Toward the end of a dazzling career, Rudolf Nureyev danced in Swan Lake at the New Orleans Opera House. The culture correspondent of the local paper was ill so the editor sent the sports writer to cover the story. His name eludes me, but his piece is one of the best examples of experiential reporting I know.
He summed up the quintessence of the balletic art in some startlingly honest observations, writing, “If my jockey shorts were that tight, I could jump that high and stay up longer.” And he described a rather superannuated prima ballerina who danced the lead swan and packed a lot of extra poundage into her leotard as “poultry in motion.” He even felt confident enough in his naivete to offer some constructive advice; “If the corps de ballet,” he suggested, “recruited taller girls, they wouldn’t have to spend so much time on their toes.”
The editor put the story on the front page. Back in the glory days of print journalism writers were allowed to entertain the delusion that they were expected to amuse as well as inform their readers. Culture Vultures, I strongly hope, errs on the side of amusement – at least in my case, as I lack the capacity or inclination to be in any way a pundit. I only wish I could be half as funny as the sports hack from Louisiana.
I went to see dance last night, Phoenix Dance Company doing something at West Yorkshire Playhouse. I’m not a dance buff. The physical world has me flummoxed – I’m the sort of person who can fall off the front step looking for my door key – and most of my days are spent in an immobilised trance, chewing the chewy end of a Biro, gazing into the far distance, only getting of my chair for calls of nature and invitations to the pub. This is the way I like it. To be brutally honest I only went to the theatre at the last minute because Emma offered me gin. Bombay Sapphire. I’m pretty sure we made a big impression on the bottle before we left her office.
The Playhouse was packed, which was encouraging, and there was a nice mix of people, young and old, black and white, fashionable and then, well, guys like me. I didn’t know what I was in for but everyone seemed to be expecting great things.
I don’t exactly know what I saw. The performance was exciting, occasionally intense, energetic to the point of frenzy, funny, physically unnerving – I actually flinched twice at the noise of two vulnerable bodies colliding – and very, very beautiful. I marvelled at what they could do with a hat, a piece of red cloth, a green rope, or a dangling microphone. The music and lighting perfectly complimented the drama of the performance, and I was genuinely amazed and moved by the whole thing . . . but ask me to tell you exactly what I saw and I’d have to shrug.
Perhaps it’s just that I’m lacking the vocabulary. I am obviously aware that there are names for certain movements and concepts for particular combinations (ok, it’s blatant that I haven’t the slightest sliver of an inkling what I’m talking about here, I’m just guessing.) And I know there’s a history of dance – though again I haven’t the foggiest where to begin to explore that. Maybe if I bought a few books I’d get it?
Or is it that I’m suffering with my own peculiar narrative impediment? I have to know what’s the story, what does it all mean, what are they trying to say? Emma kept getting exasperated with me for nudging her every ten minutes enquiring about the plot. “Can’t you just enjoy it for what it is?” she asked, “and just be quiet . . . ” Yes! Yes, I can enjoy it for what it is, and I did enjoy it for what it is, only . . . what is the is I’m enjoying?
What is dance all about? What am I meant to make of it? And what should I be thinking when I’m watching it?
I’ll certainly go again. Though I do wonder if I’m just the sort – and perhaps we are a majority – who looks on dance as something a bit peculiar. Lovely in it’s own way, like embroidery or origami or pigeon fancying; but you wouldn’t really want to let your kids get involved.
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