I am a dance maker.  I was born in Windsor, Ontario, Canada (the small blue-collar city across the river from Detroit) raised in a picturesque town on Lake Huron, and educated in Detroit and Ohio. Today, I live and work in Chicago. I tacitly consider myself a “citizen” of the Great Lakes rather than of either of the two bordering nations.

As a child, I found an overwhelming connection between my perceptions of myself –my movement and my creative process – and the activity of the lakes; this sense still persists today at forty.

Observing the daily change in flow, color, texture and wave pattern, I witness a convergence of wild energy, an innate organizing principle informed by gravity, spirals, and the relationship of fluid to earth. The waves repeat their pattern again and again, unified in their directional eagerness toward the shore, without ever repeating the same wave. Lulled into a meditative state, I recognize in the lakes the hypnotic, baffling simultaneity of structured and unstructured, making and unmaking, rolling over each other in rhythmic, absorbing composition.  As much as my formal education and professional experience in dance have influenced me, the shoreline and its movement, sounds, repetition, change, and quiet urgency inform my own movement and choreographic impulses to an incredible extent – perhaps most especially in Stamina of Curiosity.

_MG_1153I talk about my work a lot (in classes, post-show discussions and public gatherings) but for the last ten years most of my writing has occurred in a reductive process of translating my work into grant proposals, press releases and program notes.  I turn to my journal (where grocery lists and reminders to pay my taxes occupy the same space as choreographic notes) with decreasing diligence.

A few years ago, I began drawing as the primary document of my creative process. Through drawing I am able to witness my impulses without holding myself to the same standards of expertise I do when I dance, where the expectations of training and “professionalism” makes it harder for me to access my beginner’s mind – that state where discovery and wonder hold court over strategy and dogma. I enjoy the opportunity drawing gives me to set aside my ego (or the convoluted lens of dance critique or theory) in favor of moving inner experience onto marks on a page. Though I value exposure, transparency, and vulnerability in my performances, my creative process is becoming increasingly private (mysterious, tender, delicate) as words become less trustworthy advocates for communicating it with the authenticity I love.  Drawing, so much more like movement than grant proposal writing, takes me away from the trap of intellectualizing or analyzing each action. Yet, unlike movement, a drawing is captured on the page in the moment it’s being created. Through this practice, now done in community with my ensemble, I reflect on and organize the intrinsic energies and images that inform and prompt the identifiable physical movements that then are organized into phrases. These phrases become the building blocks (the vocabulary) of choreographed work or the evolving language of dances that I spontaneously compose.

Stamina of Curiosity is both choreographed and spontaneously composed, a paradox I hope to chronicle here, among many other things. My process with the ensemble revolves around and returns again and again to our embodied question of how to remain new to the process of moment-by-moment discovery, even when the work’s composition asks for extreme specificity. We are finding, as many have done before us, that the mindful pursuit of specificity spirals into expansiveness and the presence of overwhelming options. Likewise, befriending the apparent chaos of expansiveness leads inevitably to making personal choices that, over time and with attention, become increasingly subtle. I suppose this is what I learned from my early, untrained meditations at the edges of Lake Huron—to observe what is before me and, simultaneously, what is changing, growing, deciding, releasing within me as I observe.

It’s an honor to be participating in Odd and Audacious. Until next time…

After my first year of college, I had to move back home due to financial issues. I was a nighthawk, so my days were slept away, and my nights spent cleaning up the unruly messes of rich people’s weddings. It was good money. And it wasn’t retail. Plus, I worked with a group of guys I’d gladly take a bullet for. Luckily, there isn’t much violence when you’re one of only six people mopping up spilled champagne toasts in the middle of nowhere.

One day, while humoring the National Record Mart located in our glorious Fort Steuben Mall, I shuffled through the “S” section, just to kill time. I wasn’t expecting to see the Slackers’ first album there, let alone a NEW one! How on Earth did this wind up in Steubenville?!? In a major-label-hugging record store chain?!? And why didn’t I know about it?!? (Keep in mind, this was a very pre-Internet time. No blogs. No Pitchfork. Not that Pitchfork ever pays The Slackers any mind.)

There was no need to think this purchase over. I promptly grabbed it, shelled out my hard-earned money, and drove home as fast as possible. This was to be the rest of my day.

Even through that modest stereo I had, this new record (Redlight) sounded like orders coming down from high atop Mt. Olympus. Gone was the clever, nostalgic, lo-fi production quality. This thing was big. Thick. Like a hungry, angry bull trying to bust out of the speakers. And all this muscle and volume was coming from the first tune, which wasn’t punk or metal or any other typically thunderous musical style. This was an old-school, Tommy McCook*-style tune. One of the best songs you can ever start a day with. slackers_REDLIGHTMan, was it grand. In that single first bar, I felt like Jamaica was honored better than anyone else ever could honor that country and its rich musical history.

The album went on, and waltzed through a boat-load of musical styles, all anchored with that old Jamaican backbone. Dave Hillyard spent one song firing his political cannons (”I Still Love You”), and another channeling the spirits of Otis Redding’s sax player (”Come Back, Baby”). Frontman Vic Ruggiero steps up his lyrical game, telling pulp fiction tales, calling out abusive cops, and in what will become one of two constant presences on future releases– introduces the world to his father through song.

And sweet Jesus, the bass on this thing… play “Rude and Reckless” loudly.

I had the pleasure of seeing the band live when they were touring for this record. It was amazing. The band was young– maybe early 20s, if memory serves me correctly. But they played together with the kind of chemistry more commonplace in old men who’d been collaborating for half a century. They owned that bill that night. (Even though half of them played in the next band, too.)

Enjoy this, because their next record? Even bigger changes afoot.

The Slackers’ Website

*Who is Tommy McCool you ask?

judycollins2I am really looking forward to the Judy Collins concert.  I will never forget the first time I heard her voice.  I was a student at Alverno and I walked into the cafeteria for breakfast.  The kitchen had the radio on and Judy Collins was singing, “Both Sides Now”.  Her voice was so pure, sweet, and calming.  I was enchanted with her voice.  Since then I’ve been a big fan.  I continue to listen to her music and this will be my first concert seeing Judy Collins.  So, I’m really excited.

Before I start this, I feel as if I should be justifying my bona fides as a blogger.  This impulse surely runs counter to the blogging urge where little by way of justification is ever really called for and probably speaks more to my own set of neuroses than to any requirements of the form.  So let me get the mea culpas out of the way and move on to things that with some luck will be more interesting.

I’m a presenter.  I run a series that focuses on jazz, world music and contemporary dance.  I’m lucky.  I get to see a lot of good work.  (I also see a lot more mediocrity and — with surprising rarity, but still greater frequency than, say, appearances of Haley’s Comet — some out and out crap.  It all really does fit surprisingly well within a Bell Curve.)  But life is short, and there’s certainly enough good work in that far eastern sector of the Curve, more than I have the means, time and resources to present myself, that it seems worthwhile to let you know about it.

Like most (but not all) presenters, I’m a generalist.  The job demands breadth.  While I can sometimes dig a little deeper into a performer or a genre that is especially engaging or occasionally beguiling, one of the defining aspects of the job is that I am in frequent contact with specialists who know far more about their area of expertise than I ever will.  This is both humbling and exhilarating. 

We’ll forgo the humbling part of this.  (I think reference to my neuroses in the opening paragraph has this covered.) 

More often than not, when I find out about something good, it’s because an aficionado of the subset in question knows that I am a willing audience for his or her obsession.  William Blake asked “enough, or too much”.  I tread that divide.  Great art, happily, does not.

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