
centration is a perfection useless to pursue and not even ideal. The flame of total
absorption takes place intermittently within the reality of the stage space and its de-
mands. On occasion, people will cough quite loudly in the theatre, and if your hearing
is functioning you will hear it. The heart of the game is to keep the focus within the
action and to use every distraction to shed more light on the central focus.
If you go through entire performances knowing that you’re here and they’re out
there; if that awareness never leaves you, whatever you’re doing, you’re on your way out
of the theatre. In The Actor Prepares, Stanislavski tells a story about one of the acting
students who has had his ego badly battered in the first few weeks by a director who
will not accept his grandiloquent grandstanding, his noble clichés or vocal acrobat-
ics. He is learning the hard way by committing every sin in acting. On this day, he is
assigned to get the student stage ready for an important showing. There is insufficient
time and, in his haste, he spills a box of carpet tacks on the forestage. Some of the
actors will be wearing ballet slippers or soft shoes. In a panic, he falls to his knees to
gather up every last one. He is at this task for several minutes when he happens to
raise his head for a moment and, with a start, realizes this is the first time that he has
been onstage without any consciousness of being in the theatre, on a stage in front of
a room full of chairs all facing in the same direction. All his attention was focused on
the simple and crucial task of gathering up those vicious little tacks. He would be an
artist if the tacks were spilled on the carpet eight times a week in front of an audience
and he were to gather up every one without the consciousness of their presence or of
his effect upon them. The task would become a metaphor and he, an honest actor.
Could it be that a continuous awareness of the audience, of being on the stage,
of self-consciousness is a form of vanity? The audience is not interested in you; it is
fascinated by who or what you are supposed to be and do. Stage concentration is the
central task, and yet it exists as an island within an awareness of the existing envelope
of audience, critics, friends, enemies, the stage, the lights, the wings and the treacherous
shin-busters. You know they are there and you turn your back on them to dance the
task of X in the world of X. All intrusions are accepted and allowed to slip in and out of
focus. With every distraction, you simply burrow more deeply into the life of the stage.
workbook All the improvisations that call for a focus on the other act as a training ground for
exercises stage concentration.
The Six Questions†
Pursuing each of these will make stage concentration an integral part of your craft.

99 Performing
Dealing with What Is, Not with What Was

I once had a glorious performance that seemed to come out of a new insight about
performing. A few nights later, I had another concert and took that same kicker—and
nothing happened. I was like ice, self-conscious and watching myself. That performance
was wretched until I let go of the previous night and just dealt with what was at hand.
In my own experience, I have never been able to predict what my energy or my
frame of mind will be when I hit the space in the lights. My warmup can be ideal; I can
feel like a powerhouse and damn! When the music starts, I am mysteriously under and
realize I have some serious problems to bring that performance to life. Conversely, I
can feel like a limp rag as I get ready, and then I’m out there and everything is flowing.
My ground rule is simple. Never expect to repeat a performance. Go out curious. What
will you find there and how will you deal with it?
It is an iron law of the stage that no two performances are alike (see “The Intoler-
ance of Uncertainty” in chapter 2). Mishaps do occur, raising the question: “Who deals
with the obstacle, the accident?” You are really in the theatre and in the role when it is
X who deals with whatever goes wrong in terms of who X is and what X is doing and
can do. If you, the dancer, cope with a problem as yourself, that is an admission of
failure and the mishap remains just that, a mishap. The error will be apparent to the
audience. But if X deals with the obstacle, the odds are that no one in the audience
will be aware that anything went wrong. It will be an integral part of the dance.
workbook The best groundwork for this facility is any and all the improvisation exercises.†
exercises

Interacting with the Others and the Environment

Each element of performing connects to all the others. The vibrant performer gains
strength from the cast and from everything encountered out onstage—the lights, the
music, the sets, the props and all. Though not about a literal performance, this story
is very much to the point. Deep into the run of Plain and Fancy, a 1956 musical in
which I danced, we were all stirred up by the news that Morton Da Costa, our director,
had invited Marlene Dietrich and Noel Coward to the show. Even more exciting, at
the end of the performance came the news that Dietrich and Coward wanted to come
backstage and meet us.
We all assembled in the wide square space in front of our dressing rooms. They
arrived, and the woman in life was breathtaking. The talk was carried on mostly by
Coward and our director. Dietrich literally hung back, leaning up against a pillar. I
looked at her and thought, “Here is thee glamour woman of our time. What is glamour?
What is the excitement that radiates from her? What is she doing?” It took a moment

100 The Theory

 or two for me to get to it. She was fascinated by us. She couldn’t get enough of us. Her
eyes were devouring us one by one.
Those who have electricity in life as well as in the theatre are what they are because
of their passionate interest and amazement at all they encounter.
workbook Any and all of the improvisation exercises.†
exercises

Energy: Too Much/Too Little/Just Enough

There is a certain kind of success that is very difficult to deal with, at least in my own
experience; success on Broadway. It’s glorious at first—the great reviews, the enthu-
siastic audiences, the good money and the chance to dance and dance and dance. But
after several months, one begins to encounter a resistance to doing the same thing eight
times a week. In my day, the matinees were on Wednesday and Saturday. Now, it’s even
worse. Four performances are bunched together on Saturday and Sunday. What art
form has ever asked its participants to do the same inspired performance eight times
a week for months and yes, years on end? (Annie Get Your Gun ran for more than two
years.) The “same thing” means not just giving change for a twenty, it is giving your
all—your intense brilliant and dazzling expression—eight times a week!
You learn a few things about energy. One of the things that earned me my status
as a principal dancer was my high energy, and therein lay a danger. I am certain that
when I began, I tended to do too much. In the early days of the run of a show, there
is rarely a question of “enough” energy, but after a while, there come the low days, the
days of working through an injury, or a cold or getting stuck on a matinee day with late
service in a restaurant and coming back to the theatre with a full stomach. These are
the times when there is not enough energy or strength to do a proper show, but doing
anything less is out of the question. After all, I was dancing in front of a “chorus” line
made up of modern dance soloists, former members of the leading ballet companies,
and a Broadway audience. What happens? You make choices. You seize those moments
when you can lean back and float in order to get a bit of your breath and strength back.
You poise yourself for that phrase that mustt be way up there, and then, you go for
it—because you have to. Before you know it, that becomes the way you dance, even if
you come into the theatre with an ocean of power. It’s called “taste.” You stop being a
young whirlwind slamming into every phrase, and you graduate to the sophistication
of choosing your highs and relishing the subtlety of the soft moments.
A strange experience was the trigger that really clarified this reevaluation of my
dance energy. Early in the run of Annie Get Your Gun, I saw a performance by the Ger-
man soloist Harold Kreutzberg. I had first seen him in 1936, when I was writing dance
reviews for the paper at City College, where I was a first-year undergraduate. I had been

101 Performing
 dancing for about three or four months, which of course gave me the right to judge
professional dancers, in print, and, to be sure, I was not easily impressed. I dismissed
his work as mitteleurope kitsch, prettiness, cuteness. The second time I saw him was in
1946. I still thought he did mitteleurope kitsch, but I saw what I had not seen ten years
earlier: he was a magnificent dancer. I saw him on a Sunday; Monday night I was back
in the theatre to do my Indian Dance. As I started into it, I sensed something radically
different. I wasn’t dancing the same way. It was as if someone else was dancing, not
me. It was Kreutzberg, his body, his understanding and the way he worked had taken
possession of me like a demon. It was all about energy—about how much force I was
letting out. Some things were much lighter and easier than I had ever danced them.
Others were fierce and climactic. I was witnessing myself dance. I thought, well, let
it happen. It felt strange, but good, and I let it ride. For a couple of nights running, I
came into the theater curious about what would happen, determined not to control or
check the dance of this dybbuk. (In Jewish folklore, a dybbuk is the soul of a deceased
person who enters into a living body and controls it. This was a living artist, but he
was controlling me.) In time, it became clear. He/I were dancing long arcs of energy.
He/I never just did a fabulous move and then another wonderful move. Now, every
move was part of a phrase, and most of the phrases were quite long. For a few parts of
the dance, his way did not feel right, but for most of the run we had a very successful
collaboration. I should have sought him out and spoken to him, but at the time I did
not realize how open most dancers are and how pleased he would have been that I was
affected by his style. For all I know, he might have been in the Majestic Theatre that
Monday night and spooking me from his seat—or envying me. I did have a better jump
than he and a steady job in a successful Broadway show. Whatever, I learned to phrase.
My body learned to sing in longer phrases rather than chopping up the choreography
into powerful separate bits. (See also “Too Much and Not Enough” in chapter 1.)
workbook The Two Dances
exercises
It is too easy and simplistic to find phrasing on a purely physical level. If you were to
analyze one or both of the two dances in the framework of the six questions and also
a bits analysis, you would find the overall drive and the units of inner action that
drive the role from moment to moment to shape and sustain the major arcs of energy.

Competition

I’m not good on this point. I’d be lying if I said I did not experience waves of envy of
dancers of my generation who accomplished more and achieved more prominence and
renown in the field. On the other hand, I never set out to be better than anyone—to
jump higher than another. I had a clear-drawn battle with what I considered my own
limitations, and that is what fired my ambition and the intensity of all my work. In

102 The Theory

 performance, it was inconceivable that I upstage another, trying to draw the attention
away from them to me. It’s an ugly ploy but it happens. What to do when it is done? (1)
Don’t try to outdo the upstager. (2) “Level” with the culprit. (3) At worst, turn to the
director for help. A distasteful business but what choice do you have? Of course, if you
have to be liked by everybody, including your tormentor, you have a real problem. No,
you definitely cannot accept this kind of bullying. What you do is being stolen from
you, and the integrity of your concentration on your role is being invaded.

The Stage Space

Everyone learns in her.his own way, sometimes unconsciously. I never had trouble
finding the light onstage, getting into the heat of a lit area. It took me a while to
recognize how I did it. Perhaps because I am near-sighted and do not see much at a
distance, I sense the intensity of the light I am in from my eyelashes. Can others do
that? I don’t know. However, if you’re supposed to be in the center of a lit area, puzzle
out your own way to be sure, without ineptly looking up into the light source or down
to find your spike mark.
The other necessary spatial awareness is how close you can get to the wings (be
they flats or drapes), the front edge of the stage, the cyclorama or the rear traveler. If
you stand before a mirror and hold your hand as far away as possible and slowly bring
it toward your face, there will come a moment when your hand will “invade” the space
of your face. Try it and then come back to the book.
A few inches away and your hand is “in your face.” Similarly, if you stand within
a certain number of inches of another person, you will create discomfort, you will
be “invading her.his space.” In the convention of the theatre, we, at least in Western
cultures, think of the stage space as a kind of infinity. Agnes de Mille’s cowboys can
romp for miles in a space that, at best can’t be wider than fifty feet. Let one dancer
get less than about three feet from a wing and that wing becomes a part of the dance.
Worse, the stage illusion of space is diminished and made to be what it actually is: a
dancer, not a cowboy; a stage, not the open plains; and a flat, not a tree.
Of course, there are those choreographers who want the dancer to be a dancer, the
stage to be a stage and all stage illusions to be dispelled, and that is perfectly legitimate.
The prevailing aesthetic determines the use of the space.

Dealing with Failure or Negative Criticism

Two characteristics of artists who endure: their toughness regarding negative reviews
and criticism of all kinds—from friends, lovers, enemies, colleagues and critics, and
the clarity and ferocity of their self-criticism. Having recognized a weakness, a miscal-

103 Performing
 culation, a wrong tack, they are ready to make the next move. They know to whom to
listen. They know that most criticism contains a portrait of the critic. They can spot
criticism that misses the point and yet inadvertently identifies a flaw which only they
recognize. When I did the first performances of my play adaptation of Albert Camus’
The Falll in my studio, I invited a few prospective backers. After the second showing,
a woman, reputed to be a brilliant economist—and rich—was introduced to me.
Without being asked, she said, “It’s very impressive, but it is much too long. You must
cut it.” I didn’t cut it, of course. It was too long for the simple reason that I was being
very careful with an hour-and-a-half monologue, trying to remember all the words.
As I continued to work on the role, I gained fluency and security and cut over twelve
minutes simply by speaking more quickly.
There is only one rule in regard to criticism. Listen to whom you value and re-
spect, but make all your own decisions. Do absolutely nothing because another said
so. If you are to claim the title of an artist, there can be only one final decider—you
yourself. Criticism from the director or choreographer is another matter. There, the
professionalism of the dancer is challenged to the utmost: you must find a way to
incorporate that criticism into your own conception of the role.
In evaluating my own performances, I had one clue which told me more than any
comments, written or spoken. Whenever people came backstage elated and seemingly
pleased with themselves, I felt truly successful. Their congratulations meant less than
the glow that emanated from them.
workbook I Dare You†
exercises
This is a subtle form of criticism from your fellow students that can be of great value,
or working alone with the capacity for a ruthless self-criticism could be a challenge of
even greater value.

Success Is a Serious Problem

It’s a problem that should happen to all of us. The real trick is not to let it be a prob-
lem. How? Just accept the premise that with every new role, you’re always back at the
beginning, taking nothing for granted. Whatever worked sheer magic the last time
might work again, but don’t assume it.

Taking Risks

There comes a time when the focus on craft, the rules of the art, the passion for suc-
cess and the fear of failure have to be shunted aside and out of sight. A raw, unfinished
artist can on occasion take this risk but until the craft is firm, the rules are known,

104 The Theory

 accepted or rejected and one is ripe for the major career steps, this audacity is best held
in reserve. An artist has to earn the right to take risks. Implicit in that course is the
very good chance of being wounded. A green artist may find recovery from a failure
or an attack a slow or an irreversible process.
In the appendix to this book is an essay by Federico Garcia Lorca dissecting a word
and a concept that does not exist in our culture: duende. For several years now, in my
Acting Technique for Dance Performance classes, I have asked my students to read it.
Despite Lorca’s occasional obscurity and his references to artists unknown to most of
us, I believe its total impact represents the ultimate challenge to anyone who dares to
take that step out upon the stage. Any artist in any field can make a connection with
the concept of duende. It is a statement without parallel.

The Next Step

What you have read up to this point are the basic theories that shape and drive a way
of dancing. If you have found it interesting but of no relevance to how you choose
to work, this is a good a place to stop and think, “Oh, so that is his process. Not for
me,” and go on to the Appendix. If, however, you see value in all—or some—of what
you have read, the Workbook that follows is a compendium of about eighty exercises
designed to help you develop an acting technique for dance performance. If you are
focused on a particular problem, there is no reason not to leap forward and work out
of the given sequence.
Good luck!
She spoke eloquently about acting. “The camera taught you what not to do. I used
to hang a mirror on the side of the camera, because at first I was making faces. And
then I found that you should start with the curtain down, your face in repose, and
then whatever you had in mind, you thought it and the camera got it. If you were
caught acting they didn’t believe it.” (Lillian Gish, New York Times, March 2, 1997)

1055 Performing
 The dancers illustrated here are
among those who brought a living
presence to their physical virtuosity.

Virginia Zucchi (1849–1930)

was one of the most influential
and inspirational dancers of the
late nineteenth century. The first
and greatest of a series of Italian
ballerinas who dominated Russian
ballet for some fifteen years, she
raised the Imperial Ballet out of a
state of torpor and growing public
indifference, “virtually single-
handed and almost overnight”
(Ivor Guest, The Divine Virginia
[New York: Marcel Dekker, 1977],
p. 3). Stanislavski was one of
the many Russian artists and
intellectuals upon whom she made
a deep impression. She struck
a chord similar to the effect of
Tomasso Salvini, the great Italian
actor who brought clarity and
direction to Stanislavski’s search for
truthful performances devoid of
brilliant though shallow theatrical
effects. Zucchi was a great actress
who danced; her work inspired
many dancers of her generation.
Dance Collection of the New York Public
Library for the Performing Arts; used by
permission of Museo Teatrale alla Scala.

106
Isadora Duncan (1877–1927).
Photograph by Arnold Genthe. Billy Rose Theatre Collection, The New York Public Library for the
Performing Arts—Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations.

107
Vaslav Nijinsky (1890–1950).
Nijinsky Archives.

108
Martha Graham (1894–1991).
Library of Congress.

109
Doris Humphrey (1895–1958) and Charles Weidman (1900–1975).
Collection of Charles H. Woodford.

110
Helen Tamiris (1902–1966).
Collection of Daniel Nagrin.

111
Anthony Tudor (1908–1987). Starting late, he was never a great technician, but he was
a convincing and moving performer. As a choreographer, he elicited from his dancers
vibrant performances lit by an inner life.
Photograph by Gordon Anthony. Used by permission of the Theatre Museum, London.

112
Galina Ulanova (1910– ).
Billy Rose Theatre Collection, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts—
Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations.

113
Anna Sokolow (1910– ).
Photograph by Barbara Morgan © 1980. From the collection of Lloyd Morgan.

114
Nora Kaye (1920–1987) and Hugh Laing (1911–1988).
Billy Rose Theatre Collection, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts—
Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations.

115
Valerie Bettis (1919–1982).
Library of Congress.

116
Merce Cunningham (1919– ).
Photograph by Terry Stevenson. Used by permission of Charles Atlas.

117
Jean Babilée (1923– ).
Billy Rose Theatre Collection, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts—
Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations.

118
Paul Taylor (1930– ).
Photograph by Z. Freyman. Used by permission of Paul Taylor.

119
Rudolph Nureyev (1938–1993).
Billy Rose Theatre Collection, The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts—
Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations.

120
Meredith Monk (1942– ).
Photograph by Dona Ann McAdams. Used by permission of Dona Ann McAdams.

121
Bill T. Jones (1952– ).
Photograph by Michael O’Neill. Used by permission.

122
Part Two THE WOR KBOO K

123
124 The Workbook
6 Introduction and Outline

The following chapters present a sequence of exercises that allows the logic of the work
to emerge. It can lead dancers over a period of time from simpler to more complex
structures and, most important, to a deeper involvement of self in the act of dance.
The sequence begins with a few assignments that can provide the backbone for the
work of a group or class. The order in which the exercises are described is but a sug-
gestion for how they might best be experienced or taught. For anyone who is focused
on a particular problem of performance, there is no reason not to leap forward and
work out of the sequence.
An intensive exploration of all the exercises in this book could take a considerable
amount of time. About eighty are described, half of which are emphasized as more
critical than the others. If an actor with little or no movement training were to ask a
dance teacher how much time she.he would need to acquire a movement facility that
would fully augment her.his craft as an actor, the answer would probably be about
two years and a minimum of one year. How much time should a group of dancers
new to this way of working expend in order to acquire this acting technique for dance
performance? How much time do you have?
Actually, working actors should try to keep dancing throughout their careers,
and working dancers should be digging continually into the problems and craft of
performance. In the academic world of dance, at least a year would be appropriate and
half a year would be barely enough. Outside the ivy campuses, you’re on your own.
Recognizing that there is never enough time, try at first to accept the suggestions about
what is crucial to an understanding of the process, and as you continue getting the feel
of the task at hand, begin to be more selective according to your needs and taste.
Many of these exercises were first described in Dance and the Specific Image; they

125
 have been adapted for use in this book. In the text of the exercise, the indented sections
are written in the voice of a teacher addressing a group of students.

Outline

In this outline of the sequence presented in chapters 7 through 13, an asterisk indicates
a “miscellaneous” exercise and a superscript dagger indicates an exercise that can be
done by a single dancer.

Chapter 7: First Assignments Chapter 9: Level 2

The Two Dances Justification†
What Quickened You?† The Rhythm Series†
Read a Book† Breath Rhythm†
A Reading List† Pulse Rhythm†
Keep a Journal† Inner Rhythm†
Your First Performance Instructions† Go Visiting
True Repetition†
Evolving Repetition†
Chapter 8: Level 1
Dedicate Your Motion†
Gifts Spinning†
Medicine Ball The Mind-Wash†
Outrageous Travel Not Naming†
Goldfish Bowl The Other
Blind Journey† A Duet
*Solo Dancer Who or What Is Alive in the Music?†
*Solo Singer The Inner Rhythm of the Role†
*The Obstacle† Seeing Through the Eyes of Another†
*Passing Through a Physical Object† *Walk Behind Another†
*Slalom† *Take a Walk in Your Own World
*The Conductor *Your Familiar†
*The Schizoid Little Fishes of the *Possessed by a Mannerism†
Bering Sea *An Event, a Recurrence, a Ritual†
*Leave Yourself Outside† *How Does Your Tree Dance?†
*Ambient Sound†

1266 The Workbook

 Chapter 10: Level 3 Chapter 13: Level 6
Circles† Make a Phrase
Each Alone Rituals of Power
Hot to Cold to Hot I† Props Fantasy†
Hot to Cold to Hot II† Processional†
Backdoor† Ping Pong
The Hub Meditation† Adam and Eve
Visualization† The Minnesota Duet
Gesture Permutations† Prison†
Gesture Rondo† *Focusing
The Duet as a Structure *Ariadne’s Dance†
Emotion Memory† *Whatever Happens, Happens†
*From Now† *Tandem Solo
*Rhythm Portrait† *Relay Solo
*Performing in Unison
*Ham and Clove
Chapter 11: Level 4 *Signs of the Time†
*Before, After and On† *Become a Public Figure†
*Why Do You Dance?†
*What Happened?†
*The Spine of Style†
*Making Faces

Chapter 12: Level 5

Faces†
I Dare You†
Inside the Outside†
*Lose Your Head†
*Go 1-2-3
*Recognition Ritual

1277 Introduction and Outline

 7 First Assignments

The Two For any teacher or group planning to work through the logic of this book, this first
Dances assignment, pursued in depth, will touch upon every one of the principles and tech-
niques of acting technique for dance performance.
Every student or member of the group should prepare two different dance pieces
that he.she has previously performed. Each should be at least two minutes and less than
ten minutes in length: one was performed in a manner that felt right for the dancer,
the other never felt right in performance. It matters not whether either was successfully
received. Neither dance need be a solo, nor need it have been choreographed by the
dancer. Both should be well rehearsed, technically under control and danced to the
appropriate music. If the original was danced in silence, then the inherent musical-
ity of its performance should be present. At least one of the dances must have been
choreographed with music and be performed to that score.
Allow whatever time is necessary to prepare the two dances. In the interim, work
can be commenced on the exercises given below. When the dancers are ready to per-
form their two works, the group can give a portion of each meeting to viewing and
critiquing two or three showings. Whoever dances chooses either the role that felt right
or the one that didn’t, never indicating which one is being danced that day. Before
dancing, limited information should be given by the dancer to the group: the title, the
music, the choreographer, a rough indication of the costume and the lights. Never,
at any time, should the dancer verbally elucidate what the dance is about or what it
purports to mean. After the information is given, the dancer asks all present to shut
their eyes, indicating that they are to be opened when the music starts or by saying
“curtain” or “lights.” Similarly, the conclusion is indicated by saying, “end,” “curtain”
or “lights out.” The showing done, the dancer places him.herself before the group for
criticism, which proceeds in this fashion:

128
 1. The viewers tell the dancer what it is that they saw and felt; what they felt the
dancer was trying to be and convey. At no time should any attention be paid to the
choreography. What is at stake is performance, not choreography.
2. They point out where they were drawn into the life of the dance and where they
seemed to be looking at it from a distance.
3. They make note regarding the quality and continuity of the dance life of the
performance and call attention to any point at which this dance life was torn.
4. They observe and comment on how well the dancer related to the music.
These comments have great value if they are specific, but tend to be unhelpful
when they are generalized. All the viewers should ask themselves, “If I were the director
what would I tell this dancer to make her.his work even better?”
Finally, the teacher or group leader gives his.her critique. Then the dancer is asked
to do the dance again, bearing in mind the critique and directions he.she has just
heard. The group then considers the difference between the first performance and the
performance that followed the discussion. As the group becomes more sophisticated
about the elements that enter into a performing life, the teacher/leader can ask one of
the viewers, “Would you like to give the dancer some direction?”
At this juncture, I will state my predilection. When I worked as a dancer or as an
actor I would always move out of earshot when the director began to give my partner
a direction. I did not want to know what the director was expecting, because when we
danced the sequence again, instead of dealing with what my partner was doing, part of
my mind would be focused on how she.he was carrying out the direction. Thus, when
I want to help a student’s work by adding a new direction, I usually draw the student
aside and we speak privately. The class does not know what to expect and must deal
only with what they see. After the dancer performs, I ask them, “Did you see a differ-
ence? What was the difference? Did it make it a better, more truthful performance?”
Only after this discussion is the content of my direction revealed. A weird note which
I find difficult to explain: if a student has taken the direction so well that the perfor-
mance is astonishingly different and better, and I ask her.him to tell the group what
the direction was, she.he is often inarticulate and can barely recall what it was I said!
The dancer can at any time volunteer to perform either of the two dances from a
new perspective. At a later date, the dancers should return to one or both of the two
dances to do a syntactical analysis that would consciously use all of the six questions.

129 First Assignments

What If you are really going to work on the material given in this book, on the earliest
Quickened weekend make it a point to observe, observe and observe until something you see
quickens you, makes a change in you, makes you breathe a bit faster. Then really
You?†
observe and remember, and at the first opportunity become what you observed.
This can be anything: another human, an animal, a “thing.” Be able to come into
class or the studio and become what quickened you, imitating not only its outside
but its “insides.” The challenge will be to do this without any comment, without
glorifying it or satirizing it.

Read a Book† Dance is a profession that yields best to an early start plus consistent, continuous
and intensive training. This doesn’t leave much time for “reading a book.” (How-
ever, as I glance through the program notes of major dance companies today—
mostly modern ones—the biographies of many brilliant dancers do mention a
college degree, even a master’s degree.) To the generation of young dancers now
entering the field who are nurtured by television, books are in danger of becoming
exotic antiques. I recently concluded ten years of teaching in a major university
where I encountered an alarming amount of cultural illiteracy. At the same time,
I recall all through my tours, both in the commercial theatre and in the concert
field, observing dancers digging out the precious books deep in their practice bags
to be read in the first quiet moment after takeoff.
A dancer is an artist, or should be. A dance artist in our world will be little more
than an attractive physical machine, unless he.she knows who Voltaire was, has decided
whether or not to read any more of Rainer Maria Rilke, knows whether the Sung Dy-
nasty preceded or followed the Tang Dynasty and is aware of what it is that we owe to
the ancient Greeks who shaped us, helped create the world we live in and pointed to
the life we have failed to live. To survive as an artist you have to “read a book.”

A Reading While we are on the subject of reading there are two books that cut right to the heart
List† of our concern: Constantin Stanislavski’s My Life in Artt and the essay “The Duende:
Theory and Divertissement,” by Federico Garcia Lorca. Personally, I think every artist,
in any field, should read the Lorca once a month in the first year that they encounter it
and then at least once every year for the rest of their productive lives. It is the ultimate
challenge for all artists. (“The Duende” is reprinted in the appendix.)
The list that follows covers many different points of view. Even those written for
actors will charge the mind of a dancer on this matter of performance.
Artaud, Antonin, The Theatre and Its Double
Boleslavsky, Richard, Acting: The First Six Lessons
Brook, Peter, The Empty Space

130 The Workbook

 Bowers, Faubion, Theatre in the East
Carnovsky, Morris, The Actor’s Eye
Chaikin, Joseph, The Presence of the Actor
Chekhov, Michael, To the Actor
Cole, Toby, Actors on Acting
Craig, Gordon, On the Theatre Advancing
Grotowski, Jerzy, Towards a Poor Theatre
Guthrie, Tyrone, Tyrone Guthrie on Acting
Hagen, Uta, Respect for Acting
Kirkland, Gelsey, and Lawrence, Greg, Dancing on My Grave; The Shape of Love
Le Gallienne, Eva, Eleanor Duse
Lewis, Robert, Method or Madness
Meisner, Sanford, On Acting
Moore, Sonia, The Stanislavski Method
Olivier, Lawrence, On Acting
Passolli, Robert, A Book on the Open Theatre
Redgrave, Michael, The Actor’s Ways and Means
Spolin, Viola, Improvisation for the Theatre
Stanislavski, Constantin, An Actor Prepares; Building a Character; Creating a Role

Keep a Here’s a story I first told in How to Dance Foreverr (pp. 213–14). In the early 1970s, I spent
Journal† a summer in Vermont at Johnson State College with the Workgroup, the improvisation
dance company I was directing at the time. Early on, I gave a solo concert. A young
man, a recently graduated architect who did not seem to have any work, became a
fan and spent much time hanging around our group. Wherever he went, he had one
of those black notebooks favored by artists for sketching, only I discovered he wasn’t
sketching. He was taking down what I was saying! Never having bowed to a master,
whenever I realize someone is shoving a pedestal under my feet, I kick it away. I snorted
at him, “Man, you want a guru? You got a guru. You. You’re the only real guru you’re
ever going to get.” Because I have a resistance to anyone listening with a noncritical
mind even though they’re listening to me, I found myself constantly mocking him.
Gently of course, for he wasn’t a fool by any means—and I was flattered, in spite of
myself. He attached himself to me again the next summer, carefully noting down my
words in his black sketchbook.
A few years later, needing a vacation badly, having little money for it and loving
that area, I rang Jon, the architect, to ask whether he knew of an inexpensive place

131 First Assignments

 for rent. Unbelievably, he offered his home, saying that he could spend the week hap-
pily with friends. I accepted gratefully. The place was wonderful: an apartment over a
four-car garage on an elegant estate with a little pond for swimming. It was spacious,
comfortably furnished and stuffed with art books and records. But to this day, what
I remember most are two towers of black sketchbooks. Each stood three feet high on
one side of his desk. They were all identical with the one he had lugged about those
two summers.
I found myself shifting from my mocking memory of his note-taking to a secret
envy. I thought of those thousands of thoughts, mine and others, which I had jotted
down on thousands of scraps of paper. Where were they? Terrible to relate, I have them
somewhere, since I throw nothing away. They’re never available, except by accident or
an episodic housecleaning. Too bad. There have been times when I was going through
some creative turmoil that was clarified by the good luck of finding and rereading
notes of the previous year. Here this man had his entire intellectual and artistic his-
tory; questions, quotes and musings within reach. I admired what I saw and wished I
had done likewise.
A journal is a good thing for an artist. A day doesn’t pass that doesn’t contain
something worth noting: an event, a passing thought, a teacher’s trenchant remark or
an astonishing newspaper clipping. These things are gold and should not be lost.
Find a sturdy notebook that transports easily in your practice bag. Use it to catch
and preserve observations, incidents, strong stuff from teachers and especially
your own thoughts, ideas and questions.

Your First Recall and write the instructions you received for your first performance. Take any
Performance dance phrase or dance and perform it, to the full, exactly as you were instructed
Instructions† at that first performance.

132 The Workbook

 8 Exercises
Level 1

Gifts The first necessity in any session is to ensure the safety and freedom of the dancers’
bodies. The easiest way out is to say, “Take ten or fifteen minutes to warm up.” A terrible
idea: the time is too short, too few dancers know how to do this well and too many
will fill the time with chatting. Another way is to conduct a quick warmup: walking,
then faster and faster, breaking into a run, slowing down to easy stretches, slow big
body moves, extended arm motions, pliés, shallow and deep, and so on. Strategically
conducted, this works. I found another way, Gifts:
Pick a partner and face each other. The exercise is called Gifts. One will lead and
the other will follow as in a mirror game. The leader has but one mission in mind:
to get the other warmed up and on the way to dancing. That is the “gift,” to free the
body of the other. The challenge is to fully take in who the follower is. “What does
she.he need to get started? What is unique to this person, this body before me? Is
there a nervousness? Would a bit of silliness be the right beginning? Would a formal,
symmetrical opening center this person best? Is there a fragility or vulnerability
that should make me cautious about what I give her.him? Are the shoulders lifted
in a tense manner? Perhaps some easy shoulder rolls, lifts and drops would ease
and lengthen his.her neck?”
Take your time to sense the specific needs of the person before you. Don’t do what
you think all dancers need—only what this dancer needs. You literally are trying to
think yourself into his.her body. Can you really do this? Never for certain, but you
can guess on the basis of what you are seeing and sensing. All of us, whether we are
self-aware or not, are constantly sending signals out to the world about ourselves.
If you want to know about the other, the information is there right in front of you,
and if you really have to know, you will develop the skill, for it is just that—a skill
open to those who yearn for it.

133
 When the leader has done a modest chunk of warmup work, she.he cues the other
to take over the role of leader, and so Gifts proceeds, the roles changing from one to
the other. It is vital that one of you does not dominate by hogging the role of leader.
There are two negatives that should be respected. If any of you, in the role of fol-
lower is given a motion or sequence that you sense is beyond your capacity, that in
fact might be dangerous for you, do not do it, and signal your reluctance to execute
the move. The leader must respect this and go on to something else. The second
negative says that the leader cannot do any move that loses eye contact with the
follower for more than a moment. Any prolonged motions of turning away or
bending far down or far back are oxymorons—a total contradiction to the whole
point of Gifts. If the leader cannot see the follower, neither can the follower see
the leader to follow. Facing the follower can be just as disconcerting if the leader
continuously casts his.her gaze to the ground, elsewhere or subtly, internally. Losing
eye contact loses contact and the information needed to know what is happening
with the other—the sacred other person. The leader’s paramount responsibility is
to be constantly aware of every change, even the facial expression of the follower,
to know how to proceed.
The rules of a good and a safe warmup are well known but worth repeating now:
Early stretches are wakeup stretches and not for limberness.
Go from slow to fast.
Go from simple to complex.
Feet, legs, pelvis, torso, neck, arms, hands all need attention.
Grandes pliés, deep knee bends—whatever, should be controlled, slow, limited in
number and not introduced too early.
Introduce elevation late in the sequence.
Introduce little jumps before big ones.
Cool down should be followed by stretches for limberness.
Decide who will be the leader and start when you hear music. Use the music as you
use the space you have for working. Find your freedom within your respect for the
configuration of the space and for the contours of the music. Be sure to continue
if there are breaks in the music or if you hear me call out suggestions. If the leader
chooses to cover space, travel abreast, not “follow the leader,” thus keeping eye
contact alive all the time.
Go!

134 The Workbook

 I find it necessary to monitor this exercise closely. Every group has its own predi-
lections, strengths and weaknesses. Sometimes I note a plethora of waving arms and
have to call out, “Consider some big body motions.” Or I suggest, “Think of getting to
demi-pliés.” I sense when they are ready to move ahead and call out, “If you haven’t
done big leg motions, now’s the time,” or “Time for little jumps,” or “Time to travel,
to cover space,” and then “Whenever you are ready, cool down and stretch.” (I never
speak out when dancers are improvising unless the structure requires calling out the
time for the next stage. The less aware the dancers are of the teacher while moving, the
better.) All through Gifts, I stay en gardee for injudicious choices such as violent jounc-
ing of hams on heels, ballistic leg swings, jumps too early in the warmup, and so on,
and will immediately enter the work space to talk quietly to the dancers concerned. If
it is apparent that one of the leaders is losing focus on her.his partner, it will help to
move close enough to give the quiet suggestion that eye contact should be maintained.
Sometimes, I end it by saying:
Whenever you are ready, cool down, stretch down and then take a moment to
discuss with your partner what happened. What worked for you? Where did your
partner really locate your need? Where was a need ignored?
When time is tight, I say:
When you are both warmed up, ready to dance, let go of the leader-follower rela-
tionship and keep moving easily to the music on your own motivation as you both
turn to face front. We are ready to move on when all are facing front.
I find that Gifts is easily the best initial exercise for either a group totally innocent
of improvisation or a company that has been doing it for years. First, it is rare at the
beginning of a session that all the dancers are safely warmed up and ready to dance.
It does need dancey music, such as Renaissance dances, Bach’s Well Tempered Clavier
(book 1), Brazilian carnival music, Flamenco singers with guitar, Louis Armstrong;
choose your own, sensing who and where your dancers are. The wonder of Gifts is that
it is perhaps the fastest and the safest warmup I’ve ever encountered. I’ve been initiating
workshops in this manner since 1974 and have never witnessed a serious injury.
A more subtle value is implemented because in this very first exercise, the central
focus is the other, the sacred other person. Reaching into the needs of the body before
them, each dancer who is leading is learning to pay attention to the other and possibly
to forget the self. It is an ideal introduction to what may become not only a new way
of performing but a liberating one.
This is a good place to mention an apparently minor point that is not minor. All
students participating in improvisation should wear knee pads. In my classes, those
without knee pads may watch but not dance. Without such protection, students may
unconsciously avoid a whole range of excitements and virtuosities.

1355 Exercises: Level 1

Medicine Make circles of six to eight. In days long before the frisbee, it was the custom on
Ball beaches everywhere to stand in a circle like this and pass around a large, leather
ball made heavy with stuffed rags. The game would start easily and slowly and, as
it speeded up, part of the fun was to throw the ball in unexpected directions.
We are going to “throw” sound-motions. One person starts by “throwing” a short,
impulsive sound and motion in the direction of any one in the circle. This direction
must be unequivocally clear to the intended receiver. The receiver, without pause
to reflect or evaluate, immediately repeats what was “thrown” back to the sender
and then, without any hesitation or pause, “throws” his.her own impulsive sound
and motion to another in the circle. That person repeats the ritual of reflecting
what was given to the giver and sending immediately out a personal sound motion
to a new person. In the act of reflecting, the goal is to truly mirror the sender, not
diminishing what was given or augmenting it in volume or gesture. Never move
closer to the receiver than half the distance between you. If you were correctly
mirrored, you would be knocked down. This receiving and giving continues until
you hear, “OK, Let it wind down.”
You should perform the two acts of reflecting and sending as one without any
pause to reflect, to be “creative” or to reconsider any gesture or sound. The faster
the exchanges go the better. Start slowly to get the flow and sequence of the actions,
and as you get more certain, build speed until you are all going as fast as you can.
One person in each circle volunteer to start. Wait for the “Go!”
Medicine Ball is much more difficult to do well than it must appear in these pages.
Initially, few find the flow easily. The ritual of returning to one and then giving to
another without pause is very confusing and even unsettling to some. The ideal is an
uncritical and immediate acceptance of what was given and an impulsive, unplanned
and uncontrolled release of a sound-motion, both rendered as a seamless whole. It is
necessary for the director or teacher to catch the cautious evasions as they crop up and
also to pick out mannered and controlled sound-motions. Few are aware of the lack
of spontaneity or the hesitations, even hairline hesitations, that slip in between receiv-
ing and reflecting or between reflecting and sending. I have to demonstrate what they
do for them to recognize the flaws. I also call out cues to speed up. If there is a large
number of dancers and they really get into it, the din will be such that it will be a trick
to be heard.

Outrageous Form yourselves into parallel lines of six to eight, one in front of the other at one
Travel end of the studio and facing the opposite end. The first person (First Person) in
line crosses the space doing the most outrageous sound-motion travel possible.
The others in that line observe First Person. Then the next person in line crosses
the space, “becoming” the First Person. This means not only duplicating what was

1366 The Workbook

 visible—the appearance and motions of First Person—but finding the impulse
behind the motions and the sounds. Then, one at a time, everyone in that line
does the same. If what was originally done appears to be beyond your technical
ability or strength to the degree that it might be physically dangerous for you,
don’t even try. Otherwise, throw yourself into it. Above all, do not attempt to be
more outrageous, sillier or funnier than First Person; just slip into her.his skin
and become her.him.
First Person observes all, seeking the one who comes closest to what was originally
done. When the last person has crossed the space, First Person awards an accolade
to the best one. The accolade is a gentle double tap on the top of the head, and this
person becomes the new First Person, who now performs the most outrageous
possible sound-motion travel with the others one by one attempting to “become”
what they observe. If no one has come really close to what was done, First Person
puts hands on hips and says, “Tough,” gives no one the accolade and makes, in the
opposite direction, a new outrageous sound-motion travel for the others to study
and slip into.
The game continues for as long as the director chooses. In setting up Outrageous
Travel, I start with one line doing it and the others observing. Wanting full energy from
the dancers, I pick a First Person who from previous observation appears to be lively
and uninhibited.
Sound-motion exercises are used by many directors and teachers to get actors to
explore movement. Most actors not only have a skill and freedom vocally—they like to
sound off. Moving about terrifies and confuses many of them. Coupling motion with
sound peels away their inhibitions. The effect on dancers is a mirror image of what hap-
pens with the actors. For them, injecting sound into motion is disorderly, and by that
token it suddenly becomes possible to indulge in messy, even wild motions—nothing
like the neat, controlled actions which are the spine of their training and their ideal.
Sound-motion for dancers is like being on a holiday, or being a bit bad. They break
down the narrow inhibiting walls of what is permissible. It is not wrong for a dancer
to pour out neat, controlled actions in an improvisation, just so long as the moment
cries out for neat, controlled motions. To really improvise, the dancer stands ready to
do anything in any style.

Goldfish When I first began to explore improvisation, I felt the need to deal with the mountain
Bowl of excess baggage dancers always seemed to bring into the studio. They came loaded
with their self-defenses, their vanities, their expectations, their desire to please, their
hostilities and what not, and still do. I needed something to help them shed the clutter
of what they dragged in and to bring them quickly into flesh contact with the moment

1377 Exercises: Level 1

 at hand. I wanted what was present to be paramount in their minds. I hit upon the
following sequence:
Sit in circles of six to eight. Close your eyes and clean out your head with your
breath. In a while, I will say, “OK, go,” and you will open your eyes, rise and whenever
you are ready, walk to the center of your circle. The moment your body comes in
contact with another body, close your eyes and you will become a goldfish in a very
small bowl. You love to slither and slide among your fellows and, above all, you like
finding yourself in the middle of all the others; but, because you are gentle by nature,
you would never force your way in. You only hope and wait for the opportunity to
slip-slide into the center of all the others. Slithering and sliding is easier with the
arms extended over head but that can get tiring.

Blind After Goldfish Bowl has progressed for a while, I will say:
Journey† Go on a Blind Journey of curiosity. Leaving your goldfish bowl, pause, taking a mo-
ment to decide what it is in this space among the people and the objects that you
would never really experience with your eyes open. When you know what that is,
embark on this Blind Journey of curiosity. Of course, move cautiously. A swift or
violent move could injure you or another. After a while, I will say, “Return to your
goldfish bowl.” With your eyes still closed, you will attempt to locate the others
with whom you shared a small space and resume what you love to do, slithering
and sliding deep in the midst of the others. Is it important that you return to your
original bowl? You decide that.
After a time at this, you will hear me say, “Go find a private place.” When you get
there, sit, and with your eyes still closed, let your mind rove over what you just
experienced.
At this juncture, most groups will be in a wide-open state and receptive to the next
step, The Rhythm Series (chapter 9, level 2).
The reader has probably noticed that the dancers are being asked to keep their eyes
closed throughout this sequence. Most dancers find it strangely liberating; a few have
difficulty with it. Those who wear contact lenses may experience a burning of the eyes.
I tell them that they should open and shut their eyes a couple of times whenever there
is an irritation. Some others just don’t like dancing blind. I don’t probe into their why.
I tell them to open their eyes whenever they want, for as long as they want. I also tell
them that when the eyes are open, the enormous flood of information and sensations
coming through their eyes are distractions and dilutions of the work at hand.
With our eyes open, we are en garde, more deliberate and more aware of how we
appear to other people, even if theirr eyes are closed. Ridiculous, but if we can’t see, we

138 The Workbook

 tend to lose consciousness of being seen. Eyes open tends to be inhibiting. Eyes closed, we
enter a space where the odd, the unexpected and the hidden that live inside us have the
courage to venture forth. Most of us become less self-conscious and freer—creatively. A
wider range of possibilities and images becomes accessible. “Eyes closed” and “working
blind” will be used often throughout.
Moving about with eyes closed intensifies all the neglected senses and kicks off a
sense of danger and adventure. The usual protective self-focus is diluted by the sheer
necessity of finding others and touching the environment. Bodies bumping, as in
Goldfish Bowl, set up an intimacy and sense of community with the other dancers
without the watchful mentality that haunts most human relations. Usually, the first time
a group does Goldfish Bowl, at least one person will introduce an aggressive or rough
energy that confuses and disturbs the others. Almost always, when the dancers return
to the Goldfish Bowl, they are gentler and more sensitive to each other, having learned
tentativeness in the Blind Journey. I’m sure there are occasional faint erotic flurries
which are, in the context of the exercise, just that and nothing more—just part of the
tapestry of life. The Blind Journey raises the awareness of every motion and passage
through space to heightened level. Taking nothing for granted is not only a ground rule
for a Blind Journey but for art. Not seeing, all the sensitivities are honed.

*Solo Dancer Arrange all the dancers (any number is fine) in a circle. The first few times around pick
a dancer who improvises freely and with variety. (Later, you might choose a dancer for
whom this would be a challenge; or ask for a volunteer.) Instruct him.her to let it fly
when you give the “Go!” Impulses can come from within, from what the other dancers
are doing or from the impulse to affect what the circle is doing. Stop whenever you feel
the improvisation has had its full measure. To the circle:
Whatever the dancer is doing will provoke sounds from you—any sounds—sing-
ing, shouting, clapping, stamping, anything but words. All your sounds will live
off the dancer: about, to, for or against him.her, supporting, teasing, frustrating or
at times harmonizing with him.her.

*Solo Singer This is the mirror image of Solo Dancer. Pick anyone you know to have vocal freedom
and audacity. Instruct him.her to let go with a river of sound when you give the “Go!”
Impulses can come from within, from the motions of the dancers or from the impulse
to affect what the circle is doing. Stop whenever. To the circle:
Whatever the singer is doing will provoke motion from you. All your moves will
live off the singer: about, to, for or against her.him, supporting, teasing, frustrating
or even at times harmonizing with her.him.

139 Exercises: Level 1

*The Put a folding chair into the middle of the space. Pick a dancer for whom appearance
Obstacle† and charm are the ne plus ultra of dance, and of life. Tell him.her that you would like
very much to see whether he.she can pass under the chair—without moving it. Or
devise any task that will be so demanding that the dancer will for once think only of
doingg without appearing to be doing.

*Passing This works best for a group of six to fifteen people.

Through Form a big circle. When I tap any one of you on the shoulder, go to the center of
a Physical the circle and on the impulse of the moment take any position—standing, sitting
Object† or lying down. The next person in the circle does the same, only some part of her.
his body must touch the first person’s body. Person after person, going around the
circle, adds his.her body to the structure of bodies until one person is left. This one
positions her.himself at the point where the diameter of the group is the greatest
and must now walk, wend, crawl, wriggle her.his way through—never around—the
group without disturbing or forcing anyone to change her.his position. Coming out on
the other side, she.he taps a dancer who rises, permitting the first person to take his.
her place, and now this second person takes on the same task of passing through the
widest part of the conglomerate of bodies without disturbing or changing anyone’s
position. If any of you is tapped and has already made the “journey,” convey that
fact by not responding, which tells the person to try another.
After everyone has traversed the structure, I will call out: “Find a private area for
yourself.” Now alone, do what you did working your way through the others. Do
exactly what you did with only the memoryy of the other bodies to guide you. Do it
once alone, then find a partner and do it for her.him to critique, and then observe
your partner critically, thus both helping each other learn to make the imaginary
tangible.
An alternative is for the leader/teacher to assemble the entire group and call out
the dancers, one by one, to do the imaginary traversal through the group and then
giving or calling for a critique of the sense memory displayed. Many elements went
into making this exercise. It opens up the possibility of body contact, without which
improvisation is impoverished. It relates to the challenge of The Obstacle, a task that
is so demanding that self-preoccupation and self-decorativeness are improbable. It is
an ideal sense-memory exercise for dancers because it uses the whole body. The usual
actors’ exercises, like sewing on a button or putting on a garment, place the strongest
emphasis on the hands—which are physically the smartest part of the body. Though
sense-memory exercises are a staple of the actor’s training and a skill, no dancer can
afford to neglect them. It means what it says: having a vivid, sensual memory of actions

140 The Workbook

 with a real object and the ability to re-create those actions without the object. In the ex-
ercise, or in performance, the real object is imagined—remembered, sensed—whatever,
just so long as the motion of the performer is determined by truth of the remembering.
It is the essence of the theatre—pretending what is not is.

*Slalom† This is a more athletic version of Passing Through a Physical Object and is exactly what
it sounds like:
Everyone picks an observer-partner. All the observers stand aside to observe. The
others, one by one, form a single line, all spaced one to two yards apart. This line
can be arrow straight or chaotically crooked, it matters not. When the last person
is in place, I will shout “Go!,” and this last person will run full tilt, slalom style, to
the other end of the line, letting out a shout upon arriving. This is the signal for
the next person to do the same. When the last person has performed the run, all
gather around the point where the line started. One by one, run from where you
started, duplicating the slalom run as if all those dancers were still standing there.
When the running group has done this, find your observer-partner and learn how
vividly and accurately you repeated your run. The critique concluded, the second
group repeats the ritual. Finally, repeat the entire sequence a second time, the run-
ning and the critiques.
As Picasso was so found of iterating, “Art is a lie.” There is so little onstage that is
real, that without a rich and continuous infusion of imagination, the whole edifice of
credibility collapses. Passing Through a Physical Object and Slalom, two highly physi-
cal sense-memory exercises, are essentially exercises in imagination. The muscles of
imagination always need exercising.

*The Form groups of three deciding which of you is A, which is B and C. On my “Go!”, A
Conductor becomes the conductor and starts an impulse rhythmic action, in place or travelling.
The action of B and C is to live off whatever A is doing. Your impulses in moving
are for, against or to A. Doing the same motion as the conductor is only one of ten
thousand possibilities. You never lose sight of the conductor. The conductor never
loses sight of the orchestra.
After a time, I will call out, “Change!” and B becomes the conductor with A and C
the orchestra; a bit later, I will call out “Change!” and C will become the conduc-
tor. Finally, you will hear, “All!” and then all dance for, to and about the other two.
There will come a moment when you will all know you have done it and you will
bring it to a close.

141 Exercises: Level 1

 This was originally an exercise of the Open Theatre and I suspect that the name,
The Conductor, is not really helpful because it implies following, harmonizing, and
even copying the actions and dynamic of the conductor. I prefer that the options be
wider, also allowing for competitiveness, mockery, and even hostility—as long as it is
about what the conductor is doing and what the dancer is feeling at that moment. Call
it The Spark Plug?
At the American Dance Festival, during a class in Acting Technique for Dance
Performance, on an impulse, sometime after I had called out “All,” I shouted, “All! All
in the entire room!” The room swelled with energy and interactions that went on for
at least an hour or more. Groups of three, four, five, and solo figures, filled the space,
oblivious to time and my presence. Was it the moment or was it something that is
inherent in The Conductor? Try it.

*The If the leader/teacher wants to diminish the degree of his.her control over the group,
Schizoid this version of Goldfish Bowl would help. It incorporates Blind Journey and the return
Little Fishes to the bowl without direction. To a group that is seated, eyes closed, waiting for the
description of a new exercise:
of the
Bering Sea When I say, “Go!”, rise to your feet, your eyes still closed, and become a little blind,
schizoid fish in the Bering Sea. You are conflicted because there is nothing you like
so much as to be swimming deep within the pack of your fellow fishes. It fulfills a
profound instinct that incidentally protects you from the big voracious squid who
thinks the pack of you is a giant dangerous fish. You also have a contradictory need
to swim about freely and unencumbered by the presence of others, and when you
feel crowded or hungry, you venture forth to freedom and food. But, after a while,
your tiny presence alone in the wide sea is frightening, and you seek the others to
find security and ease. But then, the crowding pressures you to swim out alone and
free of the others. Go where your instinct propels you!
The eyes remain closed throughout. The beauty of this setup is that it gives the
dancers the freedom to clump with the others or to venture out alone without direction.
This too can lead directly into The Rhythm Series (see chapter 9). The leader/teacher
picks the moment to call out, “Find a private place, sit with your eyes closed, and let
your mind rove over what just happened. Is there anything that you should remember?”
When all are in place, The Rhythm Series (chapter 9) can be introduced.

142 The Workbook

*Leave On the signal, “OK,” leave the studio, go outside and find a quiet spot. Clear your
Yourself mind and resolve to leave yourself outside. When you have done that, return and
Outside† we will go to work. “OK” (chapter 5).

*Ambient Sit erect and listen. Take whatever you hear and become that sound; let that sound
Sound† take over your entire body.

143 Exercises: Level 1

 9 Exercises
Level 2

Justification† Here are three ways of approaching this. One poses a problem for the entire group;
the other two are individual assignments. As a group problem: have the group learn a
moderately extended technical passage with a couple of physical challenges embedded
in it. When the dancers have mastered it, ask them to perform the dance phrase fully
with each of the following images in turn:
You just won a big lottery prize. Celebrate, using the dance phrase you just
learned.
You are auditioning for the choreographer you dream of working with.
You are a leaf in a quiet wind.
You are a piece of seaweed on the ocean bottom, torn from your roots.
You are offering all of what you are to one whom you love.
Your body is a steel weapon and you are sharpening it for tomorrow’s battle.
The possible list is endless, just as the ways to bring this or any technical phrase to
life are endless. Make your own images. As an individual assignment:
Here is a technical phrase. Find your own reason for doing it that will reveal the
full beauty of its particular movements. Be prepared to demonstrate what you have
done for the group.
The group and then the leader/teacher critique the performances—and these are
to be considered as performances, not merely technical executions. Another individual
assignment:
In your technique classes, whenever you are in complete technical command of
any sequence, justify what you are dancing, fill it out with a precise and specific
image and intent.

144
Breath This exercise and the next two—Pulse Rhythm and Inner Rhythm—comprise The
Rhythm† Rhythm Series. The three flow directly out of the early work in chapter 8: starting with
Goldfish Bowl, going to Blind Journey, back to Goldfish Bowl, to find a private place
and the readiness to embark on The Rhythm Series. To lay the ground for fuller energy,
start each of The Rhythm Series exercises from a standing position rather than sitting
or lying down.
When you find your private place, remain standing with your eyes still closed. When
everyone has found her.his private place, listen to the next sequence:
With your eyes still closed clear out your head with your breath. I am going to ask
you to observe something that is delicate and easily altered. Odds are, the act of
observing it will change it. Make an effort to observe without changing.
Observe your breath. Note its duration, rhythm, depth, texture, intensity. Note
everything about your breath. When you are convinced that you have it, become
your breath. Let your breath take full possession of your body. Let your body be-
come the metaphor for your breath. Neither think nor imagine what your body
will look like as you do this. Only do it. Become your breath. If what you become
needs to cover space, open your eyes. Otherwise, all through this work keep your
eyes closed.
There is no way to indicate precisely how long any particular exercise should go.
My principles are: I give the dancers all the time they need to get into the problem, all
the time they need to get fully wet with it and time enough so that something happens.
What is “something”? “Something” is a change, no matter how subtle. A change should
be enough of a cue to move on. Whenever possible, I respect the timing of the “slowest”
person in the group. A few times I am pushed beyond my limit by the rare ones who
seem to have dialed eternity. All these principles are shattered by workshops and classes
hemmed in by unreal tight schedules. When I sense that the group has “done” Breath
Rhythm, I will say,
“Continue what you are doing. Without losing any part of your rhythm, neither its
intensity nor its intent, continuously narrow the range of your movement. Every
move will be smaller than the previous movement. A time may come when you
will appear to be still—but you will know that you are still moving.”

Pulse When the group comes to an apparent halt, I continue:

Rhythm† Now observe another rhythm in your body. This one is harder to detect. Sometimes
when you are very quiet, you can actually become aware of your pulse at the base
of your neck, or the tip of your nose, or your fingers. Try to sense that. If it doesn’t
work, try the usual technique of pressing the finger tips to the artery above the big

1455 Exercises: Level 2

 bone in your wrist. Study your pulse: its tempo, rhythm, force, texture, intensity,
intent. When you think you have it, study it a bit more because unlike Breath
Rhythm, once you begin to move, you will not be able to keep observing your
pulse. You will have to keep it alive in your memory. As with the Breath Rhythm,
become your Pulse Rhythm. Let it take possession of your body. Let your body
become a metaphor for your pulse.
When the dancers have “done” Pulse Rhythm, sometimes, rather than suggesting
diminishing the range of movements, I will simply say,
Taking all the time you need, let your Pulse Rhythm wind down.

Inner When there is stillness, I continue:

Rhythm† You contain still another rhythm. Go into the space within you and in that silence,
feel, sense, hear what you can. You may find a rhythm. You may sense the rhythm
that drives you, that governs your eating, walking, talking, your doing. Your internal
motor has similarities with what it was when you were ten and it is in someway
different than it was ten minutes ago. Seek out your Inner Rhythm. If you don’t find
it, do not make one up. You will find a value in listening to the silence. Sometimes,
just shifting your position may help you feel it.
When you find the Inner Rhythm, study it. When you feel saturated with what you
have found, let it take possession of your body. Let your body become that rhythm.
If it is complex, fine. Do it. If it is simple. Fine. Do it. If it isn’t interesting. Fine. Do
it, without trying to make it “interesting.”
But what if it is too much, frightening or dangerous; a rhythm so violent, you
might hurt yourself attempting to realize it? Here, you have no choice. You can-
not walk away from it. If you can’t deal with all of it, deal with a part of it. Do its
echo. Do its reverberation. Do what it feels like to observe it from the distance
but don’t walk away from it. Make nothing up. Only deal with what you find and
with what you can.
In the matter of finding the Inner Rhythm, the point is to go beyond the surface.
Be suspicious of what comes easily. It may be on the mark, but check it out, test it. Try
the following with any group of dancers.
With your eyes closed, raise your arms. On my “Go,” let your arms slip into a repeti-
tive rhythmic pattern. “Go.” (After a bit.) Continue what you’re doing, open your
eyes and look at the others. Call it an Impulse Rhythm.
You can get that from yourself or anyone at any time. You can say to a group of
children, “Make up a rhythm,” and everybody will do something. It is not without
value. It has been used to good advantage in The Conductor (chapter 8). An Impulse

1466 The Workbook

 Rhythm is easy—too easy to be of use in any venture to touch the core of your concerns.
An Inner Rhythm is further down the hallway. It’s not the first thing you encounter.
You may have to go into the basement, the attic or just get out of the house. It’s not
on the surface. Look at water. It glints, it reflects and it’s lively. Chances are that what
you’re looking for is underwater. At the bottom? How deep is the bottom? You wont
know unless you dive down. Whether it’s found in the deep or in the shallow and
whether it’s found quickly or after a long search, you arrive at a point when you say,
“This is it.”
I’ve said that your inner rhythm is not on the surface, but in fact it may be. Our
shelves are crowded with what’s on the surface in terms of movement, answers, rhythms
and solutions. And surprise! Sometimes what’s on the surface is precisely what is needed.
But unless you go to the bottom, you won’t know what’s there, and you will not have
earned the right to choose what was there floating in front of you on the surface. Whether
you are searching for the specific image or the internal rhythm, you will never know for
sure what “it” is. All you have to depend upon is the intensity of your search and your
sense of rightness.

Dedicate I have used this exercise while the dancers are deep into Inner Rhythm. It jolts the
Your dancers out of the premise that movement is motion is movement and nothing else. It
Motion† is a deceptively simple ploy. I will call out:
Dedicate your motion to someone who is not present.
In the summation after the first time I throw out Dedicate Your Motion, I add the
following:
This can be a private exercise to be performed in your own time at your own
discretion. Dedicate a whole class to someone who is not there. Or, as deliberately
as you can, try to get someone’s attention in class. Why? Just so that you might
recognize that is what you may have been doing. Perhaps you’re doing it all the
time. What does it do to the texture and the tone of your body? In rehearsal, you
might try to find the “audience” that will bring out the best way for you to do your
role. In some of these attempts, you might be quite obnoxious and in others you
may discover a most lovely way of dancing. As much as possible, do this exercise
in rehearsal or in class. If in rehearsal, the choreographer calls out, “And just what
are you doing?” you know you have made an inappropriate dedication. A stage
performance could be wrecked unless such a focus had been carefully thought
out, chosen and rehearsed.
You can dedicate your motion at any time: in class, in rehearsal, in performance, in
creating a dance. Rather than “someone,” it can be “to an animal of which you are
in awe,” or to a “place of great beauty.” Infinite variations are possible.

1477 Exercises: Level 2

Go Visiting After five to ten minutes of Inner Rhythm (the timing is a function of taste, style and
a sensitivity to the moment), I say:
Continue what you are doing as I speak to you. When you hear me say, “OK,
go,” without losing one bit of your Inner Rhythm, go traveling, Go Visiting, and
see what the others are doing. You must not lose one bit of your identity—the
rhythm that is carrying you along—as you move among the others observing
them. OK, go!
After the dancers seem to have had a good tour of each other, I add:
Continue what you are doing and now have a question in the forefront of your
mind. Who in this group interests you, positively or negatively? Either will do. Enter
into the working area of that person and deepen your observation. After awhile,
you will become aware of one of several impulses. You may want to be influenced
by that person or oppositely want to change him.her in a specific way or just want
to be in their area as you do your rhythm. Accept the possibility that the person
who interests you may be focused on another. That should not alter your purpose.
If and when you succeed in absorbing what you wanted to take away or in altering
the other, or had your enjoyment, you can leave the floor. If you fail, (you are left
alone), recognize that in movement and then leave the floor.
In all of this work, some people have difficulty finding an inner rhythm and, as a conse-
quence, might feel ashamed because they seem to lack an essential talent or will become
defensively hostile to the whole “stupid” idea. Almost always, these unhappy ones come
out of the second or third session with shining faces, “I found it!”
Most groups being given Inner Rhythm for the first time approach it with uncer-
tainty, and a few, with apprehension. Of late, when I sense a self-protective tension
in the room, I have adopted a devious ploy. Instead of asking them to find their own
rhythm, I take a side road:
Is there someone with whom you are now dealing who rouses conflicting feelings in
you? Is there a person who has qualities you admire, while at the same time he.she
ticks you off in an unpleasant way. You admire andd dislike this person. If there is
such a one let’s call him.her X. Now see X in your mind’s eye. Take a good look
from the distance. Then come as close as you dare and study X carefully. Walk all
around X, observing thoroughly. Now, look deep into X, sense what it going on
inside and try to feel the rhythm in his.her body. Can you hear X’s inner motor?
What is the rhythm that dominates his.her walking, talking, eating?
When you find X’s inner rhythm, study it. When you feel saturated with what you
have found, let it take possession of your body. Let your body become that rhythm.
If it is complex, fine. Do it. If it is simple. Fine. Do it. If it isn’t interesting. Fine.
Do it, without trying to make it “interesting,” without exaggerating and without
getting judgmental. Just do the rhythm you found in X.

148 The Workbook

 Amazing. This exercise almost invariably gets quick and strong involvement from
all, not infrequently tinged with caricature. The movement pours out freely. There
doesn’t seem to be any question that another person has a rhythm that dominates his.
her every move. Having done this, it becomes a much easier leap to “do yourself.”

True The complete Rhythm Series is given only once. It has but one aim: to set the stage for
Repetition† Inner Rhythm, an exercise and process that functions as a meditation—a movement
meditation, a way of getting into the body, getting it going, cutting loose from the mess
of the outside, relaxing the militant control of the mind and, best of all, connecting with
where you are at the moment. When Inner Rhythm is incorporated into the improvi-
sation sessions, its form is more precisely defined in either of two forms of repetition,
True Repetition and Evolving Repetition.
Go to the perimeter of the room. There is a place in this space that belongs to
you. On the word “Go,” roam the room until you find that spot. When you find it,
stand on it, clean out your head with your breath and listen for, sense, find your
inner rhythm. If and when you find it, let it take possession of your body. Take all
the time you need. It may appear bit by bit, like a chick cutting its way out of an
eggshell. When you know it is complete, that it is being fully stated by your body,
commit yourself to doing that phrase from that point on and that phrase only
with no changes for a hunk of time—plus or minus ten minutes. Change only if
you sense continuing will cause you physical harm or experience a fatigue that is
threatening. Otherwise, no changes—at all.

Evolving Start off exactly like True Repetition. When the rhythm finally emerges fully in
Repetition† the body, the intent is to do the rhythm as found. If a change happens, allow
w it to
happen. If no change happens, no change is forced on the phrase. It is allowed to
continue as it was. Radical or abrupt changes would be suspect because they would
not be rooted in the rhythm that was originally found.
True Repetition acts like a movement meditation and draws dancers into an open,
receptive and relaxed state. It is ideal for starting work sessions. Evolving Repetition is
a more “athletic” and adventurous structure and certainly more interesting to watch.
The Workgroup often opened programs with an Evolving Repetition. Whenever the
dancers do not need the Gifts because they are warmed up and ready to dance, I have set
up a ritual in which, as they enter the studio, they go in their own time into the space,
clear their heads, find their own inner rhythm and slip directly into either a True or an
Evolving Repetition for at least ten minutes.

149 Exercises: Level 2

Spinning† Another classic and ancient way of clearing the mind for work is Spinning. Members of
a sect of Muslim Sufis use whirling as a way of achieving an ecstatic trance. For danc-
ers, it acts like an emotional and intellectual centrifuge, throwing off distractions and
leaving a clean center from which to begin the work of improvising. It can be used to
precede Inner Rhythm:
Spin in place, at any tempo, for as long as you can. Pause, and then spin in the
opposite direction for as long as you can. Then, in the stillness, find your internal
rhythm. Those of you who know the secret of spinning interminably without get-
ting dizzy may be interrupted by my asking you to bring it to a close.

The This, and the three exercises that follow, should be introduced singly, but later they work
Mind-Wash† best flowing one into the other. (See The Duet as a Structure in chapter 10).
Start seated, cross-legged and facing a partner with your knees two or three inches
apart. Close your eyes and clean out your head. Whenever you are ready, open your
eyes to look at the tip of your nose. Unlike the classic yogis who spent a lifetime
doing that only, whenever you’ve had enough of looking at the tip of your nose,
let your gaze drop to high on your chest and gradually allow your eyes to travel
down your body, across the floor, across the ankles, across the floor between you
and your partner, across your partner’s ankles, another bit of floor, and then travel
up the body of your partner, across the face, over her.his head, to the wall beyond,
the eyes climbing in a path as wide as your eyes, up the wall until they find the
ceiling. Then traveling across the ceiling and finally as far back and behind as you
can, without falling over backward. Take as much or as little time as you need for
this visual journey.
Any number of dancers have told me that The Mind-Wash has served them as a
meditation technique. I have used it myself innumerable times when my head was too
turbulent to move on to the next step.

Not Naming† You can add a Taoist touch to The Mind-Wash. Not Naming is a lovely challenge which
some dancers find quite helpful:
In the course of the eye-journey, as your gaze travels down and up, devote your
mind to seeing without naming what you see.
Most find this difficult, but some are able to achieve it intermittently and find it a
transporting experience. To make it work, when setting this exercise, instead of saying,
“Your eyes go down to your chest, then to the floor, across to your partner’s body, . . . “
I simply pantomime with the tips of the fingers where the eyes should focus, from the
tip of the nose to the upper part of the chest, and so on, thus indicating the eye journey
without naming anything.

150 The Workbook

The Other When the Mind-Wash is complete, return to look upon the face of your partner,
and when your partner meets your gaze begin The Other. Its title defines it. You
are looking at this other to see what you can see. This is a rare moment when your
bare face is exposed to another whose face is there before you. What is there to see
other than eyes, lips, hair, etc.? If you have the patience and the desire, you will
begin to see things you never noticed, no matter how long you have known this
other. Why do we go into this? Shortly you will be dancing with, to, for and about
this other. More knowing of the other allows for more sensitivity.

A Duet Some of my first explorations into improvisation took place in 1969 at the University
of Texas in Austin. During a lull in the second week of the workshop, I asked whether
anyone had a form along the lines of the work we were doing. My best dancer spoke
up: “Back home in Connecticut, I have a big basement in which my friend and I would
practice whenever we could, and one of the things we loved to do best was to put on
a piece of music we both liked and then we danced looking at each other. It was as if I
was dancing about her and she was dancing about me. I don’t mean ‘about’ as ‘around.’
I mean that she and what she was doing was the subject of my dance and vice-versa.
We could do this all afternoon.”
It sounded good—if not sensational. I said, “Fine,” and asked her to explain once
again to everyone what they were to do. People paired off and I put on my then favor-
ite piece of music for an extended improvisation, Stravinsky’s Sacre du Printemps. It
turned out quite well. Not only did the energy flow right through its entire length, but
the actors and the dancers appeared to lose self-consciousness with a full absorption
in each other. They were playful, teasing and serious in turn. This was a useful form. It
involved everyone, built up a good dance heat, and, best of all, it asked for and seemed
to get exactly the frame of mind I was seeking: a loss of focus upon self, replaced by
focus on the task at hand and/or the other—the other person.
Everyone pair off. (If there is an odd number, there can be either a trio or one person
can drop out to observe.) When the music starts, you dance looking at your partner
and dancing about your partner, about his.her motions, hair, clothing, personality
traits, eyes—anything that gets your attention. Synchronous movement is only one
of an infinite number of choices. Along the way, try to make something happen,
either to you or your partner or both. When it happens, leave the floor. If your
partner leaves first, dance a recognition of being left and then leave.
To create a flowing sequence, begin with The Mind-Wash, weaving into it the mind-
set of Not Naming. When the arc of The Mind-Wash is completed, contemplate your
partner, The Other. When you hear music, begin A Duet with your partner. Finish it as
before.

151 Exercises: Level 2

Who or The teacher/leader selects a piece of music:
What Is All sit and listen. When you can see who or what is alive in the music, rise and
Alive in the become what you saw in your mind.
Music?†

The Inner Choose a dance role you are working on now. Locate the specific who or what
Rhythm of that is at the heart of it. What is its rhythm? What is the internal motor that drives
the Role† it? When you can link up with it, let it take possession of your body and stay with
it until you are physically drenched by that rhythm. Rest for a moment and then
dance the role. If your choreographer permits it, try this during a rehearsal.
You might also try this with a dance role that has eluded you in the past. Did any
new doors open?

Seeing Any number of dancers sit in a circle. Rotate in any direction and at any speed
Through on your bottom. What you are really doing is observing the others in the circle
the Eyes of with a view to pinning down who it is that interests you the most, positively or
negatively. When you make this decision, learn all you can about this person while
Another†
you continue the circling. During all this observation, you never let anyone catch
your eye, particularly the one upon whom your full attention finally settles. Your
observation remains covert. When you think you have absorbed all you can from
this person, stop the rotation at any point, close your eyes and continue to observe
and absorb what you see of that person—in your mind. When all stop, I will give
the next direction.
(All have stopped rotating.) When I say, “Go,” open your eyes, rise and find another
place to sit in the circle, but not in the place of the person in your mind. (They do
so.) Now, close your eyes to mentally recapture that person. When you do, open
your eyes and look out at everyone through the eyes of that person. Again, begin
the rotation on your bottom and, through the eyes of that person, observe all the
others with a view to pinning down who is the person who that person would
find the most interesting, positively or negatively. When the person is found,
observe her.him closely and covertly. Repeat the rest of the sequence: ceasing to
rotate when the person is absorbed, closing the eyes to continue the study of that
person, rising when you hear “Go” to find a new place in the circle, sitting, closing
the eyes to recapture the person and then opening the eyes to look through the
eyes of this person.

152 The Workbook

 A brief summary of the above: (1) Find and observe the one who takes your inter-
est. (2) Go to another place and look at rest of room as she.he would do. (3) Pick out
someone else as she.he would do and take that person’s place.
When does one call a halt to this process? Two or three times should be sufficient to
underline the creative possibilities gained by “seeing through the eyes of another.” Hid-
den within this simple and subtle little game is the possibility of a giant moral-ethical
leap, but that is something for the reader to pursue in his.her own time—not here in
this book. (Note: An individual can perform this exercise in any assemblage of people
where a close scrutiny can be carried on unobtrusively—a subway car, a restaurant, a
dance class, and so on.)

*Walk Walk behind another, fall in step and become that one, accepting into your body
Behind the length of stride, the carriage of the head, any idiosyncratic, asymmetrical mo-
Another† tions, the hip motions and the energy. Do this without caricature or comment
and you will have the strangest sensation. You will no longer be feeling quite like
yourself. This is a form of physical observation which will make you more aware
of the infinite range of differences among humans.
Incidentally, there is a hazard in this. The followed may become aware of what you
are doing and resent it. If you keep your distance, the danger will be diminished.

*Take a Walk This is a safer but more complex way to fall into the walk of another. It is ideal for those
in Your Own times when a very large group shows up at a brief or one-time workshop.
World All sit and listen with your eyes closed. When you hear music, that will be the “Go.”
You will rise and go for a walk in your own world—whatever that phrase means
to you. That is stage one.
Stage two: When you hear me call out “stage two,” look out from the walking in
your own world to the others walking in their own world, observing as many as
you can. But be certain that you lose nothing of the quality and the action of your
walk in your own world.
“Stage three!” will be the signal to pick, among all the walkers you have observed,
the one who interests you the most for any reason, positive or negative. When you
have decided, carry your walk close to that person (but not in front), all the while
observing very closely. There is only one restriction: you cannot pick anyone who
picks you. One of you will have to give way and find someone else.

153 Exercises: Level 2

 “Stage four” will be the cue to “become” the walker you have been observing. This
will be tricky. That person’s walk and motions will change at the same time because
she.he is doing what you are doing, becoming another person. So your task will
be to remain close to the one who interests you, imitating what she.he was doing,
not what is being done. You will have to remember what you saw. By “becoming,”
I mean you take on for yourself, not only what you saw the person doing but what
you sense is the impulse that shaped her.his motions.
“Stage five.” Do what you see that person is doing now. This is easier and will lead to
small or large circles of people doing similar motions. If a pair is facing each other
and doing the same motion, they broke the ground rule by picking each other. If
there is a “follow the leader” line with one at the head imitating no one, that one
broke a rule by not picking an “interesting” person.
“Stage six.” Still observing your “interesting” person, do what it feels like to be that
person. This is not an imitation; this is not what it looks like to be that person but
what it feels like to be that person.
“Stage seven.” Gradually and slowly modulate your motions until you are back
walking in your own world.
This exercise is best done to a piece of music, at least twenty minutes in length, that
has a driving rhythmic pulse, a continuous flow and without strong dynamic changes.
Consider the minimalist composers Terry Riley, Steve Reich and Philip Glass.

*Your Since it is the whole person of the dancer that will be out there under the lights in front
Familiar† of all those people, some degree of self-awareness sooner or later, and better sooner,
becomes an integral part of the performer’s preparation. The next three exercises raise
to the surface—to consciousness—what should be known.
If working alone, choose several tracks of your favorite moving music. If working
with a group, find something infectious enough to move almost everyone. During
the first selection, have a good time, get loose and easy. Launched into the second
piece, be on the watch for a position that is all too familiar, and freeze. What is the
feeling of that position? What does it want to do or become? Stay with that position
for a long time, until it is impossible not to move, and then—go. The movement
that follows should take its impetus from what is felt and implied by that same
“familiar.” When that plays itself out, return to the “familiar” and again hold the
position for as long as you can, allowing all of its implications and all the feelings it
provokes fill you until you must move once again. Keep this up until the music runs
out or you run out of energy or, better still, until you have wrung that “familiar”
dry. That will be the time to leave the floor. In the rest time that follows, let your
mind run over what happened and what it means to you.

154 The Workbook

 A variation of Your Familiar starts the same way: you halt at encountering a “famil-
iar” and finally releasing the hold to continue improvising. But you stop when you
encounter another and different “familiar,” freezing there until that one boils over
into a further improvisation and so on. Question: was there a connection between the
different “familiars”?
In seeking the answers to these questions, there is no crying need that you be able
to verbalize them clearly. In our business, some things are known even though they are
never neatly wrapped up in words. Knowing without words and knowing with words
are equally valuable.

*Possessed Some dancers are haunted by criticisms of one or more of their mannerisms: a Baroque
by a arching of the hand, constantly gazing at the ground, a worried frown that accompanies
Mannerism† every technical difficulty, hyperextending the lower spine in turns—the list can be end-
less. Actually, most of us have one or more mannerisms that cling to us like barnacles.
They are irrelevant and attract attention precisely because they usually are not at all
pertinent to what we are doing. They are just there most of the time.
While seated, close your eyes. Clear your head with your breath. In the empty
space that ensues, ask the question, “What do I always do in dance, regardless of
the occasion? What is my mannerism? Do I have one?” If the answer is no, open
your eyes and leave the floor. If yes, see yourself performing the mannerism in
your mind’s eye. When it appears clearly and vividly, open your eyes, rise to do it
and, whenever you are ready, travel among the others to find one to whom you
will show this mannerism. If there are an odd number of you on the floor, the
last person can go to one of the dancers who has chosen to leave the floor or join
a pair to make a trio.
There will be four stages for this exercise.
Stage one: Each of you in turn, demonstrate to your partner the mannerism you
just visualized for yourself.
Stage two: Separate and find your own space where you will again “see” the man-
nerism and, as you do this, begin to sense its inner rhythm, the motor that drives it.
Once the rhythm is established, let it flood your body, let it move your body. Now,
with this base, improvise a dance about the mannerism. Do it fully and consciously;
do it in different ways, in parts of the body where it is never done; do it to show
it to the world like a flag; conceal it while still doing it; sense what the mannerism
is trying to say or do. Dance to, for, about and against your mannerism. The only
music for this exercise will be the inner rhythm you found.

1555 Exercises: Level 2

 Stage three: When you have done this improvisation, and you will know when you
are done, find your partner, and if necessary, wait until he.she is finished. Now,
taking turns, improvise for your partner the dance you did in private.
Stage four: When both have danced for each other, rest and talk to each other about
what you saw in the other and what you learned about your mannerism and, if it
is not too private, what you learned about yourself.
When you are next alone in a studio, do Possessed by a Mannerism again. In this
private space and time, you may be able to delve deeper into what is really going on,
where the mannerism came from and what it is really about. Habits need conscious
attention without undue pressure or tension. They are potentially fertile, for they signal
something that is important to you.

*An Event, During Inner Rhythm the teacher/leader can call out any one of the following:
a Recurrence, 1. “This is the very first time you are doing what you are doing.” (An Event)
a Ritual†
2. “What you are doing now, you have done before.” (A Recurrence)
3. “Every motion you make has been done by generations of others like you. All of
it is traditional and it must be done precisely as you learned it and as it always
has been done. It is a ritual performed for reasons known to you. Mistakes and
liberties are serious infractions of the rules you live by.” (A Ritual)
Individually, dancers can take this exercise into technique classes, either going
through an entire class with one of the three perspectives or shifting from one to an-
other during the course of a class. Every dance role will be enriched when this aspect
is clarified and identified. The Two Dances should be understood and analyzed in the
light of these distinctions.

*How Does In working on The Two Dances, knowing X, which is the appropriate tree metaphor?
Your Tree Is the trunk the source of the movement? Or does X lead with leaves and branches?
Dance?† Or is the whole tree dancing? Or, is there a moment when a succession is called for?
Choose a favorite technical sequence from any one of your classes. Practice it fully
in the four different ways. Then find a partner and each of you dance the four ways
for each other. Which way gave the dance sequence its fullest expression?

1566 The Workbook

 10 Exercises
Level 3

Each of the following exercises introduces important principles and ways of working
that pave the way for more complex exercises and performance pieces. The first two
are circles and its variant, Each Alone.

Circles† With your eyes closed, listen to the sequence of the next exercise. You will hear better
with your eyes closed. First, you will hear music. After a while, I will say, “Someone
or something is doing something.” I may choose any verb: flying, loving, hunting,
planting, destroying, shielding, ad infinitum. Picking an example at random, let
us say, “Someone or something is running to or from someone or something.”
The “someone or something” can come from any part of your mind: books you
have read, films, history, TV, friends, your own life. When you know who or what
that someone or something is, with your eyes still closed, stand. Be certain that
the someone or something is a specific. Is the runner a woman? a lion? a bird? a
raindrop running down a window pane? If it is a woman, what is the color of her
hair? Does she have a name? Do you know her? In other words you must find in
your mind a specific running man or woman or bird or lion or whatever, and never,
ever, the general idea of a man, a woman or a bird.
When every one is standing, we will go on to the next step. While you are standing,
waiting for the others, use your time to learn all you can about X. X is what we
will call the someone or something known only to you. Look at X from all sides,
from close up and far away. Does an odor come off X? The more specifics you
learn about X, the richer and more personal will be the movement that emerges
from this work.

157
 The images may range from the literal, like the time you broke your nasty neigh-
bor’s window and fled the scene, to the metaphoric, like the memory of a rain-
drop running down a window pane last week. You might recall the Greek myth
of Atalanta, the princess who would only marry the man who could beat her in a
foot race. If he lost, he also lost his head. A crafty suitor, Hippomenes, hid three
golden apples in his tunic, throwing them in her path one by one. He thus won
the race and married the princess. You may choose anything—yourself fleeing, a
raindrop, Atalanta or Hippomenes—so long as it is a specific and not a general-
ization or an abstraction.
When everyone is standing, I will stop the music and rewind the tape to the begin-
ning. As I am doing this, each of you should sit, stand, kneel or lie down, whichever
is an appropriate place from which to become X. Above all, know that it is you
who are taking this position and not X. Do not for a moment try at this stage to
“become” or look like your X. It is too soon because there is too little you know of
X. To do so will shape all you do into a chain of clichés. When you finish Circles
you may be surprised by all you have discovered about X.
When you hear the music, something that may appear strange will be asked of
you: let your scalp, your ears, your brows, your eyes become X running. Do not
question the logic or the feasibility of brows running. At the center of what we do
as dancers is the use of the body and its parts as metaphors for the whole world.
If running is the action of X, then run with your scalp, your ears, your brow and
your eyes. If it is appropriate to X that your eyes remain closed, fine. If open is true
to this moment for X, then open let them be.
After a while, I will say, “Whenever you are ready, become X running with your
jaw, your nose, your lips, your tongue.” If you are still deeply involved with the first
action, finish it before going on to the mouth. When you do go on, do not lose what
you have done. That continues.
In time, I will continue, saying, “Whenever you are ready, with your neck, become
X running.”
Then “. . . with your chest become X running.”
Then “. . . with your shoulders become X running.”
Then “. . . with your elbows become X running.”
Then “. . . with your hands become X running,” and as you go on, lose nothing of
what you have been doing. You are constantly accumulating, though at each stage
your action is being led by that new part of the body.”
Then “. . . with your waist, belly, voice, become X running.”

158 The Workbook

 Then “. . . with your pelvis become X running.”
Then “. . . with your thighs, knees become X running.”
Then “. . . with your feet become X running.”
Then “Whenever you are ready with all of you, with your totality become X run-
ning.”
In this last stage, a time will come when you will have “become” X. When you sense
that transformation, celebrate it and then leave the floor.
Two negatives: (1) This is not an exercise in isolations, but rather, the entire body
supports the action of the individual part of the body. (2) This is not an exercise
in exploring the range of movement that is possible, say, of your mouth or your
hands. The motions are governed strictly by the image and action being fulfilled.
Sticking to the specific action of a specific someone or something will create rich
movement. Isolations or variation games will convert the entire exercise into an
academic excursion irrelevant to our work and intention.
Because Circles is more complex than the previous exercises, it would be well to
give a quick summary and then open the space to questions before actually starting.
Timing the intervals between calling out the parts of the body is a delicate matter
ideally done by feel and not by the clock. A section can be a minute, two or three. The
conductor of the exercise needs only to pay close attention to the flow of energy in the
group.
Inviting the use of the voice is a risky choice that may work best with a small group.
If the group is large, and heated up, the din may be such that the subsequent directions
will be inaudible and for some will be violently intrusive.

Each Alone Whenever a group was ready to work on the ritual of becoming someone or some-
thing, I would first introduce circles, making it clear that it would be done only
once and that thereafter we would do its variant, Each Alone. When that time came,
I would say:
Each Alone begins exactly the same as Circles. From a seated position, you will
hear music and then I will give you, “Someone or something is doing something.”
When that someone or something arrives in your mind, stand. When everyone is
standing, I will stop the music and rewind the tape to the beginning. As I am doing
this, each of you should sit, stand, kneel, or lie down as before.
The variation begins here: When the music starts up again from its beginning,
call up the vision of X doing what X does and immediately, without plan, allow
the impulse for anyy part of your body to perform that act—as X. In time, you will

159 Exercises: Level 3

 feel as if you “have done” that part—that it has become X doing what X does and
you will be ready to move on. Without planning or thinking, another part will
have the impulse to do this. Taking all the time that is needed, you will proceed in
whatever sequence your body tells you. Try to retain what you have done as Each
Alone evolves. Symmetry is possible but not necessary: the focus of activity might
be the shoulders or only the right shoulder. Discard the rigorous logic of Circles
and instead follow the dictates of your body. Sequence and timing are yours to
control. You may never get to body parts mentioned in Circles, and you may be-
come absorbed in an area untouched by Circles. There will come a moment when
all the pieces come together and you will be X doing what X does. Celebrate that
becoming and then leave the floor.
Without the constant intrusion and interruptions from me and with the concen-
tration of permitting the action of X to flow through the body undirected, the dancers
were able to go much more deeply into the life of X, discovering surprising movement
metaphors and, best of all, moving in an imagined context with conviction and freedom.
If anything could describe the goal of all performance, “moving in an imagined context
with conviction and freedom” certainly touches the center. Each Alone became the key
to the powerful rituals that developed out of The Duet. One had to becomee another in
order to be, think, act, and dance as another.
I created Circles and Each Alone for the Workgroup because I believed they would
accomplish two things. First, it was the simplest way to introduce, in a way that dancers
would understand, a source of creative movement which I had learned in the Stanislavski
technique of acting and from Helen Tamiris. In these two exercises, one never asks for
an emotion or a mood. That is the direct highway to banality. One always asks for an
action on the assumption that the specific “who” doing a specific action in a specific
context will arrive at a truthful emotion or mood. To ask parts of your body to become
in turn a fine-boned, young, red, female fox fleeing the hounds in a driving rain would
in time produce a gut emotion of unquestioned intensity, a genuine feeling in the body
of the dancer and some fascinating movement.
The second value is that they became profound lessons in the metaphoric possibili-
ties of the various parts of the body. Without this awareness and a mastery of poetic
dance metaphors, the entire way of working that is presented here would degenerate
into one continuous flow of literal movement, which is the last thing we want from
dancers. In dance, a strategic moment of literal movement has been the strongest part
of some of our best dance works and the key to some ostensibly abstract dances. As an
extended mode of expression, the literal becomes acting and negates the meaning and
point of the dance art.
One both unexpected and yet obvious note: in at least one of the various stages of
Circles or Each Alone, the dancer may come across a part of the body which translates
into a literal action. Say the image is the man in the myth, racing the princess for her
hand in marriage. Comes the moment when the focus is on the feet, the dancer may

160 The Workbook

 find her.himself dashing through the studio. It may prove to be not only “literal” but
“uninteresting” or, conversely, the most exhilarating of all the segments. More, if most
of what had gone before was retained, the running may be like no running that had
ever been done since this literal movement is an island within a circle of metaphors for
the same action.
You never know anything until it happens. It is very important in all improvisation
not to look ahead, not to anticipate. Anticipation and, even worse, planning cut out the
heart and meaning of improvisation. Improvisation starts with a set of givens, rules
and wishes, and from then on, one deals with the immediate present, never knowing
what will happen until it does happen. By its open-ended nature, improvisation is an
ideal tool to discover fresh and personal movement expression.
I felt that performing an action one part of the body at a time would be a way of
freeing it imaginatively—and it did. The improvisations were full of surprises both to
me the viewer and more importantly, to the dancers in the workshop. In the little talks
we would have after a session, time and again, a dancer would say, “I never did anything
like that.” “I never moved like that.” “I was completely into that.” “I forgot the studio—all
the others.” “I didn’t know I was dancing.”

Hot to Cold When a group finishes either one of these two, I sometimes ask:
to Hot I† Was there some part of the body that felt remarkably free? Was there some part of
the body that felt frozen, almost incapable of moving? I will play the music again.
Take all the time you need to get back into X. When you are there, let that part of
the body that was freest take the lead. When it is flowing and hot and whenever
you are ready, shift to that frozen part as the lead while thinking, feeling, sensing
the fluidity of the free part. Keep shifting back and forth to thaw out what resists
the action. Thus, one part of the body can lead the more timid part into a freer and
more expressive mode of moving.

Hot to Cold The same exercise can turn its focus on one part of the body that may want attention
to Hot II† or study. The hands of most dancers, for example, are trapped in a mannerism that
they acquire early and rarely lose.
Begin with any image that interests you and perform the action with your hands.
Then, in your own time, shift the same action to any body part, say the lower back.
Then go back to the hands, retaining some of the texture and power of the back.
After that, find another body part, say the mouth. Again, returning to the hands,
what can be gleaned from the motions of the mouth? The exercise proceeds in
this manner, sandwiching a time with hands and differing body parts, constantly
drawing differing qualities from each section of the body.

161 Exercises: Level 3

Backdoor† Everything up to this point moves dancers into deeper levels of consciousness, but by
that very token, a protectiveness of old ways can lead to shallow and impersonal choices
that are clichéd, obvious or, worst of all, evasive. Backdoor and the following Hub
Meditation are mind trips that open up the most unexpected doors to many dancers.
With your breath, empty your head. (Pause.) In a little while I am going to say a
word or short phrase. The moment you hear the word or phrase allow a smell, a
sound, an image, a word, anything, to appear in the center of your mind. With the
next breath, or sooner, whatever is in the focus of your mind must change to some-
thing else. This process is continuous: a change in your mind with every breath, or
sooner. Continuous change is the only control you are to exert on the process. Above
all, don’t try to impose any overall conception of how one thing should follow the
other. You don’t try to make a logical flow or, conversely, try to create surrealist or
strange connections. You simply attempt to observe passively whatever will emerge,
logically, or illogically. There is only one compulsion: whatever occupies your mind
must change with every breath or sooner.
After about five minutes, I ask people to let it wind down, and when it has, to open
their eyes. When everyone’s eyes are open, I ask:
Is there anything remarkable, special, unusual, confusing, or interesting about
what took place? I am not asking about your specific sensations and images, which
I am sure are interesting. I am really curious about what, if anything, you found
interesting in the structure or the process of it.
Sooner or later, what emerges in any group of ten or more people is the following
pattern: a large number of them had a recurring image. Some find that image logical,
and others find it rather unexpected and surprising. To some the image was rather at-
tractive and interesting; others didn’t like it. Not a few experience a strong image they
had never seen before. Almost everyone answers affirmatively upon being asked, “Is
there some image that even now stands out beyond all the others?”

The Hub Immediately after giving, doing and discussing Backdoor:

Meditation† Close your eyes and clean your head out with your breath. In a little while I will
say, “Someone or something is doingg something.” It will be a simple verb, such as,
“Someone or something is rising and falling.” From here on, let your mind roam
and search for everything in your experience of rising and falling. Rising and fall-
ing in nature, in history, in films, TV, the people you know, your own life; a piece
of bleached driftwood in the surf, a child on a pogo stick, a red autumn leaf in a
cold wind, a close relation’s struggle with an addiction, a graph of a sine wave, the
breast of the woman who has just been crowned Miss America, a white line of paint

162 The Workbook

 running across a Jackson Pollock painting, the sound of the waves one evening
when you were in Maui. The list can and should feel endless. Each of these will be
for a moment in the center of your mind, at the very hub of your consciousness.
After a while, you may discover that regardless of what you come up with, the hub
of your mind is occupied with one thing, even though you continue to raise up new
images: there you are on that frightened horse being bounced up and down in the
saddle as he gallops off the road into the desert away from the blaring horn of that
monster white trailer truck.
Note that in this example everything was specific. Don’t reach for anything as
general and grandiose as the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. Avoid unspecific
feelings like going from gaiety to sadness to gaiety. These will land you neck-deep
in stereotypes and stencils, to steal a word from Stanislavski.
When you know that the hub of your mind is occupied by one image regardless of
whatever other images come up, accept that and move in to get a close look at what
is there. Then open your eyes. You will have just done a Hub Meditation.
At this point I state a ground rule for this way of working in dance. The worst
idea for a dance or the conception of a role is a “good” idea. The best idea is one that
won’t go away, whether you like it or not, like a nettle that sticks to your garments. I
accept with a passion the statement by Ben Shahn, in a book which I feel is of great
value to anyone interested in the arts and the creative process, The Shape of Content
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1957): “Whatever crosses the human mind may
be fit content for art—in the right hands . . . it is the fullness of feeling with which
the artist addresses himself to his theme that will determine, finally, its stature or its
seriousness” (p. 72).
The revelation that Backdoor and The Hub Meditation bring is that, for most people,
given enough time, the mind will find itself occupied with an image that dominates all
others. It matters not whether the image is attractive or repulsive, whether the image
is fascinating or on its surface quite dull, that is the image to work on and that is the
essence of this approach to improvisation.
A relevant story: I had a talented and devoted student who took a number of work-
shops in choreography with me. She always produced work that was personal, strong
and unexpected, but in the improvisation exercises involving imaging, she would resort
to literal pantomime and dead-end repetitions. Finally I spoke up: “What gives, Sarah?
Every time we get to this, you get lost.” “Well, every time you give us a Hub Meditation,
I see Archie Bunker.” “So, did you ever do Archie Bunker?” “No! Of course not!” Too
bad. She missed out on something that was perhaps more important to her than she was
willing to realize. For her values and conscious mind, Archie Bunker was not material
worthy of dance or art. This is precisely the self-inflicted snobbery that defeats many
young artists and some mature artists. They keep under covers a passionate connec-

163 Exercises: Level 3

 tion and knowledge of something that they fear is not “good” enough for “ART”—in
favor of what? Better to spell “art” with small letters and learn to respect one’s deepest
feelings as the source and focus of the work.
The last thing one should do is to hunt for a “good image,” a “creative image,” an
“exciting image” and, worst of all, to try to find an image that the dancer thinks will
interest, excite, or please the teacher, the audience or the critics. The basic dictum of
the work says, if it isn’t personal, it isn’t worth working on.

Visualization† There are those people who are unhappy with the many problems that depend on
visualization because they are convinced that they can’t do it, or can’t do it well. When
I hear this, I throw out to the group:
Close your eyes and see the departure area of an airport with taxicabs, buses and
limousines zipping by. A man is standing near the curb looking about. Can you
see him? How is he dressed? Is he wearing a hat? Step up close to him and study
his face. Walk around him and view him from the rear. Walk off to the side, still
looking at him. Have you ever seen him before?
A suggestion to the reader: reread the above paragraph and then take the time to
do what it suggests. . . .
Have you ever seen that man before? In the many times I have given this simple
setting, almost everyone created a man they had never seen. You, too, probably created a
man unknown to you. Your life of observation was the raw material—the encyclopedia
from which he was shaped. Your memory, sense memory, and imagination were your
tools and they worked for you without your control or supervision. The vision of that
man did not just happen. Imagination stirs up the great soup of the accumulation of
your many observations to create a man standing at an airport curb or a poem, a song,
or a dance. I have yet to find one of those “I-can’t-visualize” people who did not see
that man on the departure curb. Something about that airport scene proves that they
can.

Gesture It is a given in the modern dance that being literal is a no-no, and with justification. If
Permutations† our intention is to be specific and to have a specific identity at all times, what is to guard
us against falling into this trap of the literal? The strongest substance has a vulnerability.
An ancient vase of Venetian glass can gleam in its glory for centuries. One light tap
of a metal hammer and we have a mess of shards. The plastic wrapping on four little
cheese and peanut butter crackers will frustrate all efforts to tear it open until stabbed
by the point of a nail file. Getting caught in the literal and the linear is the Achilles heel
of our way of working.

164 The Workbook

 What can shield us from the devastating question, “Why are you dancing? Why
aren’t you actors in a play and just speaking what you have on your mind?” There is an
answer. Never flee the literal, but never get stuck in it. Learn to bend it, stretch it, squeeze
it, quicken it, transmute it to another body part, alter the “who.” All of which is to say,
learn to make the literal a springboard to a metaphor—and in so doing make motion
poems—which could easily be another name for dancing. The next two exercises contain
strategies for transforming the literal into dance metaphors.
Pair off. If there is an odd number, make one a trio. Now, talk about what you really
think about Arizona. (Any place will do, the closer the better. After several minutes):
Continue your discussion, but make no sound. Communicate only with gestures.
(After several minutes): Now pause and between you cull a short sequence of the
silent gestures you exchanged, six to be exact. Person A makes a gesture. B replies,
A replies, B replies, A replies and B replies. Period. If you are a trio, keep it to six:
A, then B, then C, then A, then B and then C. Once you have decided on the six
gestures face me. (When all are finished and facing me):
Now go through the sequence of the six gestures three times, and each time you
make your gesture do it as if it were the first time you ever did it. Do it with the
same conviction that you had before I stopped you.
Now do the six gestures three times, as fast as you possibly can.
Now do the six gestures one time, moving slower than you have ever moved in
your life.
You are a mammoth human made of lead and concrete. Do the six gestures.
You are actors in a silent movie. Do the six gestures.
You are underwater. Do the six gestures.
You are an ambitious courtier in the court of Louis XIV. The monarch favors anyone
who appears to be an elegant dancer.
You are clowns in a circus.
Do the six gestures in waltz time.
You stammer and stutter painfully.
You have no hands and no arms. Communicate the meaning of the six gestures
with your torso.
You communicate only with your shoulders.
Only with your feet.

1655 Exercises: Level 3

 All your gestures are made of porcelain. They have been dropped, broken and
glued together this way and that but not logically. Communicate as best you can.
Don’t do any of the six gestures. Rather do what they feel like.
Manifestly, this list is potentially endless.

Gesture Leave your partner or your trio and in your own space and in your own mind, go
Rondo† over the gestures you have been doing. Decide which one you want to continue
working with, for whatever reason. When I give you the “Go,” you will do that ges-
ture with as much truth and conviction as you did the first time and then, with no
premeditation, allow anythingg to happen out of it, from the most obvious, literal
banal association to the most esoteric muscular association. You may start on a
physical impulse, that leads to dramatic one, that leads to whatever. Just let it flow
and above all avoid “good taste.” Just go. If and when the energy runs down, come
to a pause and repeat the original gesture as simply and honestly as possible, allow-
ing anything to flow for as long as it does until it stops. Then again do the original
gesture. Continue until I call out for this Gesture Rondo to end. Go!
After doing this sequence most dancers, instead of living in terror of the literal
gesture by either sedulously avoiding it or feeling guilty of bad taste if they do it, dis-
cover that the literal gesture is a gold mine. The literal gesture becomes a source of a
limitless range of movement. The infinitely small island of classroom moves which
most dancers think contains the whole world of dance movement becomes one rich and
useful area among many. If one were to total a lexicon of any one dance technique—
flamenco, ballet, modern, tap, Hawaiian—it would reveal a small number of moves
compared to all that the human body is capable of. Whatever we do and have done in
our lives, from early morning to sleep and dreams and from the earliest remembered
days to this morning, is waiting there to be used in our dances: bent, twisted, turned
inside out, stretched, shrunk and magnified. Every part of our lives has value for us as
dancers and artists.

The Duet as This sequence is the centerpiece of all the improvisations in this book. (Note that
a Structure it includes four exercises given previously: The Mind-Wash and The Other, both in
chapter 9, and The Hub Meditation and Each Alone in this chapter.) From it can flow
an understanding of self, the other, a way of dancing, a way of improvising, a way of
creating choreography and for our purpose here, of performing dance. It is ideal for
studio work. Inevitably, on the first reading, The Duet as a Structure may appear to
be overwhelmingly complex, but it is bound together by an internal logic. Approach
it step-by-step and clarity will emerge. The Duet as a Structure can be mastered bit by
bit, solidifying each part before attempting to put it all together. Once that happens, the

1666 The Workbook

 dancer, the student, the teacher, the choreographer will have at hand a tool to practice
this matter of becoming another and performing the metaphoric task that ignites the
inner powers and sensibilities of the dancer.
For The Duet as a Structure it is well to have twenty to twenty-five minutes of music,
preferably a single composition that does not have radical changes. Shorter pieces will
work if they are bound together with a single, coherent style.
Sit cross-legged, facing your partner, knees a few inches apart, close your eyes and
clear a space in your head with your breath. (Pause.)
First you will hear music. After a while, you will hear me say, “Someone or something
is doing something to or with or for someone or something.” Put this statement
on a shelf of your mind to be dealt with later.
Should you, the reader, wish to follow this sequence with a specific image in mind,
make one up now or choose one from the following:
Someone always has to have his.her own way. You are that person or you are dealing
with the person.
Someone needs to live in a neat, orderly, predictable world. You are that person or
you are dealing with that person.
Someone is a protector, shielding another from anything potentially dangerous or
negative. You are that person or you are dealing with that person.
Someone is leaving. You are leaving or you are being left.
Someone is always busy and in a hurry and the other is laid back.
Someone is always on the lookout for funning, joking, and clowning. You are that
person or dealing with that person.
Now do The Mind-Wash, followed by The Other. Your partner is now “the other,”
the person with whom you are going to enter a world made by both of you. It may
be the first time you have worked together or the twentieth, there will always be
something new to be observed. What can you glean just by looking, and looking?
The moment will come when you have learned what you can for now and you
are ready to take the “Someone . . . something . . .” statement off the shelf of your
mind and do a Hub Meditation with it. You let your mind roam through literature,
films, TV, your own life, until one image dominates. All this time, you are looking
at your partner. These two actions, looking at your partner and looking for what
will occupy the hub of your mind may seem too far apart. Wait. You may find that
they reenforce each other. If and when you find the specific someone-something,
you have a decision to make. Which role will you play?
After knowing which one, ask yourself: If you are So-and-so, what is your task?? What
do you need to do with, to or for this other person? Once you know your task, you
need to find a movement metaphor for this task. It is here that your imagination

1677 Exercises: Level 3

 has its greatest challenge: finding a poetic movement metaphor rather than a literal
action. One way you will be dancing, whatever that elusive word means, the other
way you might just as well speak like an actor rather than go through the motions
of an inefficient dumb-show. A degree of patience will serve here. Allow for “near
misses” or “failures” the first few times you do The Duet as a Structure. In time,
finding the movement metaphor that charges your dance energy and communicates
to your partner will become a part of your craft in this work.
Once you have determined your role and your task, you are ready for the next phase
of The Duet as a Structure. When you are ready, indicate that to your partner by
turning your palms up and resting your hands on your knees. When the other is
ready, he.she clasps the upturned palms and both rise and separate, each to find a
private place. Here you will prepare your self to become X, the person you found in
your Hub Meditation, and to be geared up to accomplish the task you have chosen.
You do this through the structure called Each Alone. This is the development of
Circles in which the entire structure becomes open-ended, with each dancer decid-
ing the order, when and how long to work on the body parts.
Once in your private place, you will begin Each Alone, on your own. Call up the
vision of X doing what X does and immediately allow one part of your body to
perform that act, as X. When you feel as if that part has become X doing what X does,
you will be ready to move on. Taking all the time that is needed, you will continue
in whatever sequence your body tells you, body part by body part. As you do this,
try to retain what you have done. Symmetry is possible but not necessary: the focus
of activity might be the shoulders or only the right shoulder. Discard the rigorous
logic of Circles and follow instead the dictates of your body and your feelings. Let
them control sequence and timing. You may never get to body parts mentioned
in Circles and you may become absorbed in an area untouched by Circles. There
will come a moment when all the body parts will become a unity and you will be
X doing what X does.
You are now ready to engage with your partner, with the other. Without losing any
of the character you have become, and deep within the danced truth of X, approach
the other person who, for simplicity’s sake, we will dub Y. Here you may face a deci-
sion. If Y is ready to engage, then each of you will proceed to do what you have to
do—in dance. If Y is not ready, would X wait or barge right in? Would Y be pliant
or resist by continuing with Circles until finished? This is the beginning of making
choices as the person each of you has become.
Whatever the outcome, sooner or later the two of you will engage in the attempt
to make something happen. There should be no terror of the literal, only of get-
ting stuck in it. The literal can be welcomed but only as a springboard to a danced
metaphor.

168 The Workbook

 By now the questions arise: “How does each know what role the other has taken?”
Neither knows, no more than we do in “real life.” If this is true in life, then why
should it not be so here in this duet?
Second question: “What if both take the same role—the same side of the implied
dichotomy?” How many times are two united in a power struggle, each determined
to dominate or each longing to find someone to lean upon? The complementary
relationship of opposites is not a necessary condition. It probably happens as often
as similar types try to relate.
If, as the duet progresses, you are having difficulty realizing your goal, be as flexible
and resourceful as X is—or as rigid, depending on who X is. It may even make sense
to change your intent because of what you are experiencing as X.
If you achieve your task, celebrate that and leave the floor. If your partner does
this before you, then dance out your recognition of failure and leave the floor. If
nothing you do brings you any closer to success, you, still as X, may give up and
dance your acceptance of that failure and leave.
As noted earlier, anyone coming across this material for the first time may groan,
“How complex! How can anyone follow such a detailed and torturous path—and
dance?” Answer: It is constructed out of a series of exercises, each of which should be
known and practiced separately before being drawn into this shape.
A summary of The Duet as a Structure would go like this: Sitting facing your part-
ner, you will hear “Someone . . . something. . . .” Do nothing about it except to save it
on the shelf of your mind. Do The Mind-Wash and when finished, contemplate your
partner (The Other). When you have done that, return to the “Someone . . . something
. . .” and do a Hub Meditation. When you have found the dominating image decide on
your role and your task. When you and your partner are both ready, you find separate
areas in which you will do Each Alone. When you have become X through Each Alone,
find and engage with your partner. If you succeed in your task, celebrate that and leave
the floor. If you fail, recognize that—in dance—and leave the floor. If after many dif-
ferent attempts you are convinced it is futile, recognize that—in dance—and leave.
Even reading this condensed version may still be confusing. Perhaps it would help
to review the mental process I went through in a duet with Ara Fitzgerald, a member
of the Workgroup. What was given:
Someone is favored in almost every way: looks, health, wealth, position—the works.
You are that person or someone dealing with that person.
As I sat there looking at the sweet, clear-browed face of Ara, she became very wealthy
and I became very ugly and poor. I found, out of the blue, a very powerful man—physi-
cally powerful—who had spent time in jail for theft and assault. A resentful man with
a violent temper. I had achieved a notoriety by writing of my childhood and history of

169 Exercises: Level 3

 violence. I was now a minor literary celebrity and Ara and I were guests at a country
estate. I was determined that she should come to love me and because of that love, let
me push her about and dominate her. Once she accepted my treatment of her, I would
have all I wanted and could leave. I would have a victory over a “rich bitch.”
Ara had found her role and task sooner than I did, and her palms lay up and open,
waiting for my grasp—for my decisions. She sat there gazing simply and directly into
my face. Finally, when I was clear, I grasped her hands and we went off to separate parts
of the studio.
When I found my “private place,” I realized, as I stood there, that it was a cell—a
prison cell. The first place in my body that became active was my lower abdominal
muscles which seemed to be writhing with all their power as I was pacing the cell. It
was as if I were being led by those muscles up and down a brief length of my space.
In my mind, my feet were bare, though I was dancing with shoes. My attention then
shifted to my feet which worked harshly into the cold, damp concrete as if they held
the angry claws of a predatory animal. That action slowly flowed into the thighs, which
bulged with the muscles of a weight lifter. The power allowed me to perform sudden
squats to a stillness as if waiting to spring. All this time, I was intermittently pacing
my cramped space like a caged animal. Without warning, my mouth became alive—a
stretched gash across my face which I constantly tried to make smaller by turning my
lips inward. This, in time, activated my whole face which was always on the verge of
exploding out of control as I kept trying to keep it in rein, all the while pacing the cell.
Then the attention shifted to the shoulders, which felt massive and writhing like the
abdominals. This action gradually flowed down the arms to the hands, which wanted to
flail about but were always caught by fisting and lowering the arms so that they would
be quiet for a while. Lastly, the back came into play, and its wish was to crouch, to duck,
to avoid blows from somewhere—but the wish had to be concealed, so the crouch was
spasmodically evident but mostly suppressed.
I had “become X.” As I looked over to where Ara was dancing, lightly flinging her
arms about as if they were little flags pressed into the wind, I realized that I had to put
on a tweed suit over my anger and my ugliness. I did everything I had been doing,
but one could barely see what I was doing except that I was walking toward her with
a slow held step followed by quick ones that were almost out of control. It resembled
an erratic rhumba. The moment I approached Ara, she turned to me and circled me as
if to observe me on all sides and to be observed by me on all of her sides. Pretending
a cool, I alternately observed her closely and looked away as if there were other items
of interest to me. There was a slide almost to the ground which I stopped with some
show-off pushups into a sudden squat and then came erect, trying to tower above her.
Ara moved close to me. “This was going to be easy!” Looking away, I reached to her,
pulling her to me into a ballroom stance and, leading with definite power, guided her
about the floor as if on a dance floor. She followed as if we had done this many times
before, once releasing herself from my grasp to do the circling back into my arms. The

170 The Workbook

 more we danced, the more brutal I became until I was sweeping her down to the floor,
pushing her away and pulling her back, each time going further and further from her,
pretending an interest elsewhere, not unlike the way cats will play with a cricket or a
mouse.
Finally, I went to the far end of the studio, confident that she would be waiting
for me, so sure was I of my power. I was ready to leave the floor after “celebrating” my
success, the achievement of my task. While I was strutting my power, I glanced back at
Ara, and instead of that flighty arm-flinging, she was pacing back and forth in a lim-
ited space with a strangely familiar contorted body. It was as if she was going through
the same agony I had suffered. The similarity was so great, I was shocked into the most
unexpected compassion and concern for her. Uncertain, I wavered there, not knowing
my next move, and found myself falling in love with her. Confused, I approached her
cautiously and slowly began a dance of protection and cradling and loving—which Ara
accepted and reciprocated. We ended with a fierce, yet tender love duet which finally
settled into a moment of emotional exhaustion and we left the floor together.
I have no idea whether Ara had achieved the task she found during her Hub Medi-
tation or whether it had changed as the dance progressed. What shook me was that
for the first time I had set out in an improvisation with a clear direction and because
of what I had experienced, I not only took an entirely unexpected path, but went
through a profound change in character. This duet first occurred during studio work
and because it came out so richly, we did it again and again until we were sure it could
be performed for the public—which we did, many times, because it “worked.” For that
very reason, we never spoke of it. In spite of doing this duet many times in the studio
and in performance, we never discussed it. It always started from the same place, the
same premises, but it always came out differently.
To sum up these last few pages, The Duet is the most fertile, challenging and excit-
ing structure of all. Even when performing it in public, there is that long period in the
beginning when we, in the Workgroup, were “doing nothing,” just sitting cross-legged
and staring at each other. Nonetheless, the audience was mesmerized, glued to what
was highly intense activity, albeit mental. Once again, I learned that if there is an active,
honest, inner life, an audience will go all the way with the performer.

Emotion Choose a dance role that calls on an emotion that you find difficult to summon.
Memory† Isolate the emotion and think over your own life, your deepest personal experiences.
Is there a time and a place when you felt something parallel? If and when you find
that time and place, re-create it in your mind. What do you see? What is the color
of the sky? Is there an odor filling the air? Is there a face in front of you? Do you
hear a particular piece of music? As part of your preparation to perform the role,
use anything from your past that will summon up that feeling.

171 Exercises: Level 3

 As I noted earlier, I, personally, have a resistance to this as a technique for perfor-
mance. Try it. It may be your magic key to it all.

*From Now† This is Evolving Repetition (chapter 9) with a slightly different beginning.
Gather at the edge of the work space, entering one by one. Find your place, close
your eyes and breathe deeply. Wait until an internal rhythm emerges. Each of you
takes off in your own time. Ten minutes is an optimum time span. If you find it
useful as a way to get into work sessions, set a timer to ring or create a ten-minute
tape of ambient sound and record a voice counting the minutes as they go by.

*Rhythm Prowl around each other, observing everyone covertly, but never let anyone catch
Portrait† you looking at them. You are looking for the person in the group who interests you
the most, positively or negatively. Once you have made your decision, concentrate
your powers of observation on that person only, learning all you can by the simple
act of looking—still never allowing that person to know it is he.she in whom you
are interested. Ultimately what you are trying to sense is her.his internal rhythm
in the form of a repeated phrase.
When I call out, “the rhythm,” start to physically beat out, with your hands, the
rhythm you have unearthed—but do it silently. When I call out, “Now!” make the
rhythm audible and as loud as is true of the character of “that person.” Allow what
motions are needed to support the rhythm.
Stage two: One by one, take the center of the space and beat out for all to hear the
rhythm you have discovered, moving and covering space at the same time. All the
others learn the rhythm and follow the motion of the dancer in the center.
Stage three: When all have taken center in their turn, I ask each to find a private
place in the studio. Once there I ask, “Which one of the rhythms you learned
felt good? Made you feel strong? Made you want to dance? Try to recapture that
rhythm. Once you have a handle on it, improvise with that rhythm at the center
of your focus.
If one looks deeply into another, one may discover a powerful piece of music, a
rhythm that is arresting without being arbitrarily inventive. The goal is not to makee a
rhythm, but to findd it.

172 The Workbook

 11 Exercises
Level 4

*Before, This exercises addresses (1) the technical mastery of being able to dance, at will, before,
After and after and on the beat; (2) the individual proclivity of the dancer in relation to rhythmic
On† music; (3) the organic rhythmic relation to the music in the context of the six questions,
the who or the what doing what.
Problem 1: Find some infectious walking music: a paso doble, a Sousa march, a
Dixieland march. To walking music do the simplest of walking step phrases: one step
on each beat. “Strutting” would be a better designation than “walking.” I will call
out, “Strut square on the beat.” Then, “Strut a hair ahead of the beat.” Then, “Strut
a hair behind the beat.” When you have done that a few times, gather in groups of
three. One of you calls out the commands, “Before! . . . After! . . . On the beat!” as
one dances. The observers will tell you how successful you are—or not. Then the
other two take their turns. Repeat the entire exercise to a moderate tempo waltz:
balancé left, right, left; step right, left, right; then balancé right, left, right; step left,
right, left; and repeat.
This is not an idle exercise, and if it is proffered to professionals, they should forego
sneering at such childishness. For all the world to see, there is a video of Rudolf Nureyev
accompanied by a highly skilled woman who is usually behind the beat, sometimes on
the beat, and never quickens when he so brilliantly chooses to. If you are good at this
and do know what you are doing musically, congratulations—enjoy the exercise. Your
help will be needed.
Problem 2: A highly rhythmic piece of music will be played. Go off by yourself and
design an eight-count module of movement that can be repeated many times. It is
more important that you be sure of it than that you create a complex masterpiece.
When you have it under control, get off the floor.

173
 When all of you are off the floor, reassemble in groups of three. The music will
again be played. One by one, dance for each other and observe each other with a
view to characterizing each dancer’s tendency—if there is one. You can challenge
each other to go before, after or on.
The first exercise may cover this ground but I think something extra would be
revealed because each dancer would be creating her.his own phrase, thus revealing a
more personal inclination.
Problem 3: Choose a phrase from one of The Two Dances that uses music. Because
of the nature of X and what X is doing, is X ahead, on or behind the beat?

*Why Do Answer the question without words. Try this alone and with an audience. It is not
You Dance?† a bad idea to repeat this exercise over the years. You may find that the answers
change and that most times your own answer will, in some respect, surprise you.

*What When the Workgroup met for the first time after a late summer break, on a hunch I
Happened?† threw out a question that went back to elementary school days:
Jung Jung, go into the space. What did you do on your summer vacation? No words.
It actually turned into a delightful afternoon as one by one we rose to tell—with no
words—an exercise in learning to speak in dance.

*The Spine Someone who lives at the bottom of a society, resents it fiercely and wants the world
of Style† to know that she.he is actually the equal of anyone, no matter how high. Become
that someone.
It becomes the task of every performer to be more than a sausage skin that is stuffed
by the choreographer with moves, ideas and inspiration. A dancer with a mind that has
experienced history, other cultures, his.her own culture and history has the capacity to
penetrate beyond the superficial appearance of a lonely prince, an Andalusian Gypsy
dancer, a woman from the complexities of Greek mythology, a figure in a world of
chance, an embodiment of a Vivaldi concerto, finding who and what lives at the core
of these things or people. Such work on the dance role asks for knowledge, observa-
tion and imagination. The work of the choreographer is realized when the work of the
dancer delves just as deeply.

174 The Workbook

*Making I studied with Hanya Holm for a brief period when she had one of the most beautiful
Faces studios in New York. It was in the early forties when I was working on Broadway. One
afternoon, after a class, I dropped into Hanya’s office to ask her something. We spoke
for a while and then ran dry, just sitting there. I can’t remember who started it but sud-
denly, there we were, exchanging faces with each other, one more grotesque than the
other. It went on for quite some time and then petered out. I gathered up my things,
nodded and left. We never spoke of it then or later. I think it can be a fun thing to do
with anybody who will enter into the silliness of making faces with a fellow dancer, a
lover or a child. It loosens up your face, gives its muscles a workout, provides a little
fun and perhaps opens up a facet of your expressive arsenal.

1755 Exercises: Level 4

 12 Exercises
Level 5

Faces Will everyone please get to a sink and thoroughly wash your hands? On the way,
or returning, choose a partner. When you return, washed, sit facing each other
cross-legged, a few inches apart, and close your eyes. When you sit, avoid touching
the floor with your clean hands.
The bemused go to wash, return as partners and sit:
With your eyes closed, clear a space in your head with your breath. Anytime after
I finish speaking and whenever you are ready, reach your hands forward to touch
the face of the person in front of you. With your fingertips study this face—the
varied textures of skin and hair, the shapes of bone and muscle. You will study
not only to experience but to remember. When you think your hands have the
memory of that face, drop your hands in your lap. When your partner’s hands
leave your face, with your eyes still closed, turn a quarter of a circle away on your
bottom. Now reach your hands forward into space as if that person is still in front
of you, and with your fingers relive the entire experience of touching her.his face,
not merely going through the motions of touching but feeling once again the skin,
hair, muscle and bone.
Do not be disconcerted if you find areas whose sensory experience you cannot
recall. In some places, the most you will have is the idea of moist skin or a hairline,
not the sensation. Do not despair. Do as much of the face—in the air—as you can.
Then swivel back to face in the original direction, with your eyes still closed, and
reach out to once again study to remember the face of your partner.
If you encounter a shoulder instead of a face, your partner is still re-creating in the
air. Drop your hands and wait until you sense your partner return to face you. Then
resume your exploration, going specifically to the places where your memory failed

176
 you. Experience and study with your hands what eluded you, and when you think
your hands have it, drop your hands once again. When both you and your partner
have lowered your hands, having finished this second study, swivel a quarter turn
away and go directly to the blank places and fill them in by experiencing the actual
sensation of touching. When you have done all you can, drop your hands to your
lap and wait until you hear an, “OK,” indicating that all are finished.

I Dare You† When dancers work with each other day after day, inevitably they notice each other’s
style, the strong points and the limitations. I Dare You is all about limitations. It only
works with a group that has been working together for some time.
One person leaves the room and the others try to find the key limitation in the way
that person has been working. Once there is a consensus on this, the challenge for
the group is that the I Dare You has to be couched in a poetically specific and non-
destructive way, a way that will stimulate the imagination of that dancer. A literal
statement like “Improvise with a flowing, gentle quality,” will come off as criticism
and beg for a generalized response. Once there is agreement, the dancer is called
back and the person who contributed the most to the formulated I Dare You, gives
it to the dancer, verbally. Time is left in the session for each to write down the exact
wording of the challenge they received. As part of the challenge, an appropriate,
though makeshift costume could be helpful to slipping into X.
Allow a week for all the dancers to work on their I Dare You, finding a specific im-
age, a rich movement metaphor and a loose construction around which to improvise.
There is no pressure in this exercise to create a piece of choreography, though many
have done just that. An improvisation that has been roughly sketched is just fine. The
purpose is to encourage the dancer to enter a new room, to experience a new way. A week
should be enough, and when the dancers meet again, they each show what they found.
At best, this is a quality that was there all the time but was never previously exploited
by the dancer. The group helps the dancer by commenting on how closely he.she met
the challenge. Here are a few sample challenges from an actual class:
Become a length of lavender silk thread that is being used to crochet a delicate rose.
This was given to the strongest dancer of her class, tall and powerfully built. As excit-
ing as she was to observe, these were the only qualities we ever saw her exhibit. Her
study-improvisation was gossamer and yet strong as silk. Later, she built a piece of
choreography around this study and performed it with success at the student concert.
Become a monstrous, brutal piece of construction machinery used for road building.
This was a tall elegant man who had a narrow image of what constituted beauty in
movement: fey and floating. I think the I Dare You made him furious, and that only
added to the power of an awesome study that was the best and most exciting dance I
ever saw him do.

1777 Exercises: Level 5

 Become a hard-hearted, egotistical, cocky, smart-assed, macho stud who’s on the ram-
page. This was an exceptionally attractive woman who tended to cling fiercely to a trite
idea of femininity in all that she did. Her study was a farcical, hilarious and outrageous
blast climaxed by making violent love to the floor. She appeared to have a giddy relish
in letting go of her girly-girl image, at least for the length of that improvisation.
Humorous challenges can be just as effective as profoundly poetic ones. I Dare You
can also help dancers explore the matter of for whom they are dancing: “I dare you to
dance for the spirit of José Limon.” “I dare you to dance for a Hollywood casting agent.”
“I dare you to dance for the wild winds.”
Can I Dare You be a solitary exercise? All it takes is a ruthless objectivity in self-
observation. “What is it that I never do? Am I shying away from it out of fear of my
inadequacy or is that completely beyond me? Would a shot at it open a door that I
thought was closed to me—even a crack?” If you fail, who would know but you?

Inside the This exercise requires at least three days of work. The beginning assumes that the dancers
Outside† are not only physically warm but have achieved a psychic looseness with a Repetition,
Spinning or any physical meditation.
Day one: Sit with your hands clasped. Close your eyes. Clean out your head with
your breath. When you achieve some clarity, unclasp your hands. (When all un-
clasp their hands): First you will hear music and then you are going to embark
on a Hub Meditation (chapter 10). The question is: What is male? When you find
the specific image at the hub of your mind, pause to learn all you can about it.
Observe it from all sides. Come up close. When you have finished your observation,
go to an initial starting position—sitting, standing, kneeling or lying down—that
would be appropriate for you to work at becoming X. (In that initial position, you
are you, not X.)
Without planning or anticipating, become X bit by bit, part by part as in Each
Alone (chapter 10). After a time, you will hear music. If and when your Each
Alone is finished, do Go Visiting (chapter 9) to see who the others are and what
they appear to be doing. In time, gravitate toward the person who interests you
the most, positively or negatively. What do you want? Do you want to change
that person? Be changed by that person? Or just be in their company for a time?
When you get what you want, celebrate that and leave the floor. If you fail in what
you wish, dance the recognition of that and leave the floor. Take time to absorb
what happened.
Day two: Everything is the same except The Hub Meditation is the question, What
is female? (Best to leave this question for day two. Having “had their day,” the
men will more easily accept the adventure of answering the question of “What
is female?”)

178 The Workbook

 Day three: Yesterday, you did a Hub Meditation on What is female? The day before,
you did one on What is male? Recapture the specific images of each in your mind’s
eye, first one and then the other. Now mesh them into one body and wait to see
what will happen. What do you see? Is one image visible and the other present but
not visible? Is one on the outside and one on the inside? Are both visible but is one
dominant? So many possibilities.
When the male/female structure is clear to you, go to work on whichever is on the
inside, using the technique of Each Alone to become that image. When you have
finished, you are ready for the second stage. As X, go through another Each Alone,
this time putting on the other image on the outside. We can call this outside image
Y. Y is what X shows to the world.
When you have finished this double task, you are ready again to Go Visiting, look
about you and take in the “world” in which you find yourself. You have one more
question to answer before you go on. What do you as the complexity of X clothed as
Y want to do—need to do—for, to or against the world in which you find yourself?
Are there individuals out there with whom you need to interact? To avoid? Do you
have a task in relation to that entire community? To one or to a few individuals?
Are you a hermit? Once you have answers, retaining the full sense and presence
of both X and Y find the danced metaphors that contain this action. Now you are
ready to do whatever you have to do, with or without others. If you succeed in
your task, celebrate that and leave the floor. If you fail, dance the recognition of
that and leave the floor.
I did this structure fully only once, at the University of California at San Diego.
It covered the three days and it worked. There were many dancers, men and women,
attending this workshop and large numbers often make for freedom because the danc-
ers quite accurately assume that they will be less conspicuous among so many. There
was no problem from any of the men when the question went out, “What is female?”
The dancing was varied, animated and quirky. Duets and trios went on for a long time
and things happened—people
d changed as they danced. The talk afterwards was full of
a wonderment at how completely they were caught up and how the many emotional
and intellectual surprises jolted them.
There’s always a risk when the space is opened to deep and often conflicted feel-
ings. Over the years, I’ve given out these two questions, What is male? and What is
female? to about eight different groups. Be warned. This one is, as they say, “heavy.”
In the appendix of Dance and the Specific Image: Improvisation, pages 195–203, there
appears a dialogue between some dancers at a University of Hawaii workshop and
myself. It was kicked off by some who were upset because they had wept during a Male/
Female. The discussion touched upon some of the fundamental attitudes that go to
shape art.
Most of the dancers in the workshop were excited that they could be dancing and

179 Exercises: Level 5

 actually dealing with what really mattered to them. How sophisticated and how ma-
ture should the dancers be to attempt this? I have no answer. I only know this stuff is
dynamite in the bodies and minds of dancers who are open and willing to look at each
other and themselves.

*Lose your In an early workshop, I hit upon a structure that could involve all. I had an old rock
head† record, so badly worn that at about its third minute it would invariably get stuck in a
maddening repetition. Early in one of the sessions I said to the entire group:
Find a turning movement that meshes with what you hear. Your inner action is to
lose your head, whatever that means to you.

*Go 1-2-3 Many of the exercises came out of various kinds of resistance. In the earliest workshop,
at the University of Texas in Austin, there was a rhythmic wizard who was something
of a leader. He was bright and outspoken, but in every improvisation would get caught
in one characterization, regardless of what was being done: a stiff military figure with
mannequinlike elegance. I was convinced that this was a gambit to avoid doing anything
that was unexpected or revealing. To get him to come loose, I devised this:
Make a circle of anywhere from six to a dozen or even twenty people. One person
goes to the center. When I call out, “Go!” that person begins to dance off the im-
pulses of the moment. The focus of the people making up the circle is to sense,
feel and finally determine the inner rhythm that is driving her.him. Finding this
underlying, basic, repetitive rhythm that could support the improvisation of the
soloist is an individual and silent activity. If it helps, you can soundlessly pat out
the rhythm you perceive on your thighs.
After a period of time I will shout, “Go 2!” whereupon everyone in the circle will
beat out with hands, feet and/or voice, the rhythm you found individually. Try to
be heard by the soloist despite the chaotic sounds of the others and hang on stub-
bornly to what you believe is the best rhythm to support the soloist—yours.
After a while, I will call out, “Go 3!” Now, listen closely to your neighbors and,
retaining the character of your own rhythm, musically blend it with what you
hear. Once you are meshing with your neighbors, shift your focus to the soloist.
There are many choices open to you at this point. While keeping a musical rela-
tionship with your neighbors, your sounds can challenge the soloist, support the
soloist, or mock the soloist, and so on. Whatever your attitude toward the soloist
and what he.she is doing is what will shape the music and rhythms you and the
others are creating.

180 The Workbook

 I asked my rhythm whiz to take the center space. He started as always, with his
toy general posturing, but the circle began a combination of a heavy rock beat and a
pounding African rhythm. They caught what he apparently wasn’t doing. At first he
maintained his prim, jerky style, but his endurance was less than theirs and, to catch
his breath, he slouched to his knees. They increased the volume and intensity of their
rhythms. A bit more of this and he rolled over on his back and, mocking them, began
to shake his shoulders. Before he knew it he was swept into a wild thrashing about that
resembled a tantrum. Again, driven to exhaustion, he stopped and, in the simplest way,
rose to his feet, the circle going with him and relaxing, both going into a quiet, kooky
shuffling about, totally unlike anything he had ever done before. Finally, I said, “OK,”
and everybody fell back, aware that something had really happened; but the peculiar
value of this exercise was that the longer it went, the deeper it reached. He got so
tired he could barely go on and it didn’t seem to matter what he did. The toy general
disappeared and a latent fury flared for a bit, followed by a slightly embarrassed self-
mockery.
Returning to Go 1-2-3 again and again, I would witness dancers start up mannered
and controlled and then, in that sea of sound and past the point of exhaustion, with a
new flush of energy the soloist would strike out in forms, gestures and dance that were
not only often startlingly beautiful, but almost always a retrospective surprise to the
soloist, the dancer. Turning the corner of being too tired to care, motions would pour
out that seemed to come from deep, lovely and sometimes dark places. Great excitement
can be added by inviting skilled musicians to join in.

*Recognition The conventional greeting when dancers meet to work is, “How are you?” They may
Ritual exchange groans and a catalogue of injuries, but in time the greeting becomes a
formality. Recognition Ritual is an attempt to bring the exchange into the life we all
understand best—dance and learning to speak in dance. It may be preceded by From
Now (chapter 10).
All fill the space in a large circle, pacing about, getting limber and preparing to
dance. Whoever is ready and willing, step into the center and dance your answer
to the unspoken question, “How are you?” All the others will pay close attention to
what you are “saying,” having the option of responding to what they “hear” posi-
tively, negatively or indifferently. Their responses may range from lifts to touching
to circling or dance actions at a distance. There is no proper response. Whenever
you are ready to quit, you retire to the edge of the circle and another person will
step into the center and “tell” us how he.she is. Each person holds the center for
as long as needed. Recognition Ritual ends when the last person steps back to the
circle’s edge.

181 Exercises: Level 5

 13 Exercises
Level 6

Make a Gather in groups of three. Any one of you, on any impulse, will release from your
Phrase body a short phrase of dance. The other two learn it. As soon as “the teacher” nods,
satisfied that what was given was learned, one of the others repeats the phrase and
adds another short phrase of dance which the other two learn, always starting with
the first dance phrase. When number two indicates satisfaction, the third person,
starting with the first and second dance phrase, adds a third phrase of movement
which is learned by the other two.
This flow of learning and adding continues until the dancers feel that they have
collectively created a string of moves that are just long enough. How will you know?
Worry not. It will feel right, and you will stop adding and begin to really learn to do
the entire sequence. The test is to do the complete sequence at least twice without
pausing at the repeat.
Having done this, the three of you separate, going to work at mastering what was
made. Only one third of the whole phrase was yours. Now you have the problem
of making all of it yours. When you feel that you have mastered it, return to the
area where you were working together. When all three are finished, go through the
entire phrase twice, dancing full out and yet moving in unison. There will be subtle
differences and that’s fine.
Satisfied that you all can do it, you are ready to embark on an exciting complexity.
First, do the entire phrase twice, together. Having done that, each of you is free
to improvise with the material with only two restrictions. You can do any one
movement as slowly or as quickly as you wish and as often as you wish, with any
dynamic—turning it, carrying it into the air or to the floor—just
— so long as the order
of the moves remains sacrosanct. The sequence is inviolable; how often or what you

182
 do with each move is your choice. The second restriction is that every move and
choice is about, to and for what one or both the others are doing. You never slide off
into a solo preoccupation. This is preeminently a trio. Go at it until I call a halt.
The next problem is to answer a question. Is there, in your dance phrase, an energy
trying to become something? The three of you will come to the answer just by talk-
ing and agreeing; or, you will dance for another trio and ask them what they think
you are trying to become; or the teacher/leader will say what he.she sees. You now
have a goal—a place or a state of being that you want to reach. Once that is settled,
again follow the structure of doing the long phrase twice and then improvising
(still observing the two restrictions), now with the need to arrive at the state of
being agreed upon and thus coming to a finish.
Some examples from actual classes will clarify the dynamic of this exercise. One
trio seemed possessed by a frenetic intensity. I told them, “You are fiercely resolved to
discover serenity together.” They did—after a long and frenzied struggle. Another trio
looked like karate-style warriors. I told them: “You are gladiators. Only one of you will
be left alive by the evening’s end. Your long phrase is the ritual warmup that you have
been trained to do. In the changing room before you enter the arena, you warm up
together, first in the ritual and then in the improvisation. You are studying the style
and weakness or strength of the other two, all the while trying to gain a psychological
advantage. There is no physical contact. When you are ready, you stop in the pose that
best exhibits your power.” They were two men and one woman and we hardly breathed
as we watched.
In Make a Phrase, I saw quite a few students discover for the first time what it meant
to be a person doing something in dance without deliberately carrying that ridiculous
sing, “Look Ma, I’m dancing.” They were dancing without trying to.

Rituals of The power game involves all of us in one way or another. It is the doorway for most
Power of the pain coming into the world, whether among nations or intimate circles of fam-
ily or friends, or it is the lever of compassion and love. Rituals of Power needs five
to seven dancers sophisticated in the techniques of improvisation that we have been
describing. The turmoil of a stage full of egos working for domination or subservience
will challenge the ability of all to accommodate to changes and surprises. Rituals of
Power can be set anywhere: a business office, a royal court, a military unit, a fraternity
house and so on.
All sit in a circle, big enough to observe all. Accept the premise that we are all guests
at a luxurious home in the country. First, all do a Mind-Wash (chapter 9). Then,
after simply looking at all the others in the circle, ask yourself, “Who are these people
sharing this weekend with me?” Everyone will create his.her own secret cast. Who

183 Exercises: Level 6

 are you, and where do you rank in popularity, talent, power? Who do you think
might look up to you? Who is your equal? To whom would you defer? Where do
you want to be in the power-prestige structure of this group, and what are you
willing you do to get there? What is the dance metaphor, the physical metaphor for
the task you have set for yourself? When you have the answers to these questions,
turn your palms upward and rest your hands on your knees.
When the last person does this, she.he rises, leaves the circle and goes to find a
place in an imaginary line that faces the circle, placing her.himself at what might
be the head, middle, or the rear, depending upon where she.he ranks her.himself.
Then, clockwise, the next person rises to do the same—and so on until all are in
the line, self-ranked. There will be surprises and some gentle jostling as individuals
negotiate for “their” position within this group.
When the group has settled into a line with a “leader” at the head, the “leader” walks
to one side of the space and faces into the space. The person behind goes to stretch
out prone and at right angles at the foot of the leader. Each person in turn does the
same, a couple of feet away from the previous person. When all are in place, the
leader walks across the bodies of all to find his.her place to do Each Alone (chapter
10). Then the first person to lie down rises, steps across the bodies of the others
and finds a place to do Each Alone. In this order, one by one the others rise to do
similarly. At this juncture, the taped music will begin.
When you finish Each Alone and have become X, you move to engage one or more
of the others with the intent of realizing the task, the ambition you have set for
yourself, unless your X is trying to be unnoticed. Your X may have a high-ranking
position in the group and yet wish to avoid the responsibility and the exposure
it entails. Follow the needs of your X. The development of this stage of Rituals of
Power is exactly like The Duet as a Structure (chapter 10), except that now there
are more than two people onstage. Depending upon who you are, will determine
how many you deal with. One character might try to affect everyone, while another
may focus on only one other. If and when you realize your task, you celebrate that
in dance and leave the dance floor. Similarly, if you are convinced you cannot suc-
ceed, you dance that resignation and leave.
If this exercise works well for the group, try revisiting it a week or so later:
You will sit as before, anywhere in the circle, clear your heads and go back to Ritu-
als of Power, as you experienced it last week. What do you recall? What happened?
Did you change? Did you change anyone? Did you succeed? Fail? What was left
undone? What did you learn about these people—about yourself? In reality, we
have already lived a part of Rituals of Power and this will be a continuation of what
happened last week. As you sit in the circle, observing each other, you should ask
yourself, “What remains to be done? Having lived through this and that with these

184 The Workbook

 others, what am I now going to do? What am I going to try to become?” The order
in which you line up and lie down will probably change. Much will be different
and some things the same. Find out!
By its very nature, there is no way that anyone can predict how an improvisation
will shape up. It may go flat. If so, so be it. A tennis match between the two hottest
players in the world may be a bore. How many Super Bowls produced super yawns?
Professional wrestling is always exciting (if that’s your taste), because it is theatrically
plotted and choreographed. When you go to a genuine sporting event, you hope for
excitement and may get it—or not. Honest improvisation is no different. As an exercise
in acting technique for dancers, Rituals of Power is unparalleled. It takes The Duet as
a Structure and carries it to a richer and more demanding level.

Props One can fire up the imagination to find, create and become with a prop or a costume.
Fantasy† It really doesn’t matter from where you start, just so long as you ultimately plunge in
deep enough to get your eyelashes wet with the magic “if.”
Set out in the space anything that is available: a wine bottle, chairs, a table, a book,
a pillow, etc. Two of you enter the space and begin to deal with what you find there.
Beginning on a literal level is fine. Where and when does the literal spin away into
fantasy and metaphor?

Processional† Start with a Hub Meditation while all are seated, eyes closed: Out of your past was
there someone to whom you never spoke your love? Rise when you can see that
person or a person you imagine and go to the perimeter of the room.
For the next section, find some music that can support slow gliding strides. It should
have a lyric, a blues or a ballad base.
Cross the space twelve times, each in your own world. Every cross is a poem to a
different part of the beloved, a poem that describes, evokes or becomes that body
part. The sequence is the same for all the dancers: the hair, the eyes, the mouth,
the neck, the chest/bosom, the shoulders, the elbows, the belly/voice, the pelvis,
the thighs/knees, the feet and finally the totality, the beloved, entire. Each cross
uses that particular part of the body as the focus of the movement, like the pen of
the poem. This is not meant to be an isolation sequence. The entire body supports
the action of the focal point of each cross. The form of the twelve crosses takes its
structural cue from Circles. On the last cross, pause to become the beloved—to
become a statue of the beloved in motion.

1855 Exercises: Level 6

Ping Pong Two dancers face each other about twenty feet apart. Either one starts by “throw-
ing” a movement gesture across the space to the other. The receiver accepts the
imagined impact of the gesture into his.her body, letting it ride in and out of the
body. The body change made by the thrown gesture shapes what is thrown back to
the original sender, who continues the game of receiving and sending. The impro-
visation continues back and forth. The image to think of is the jai alai basket—a
scoop that receives the ball only to swoop it out in return. This is not and should
not be a mirror exercise in that the receiver returns what was sent. In jai alai, as in
racketball and as in life, the receiver’s response is a function of three factors: what
was thrown, the nature of the receiver and the position of the receiver.

Adam and This exercise for two dancers is a variation of Ping Pong. It can be adapted for any
Eve characters—Hamlet and his mother, Willy Loman and his son, or any characters that
you make up together.
You are Adam, and you are Eve. You are at opposite sides of the space. In the begin-
ning, Eve, who has never yet slept, is looking at Adam, who is asleep for the first
time. After a while Adam wakes and discovers Eve for the first time. This is Ping
Pong. You cannot come any closer than you are.

The Another exercise for a duet, created by a pair of very good dancers in a workshop in
Minnesota the Minnesota woods. It teaches students not only to act on the basis of observing each
other but to anchor that observation in a personal commitment: they are dancing for
Duet
something they want—for themselves.
Face each other from opposite corners of the space, your arms crossed on your
chest. Contemplate each other, asking, “What is there in that person across the
room that I would like to possess for myself?” List all those qualities and wait until
one shines out more than all the others. When you know for certain what that one
quality is, give the signal by uncrossing your arms to hang at your sides. When the
second dancer makes this deciding gesture, both of you approach each other to
possess that quality which you are determined to absorb into yourself. Become what
you desire. You can use proximity to get what you want but no body contact, no
touching, no pointing and no illustrating with the hands. When you have captured
or absorbed what you desired, leave.
When this was done the first time, it had all the tension and design of a Western
facedown. Possessing the quality of someone else seems like a crazy idea at first but it
is the paramount activity of adolescents as they “try on” personalities for size, a peren-

1866 The Workbook

 nial activity of some highly impressionable personalities, the professional task of all
performers in the theatre but alas, a terrifying prospect for rigid people desperate to
keep intact the image they have of themselves.

Prison For this exercise you will need to construct, in your work space, separate enclosures or
cells about six feet by four. Use cushions, chairs—whatever is available.
Step inside the space furthest from where you are now. When you arrive, you have
only one thing to deal with, the word prison. Whatever that word means to you and
whatever flows from or away from that word, is what happens.
When I did this with the Workgroup, it provoked some of the most profound and
complex improvisations I had ever seen. The dancers used that word the way an oyster
uses a grain of sand, taking it in internally and growing something significant around
it. Make your own setting and try it with any word you choose: drop forestt into to your
mind, let it swim about for a while and odds are you will find yourself in world as dense
and active as the forest and possibly as vivid as an actual forest.

*Focusing One day I observed two dancers engaged in a swirling, twisting, turning duet, remarkable
for the fact that they never lost eye contact: on the floor, turning, in the air or running.
It had the quality of a good-humored duel.
Someone, something cannot or will not stop looking into the eyes of another.
The beauty of this fanatical locking into an activity is how often it leads the danc-
ers into virtuosic movement. It follows directly from Tamiris’s challenge to “follow
through.” Make your own task that involves a pair or more dancers and pushes them
to the limits.

*Ariadne’s If there ever was an exercise in sense memory, and of the imagination, this is it. The
Dance† name comes from the princess who saved Theseus from the Minotaur’s deadly labyrinth;
he deserted her on the island of Naxos.
A pair of lovers have just parted. The one who remains freezes like a statue of the
deserted Ariadne. Standing there full of longing, bit by bit, particle by particle, the
body decays and crumbles. For as long as it takes, the dancer is “gone,” dead, as it
were, on the floor; but some part resists, and bit by bit and particle by particle, life
is regained until erect. There is actually strength—a new strength, not seen before,
and this phoenix-figure covers the space to an exit, but not the exit taken by the
one who turned away.

1877 Exercises: Level 6

*Whatever Wherever you are, you are. Whatever happens, happens.
Happens,
There are any number of places in the country where dancers meet regularly for a
Happens† few hours a week, people coming and going, dancing, observing, with no supervision or
ground rules and no judgment. For any group or class that is engaged in cracking open
this matter of acting technique for dance performance, a venture into this open-ended
way could deliver some surprises worth the risk. And risk it is, as is all improvisation.
Three particulars need to be said: for our purposes here, Whatever Happens, Happens
should be done by a group that has been working together for a few months, at the very
least. Secondly, one or two people or the teacher/leader should stay out observing and
being en gardee against the actions of people getting too close to the edge. Third, and
this is only Daniel speaking, don’t make a habit of it.

*Tandem Pick some strong music with a powerful momentum and start off with a good impro-
Solo visor.
One of you will go to the center of a circle of dancers. As you listen to the opening
strains of the music, catch an idea out of what you hear and then take off. After a
while, I will call out the name of another dancer who will replace the first one in
the center of the circle. The challenge for that second dancer will be to realize what
she.he reads as the intent of the first dancer. After a while, I will call out a third
dancer, who tries to continue what the second dancer had been doing and so on,
until near the end of the music, I would say, “Everyone finish it.”

*Relay Solo This is a tricky development of Tandem Solo. Use music or not, as you choose.
Six to nine people sit in a circle, all with eyes closed and all meditating on a specific
idea for a dance. Whoever gets one first slaps her.his palm on the floor three times,
thereby claiming the space and the right to begin. Call this person A. The floor-
slapping opens everyone’s eyes. Dancer A rises to enter the circle and, taking all the
time he.she needs, begins his.her solo. All observe A closely. Whenever A is ready,
he.she says “Now” for all to hear, stops dancing and retires to the circle’s edge. All
rise and attempt to take off from where A said “Now.” Dancer A remains standing
and observing; when A sees someone who seems to be following through with what
had been started, he.she calls out the name of that person. All the others stop danc-
ing, retire to the circle’s edge and observe this second soloist, B. Dancer B continues
developing what A started, calls out “Now” when ready and leaves the center for
the others to attempt to continue in the direction taken. When the fourth person
says “Now,” all rise and try to support what D is doing—this now becomes a group
dance rather than competing soloists. The cue to bring the dance to a close comes
from D, who stops dancing.

188 The Workbook

 You may choose to have more than four soloists.
Tandem Solo and Relay Solo both require strong powers of observation, and that,
for all performers, dancers, singers and actors, is precious: the ability to “read” another.

*Performing If you have at your disposal any piece of choreography that has an extended passage
in Unison for two or more dancers moving in unison, rehearse it to achieve not only full technical
command but as exact unison as possible. Plan to perform it for the group or class.
The problem for both the doers and the watchers: do the dancers just dance the hell
out of it, all the while looking out of the corner of their eyes and smiling like crazy, or
is it a choreography that demands a more complex justification? Who are you and why
are you all doing the same thing at the same time? Can you justify the unison activity?
Does the inherent anonymity give you a freedom you don’t possess when you are doing
a more individual and responsible role? Is there an ecstasy possible when the individual
is submerged in the group?
Unison looks so simple, but from my standpoint it is anything but. I can think of
no exercise that forms a greater challenge to justification than this. On rare occasions,
I have seen dancers pour their hearts out in an ecstasy that is overflowing becausee they
are dancing together—in unison.

*Ham and Paul Zimet, one of the leading members of the Open Theatre, gave occasional acting
Clove lessons to the Workgroup. Once, he asked Lee Connor and me to read and work on a
scene between Ham and Clove from Endgamee by Samuel Beckett. The next day, Lee
and I were about to go over the scene again and I said, “Why don’t we do it our way, as
a Duet? Our characters and intentions were clearly defined. All we had to do was follow
the exact route of a Duet and we had a dance—and surprise, we did. It proved alive
enough to be performed publicly many times and was called Ham and Clove.
Ham is blind, and limited to a small space (a wheelchair in the play). He depends
on Clove and needs a physical hold on him to control him. Clove is young, agile
and now finally rebellious, enjoying keeping out of Ham’s powerful reach.
Take any pair or group of characters that excites you, from anywhere: the theatre,
novels, films, soap operas, your life. It is all out there for the using.

Signs of the For anyone working alone, only the initial phase of this exercise is potentially useful. It
Times† can ignite further solo work, either as improvisation or choreography.
Find your place in the space and seat yourself. With your breath, create a clear
space in your mind. (A bit of time.) Wherever you go, wherever you look, there

189 Exercises: Level 6

 are signs saying things to you, informing you, ordering you, beseeching you. Do a
Hub Meditation on as many signs as you can recall. Which is the one that is there
in your mind, regardless of what new ones you recall?
When it is clear that the hub is occupied, rise and begin to say the words of that
sign silently, to yourself, at any tempo, until it settles into a definite rhythm. As you
are doing this, allow the body to follow the impulses, dictates, undercurrents, the
literal and the metaphoric elements of your sign. Gradually shape your motions and
your words into a repetitive phrase. When you can do this with authority several
times over, stop and go to the perimeter of the floor.
When the last person has left the working area for the floor’s edge, from your posi-
tion, in your own time, you can now utter your sign aloud for the first time—loud
enough for all to hear, simultaneously moving through the motions of your sign.
After you fully establish the sound-motion presence of your sign, begin to take
cognizance of the others. What they are doing and saying? Depending on how
they affect you, the you that is bound up in your sign will direct with whom you
choose to interact and what you want to do with, for or to that other person/sign.
From here on, do not alter or augment the words, but they can be rephrased
rhythmically, intellectually or emotionally, depending upon what happens. The
movement phrase can be dealt with in a more fluid way. Body contact, repetitions
of single motions, altered dynamics, turning, shifting the phrase to the floor or
into the air are all possible, but no radical movement changes should occur. You
are finished when your intent in regard to one or more of the others is fulfilled or
unequivocally defeated.

Become This resembles Signs of the Times. It too asks for a Hub Meditation that calls up the
a Public contemporary scene. As in Signs of the Times, only the initial phase will serve solo
Figure† improvisation and/or choreography.
Do a Hub Meditation on figures who are in the public eye. Let a parade of them
pass before your mind’s eye until one cannot be displaced from the hub of your
mind. When that happens proceed to do an Each Alone, that is, becoming your X
one part of the body at a time. Taking all the time needed, prepare a full-length
portrait of your X. When you have become X, look about you. Do you need to
relate to all, some or one of the others? By relating, what do you mean? What do
you want to do to, for or against the other(s)? What is your dance metaphor for
what you want to do? Having answered these questions, proceed to live out your
intentions.

190 The Workbook

 This exercise can use the format of The Duet, Rituals of Power or Inside the Outside.
In the few times this exercise was given, the results were audacious, vivid and full of
authority. Why? Perhaps, like finding the inner rhythm of someone who attracts your
interest even though they rub you negatively, we are freer in our observations than
when we are looking within.

191 Exercises: Level 6

192 The Workbook
A P PE ND I C E S A N D I N D EX

193
194
appendix a

Anecdotal Material

Theory. Theory. Theory. Sometimes the recounting of a few actual events

can ground ideas, making them more useful. In a choreography class at the
American Dance Festival, Adam Battelstein, a monk praying, strong dance
with unusual moves, much energy and a good strong continuous thread of
thematic development. I fall asleep. I ask him to do it the next day. I watch
and my mind registers a blank.
Class talks. “There’s no dynamic buildup.” “You’re not using the space. You don’t
move from downstage right.” “There’s no rhythmic drive or excitement.” Then I ask
him to do it once more. He does about twenty seconds and I finally get a glimmer of
what might be wrong. Not choreography but performance—the inner life. I take him
aside. “What you are doing is forbidden. Your superiors consider this ritual sacrilegious.
If anyone in the order learns of it, you will be excommunicated, but you find yourself
compelled to do itt in spite of the danger. You know you will have no life outside and yet
you persist.”
This time the piece is hair-raising. He still has no dynamic buildup; he is still
huddling downstage right with his back to the stage area and the rhythm is still tight,
restrained and erratic. We are all caught up with his passion and yet the choreography
has not been altered. There are some new accents, strange rhythmic breaks, and we
are not sure whether he has taken a breath for the entire length of his dance. Some
of us also had difficulty breathing. It is not enough to do something. There must be a
contradiction, an obstacle, a reason for nott doing what you are doing.
At Arizona State University, Gregory Nuber presents a lovely and brilliantly danced
solo that has elements of greeting to the audience, showing off and having a good time
with excellent elevation. The problem: Greg is really happy when he is lusting with
pleasure in the movement. He is confused, embarrassed and unconvincing when he is
expected to address the audience directly. The piece is difficult and some of the technical
challenges dominate his mind, all of which makes for an uneven performance.

195
 Suggestion: “You live in a beautiful city of which you are very proud. Show the
beautiful places in your city. Describe and reveal them with your body.” It works briefly
and unevenly. I try another tack. “You are the music. Your body is creating the music.
Your body is singing the music to us.” He starts off flying but soon seems more confused
than ever. I ask him, “How would Baryshnikov do this stuff?” His eyes light up and he
sails into a full-breasted, hungry-for-space version that does not let up until the last few
moments. It took more energy than he anticipated and he ran down, but it worked. It is
not enough to give what you think is a valid direction. It is futile to demand that your
brilliant direction be followed when it doesn’t ignite the performer. You have to find
the one that works. As a performer, it matters not what own your internal image is if:
(1) “it lights your fire,” and (2) it looks to the choreographer exactly what was wanted.
She.he need not know what is going on inside, only what is seen.
Kathleen Henry: This is an elegant and sensuous study with gentle swaying, tilts
and torso thrusts forward and back. The problem: Done in anxiety and uncertainty. I
learn that it is a Luigi study. The suggestion: “You are getting lost in a morass of self-
focus which has nothing to do with Luigi. You say he is your hero but when you dance
you think only of your limitations. Next time there will only be your homage and
devotion to every nuance of Luigi’s lovely movement.” Amazing. She acts relieved. In
the most innocent way she accepts the premise that we will not look at her weaknesses
as a dancer and only look at Luigi’s wonderful study. She looks and dances quite well, a
bit unsteady, but her lack of concern about herself carries her and us directly to Luigi.
Kurt Anton: A tall, very strong dancer in the prime of young power and daring,
doing commercial work, clubs, industrial shows, and so on. The piece he shows us is
new and has been performed once. It is a blast from beginning to end: full of virtuosity,
speed, frontal assault, seduction, all vitiated by intermittent tension about the technical
displays, some being quite difficult. It is crisscrossed by a shifting focus and no central
spine.
My suggestion: “Every move is a breeze. You’re dancing on shipboard and there
are several devastatingly beautiful women on the cruise. It would delight you if they
made a play for you rather than having to make the exertion.” He does it to the hilt and
the viewers all sense the seduction gambit, saying it was done quite well. The technical
work looked more secure and less tense. But I sense he feels uneasy doing this.
I ask him, “Do you like doing this seduction bit?” “Not really.” “Do you like these
moves?” “Yes, yes!” “Well, glory in them and celebrate your power in doing them.
Welcome the audience to share your pleasure in what you are doing.” He performs it
with happiness and it is very good.
Oraldo Para: A ritualistic dance. The problem: He is young in dance technique and
does his best. There is self-consciousness due to this. The suggestion: I ask him to close
his eyes.

1966 Appendix A
 D: Does this dance take its inspiration from some work of art?
O: Yes.
D: Can you see some of this art in your mind right now?
O: (A bit of time.) Yes.
D: Can your body fill out, no, better, become one of these works of art with all of
its strength and style?
O: (His eyes open startled. Thinks a bit more.) Yes, of course.
He danced full out, a little past his technique but it was dancing. At a three-day
workshop at the New York University Tisch School of the Arts, there is a session on just
this problem—acting technique for dance performance. Weeks ahead, students were
told to bring to performance level a dance that will be viewed only for its performance
quality and not at all for its choreography. Names have been lost in time.
The first is a lithe, dark-haired dancer who begins upstage left with an insouci-
ant pose, legs crossed. To a deliciously funky boogie-woogie by Meade Lux Lewis he
begins to slither in fairly good jazz style in a diagonal toward downstage right. There is
an element of teasing seduction which is constantly being sidelined by sudden violent
virtuosic falls and turns. No sooner than he reaches downstage right he has shifted his
focus to us, the audience (students, faculty and Daniel), dazzling us with his skill and
sexy moves.
The response is mild and the comments caught on to the obvious that the focus
was messy. Out of hearing by the class, I tell him: “You kept changing your focus. First,
a man alone, then vamping someone just past downstage right, and then showing off
for us. Is there someone there in that corner that interests you?” “No, no.” “Do you
have someone who reallyy interests you?” “Yeh.” “Is that person in this room?” A sigh.
“Nope . . . in Chicago.” “You are going to be a magician. In that first pose, you re-create
X from Chicago in your mind. When you begin to dance that diagonal from upstage
left, your moves are going to bring X to life here in this room. Your moves are a portrait
of X. They are conjuring up X all the way from Chicago. By the time you finish the
diagonal, X has arrived! From then on, you celebrate your achievement and show off
for the benefit of X.
He loved the direction, has full fun with it and provoked bits of laughter throughout.
The class approved. I asked him to tell the class what I had told him. He stumbled about,
embarrassed and inarticulate. “Someone is over there and I’m dancing and showing
off.” I try to articulate it and am not much better. “He was a magician and his dance
could re-create someone.” Why was I also embarrassed? It was the kind of metaphor
that works and sounds silly when revealed to others.
Another dancer. He is short, red-haired and strongly built. He also begins upstage
left. As his music starts, he plunges into it with all his force. It is a rawly sung gospel ver-
sion of “Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?” He seems utterly transported

1977 Anecdotal Material

 as he works his way diagonally downstage. In less than two minutes he is confronting
us, dancing at us in sequences of violent and daring falls. There are a few leaps and
spins. Midway his back is to us and he is working the upstage area with lurching lateral
progressions. The dance ends with intensely dramatic poses that compete with the
emotionality of the singer. His intensity, physical virtuosity and daring is impressive,
but neither I nor his fellow students seem to have been moved. We have been looking at
him from a distance and were not caught up in his actions or his emotion. They criticize
the strong use of his face. One said the dance had no shape. One dancer loved it. I
draw him aside and out of hearing of the students. “Don’t answer any of my questions,
only nod your head when you have the answer in your own mind. . . . Is the man who
is dancing alone? . . . Is there anyone watching him? . . . Does he want something to
happen? . . . Is this something important to him? . . . Does he have the power to make
it happen? . . . What would it matter if it did not happen?? . . . Who is he? . . . Don’t start
until you have the answers to all these questions and you know where you are.
The dancer spends a long time brooding up in his corner of the space. Finally, he
takes his place upstage left facing diagonally across the space and nods to the student
running the tape recorder. The singer launches full force into the song and the dancer
doesn’t move for a very long time as he gazes into the distance. Finally, he lowers his
head and begins to move in a most deliberate manner in contradiction to the soaring
passion of the singer and in the same deliberate manner he begins to accelerate and
intensify his moves until he almost reaches the wildness of the climax of the first version,
pauses on the crest of the music and is still. This one got more than fierce applause.
Some were moved enough for tears. I was shaken.
Aside from the integrity of his performance, there was the brilliant compression of
his own choreography. He barely left out anything of the first version, touching upon all
the points but using an economy of expression that stood up against the baroque full-
ness of the singer. The beginning, the “doing nothing,” was as compelling as any other
part of the dance. It is rare that a direction produces results as full and to the point as
this one.

At the American Dance Festival in 1993, I broke one of my sacred rules. In the Acting for
Dance Performance class, a dancer rises to show one of her two dances. The technique
is astonishing. Really good elevation, high extensions sustained by iron legs, spins that
finish in tight, sustained soussus and a vigorous relation to the music beat. The taste
indicated in the choreography is sheer display and nothing else. The performance is
cursed by a facial tension that speaks of panic—utter terror of making a mistake by
one who is making no mistakes. “Don’t speak your answers. Just nod your head when
you have the answer. What is your favorite holiday? Celebrate your favorite day of the
year.” Nothing, absolutely nothing. She is as grim as ever. I tried three other set-ups.
Nothing. The same tight mouth, the lips disappearing, the large wet eyes that always
seem to have just been weeping staring fixedly through her frozen face.

198 Appendix A
 Finally, I give up. “I am going to violate a rule. I don’t care how you feel, how ner-
vous you are about performing, I want you to arbitrarily force your face into a smile
and dance at the same time. Show me a broad smile.” With difficulty she stretches her
lips laterally under the staring eyes. “OK, that’s the face.” She gets into position with
tight face, the music starts, she cracks a smile and in the first move loses it all. She is
as brilliant as ever technically—and as panic-stricken. Who or what frightened her to
the degree that she has a paralyzed face? I am very sad for her and it is apparent that I
cannot and should not function as a therapist.

It would appear from the foregoing that I am some kind of whiz at analyzing perfor-
mance weakness and coming up with magical solutions. I am not, I fail at times, but
generally, I am good at this work. I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of writing this
book if I did not have good reason to believe that. How does one get to be good at this
kind of teaching, direction and analysis? It is all in the mind. It is all in how one looks
at things.
Many of my colleagues seem to be caught up in the moving designs created by the
dancers. If these are engaging, elegant and inventive that, to them, is a successful dance.
They focus more on what the dance looks like and less on what is being done. Do I
think my way is a better way of looking? Of course. That’s why I wrote this book.
To return to the question that cued this discussion: How does one get to be good
at this kind of teaching and direction? If the six questions are present in the mind of
the viewer, the teacher, the leader, the director, the choreographer, then what was not
noticed before will be there. Perhaps it will not be as clear as a hand before the face,
but there will be enough for the leader and the dancer to try this and that as they inch
closer and closer to the truth as they both sense it.

199 Anecdotal Material

appendix b

A Beat Analysis of Dance in the Sun

I am adamantly opposed to ever revealing what my dance works are about and I have
never understood it when my colleagues go on at length explaining the inspiration,
meaning and intent of what they are doing. But most people in the audience cannot
approach the choreographer and ask, “What were you doing? What did you mean? What
did you want us to see?” We must learn to deal only with what we see and perceive and
not with any explanations from the artist—or from the critics.
The magic of art is that it reaches out to many of us, though not all, in a way that
enkindles some part of our own experience and life, and in the light of that flame,
we grasp something that quickens us. At the core of that work of art is some part of
the artist’s experience and life. If the artist reveals the specific of that, our specific is
diminished, pushed to the background and probably erased. The exquisite balance that
exists in art is lost. On one side is the artist and on the other is the audience. Between
them is the object the artist made. They both make that object art. If this were not so,
how would it be possible for us to stand so still and shiver a bit as we gaze upon an
Apollo carved two thousand years ago, or gasp coming suddenly upon a burgundy red
Tang vase from China? The sculptor and the potter are long gone, but the object is there,
and so are we, with no artist to explain his.her meaning.
Having said this, I am going to present a beat analysis of Dance in the Sun, a dance
that has not been in my repertoire for many years. (It does exist in a film by Shirley
Clarke and is on videotape in my own videotape library.) Why am I betraying my own
principles? I have found in my teaching that the beats proved to be elusive for many,
despite the fact that their existence, whether consciously analyzed or created intuitively,
are essential to a performance that is alive and evolving every moment of the dance.

200
 The Impetus
I was walking and looking along a country road at the peak of autumn. Turning a bend
in the road, my eyes were filled by a young birch tree that seemed to be creating the color
yellow for the first time. I stopped, looking for a long time. In the days that followed,
the vision of that tree wouldn’t leave me. It had to be a dance. In the course of what is
described, there is constant reference to “seeing.” I am seeing—in my mind’s eye. I can
see the glow of that birch tree even now as I type this sentence. What I describe below
is not a barren stage but a breath-taking autumn day on a crest of Mt. Airy Road, in
Croton-on-Hudson, New York.

The Outer Action/The Inner Action

Entrance, walking slowly from downstage right along the apron looking about.
Looking and looking, never to forget what I am seeing.

Nearing stage left, head turns left, see something upstage left.
My eyes are filled by a young birch tree that seems to have swallowed the sun.

Pause and run up there, reaching right arm up as if to touch . . .

Why do I want to touch the leaves?

Both arms come up as if to embrace.

Seeing it all, tree and sky, I want to embrace it all. . . . Daniel, how pretentious!

Turn while dropping arms and letting sweatshirt fall.

Taking a long breath, still looking about.

Lyric arms flowing in successions starting from torso.

A mess of reaching, receiving and needing to touch the immensity of what I am looking
at.

Right leg raises slowly; glide run to downstage right; long, slow relevé; jumps in
place; run backward to upstage right; sissonnes into beat run in two circles.
Each single thing I see adds to a tide of energy and power that fills my body until I am
pouring it out, trying to fly up out of my skin, and I pound the ground in futility at my
limitations.

201 A Beat Analysis

 Glide run to downstage right; jumps in place; run back to do jumping run in circle;
glide run to downstage right; jump in place; run back to upstage center and stop to
pause.
Repeats what just happened with even more intensity.

The sexy box step; the torso aims to touch the sky; another glide run and everything
seems to move from the hips.
Taking a breath, a rest, backing off, the impact of all this takes on a faint erotic overtone.

The legs like a clock or a slow-motion seesaw.

Taking a long breath, sensing a new burst of trying to leave the limits of my skin to
merge with the sky and the tree.

Into the waltz and the big leaps; relevé and jumps in place.
I believe I have succeeded and I am flying, floating and hovering.

The flowing, lyric arms; slow pivot turn in place, looking about; finally going, pick up
sweatshirt and leave with one glance back.
Energy is spent and all that will be left will be the memory of this moment. Well,
remember it!

202 Appendix B
appendix c

Susanne K. Langer on Performance

A Critique

In the early fifties, an astonishing event occurred. A professional philosopher wrote

several books that regarded dance as a serious focus for study and analysis. These were
Philosophy in a New Keyy (New York: New American Library, 1951) and Feeling and
Form: A Theory of Artt (New York: Scribner’s, 1953) by Susanne K. Langer. Not until
Noverre in the eighteenth century and some of the nineteenth-century aesthetes like
Théophile Gautier and later Paul Valéry did any serious thinker spend any significant
amount of paper considering the nature and significance of dance in human culture.
Philosophers have been probing the meaning of our lives and the arts as far back as the
ancient cultures of Greece and Rome and, until recently, dance has not been on their
agenda. I am leaving out the cultures of Egypt, Asia, and the Near East because I am
ignorant of how their philosophers dealt with dance.
Without entering into the whys of this situation, Langer made a powerful impression
on some elements of the dance community, particularly in the academic area. I doubt
if any bearer of a Master of Fine Arts in Dance has not struggled through the tangles of
her writings. The irony of that awe of this philosopher is how she at significant points
denigrates dancers:
Isadora [Duncan] did not understand music musically. . . . Her musical taste as
such was undeveloped—not simply poor, but utterly unaccountable. . . . dancers
are not particularly discerning critics of music. . . . The writings of most thoughtful
dancers are often hard to read because they play so freely across the line between
physical fact and artistic significance. . . . to such an extent that their philosophical
reflections are apt to be as confused as they are rich. To a careful reader with ordinary
common sense they sound nonsensical; to a person philosophically trained they
seem, by turns, affected or mystical, until he discovers they are mythical. [Feeling
and Form, 170, 171, 186]

203
 Despite this contempt, her influence among dancers and teachers of dance persists.
The question being raised here is what did they take away from their study of Langer
and how might that have affected their thinking, teaching and creative work, specifically
in relation to the matter of performance? I find myself in disagreement with Langer on
many points, but what concerns us most in this book is how she views performance, a
matter into which she delves quite deeply.
Before plunging into the quotations from Langer and my disagreements, it would
be helpful to go to the dictionaries to draw out their definition of a word that is central
to her argument: virtual. American Heritage: existing or resulting in essence or effect
though not in actual fact, form or name: “the virtuall extinction of the buffalo.” Webster:
“being is essence of effect, not in fact; not actual, but equivalent, so far as effect is
concerned; as, ‘he is a virtuall stranger although we have met.’” In Problems of Artt (New
York: Scribner’s, 1957) Langer writes:
The image in a mirror is a virtual image. A rainbow is a virtual object. It seems
to stand on the earth or in the clouds, but it really “stands” nowhere; it is only
visible, not tangible. Yet it is a real rainbow, produced by moisture and light for any
normal eye looking at it from the right place. . . . if, however, we believe it to have
the ordinary properties of a physical thing, we are mistaken; it is an appearance, a
virtual object, a sun-created image. [P. 5, emphasis added]
Upon reading this paragraph, I lifted the phone and rang the Physics Department
at Arizona State University and was put in touch with a professor who does work for
NASA. I read him the paragraph and he flat out said, “No, no.” A rainbow, he explained
is “a physical thing,” an electromagnetic phenomena which is as material as your own
face. In both cases, we are looking at reflected light, not the object itself. The only time
we actually seee something is a light source such as the sun, the flame of a candle and a
light bulb. Everything else is a reflection, but reflections are material objects because light
is a material object—a physical thing.
Her key words are virtuall as juxtaposed against actual. On page 180 she writes:
The widely popular doctrine that every work of art takes rise from an emotion which
agitates the artist, and which is directly “expressed” in the work, may be found in the
literature of every art. . . . Now there is one curious circumstance, which points the
way out of this quandary: namely, that the really great experts—choreographers,
dancers, aestheticians, and historians—although explicitly they assert the emotive-
symptom thesis, implicitly contradict it when they talk about any particular dance
or any specified process. No one, to my knowledge, has ever maintained that
Pavlova’s rendering of slowly ebbing life in The Dying Swan was most successful
when she actually felt faint and sick, or proposed to put Mary Wigman into the
proper mood for her tragic “Evening Dances” by giving her a piece of terrible
news a few minutes before she entered on the stage. . . . It is imaginedd feeling that
governs the dance, not the real emotional conditions. . . . It is actual movementt but

204 Appendix C
 virtual self-expression. . . . In the dance, the actual and virtual aspects of gesture are
mingled in complex ways. The movements, of course, are actual; they spring from
an intention, and are in this sense actual gestures but they are not the gestures they
seem to be, because they seem to spring from feeling, as indeed they do not. The
dancer’s actual gestures are used to create a semblance of self-expression, and are
thereby transformed into virtual spontaneous movement, or virtual gesture. The
emotion in which such gesture begins is virtual, a dance element, that turns the
whole movement into dance-gesture.
Part of what she says here is indisputable in that artists having experienced an
emotion, go on to make an “if,” a magic “if,” but on reflection, how many times have I
and you told stories and experienced the emotion all over again, laughing or weeping?
There are times when I’ve been on the stage where the emotion of the moment and
my own emotions were close, and sometimes when I couldn’t tell one from the other.
One of the best performances of a piece of music that I got out of any composer, came
about because Eric Salzman wouldn’t record it the way I wanted and in the process of
our fight he got very upset and stormed his way through the piece with a conflicted
rage, which was exactly what the piece was about.
During an improvisation in a workshop in Hawaii, some of the dancers literally
wept as they danced. This weeping—this actual emotion—disturbed them so much
that we could not go on with our work until that was discussed. They were certain that
something very wrong had occurred. I asked them whether they would have questioned
an improvisation in which they had achieved an emotion of great elation and joy.
I have no idea as to whether Susanne K. Langer ever set foot on a stage except to
lecture on philosophy. To my mind, she speaks as one who has never performed. She
really does not know what she’s talking about. She simplifies what is quite complex. She is
correct in that artistzs are pretending. They observe, study, think about and reformulate
experiences from which they create metaphors for what they feel and believe. Dancers
rehearse over and over again choreography which is at times intensely emotional in
its content. The rehearsals tend to be businesslike, cool and collected as the motions
are learned and mastered. A corner is turned when they aree learned and mastered. The
magic “if ” that is the key to the theatre and to Stanislavski’s thinking takes over, and
then for some dancers there is an inner life wherein there is the semblancee of an emotion
oscillating with reall emotion.
The emotions of performers are like the waves beating on the shore. The water is
there, always, but sometimes it is swarming and flooding the beach and the rocks and
then it draws back, leaving the serene sweep of the clear sands. Just so the performer,
dancer, singer or actor glides in and out of the emotion that pervades the work. At all
times, he.she is immersed in the intent and the action, sometimes with a distance and an
objectivity and unexpectedly, with no planning or conscious control the actual emotion
surfaces, sweeping the artist to the highest levels of performance.
Langer makes the wrong dichotomy. Hers is actual versus virtual. Mine is not even

2055 Susanne K. Langer

 a dichotomy but rather the kind of unity seen in channels that border the ocean. The
tides rush out, leaving calm and quiet, and then they reverse to pour in the floodtide.
We are speaking of a continuity that contains a unity: an ebb and flow of the sea. Always
there is water. Onstage there is always the unity created by the choreography and the
role continually shaped by the flux within the performer. There are words for this
process—this flux: “out of it” and “in it,” “objective” and “subjective,” “self-conscious” and
“unself-conscious,” “distanced” and “immersed.” In performance, actual performance,
not the speculative one described by a philosopher sitting at her desk, performers
deliberately and consciously, with radically different techniques, put on the semblance
of doing and feeling that is appropriate to the role they are playing. I believe that most
performers at some entirely unplanned and unexpected moment slip into the role and
are no longer pretending because there is no longer the conscious self-awareness of
knowing that you are not really doing/feeling but only appearing to do/feel. In this loss
of self-awareness, they are actually doing/feeling what is appropriate to the role they
have assumed. They become something that cannot be jammed into the definition of
what she calls the “virtual gesture.”
Ironically, her definition of the virtual gestures is exactly what the Stanislavski
technique dubs as “indicating,” which is the most heinous act possible for a performer
who is dedicated to that technique which is the dominant one for American actors. As
an acting teacher would put it, “You lookk like you are doing, you are not doing. You are
making the appearancee of doing, not doing.” The premise of this school of performing
is that by doing, the actor/dancer will begin to feel what the character feels.
As a matter of fact, without this loss of self-consciousness in the act of performing
as a recurrentt experience, not only is the performer not performing well but he.she
is miserable. Having this intermittent experience of immersion in the role in class or
onstage is the chief reason that draws most actors, singers and dancers into the profession
of public performance and staying with it. Losing this capacity, which can happen,
becomes discouraging and a reason to quit the stage. This “in it” and “out of it” flow
governs the creative process as well. In this matter, either you believe that Susanne K.
Langer’s thinking is right and useful for you or the position presented here in The Six
Questions is valid.
This sporadic total absorption is not the secret province of performing artists. It
is an experience open to all: to a lawyer researching a case, a greengrocer arranging
rows of glistening Granny Smith apples, a teacher introducing the complexities of long
division and yes, a philosopher puzzling and probing the mystery of dance performance.
Becoming so fully concentrated on the task at hand that for a time there is no awareness
of self is the key to a fulfilled life in any line of work.
Consider the “virtual” and the “actual” in “real” life: What about enemies who greet
each other with embraces and fond wishes? How many weep at funerals while inwardly
celebrating the occasion? What of the mellifluous words of salespeople as they pour out
enthusiasm for what they know is a shabby product? If we listen closely to Langer, all

2066 Appendix C
 good liars and successful prostitutes should be regarded as artists. They are masters of
dissembling the virtual gesture. Coming closer to home, have you or I never conveyed
the semblance of an emotion?
Yes, artists structure themselves around an imagined world, and a basically
symbolic world. Out of her own life she should know that what is imagined and what
is a symbol—a metaphor—are all actual phenomena. What is imagined can rip us
apart just as profoundly as an earthquake. An unexpected insight after a dark period
of confusion can lift us into an exaltation that shakes us to the bone.
It could be asked, “Daniel, why did you drag this lady into your book and why are
you going on at such length about your disagreements with her?” My answer to that:
She has provided a generation of dancers and teachers of dance with an impressive
theoretical justification for dispassionate performance and dispassionate choreography.
She glorifies the shell of our art and diminishes its heart. I want and need both.

2077 Susanne K. Langer

appendix d

“The Duende,” by Federico Garcia Lorca

Federico Garcia Lorca (1898–1936) was a Spanish poet and dramatist. His plays are often
staged in America: Blood Wedding, The House of Bernardo Alba and Yerma. There is
less awareness here of his poetry, though one of Doris Humphrey’s major works created for
José Limon was based on “Lament for Ignacio Mejias.”
Why include this essay in a book about dance performance? Why does it look like prose
and read like poetry? It is at times obscure and includes many references to Spanish artists
unfamiliar to English speakers. In Spain and countries imbued with Spanish culture, the
term duende carries an aura of the ultimate challenge to every artist. Here in America,
the concept is rarely discussed, as such. Upon reading what follows, it will be apparent that
we here, all of us—audience, creators and performers—have witnessed and experienced
exactly this Duende without giving it its name because our language has no word for it. For
some its presence is disturbing, even threatening, and for others it is the glow emanating
from the art they value most.
The essay was composed and delivered by Lorca during his stay in Havana en route
from the United States; subsequently repeated in Buenos Aires for the Sociedad Amigos del
Arts (1934). As translated by Ben Belitt, it is reprinted from Poet in New Yorkk (New York:
Grove Press, 1955) by permission of the publisher.

The Duende1: Theory and Divertissement

Whoever inhabits that bull’s hide stretched between the Jucar, the Guadalete, the Sil,
or the Pisuerga2—no need to mention the streams joining those lion-colored waves
churned up by the Plata—has heard it said with a certain frequency: “Now that has
real duende! ” It was in this spirit that Manuel Torres, that great artist of the Andalusian
people, once remarked to a singer: “You have a voice, you know all the styles, but you
will never bring it off because you have no duende.”

208
 In all Andalusia, from the rock of Jaen to the shell of Cádiz, people constantly
speak of the duendee and find it in everything that springs out of energetic instinct.
That marvelous singer, “El Librijano,” originator of the Debla, observed, “Whenever I
am singing with duende, no one can come up to me”; and one day the old gypsy dancer,
“La Malena,” exclaimed while listening to Brailowsky play a fragment of Bach: “Olé!
That has duende!”—and remained bored by Gluck and Brahms and Darius Milhaud.
And Manuel Tortes, to my mind a man of exemplary blood culture, once uttered this
splendid phrase while listening to Falla himself play his “Nocturno dei Generalife”:
“Whatever has black sounds, has duende.” There is no greater truth.
These “black sounds” are the mystery, the roots that probe through the mire that we
all know of, and do not understand, but which furnishes us with whatever is sustaining
in art. Black sounds: so said the celebrated Spaniard, thereby concurring with Goethe,
who, in effect, defined the duendee when he said, speaking of Paganini: “A mysterious
power that all may feel and no philosophy can explain.”
The duende, then, is a power and not a construct, is a struggle and not a concept.
I have heard an old guitarist, a true virtuoso, remark, “The duendee is not in the throat,
the duendee comes up from inside, up from the very soles of the feet.” That is to say, it
is not a question of aptitude, but of a true and viable style—of blood, in other words;
of what is oldest in culture: of creation made act.
This “mysterious power that all may feel and no philosophy can explain,” is, in sum,
the earth-force, the same duendee that fired the heart of Nietzsche, who sought it in its
external forms on the Rialto Bridge, or in the music of Bizet, without ever finding it, or
understanding that the duendee he pursued had rebounded from the mystery-minded
Greeks to the dancers of Cádiz or the gored, Dionysian cry of Silverio’s siguiriya.3
So much for the duende; but I would not have you confuse the duendee with the
theological demon of doubt at whom Luther, on a Bacchic impulse, hurled an inkwell
in Nuremberg,4 or with the Catholic devil, destructive, but short on intelligence, who
disguised himself as a bitch in order to enter the convents, or with the talking monkey
that Cervantes’ mountebank carried in the comedy about jealousy and the forests of
Andalusia.5
No. The duendee I speak of, shadowy, palpitating, is a descendant of that benignest
daemon of Socrates, he of marble and salt, who scratched the master angrily the day he
drank the hemlock; and of that melancholy imp of Descartes, little as an unripe almond,
who, glutted with circles and lines, went out on the canals to hear the drunken sailors
singing.
Any man—any artist, as Nietzsche would say—climbs the stairway in the tower of
his perfection at the cost of a struggle with a duende—not
e with an angel, as some have
maintained, or with his muse. This fundamental distinction must be kept in mind if
the root of a work of art is to be grasped.
The Angel guides and endows, like Saint Raphael, or prohibits and avoids like Saint
Michael, or foretells, like Saint Gabriel.

209 The Duende

 The Angel dazzles; but he flies over men’s heads and remains in mid-air, shedding his
grace; and the man, without any effort whatever, realizes his work, or his fellow-feeling,
or his dance. The angel on the road to Damascus, and he who entered the crevice of the
little balcony of Assisi, or that other angel who followed in the footsteps of Heinrich
Suso,6 commanded—and there was no resisting his radiance, for he waved wings of
steel in an atmosphere of predestination.
The Muse dictates and, in certain cases, prompts. There is relatively little she can do,
for she keeps aloof and is so full of lassitude (I have seen her twice) that I myself have
had to put half a heart of marble in her. The Poets of the Muse hear voices and do not
know where they come from; but surely they are from the Muse, who encourages and
at times devours them entirely. Such, for example, was the case of Apollinaire, that great
poet ravaged by the horrible Muse with whom the divinely angelic Rousseau painted
him. The Muse arouses the intellect, bearing landscapes of columns and the false taste
of laurel; but intellect is oftentimes the foe of poetry because it imitates too much: it
elevates the poet to a throne of acute angles and makes him forget that in time the ants
can devour him, too, or that a great, arsenical locust can fall on his head, against which
the Muses who live inside monocles or the lukewarm lacquer roses of insignificant
salons, are helpless.
Angel and Muse approach from without; the Angel sheds light and the Muse gives
form (Hesiod learned of them). Gold leaf or chiton-folds: the poet finds his models in his
laurel coppice. But the Duende, on the other hand, must come to life in the nethermost
recesses of the blood.
And repel the Angel, too—kick out the Muse and conquer his awe of the fragrance
of the violets that breathe from the poetry of the eighteenth century, or of the great
telescope in whose lenses the Muse dozes off, sick of limits.
The true struggle is with the Duende.
The paths leading to God are well known, from the barbaric way of the hermit, to
the subtler modes of the mystic. With a tower, then, like Saint Theresa, or with three
roads, like St. John of the Cross. And even if we must cry out in Isaiah’s voice: “Truly,
thou art the hidden God!” at the end and at last, God sends to each seeker his first fiery
thorns.
To seek out the Duende, however, neither map nor discipline is required. Enough
to know that he kindles the blood like an irritant, that he exhausts, that he repulses, all
the bland, geometrical assurances, that he smashes the styles; that he makes of a Goya,
master of the grays, the silvers, the roses of the great English painters, a man painting
with his knees and his fists in bituminous blacks; that he bares a Mosen Cinto Verdaguer7
to the cold of the Pyrenees or induces a Jorge Manrique8 to sweat out his death on the
crags of Ocaña, or invests the delicate body of Rimbaud in the green domino of the
saltimbanque, or fixes dead fish-eyes on the Comte de Lautréamont in the early hours
of the boulevard.

210 Appendix D
 The great artists of southern Spain, both gypsies and flamenco, whether singing
or dancing or playing on instruments, know that no emotion is possible without the
mediation of the Duende. They may hoodwink the people, they may give the illusion of
duendee without really having it, just as writers and painters and literary fashion-mongers
without duendee cheat you daily; but it needs only a little care and the will to resist one’s
own indifference, to discover the imposture and put it and its crude artifice to flight.
Once the Andalusian singer, Pastora Pavon, “The Girl with the Combs,” a sombre
Hispanic genius whose capacity for fantasy equals Goya’s or Raphael el Gallo’s, was
singing in a little tavern in Cádiz. She sparred with her voice—now shadowy, now
like molten tin, now covered over with moss; she tangled her voice in her long hair
or drenched it in sherry or lost it in the darkest and furthermost bramble bushes. But
nothing happened—useless, all of it! The hearers remained silent.
There stood Ignacio Espeleta, handsome as a Roman turtle, who was asked once
why he never worked, and replied with a smile worthy of Argantonio: “How am I to
work if I come from Cádiz?”
There, too, stood Héloise, the fiery aristocrat, whore of Seville, direct descendant
of Soledad Vargas, who in the thirties refused to marry a Rothschild because he was not
of equal blood. There were the Floridas, whom some people call butchers, but who are
really millennial priests sacrificing bulls constantly to Geryon; and in a corner stood that
imposing breeder of bulls, Don Pablo Murabe, with the air of a Cretan mask. Pastora
Pavon finished singing in the midst of total silence. There was only a little man, one
of those dancing mannikins who leap suddenly out of brandy bottles, who observed
sarcastically in a very low voice: “Viva Paris!” As if to say: We are not interested in
aptitude or techniques or virtuosity here. We are interested in something else.
Then the “Girl with the Combs” got up like a woman possessed, her face blasted like
a medieval weeper, tossed off a great glass of Cazalla at a single draught, like a potion of
fire, and settled down to singing without a voice, without breath, without nuance, throat
aflame—but with duende!! She had contrived to annihilate all that was nonessential in
song and make way for an angry and incandescent Duende, friend of the sand-laden
winds, so that everyone listening tore at his clothing almost in the same rhythm with
which the West Indian negroes in their rites rend away their clothes, huddled in heaps
before the image of Saint Barbara.
The “Girl with the Combs” had to manglee her voice because she knew there were
discriminating folk about who asked not for form, but for the marrow of form—pure
music spare enough to keep itself in air. She had to deny her faculties and her security;
that is to say, to turn out her Muse and keep vulnerable, so that her Duendee might come
and vouchsafe the hand-to-hand struggle. And then how she sang! Her voice feinted no
longer; it jetted up like blood, ennobled by sorrow and sincerity, it opened up like ten
fingers of a hand around the nailed feet of a Christ by Juan de Juni9—tempestuous!
The arrival of the Duendee always presupposes a radical change in all the forms

211 The Duende

 as they existed on the old plane. It gives a sense of refreshment unknown until then,
together with that quality of the just-opening rose, of the miraculous, which comes
and instils an almost religious transport.
In all Arabian music, in the dances, songs, elegies of Arabia, the coming of the
Duendee is greeted by fervent outcries of Allah! Allah! God! God!, so close to the Ole! Ole!
of our bull rings that who is to say they are not actually the same; and in all the songs
of southern Spain the appearance of the Duendee is followed by heartfelt exclamations
of God alive!—profound,
! human, tender, the cry of communion with God through
the medium of the five senses and the grace of the Duendee that stirs the voice and the
body of the dancer—a flight from this world, both real and poetic, pure as Pedro Soto
de Roja’s over the seven gardens (that most curious poet of the seventeenth century),
or Juan Calimacho’s on the tremulous ladder of tears.
Naturally, when flight is achieved, all feel its effects: the initiate coming to see at last
how style triumphs over inferior matter, and the unenlightened, through the I-don’t-
know-what of an authentic emotion. Some years ago, in a dancing contest at Jerez de
la Frontera, an old lady of eighty, competing against beautiful women and young girls
with waists supple as water, carried off the prize merely by the act of raising her arms,
throwing back her head, and stamping the little platform with a blow of her feet; but
in the conclave of muses and angels foregathered there—beauties of form and beauties
of smile—the dying Duendee triumphed as it had to, trailing the rusted knife blades of
its wings along the ground.
All the arts are capable of duende, but it naturally achieves its widest play in the
fields of music, dance, and the spoken poem, since these require a living presence to
interpret them, because they are forms which grow and decline perpetually and raise
their contours on the precise present.
Often the Duendee of the musician passes over into the Duendee of the interpreter,
and at other times, when musician and poet are not matched, the Duende of the
interpreter—this is interesting—creates a new marvel that retains the appearance—and
the appearance only—of the originating form. Such was the case with the duende-ridden
Duse who deliberately sought out failures in order to turn them into triumphs, thanks
to her capacity for invention; or with Paganini who, as Goethe explained, could make
one hear profoundest melody in out-and-out vulgarity; or with a delectable young
lady from the port of Santa Maria whom I saw singing and dancing the horrendous
Italian ditty, “O Marie!” with such rhythms, such pauses, and such conviction that she
transformed an Italian gewgaw into a hard serpent of raised gold. What happened, in
effect, was that each in his own way found something new, something never before
encountered, which put lifeblood and art into bodies void of expression. . . .
When the Muse sees death on the way, she closes the door, or raises a plinth, or
promenades an urn and inscribes an epitaph with a waxen hand, but in time she tears
down her laurels again in a silence that wavers between two breezes. Under the truncated
arch of the Ode, she joins with funereal meaning the exact flowers that the Italians of

212 Appendix D
 the fifteenth century depicted, with the identical cock of Lucretius, to frighten off an
unforeseen darkness.
When the Angel sees death on the way, he flies in slow circles and weaves with tears
of narcissus and ice the elegy we see trembling in the hands of Keats and Villasandino10
and Herrera11 and Becquer12 and Juan Ramon Jiménez.13 But imagine the terror of the
Angel, should it feel a spider—even the very tiniest—on its tender and roseate flesh!
The Duende, on the other hand, will not approach at all if he does not see the
possibility of death, if he is not convinced he will circle death’s house, if there is not
every assurance he can rustle the branches borne aloft by us all, that neither have, nor
may ever have, the power to console.
With idea, with sound, or with gesture, the Duendee chooses the brim of the well for
his open struggle with the creator. Angel and Muse escape in the violin or in musical
measure, but the Duendee draws blood, and in the healing of the wound that never quite
closes, all that is unprecedented and invented in a man’s work has its origin.
The magical virtue of poetry lies in the fact that it is always empowered with
duendee to baptize in dark water all those who behold it, because with duende, loving
and understanding are simpler, there is always the certaintyy of being loved and being
understood; and this struggle for expression and for the communication of expression
acquires at times, in poetry, finite characters.
Recall the case of that paragon of the flamenco and daemonic way, Saint Theresa—
flamenca not for her prowess in stopping an angry bull with three magnificent
passes—though she did so—nor for her presumption in esteeming herself beautiful
in the presence of Fray Juan de la Miseria, nor for slapping the face of a papal nuncio;
but rather for the simple circumstance that she was one of the rare ones whose Duende
(not her Angel—the angels never attack) pierced her with an arrow, hoping thereby to
destroy her for having deprived him of his ultimate secret: the subtle bridge that links
the five senses with the very center, the living flesh, living cloud, living sea, of Love
emancipated from Time.
Most redoubtable conqueress of the Duende—and e how utterly unlike the case of
Philip of Austria who, longing to discover the Muse and the Angel in theology, found
himself imprisoned by the Duendee of cold ardors in that masterwork of the Escorial,
where geometry abuts with a dream and the Duendee wears the mask of the Muse for
the eternal chastisement of the great king.
We have said that the Duendee loves ledges and wounds, that he enters only those
areas where form dissolves in a passion transcending any of its visible expressions. . . .
The Duendee works on the body of the dancer like wind works on sand. With magical
force, it converts a young girl into a lunar paralytic; or fills with adolescent blushes a
ragged old man begging handouts in the wineshops; or suddenly discovers the smell of
nocturnal ports in a head of hair, and moment for moment, works on the arms with
an expressiveness which is the mother of the dance of all ages.
But it is impossible for him ever to repeat himself—this is interesting and must be

213 The Duende

 underscored. The Duendee never repeats himself, any more than the forms of the sea
repeat themselves in a storm.
In the bullfight, the Duendee achieves his most impressive advantage, for he must
fight then with death who can destroy him, on one hand, and with geometry, with
measure, the fundamental basis of the bullfight, on the other.
The bull has his orbit, and the bullfighter has his, and between orbit and orbit is
the point of risk where falls the vortex of the terrible byplay.
It is possible to hold a Muse with a muleta14 and an Angel with banderillas,15 and
pass for a good bullfighter; but for the faena de capa,16 with the bull still unscarred by
a wound, the help of the Duendee is necessary at the moment of the kill, to drive home
the blow of artistic truth.
The bullfighter who moves the public to terror in the plaza by his audacity does
not fightt the bull—that would be ludicrous in such a case—but, within the reach of
each man, puts his life at stake; on the contrary, the fighter bitten by the Duendee gives
a lesson in Pythagorean music and induces all to forget how he constantly hurls his
heart against the horns.
Lagartijo with his Roman duende, Joselito with his Jewish duende, Belmonte with
his baroque duende, and Cagancho with his gypsy duende, from the twilight of the ring,
teach poets, painters, and musicians four great ways of the Spanish tradition.
Spain is the only country where death is the national spectacle, where death blows
long fanfares at the coming of each Spring, and its art is always governed by a shrewd
duendee that has given it its distinctive character and its quality of invention. . . .
Each art has, by nature, its distinctive Duendee of style and form, but all roots join
at the point where the black sounds of Manuel Torres issue forth—the ultimate stuff
and the common basis, uncontrollable and tremulous, of wood and sound and canvas
and word.
Black sounds: behind which there abide, in tenderest intimacy, the volcanoes, the
ants, the zephyrs, and the enormous night straining its waist against the Milky Way.
Ladies and gentlemen: I have raised three arches, and with clumsy hand I have
placed in them the Muse, the Angel, and the Duende.
The Muse keeps silent; she may wear the tunic of little folds, or great cow-eyes gazing
toward Pompeii, or the monstrous, four-featured nose with which her great painter,
Picasso, has painted her. The Angel may be stirring the hair of Antonello da Messina,17
the tunic of Lippi,18 and the violin of Masolino19 or Rousseau.20
But the Duende—where
e is the Duende?? Through the empty arch enters a mental air
blowing insistently over the heads of the dead, seeking new landscapes and unfamiliar
accents; an air bearing the odor of child’s spittle, crushed grass, and the veil of a Medusa
announcing the unending baptism of all newly-created things.

1930

214 Appendix D
 Notes
1. The “duende”: Arturo Barea explains (Lorca: The Poet and His People): “Characteristically, Lorca
took his Spanish term for daemonic inspiration from the Andalusian idiom. While to the rest of
Spain the duendee is nothing but a hobgoblin, to Andalusia it is an obscure power which can speak
through every form of human art, including the art of personality.”
2. Jucar: river of east central Spain; Guadalete: river in southern Spain; Sil: river of northwestern
Spain; Pisuerga: river of northern Spain. Plata: river of South America, used by Lorca in the present
context to suggest the whole of the Hispanic world outside the borders of his native Spain.
3. Silverio’s siguiriya: Silverio Franconetti, an Italian “cantaor” who came to Seville and cultivated
the “deep song” (cante jondo) of the Andalusian gypsy. According to Lorca, the siguiriya is a
development of the cante jondo which combines elements of the primitive musical systems of
India, with the indigenous folk tradition of Andalusia. The flamenco style, which derives from
the cante jondo does not take form until the eighteenth century.
4. Nuremberg: Lorca is apparently in error here; it was at the electoral Castle of Wartburg in Eisenach
that the celebrated encounter occurred.
5. Here again Lorca is either in error, or indulging a playful hoax of his own.
6. Heinrich Suso: (1300–1366) German mystic and theologian.
7. Mosen Cinto Verdaguer: Jacinto Verdaguer (1845–1902), Catalan poet, author of La Atlantida.
8. Jorge Manrique: (1440–1479) Spanish poet and soldier, best known for the elegiac Coplas on his
father’s death.
9. Juan de Juni: (1507–1577) Spanish painter, pupil of Berruguete.
10. Alfonso Alvarez de Villasandino: (1350?–1424?) Writer of lyric and satirical verse, born in the
province of Burgos.
11. Fernando de Herrera: (1534–1597) Leader of the Andalusian school and innovator in the line of
Góngora.
12. Gustavo Adolfo Becquer: (1836–1870) Romantic lyric poet born in Madrid, best known for his
Rimas.
13. Juan Ramón Jiménez: (1881–19—) Contemporary lyric poet born at Moguer.
14. Muleta: Cloth of scarlet serge or flannel, folded and doubled over tapered wooden stick, used
by matadors for defense, the positional manipulation of the bull, “passes” to demonstrate the
dexterity and daring of the fighter, and as an aid in the final kill.
15. Banderilla: A small dart with a bannerol for baiting bulls, thrust in a series of three pairs into the
withers of the bull in the second phase of the bullfight.
16. Faena de capa: “cape-task”; the sum of work done by matador in third phase of the fight.
17. Antonello da Messina: (1430–1479) Italian painter born at Messina.
18. Fra Filippo Lippi: (1406–1469) Italian painter and Carmelite friar born in Florence.
19. Masolino da Panicole: (1383–1447) Italian painter born near Florence.
20. Henri Rousseau: (1844–1910) The French primitive painter, whose portrait of the poet Apollinaire
(La Muse Inspirant Le Poéte) is referred to earlier in the essay.

2155 The Duende

216
Index

Names of exercises followed assignments, first, 128–32 Broadway, xv, 27, 60

by their page numbers ap- attention, 98–99 Bronson, Charles, 42–43
pear in boldface. audience, 25–26 Brown, Carolyn. Seee The
Obstacle
Acting Technique for Dance Babilée, Jean, 38, 118 Bushmen of the Kalahari
Performance (class), 9, 105 Backdoor, 162 desert, 75
action, metaphoric, 95–96 Balanchine, George, 34–35
Actor Prepares, An. Seee Stan- Battelstein, Adam, 195 Cage, John, 140
islavski, Constantin Bausch, Pina, 82 Camus, Albert, xv, 104
Adam and Eve, 186 beats, 40–42 Caton, Edward, xv, 15
Adler, Stella, xv Beckett, Samuel. Seee Ham centering, 90–92
Afternoon of a Faun, 66 and Clove Chaikin, Joseph, xvii, 25, 76,
alienation. Seee Brecht, Bertolt Become a Public Figure, 81
Alonso, Alicia, 38 190–91 Charisse, Nenette, xv
Ambient Sound, 143 Before, After and On, 173–74 charm, 22–23
American Dance Festival, 9, Ben Gurian, David. See ch’i, 68
13, 38, 40–41 projection Chieh Tzu Hua Chuan. See
Anastasia, 27 Bentley, Eric, 81 Mustard Seed Garden
Anderson-Ivantzova, Mme., Berry, Jack, 44 choreography, 51–52
xv, 61 Bettis, Valerie, 116 Circles, 157–59
anecdotal material, 195–99 Beveridge, W. I. B., 19 Clarke, Shirley. See Dance in
Annie Get Your Gun, 87 bits, 40–42 the Sun, A
Anton, Kurt, 196 Blind Journey, 53 cliché, 76
arabesque, 25 Brando, Marlon, 42 Cobain, Kurt. Seee “getting
Ariadne’s Dance, 187 Breath Rhythm, 145 high”
arms, 78 Brecht, Bertolt, 81–82, 85 competition, 102–03

217
 concert pitch, 67 Event, a Recurrence, a Ritual, Gifts, 133–35
Conductor, The, 141–42 An, 68, 156 glamour, 100
conflict. Seee subtext Every Little Movement. See Glass, Philip. Seee Take a Walk
Connor, Lee. Seee Ham and Shawn, Ted Go 1-2-3, 180–81
Clove Evolving Repetition, 149 Goldfish Bowl, 137–38
contradiction, 69 exercises: Level 1, 133–43; Goldina, Miriam, xv, 92
control vs. release, 63–65 Level 2, 144–56; Level 3, Go Visiting, 148–49
Coward, Noel, 100 157–72; Level 4, 173–75; Graham, Martha, xv, 58–59,
Croton-on-Hudson, 201 Level 5, 176–81; Level 6, 66, 93, 109
Cunningham, Merce, 117. 182–91 Group Theatre, the, xiii
See also The Obstacle Guest, Ivor, 106
face, versus the body, 78–79
Da Costa, Morton, 100 Faces, 176–77 Ham and Clove, 189
Dance and the Specific Image: failure, 103–04 hands, 77–78
Improvisation, xiv, 125 Farrell, Suzanne. Seee Bal- Hapgood, Elizabeth Reyn-
Dance in the Sun, A, analysis anchine, George olds, 40
of, 200–02 feeling and form. Seee Langer, Hawaii workshop. Seee Inside
Daniellian, Leon, 15 Susanne K. the Outside
Davis, Miles, 15 female. Seee Inside the Out- Hendrix, Jimi. Seee “getting
Dedicate Your Motion, 147 side high”
Delsarte, Francois, 27 Fitzgerald, Ara, 169–71 Henry, Kathleen, 196
de Mille, Agnes, 103 flamenco dance, 5. See also Hoffman, Dustin, 4
dichotomies, 45–46 Impulse Analysis Holm, Hanya, 14, 175
Dietrich, Marlene, 100 focus, 65–67, 95 Hot to Cold to Hot I, 161
direction, 50–52 Focusing, 187 Hot to Cold to Hot II, 161
Duende, The, 105, 208–15 Franciosa, Anthony. See How Does Your Tree Dance?,
Duet, A, 151 Frankel, Gene 59
Duet as a Structure, The, Frankel, Gene, 47–48 How to Dance Forever, 64
166–71 French Revolution, 63 Hub Meditation, 162–64
Duncan, Isadora, 107, 203 From Now, 172 Humphrey, Doris, 110
Frontier. Seee Graham, Mar- hyperactive children, 18
Each Alone, 159–61 tha
East Indian dancers, 66 Funsch, Christy, 5 I Dare You, 177–78
Eglevsky, André, 15 identity, 92–94
Ellsler, Fanny, 63 Garcia Lorca, Federico, 75, imagination, 13–16
Emotion Memory, 49–50, 105, 130, 208–15 imitation, 13–16
171–72 Gautier, Theophile, 63, 203 impetus. See Dance in the
Endgame. Seee Ham and Gesture Permutations, Sun, A
Clove 164–66 impulse analysis, 58–59
energy, 87–98, 101 Gesture Rondo, 166 indicating, 206
environment, 100 “getting high,” 55 Inner Rhythm, 146–47

218 Index
 Inner Rhythm of the Role, Making Faces, 175 studied by, xv, 52–53; and
The, 68–69, 152 male/female. Seee Inside the the leaf, 51–53; and Man
Inside the Outside, 178–80 Outside of Action, 93; and The
intention, 95 mannerisms, 76 Peloponnesian War, 82, 85;
intolerance of uncertainty, 27 Masaki, Karen, 38–39 and Plain and Fancy, 100;
Maslow, Sophie. Seee projec- and Poems Off the Wall, 81;
Johnson, Lawrence, 98–99 tion in Ruminations, 56; and
Jones, Bill T., 81, 82, 122 Massine, Leonid, 15 Spanish Dance, 93; and
Jon the note taker, 131–32 Medicine Ball, 136 The Star Spangled Banner,
Joplin, Janis. Seee “getting Meisner, Sanford, xv, 92. See 82; and Strange Hero, 93;
high” also Emotion Memory and the “swan,” 54–55;
Judson Church, 56 Merman, Ethel, 87 writing dance reviews for
Justification, 72–73 Midori, 98 City College, 101–02
Miller, Arthur, 22 New York University Tisch
Kaye, Nora, 38, 115 Milligan, 30 School of the Arts, 197–98
Keep a Journal, 131–32 Mind Wash, A, 90 Nijinsky, Vaslav, 108
Kelly, Emmett, 85 mind wash, 150 Not Naming, 150
Kerr, Jean and Walter, 91 Minnesota Duet, The, Noverre, Jean-Georges, 203
Kirkland, Gelsey. Seee Bal- 186–87 Nuber, Greg, 195–96
anchine, George Monk, Meredith, 121 Nureyev, Rudolph, 38, 120
Kirstein, Lincoln, 63 Monroe, Marilyn, 42
Kloepper, Louise, 14–15 Morito, Martinus, 40–41 observation, 13–16
Kreutzberg, Harold. See Morris, Robert. Seee Judson Obstacle, The, 140
energy Church obstacles, 48–49
Morrison, Jim, 35. See also Open Theatre. Seee Chaikin,
Laban, Rudolf von, 45 “getting high” Joseph
Laing, Hugh, 115 Moses, Ray, xv, 42, 84 oscillation, 73–74
Lang, Pearl, 91 motion, controlling, 94–95 Other, The, 151
Langella, Frank, 22 Mt. Airy Road. See Dance in outer action. See Dance in the
Langer, Susanne K., 203–07 the Sun, A Sun, A
Leave Your Self Outside, 143 Mt. Kisco Playhouse. See Outrageous Travel, 136–37
Lewis, Bobby, 27 Anastasia
Limon, José, 38–39, 47 music, 60, 135 Page, Geraldine. Seee Frankel,
Long, Avon, 15 Mustard Seed Garden Manual Gene
looking front, 65–66 of Painting, 68, 69 Para, Oraldo, 196–97
Lorenz, Konrad, 12 My Life in Art. Seee Stanislav- Passing Through a Physical
Lose Your Head, 180 ski, Constantin Object, 140–41
Louis XIV, 63 passivity versus activity,
Lubovitch, Lar, 47 Nagrin, Daniel: and Billy de 62–63
Wolfe, 96–97; and Dance in Peking Opera. Seee impulse
magic “if,” the, 70–71 the Sun, 41; and The Fall, analysis
Make a Phrase, 182–83 104; Graham technique Performing in Unison, 189

219 Index
 personal style, 21 Schneider, Benno, 44 Streep, Meryl, 4
Philosophy in a New Key. See Seckler, Bea. Seee projection style, 21–22, 24, 76–86
Langer, Susanne K. Seeing Through the Eyes of subtext, 42–44
Picasso, Pablo, 54, 141 Another, 152–53 success, 104
Ping Pong, 186 self, 29, 87–90 succession, 59,
Possessed by a Mannerism, sense memory work, 61–62 Sung Dynasty, 130
155–56 Shahn, Ben, 163
postmodern dance. Seee Jud- Shape of Content, The. See Taglioni, Marie, 63
son Church Shahn, Ben Take a Walk in Your Own
pretense, 7–8 Shawn, Ted. Seee Delsarte, World, 153–54
Prison, 187 Francois Tamiris, Helen, xv, 111:
Processional, 185 Signs of the Times, 189–90 biography of, xvi; and
projection, 84–86 Slalom, 141 Circles, 160; contribution
Props Fantasy, 185 Sokolow, Anna, 114 of, 33; and Flahooley and
Proust, Marcel, 62 Solo Singer, 139 the lamp, 89; influenced by
Pulse Rhythm, 145–46 specific image, xiv Stanislavski, 70; and Joshua
speech and dance, 81 Fit the Battle of Jericho, 55;
Rainer, Yvonne. Seee Judson spine, 38–39 and staging of Annie Get
Church Spine of Style, The, 174 Your Gun, 30; and Tamiris-
Read a Book, 17–18, 130 Spinning, 150 Nagrin Dance Company,
Reading List, A, 130–31 stage, 96–97, 99, 103 xvi; and Touch and Go, 91
Recall Your Earliest Perform- Stanislavski, Constantin: Tandem Solo, 188
ing Instructions, 9–13 and acting student and Tang Dynasty, 130
Recognition Ritual, 181 the tacks, 99; and An Actor tango, 43
Reich, Steve. Seee Take a Walk Prepares, 23; on beats, 40; tantrist master quoted, xvii
Relay Solo, 188–89 and Brecht, 81; and Build- Taoists, Chinese, 23, 150
release. Seee Control vs. ing a Character, 74; and taste, 19, 25
release charm, 22–23; and Circles, Taylor, Cecil, 48
results, 31–32 160; in Langer essay, 205, Taylor, Paul, 119
rhythm, 7, 92 206; and the magic “if,” think ahead, 66–67
Rhythm Series, 69 8, 70–71; method of, 33; Tone, Franchot. Seee Frankel,
Rhythm Portrait, 172 and My Life in Art, xv, 7, Gene
Riley, Terry. Seee Take a Walk 71, 74, 130; and Tommaso “too much,” 18–19
Rilke, Rainer Maria, 130 Salvini, 74; tradition of, 92; Touch and Go, 91
risk, 104–05 on stencils, 27–29; and the True Repetition, 149
Rituals of Power, 183–85 subconscious, 55; teach- Tudor, Anthony, 38, 112
Robbins, Jerome. See After- ings of, xiv; impression of Two Dances, The, 128
noon of a Faun Zucchi, 106. See also emo-
role, inner rhythm of, 92 tion memory Ulanova, Galina, 38, 113
stone face, 32 unison, dancing in, 83–84
Salzman, Eric, 205 Strasberg, Lee. Seee Emotion units, 40–42
Schizoid Little Fishes of the Memory
Bering Sea, 142 Valéry, Paul, 203

220 Index
 vanity, 29 Whatever Happens, Hap- workbook, outline, 126–27
Visualization, 164 pens, 188 Workgroup, the, xiv, 7
Voltaire, 130 What Quickened You?, 130
Whitman, Walt, 5 Your Familiar, 154–55
Walk Behind Another, 153 Who or What Is Alive in the
Way, A, 88 Music?, 152 Zimet, Paul. Seee Ham and
Wearing What? 76 Why Do You Dance?, 174 Clove
Weidman, Charles, 110 Winter, Ethel. Seee projection Zucchi, Virginia, 106
What Happened?, 174 women. Seee “too much” Zullig, Hans, 15

221 Index
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Nagrin, Daniel.
The six questions : acting technique for dance performance / Daniel Nagrin.
p. cm.
Includes index.
ISBN 0-8229-3974-6 (cloth). — ISBN 0-8229-5624-1 (pbk.:alk. paper).
1. Dancing. 2. Acting. I. Title.
GV1595.N35 1997
792.7’8—dc21 96-51277

If any material in this book is used in rehearsals, classes or workshops, it would be an act of courtesy
and accuracy to inform the dancers and students of the source, giving credit to the book and its author.
If any games, structures or exercises are used in performance for the public, permission must be
obtained from The Daniel Nagrin Theatre, Film and Dance Foundation, Inc., 208 E. 14th Street, Tempe,
Arizona 85281. Credit for the source, the book and author must appear in the program.

Excerpts from How to Dance Forever: Surviving Against the Odds (New York: William Morrow, 1988)
and Dance and the Specific Image: Improvisation (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1994) by
Daniel Nagrin, are used by permission of the publishers.

“The Duende” by Federico Garcia Lorca, translated by Ben Benlitt from The Poet in New Yorkk (Grove
Press, 1955) copyright 1955 by Herederos de Federico Garcia Lorca and Ben Benlitt. All rights reserved.
For information regarding rights and permissions for works by Federico Garcia Lorca, please contact
William Peter Kosmas, Esq., 77 Rodney Court, 6/8 Maida Vale, London W9 1TJ, England.

222