Out of the corner of my being, I feel the lens zoom in. I use it as a skipping rope to recalibrate. Remember to my astonishment I once again got sidetracked. The assignment was to explore balance while walking. Except my walk turned into pirouettes and slides. There was, vaguely, music. It wasn't my fault, if they put on music. I couldn't help myself.
And I suppose he couldn't help himself from filming me, either. How do you go on dancing when you know somebody's looking? You go inward and look at yourself.
I start at the epicenter, then move progressively towards the fringes. Feel the outside of my ribcage as it contorts in the light. The bony protrusion of my knee as I lift one leg and drop the rest of me. Free fall does not signify defeat. Tell you the truth, I'm mostly self-conscious on account of the teachers - it's not easy planning such a workshop and I don't want them to feel I'm mocking their instruction. But then, they did say walk as you do. And of late, my walk has become fraught with pirouettes and slides. Free falls.
If I don't let myself drop and follow the rhythm of my body, how can I get a better understanding of it?
I continue to dance across the room. He films on. I look over to meet his eye, but by the time he looks up from his camera screen, I've turned my back. Too slow. The dance continues.
I used to be quite a self-conscious dancer. I always enjoyed dancing alone in my room, preferably when no one was home, lest I be observed and feel embarrassed. Growing up, nightclubs were never really "my scene", though I did like dancing at concerts. To see me then, you might've thought I was a sardine.
As a small human, I was mortified of taking up space on this planet.
It wasn't necessarily a bad thing. I learned to dance using my hands and craft complex shapes in the air between me and my neighbor. It had its own sweetness.
When I first signed up for a dance class (which wasn't technically dance as much as it was contact improvisation), my inner judge was immediately suspicious. How could I ever move freely in front of other people? With my too-big clunky limbs and in the absence of coordination? Lucky for me, I arrived that night in a space where coordination and rhythm were less have-or-have-not and more show-me-yours-if-i-show-you-mine.
I've since learned that whoever designed rigid steps didn't understand dancing. That struggling to follow a pre-set pattern is a little like Cinderella's step-sisters cramming their feet into glass stilettos.
I'll just go barefoot. Best way to dance, anyway.
Am I as beautiful without as I feel within when dancing? Time will tell. They'll be screening the film next month. Perhaps it will feel like an embarrassment. Perhaps my old wraith will re-emerge. After all, I've spent a good deal of time looking over my shoulder for it. But I trust, even if she does appear, it will be only temporary. I will have spent the day dancing - even if seeing myself dance proves mortifying, it will be thimble-sized embarrassment, at best. My inner tyrant can't disprove what my atoms already know.
What has been, for me, a major perspectival shift: that dancing isn't a taught performance, but a guided exploration. And there is, still, so much left yet to know.
