The Protected - more questions

For the Dance Journal, Gregory King wrote, "Athletic and nuanced in its presentation, The Protected revealed King in positions of defiance and strength when she stood in an open stance with her chest listed and arms raised above her head and bent at the elbows. She was unapologetic in her demeanor as she overpowered the space with her deliberate musculature. King danced fearlessly..."

Read the whole review here: Artists at Home

A "performance" is like a "publication". What is shown (through the stage or through text) is fully developed, thought out, and researched. But the action of "putting it out there" (read: the work for performance and/or publication) also proves to be influential in the choreographer's/ author's research.

Because the creative process is organic, it's never "really" finished.
~Should the work be left to gestate, it might produce different results.
~Should the audience experience the work at a different time or place, he/she/they might have different interpretations of the work, based upon his/her/their lived experiences and what they bring to the work.
~What would happen if the creator could re-visit the work:
       ~ with his/her new lived and researched experiences?
        ~ with feedback from other professionals in the field?
         ~ with feedback from audiences who are not experienced in the field?

How do lived experiences change with time? How do the memories of lived experiences change with time?

A moment from "The Protected" caught by Bill Hebert. 

The Artist's Defeating Self Talk

If you hang out with me on other social media sites, you know I'm a sucker for good quotes and inspirational words of wisdom. I don't post too many to this blog because I feel as though I've already filled up my social media quota through Facebook and Pinterest. (@jcwarchalking - check out my Pinterest pages for more creative research).

But, this article, 15 Things You Should Give Up to be Happy, popped up in my feed and number 4 was particularly pounding at this point in my creative process.

"4. Give Up Your Self-Defeating Self-Talk".

(Read the article to get the rest, including some useful tips for "How to"!)

My "Self-Defeating Self-Talk" includes:

•  the moments of panic during rehearsal when I want to say, "um.. yeah... let's just forget this whole thing. You're totally great but... We can just cancel the show and move on with our lives."
• the moments when my (very carefully chosen) collaborators ask for more information or clarification or provide feedback. "This costume feels strange to dance in." "The program description might be shorter." "What about the visual effect?" "What is the intention with that moment, this work, these images?" Answer: moment of panic. I don't know. Reality = these very carefully chosen collaborators are asking because they're invested in helping me through this process. The questions aren't asked with criticism but curiosity and a challenge for me to investigate them. But I still panic when I don't have the answers. 
• the moments when the work, itself, challenges my own perceptions of myself - my values, my aesthetic, and my goals. I'm not prepared to write too much more in this post, other than that these moments cause me to revisit and reflect and repeat familiar processes with new information to see if I'm making the right choice for the work and my creative spirit.
• Why do I do this to myself? The panic days, weeks, moments before the show. The hours of physical and intellectual research on my own. The hours of research in the studio. The marketing. The asking for financial and in-kind support. The asking for emotional support. The questioning of artistic choices. The self-doubt and "if only's".
• The if only's - I had more time. I had more funding. I could hire a costume designer. I could collaborate with a lighting designer. I could do more physical research. I could do more intellectual and emotional research. I could book more opportunities for performance research...   

And yet...

I did choose this challenge - to produce my first professional, shared-evening, dance concert.
I asked my collaborators to provide their feedback.
I need the work to challenge my aesthetic values.
I sought financial, in-kind, and emotional support.
I have done extensive physical, intellectual, and emotional research.

But I still worry.

Reality check and giving up my own self-defeating self-talk: A large part of "Unveiled" is participating in a very vulnerable, uncomfortably honest process. I need to trust that even if that is my only success, I fully participated in that work.

On another note, I'm reassured by the conversations that I have with other artists that I admire and who are looking out for me during this time. "How are you doing," they ask, fully aware of the answer. "I'm in that uncomfortable place where nothing feels right and I'm questioning everything." 

"Uncomfortable? Isn't that a bit of an understatement?" from an established artist and respected mentor/friend.

Deep sigh on my part - "oh goodness, yes. I'm freaking out!"

My mentor nods, "Yep, that's where you should be right now."

I also find solstice in the many conversations I listen to on NPR where the interviewer asks the artist if they ever get nervous before they read their poem, sing their song, play live, or perform. They most always say that they do feel a sort of nervousness or anxiety before a performance, showing, sharing, reading, or event, but they also understand that nervousness is part of the role of being an artist and sharing work. It's a part of being vulnerable, but also a part of having something to say and holding the responsibility of saying that.

And, in the words of another mentor, "A little nervousness is good. It means you care. When you stop getting nervous, then it's time to move on."

Original photo by Bill Hebert, from microcosmic current, 2010

Ingredients for the Metaphorical Soup - or the choreographic process

"So, what is this dance about? The one I'm going to see?"

This question is often asked of dancers and choreographers.

Often dance, an abstract art, is about many things and the audience is invited to have his/her own experience with the work.

Well, I answered, there are a lot of things that are inspiring the work. I see myself as bringing all of these seemingly different ideas and elements together and combining them in time and space. I make a giant circle with my arms. Kind of like I'm making soup.

"Okay... so what are the ingredients?"

I've been really interested in horseshoe crabs. I've been talking with some scientists and researchers and doing my own research on the little critters. They're really fascinating.

Horseshoe crab research goes into the soup.

The horseshoe crab story contains many metaphors for the human experience. For example, they have a very active interior covered by a calm, quiet exterior. (How many times have we needed to portray a calm exterior when the very opposite is happening interior, emotionally?)

They're not often noticed but play a very important role in the ecosystem. (How often have we felt like we are not noticed, despite how hard we're working?)

They molt and shed their barnacles (and all of the baggage that they've gathered) when they outgrown their current shell. (How often have we had to let go in order to grow?)

Molting takes a long time. (Growing, letting go, shedding. As with horseshoe crabs, as with our lives).

Horseshoe crabs are very vulnerable after molting, but in time, develop their original sturdiness.

There's more... But, I think you get the point.
Horseshoe crab metaphors go into the pot. 

Thinking about the soft body that emerges after the molting process reminds me of Mary Oliver's poem, Wild Geese.

Wild Geese goes into the pot. Mary Oliver reads her poem and provides some reflection

I'm also interested in the female experience. And I think that part of that experience is the strength and resilience to keep going, despite time and struggle. It's another metaphor from the horseshoe crabs because they have existed, almost unchanged, for millions of years, despite global changes.

Resilience goes into the pot. 

Dance and movement is my medium.

Dance and movement go into the pot.

In using dance, I'm engage contemporary choreographic structures and listen to my own intuitive creative voice.

Choreographic structures go into the pot. 
My creative voice goes into the pot. 

I'm working with five women who bring their experiences to the work and I invite them to share these experiences in the rehearsal process.

My dancers go into the pot. 

I'm playing with Bach's Cello Suite. It's timeless. And it wasn't originally intended to be a famous work of art.

Bach's Cello Suites and research on them go into the pot. 


I bring all of these things together and see what emerges.

"So, over time, things start boiling and rolling. And if I ladle out a bowl at any point in time, it could be a little different because of the boiling and rolling."

Yes! And that's one of the reasons I think performance practice is so important. The practice of performing is like taking the ladle and getting out a bowl. Does it need more salt? A choreographic shift? I can return to the process after the performance with more information. For the next performance, the piece will be a little more developed. A little more "cooked".

So, it's not about one thing, but an integration of many things. The audience member also brings their own elements to the table so, while I cannot control those, I still accept and honor them because together we're all engaging in the creative experience.

It's not linear, but neither is making soup.


Have you created something? What are your ingredients?