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I'm going to tell you something: I did not look pretty today. My hair is two weeks past the cut I'd promised it (I'm getting to it, I tell it). My clothes are the ones that aren't in the laundry room (sorry, but that means they are not my favorites). My mascara is tending toward globby.
I did not look pretty today, and yet I went dancing. Oh, poor Jean, I thought, as I went up those stairs. The things that man has to put up with. My chin too low on some rumba moves, my feet not yet always firmly planted, my New Yorker sneaking up on my ronde, and my hair. Never good, but even worse when it is two weeks past a hair cut.
Whatever. I'd worked through perhaps 100 emails, five drafts of different projects, and at least a dozen calls; there just wasn't time to deal with me. And I was about to apologize for it, about to make a bunch of lame excuses, but Jean is my good friend Jean. Jean, I realized today, is the kind of friend and dance instructor who can laugh with me despite how I look and not make me feel too flat-out unattractive to dance a cha-cha or a salsa.
That's friendship.
7 Comments on Metamorphosis at the Dance Studio, last added: 3/21/2010
I think your hair looks really good. I like the new spikey style and those black highlights are very fashion-forward. (You're an Autumn, you lucky girl, you can get away with that palette.)
So I am so out of the loop - wash and go hair. I am jealous! Sorry to have been an absentee commenter. Been commiting the unforgivable sin of reading posts without commenting.
I'm certain you looked lovely! I had to chuckle at the 'two weeks past a hair cut' comment, because I'm the same way ... I think it actually starts about a week BEFORE the haircut! :-)
In a few short weeks, House of Dance, my second novel for young adults, will be out as a paperback with a slightly revamped cover.
Those of you who know me a little know this: I love the freedom that dance affords me—the freedom to be my somewhat zany self, the freedom from the mind-bend of at-the-desk problem solving, the freedom of movement. House of Dance, which received a number of starred reviews and has begun to show up on state lists, takes place in a version of Dancesport Academy of Ardmore, PA, where I continue to learn to dance with the likes of Scott Lazarov, Jean Paulovich, John Larson, Aideen O'Malley, Magda Piekarz, Tim Jones, Cristina Rodrighes, and Tirsa Rivas, and among so many friends. I made this "trailer" for the the book with footage that I shot at the studio and around town.
In any case, the point is: I'm having a paperback contest. Those of you interested in receiving a signed copy of the paperback should leave, in the comment box, your definition of what dance is. Two winners will be selected from among the participants, and the two winning definitions will be featured on my blog.
Please leave your comments by March 5th.
21 Comments on House of Dance: A Paperback Contest, last added: 2/21/2010
Dance is a physical expression of music, a chance for anyone who is willing to close their eyes and lose themselves in the moment, to let their bodies respond to the sounds that fill their ears. Unlike any other art form, it's a blending of heart and mind, body and soul. Dance can be freedom. But not everybody wants to be free.
Dance is feeling the rhythm suffuse itself throughout your body, become your pulse, and allowing your body to naturally follow that beat. It's letting yourself go to the moment, to the joy of life, to inhibitions and fears.
I think that dance is a way to physically express emotions that can't always be expressed verbally; or sometimes its a way to tell a story that might not have the same effect by simply speaking it.
In simplest terms dance is self expression. It is the self expression of the creator of the movement, the choreographer. It is also the self expression of the dancer. Trained or untrained it does not matter.
It is about expressing emotion through movement; whether to music or silence, in front of an audience or alone in your bedroom.
Dance is a physical response to an irresistible stimulus, bringing internal and external rhythms together and forcing the body to move in time with them. As they sang in Hairspray, "You can't stop the beat."
Dance is moving your body in new ways, pushing boundaries and changing perspectives. I love getting lost in my own movements- sometimes even caught off guard. Dance allows you to be who you want to be (especially when done in the privacy of your own room). It is awesome.
Dance is when your body becomes a channel for which music can flow. When your veins run with the flow and rhythm. Your very movements are decided by the tempo, you get lost in the beat. Dance is like the changes of nature, for which each sound, your body, and the dance change in a never ending cycle. Dance is an expression of yourself,as you find your heart, and others somewhere on the smooth wood floors. To me, dance is an expression of emotion, but more importantly, Dance is the movement of life.
Dance is a chance to express yourself through music, it's an art - blah blah blah. The classic textbook answer is that and such. Not that it's wrong, but I believe you can't just define dance to be a mere meaning to be able to just move your feet and/or body to a rhythm (though that's highly necessary, in matters that you wouldn't want to just fling your arms about and smack someone). For some people, dancing is their life. Others, it's a culture (perhaps to celebrate their succesful day of hunting). Wrong thinking would be, such as verious belittling professionals: if you aren't willing to do your best, don't dance at all. However that's not even remotely true. Just because you can't doesn't mean you shouldn't. If you want to say what you mean and you're not good with words, dance. Show others you mean something and that the beauty in what you see will be shown to the rest. Plus, it's great exercise.
From Hilary Hanes via Facebook: "Dance is...an expression of everything one feels. It can be fast or slow; it can be with someone or alone. It can be joyful or sorrowful. Dance doesn't have to be perfect, nor can anyone really define perfection. It doesn't have to be pretty, but it has to come from the heart. Someone dancing without an ounce of rhythm can be just as beautiful as someone dancing with technical perfection. It expresses what one feels inside, and should be shown with unabashed freedom. "
I know that it doesn't make much sense to go ballroom dancing with a smashed-up toe, but I've skipped Zumba this week and taken funny, peg-legged walks, and I just couldn't help myself, so I went—climbed the stairs to DanceSport, opened the door, donned my un-girly shoes, and risked it.
I don't think there are enough words for dancing. The ones we use are too often used, and they are rather stultifying. Swirl and twirl—like two bad-hair day sisters. Sashay—if you are doing that, are you really dancing? Twist and roll—sounds painful. Gliding—a fine bit of self-puffery, me thinks.
Maybe all it is (for me) is that I'm being myself—that I'm being happy and not necessarily useful and nobody stops me. Yeah, sure, so maybe Jean rolls his eyes at my spastic reprieves, and maybe somewhere deep inside his elegant Belarussian self he's thinking, Lord, this is some way to make a living. But if this is the case, he doesn't let on—doesn't make me feel old, ugly shoed, sleep deprived, disappointing, academic, too intense, over-the-hill, or elsewise. For those 45 minutes, I'm dancing, and that's the only word there is.
3 Comments on Get your feet off the floor, last added: 2/4/2010
1) You buy the flowers for which you've been yearning (I could write a story with the tips of these irises, couldn't you?).
2) You dance salsa, samba, rumba, fox trot, jive, and waltz with the masterful Jean Paulovich (throwing "Pulp Fiction" moves at one another when something goes wrong and not complaining, not for one second, when he tosses you to the floor. "New move," he says. "Yeah, right," you answer.).
3) You pay attention to the friends you have—the love they yield, unasked for.
10 Comments on Curing the Blues, last added: 1/28/2010
I have two beautiful vases in my apartment, and I have been wanting to fill them with something pretty for awhile. You've given me the push to do so. :)
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I was so disappointed when my dance studio cut out their classes for adults. Well, adults can still take ballet but the classes are geared to the studio's quarterly performances now.
It's true that paying attention to others when we're feeling down seems to help. It may be the thing we least feel like doing, but it's always worth the effort.
So I said to Jean today, I said, "Jean." (We were about to step onto the dance floor to take on our Broadway/fox trot/Charleston/Quick Step/Lindy Hop/Jive. I was delaying the inevitable.)
"Yes?" Jean asked. (He raised one of this fantastically elastic eyebrows and gave me his best Belarussian stare.)
"Do you sometimes just feel like..." (I stopped inside my quandary, did a little run-around-my head in search of the right words.)
"Like escaping yourself?" he asked. (He lowered his one eyebrow then, in favor of his other, which did a little mathematical dance up high, right along his hair line.)
"Yes. That's it. Like escaping myself." (My eyebrows are not complicit with my moods. I would have raised one, if I could.)
"Yes," he said. "I have felt like that. Except that escaping yourself can't be done. You're always with you."
"I am always with me," I acquiesced. "Always." (For what he said was true.) I shrugged then, and then I stood. Sometimes it's just easier to dance.
4 Comments on State of Mind, last added: 9/27/2009
Dance studios bring together the middle of this country and the middle of another, guys who aren't precisely big on books and guys who are, mambo kings and samba sensations. In other words, they bring together people like Scott Lazarov and Jean Paulovich, who are pictured here. Scott is the artistic force behind DanceSport PA and one of the best choreographers anywhere (on Tuesday afternoons my husband and I dance Scott's brilliant tango; when I wrote House of Dance, I used Scott as the model for Max). Jean is the champion ballroom dancer, dear friend, and teacher who thinks I can pull off a Broadway/foxtrot/quickstep/Charleston/lindy hop/jive routine in time for a late-October showcase.
I'm not quite sure whom Jean thinks he's kidding, but I will tell you this: Yesterday, when fellow-dancer Julia was watching Jean and me kick slam our way through the routine, she suggested (with that merry twinkle in her eye) that Jean turn me loose on the stage alone so that I can do what I was already apparently seeming to be doing, which is to say, making it all up as I went along.
In any case, we do spend a lot of time with the good people at DanceSport, and the photos I sometimes post from there were all taken as part of a big web project—photography, design, writing, programming—that we have undertaken here, at the company that I run with my husband. Late last night that DanceSport web went live.
5 Comments on Webbed in with DanceSport, last added: 9/13/2009
Wow, Beth ... you must be getting quite good! And, the website you've put together is awesome. That studio is gorgeous. Sounds like you have a lot of fun there! Did you see that 'So You Think You Can Dance' has started their Fall season! :-)
Gorgeous website ... love the photos! You really do get a sense of movement and fluidity with this site, and it evokes a feeling of wanting to, well, dance.
Every once in a while, you just want the truth. You need it. So that today, which began with a pre-dawn, sleep-deprived Zumba at the gym, advanced into corporate work, fell toward housework, slipped into a panic, and somehow spun toward a dance lesson, honesty was required.
"I feel as if I'm doing something wrong, and that no one will tell me what that is," I told Jean, during a quickstep lesson. "It's like everybody knows, except for me."
"Well," he answered, looking me straight in the eyes, not pausing, not beating around the bush, not acting as if I hadn't stepped forward with the question. "It's about posture. It's about confidence. It's about the way you plant your feet on the floor. When you think about it, you get it right. But when you don't, you fall back into your old way of dancing. You look as if you are looking for something. You don't stand perfectly straight."
And of course I wish that I did it all better. Of course I wish that I had dancerly wings. But today, this day, I was glad most of all that someone had not pushed me off, had simply said: I will tell you the truth.
7 Comments on Asking for the Truth, last added: 8/21/2009
One returns to the dance studio because one must, because quitting isn't really an option, not in this life. Because if, yesterday, you felt so cluttered and tangled with the smash stuff of yourself, today you could be calm, couldn't you? Be ordinary, self-contained.
You could also be happy, or I was, for there was Jean, being his funny-smart self, and there was this song, from the soundtrack of The Mask, that we've decided to dance at a September showcase, and there were those ridiculous words (at my age), "I'm just a baby in this business of love." When you can't dance like you always wished you could, you can at least act the part, and in a Kenneth Cole T-shirt and white capris, I made as if I'd been swined with pearls, as if I were standing on a street corner at midnight, a bunch of Dick Tracy characters hanging about. I write stories, why not act them? Why not be who I am not, and feel the glory pull of that.
So there I was, mixing the fox trot with quick step with high kicks and play, and there was hardly a soul about (just Nate and Cristina, who are forgiving, just gorgeous Tirsa, and, sometimes, Scott), and I didn't care what I looked like or what I got wrong. I didn't even count the wrongs. I just swirled my imaginary pearls and danced. I was a baby in the business of love.
And the music is. And the music is how Iryna hears it, how she won’t let it down to the floor on the power of its own acquiesce. How she says the battering beat is my bones, it is the affectation of want over repose, and by the way, I will be late, and that will be song. Take it apart. Say it again. The music is how the one snow thread of Iryna’s snow dress snaps, how it melts, how it is always Jean’s, alone.
(I did not take this photograph of this gorgeous and talented couple; it was taken of them at a recent competition in Boston, where they captured the attention of the judges and the fans in major fashion, as they always do. They are on their way. You can see why.)
8 Comments on Jean and Iryna are Dancing: Beth Kephart Poem, last added: 6/1/2009
And then Jean said, "Beth, you have become someone with whom I like to dance. You keep your own balance. You can turn. You can follow. You are gaining technique. Now I worry that the music holds you back. Let the music free you."
Why shouldn't the music free me, I wonder. It always has before.
I am afraid of...what?
4 Comments on Let the Music Free You, last added: 5/1/2009
Fear is interesting. Once you start to look at it, you can see it everywhere. So much of what we do, of what our society values, is grounded in fear. What if it wasn't?
Nothing. Fear, especially in art, is of ridicule, of exposing ourselves. Nothing can hold you back. When you go, you go. That's it. There's no turning back.
I can imagine myself being afraid of not getting the balance, the turns, the techniques and not even hearing the music. Now maybe it's the music's turn. Sounds like it's time to fly. I know you will.
Leave it to Jane Satterfield, the poet, memoirist, and teacher, to instruct me, again, in what I did not know but should have. We met at Bread Loaf, Jane and I. I've been learning from her ever since.
Except that I will. I will quote from this terrific interview, and I will say, for myself, this: Last week, and the week before, something happened at the studio, a letting go (again, more) that enabled me, for the briefest moment, to skim the floor the way Dove describes such skimming. To trust so completely the dancers who kindly danced with me that I could also trust myself. I'd ruin things, of course. I'd break the spell. But for an instant I grasped what it must be to have the knowing of dance in one's bones. I grasped it. I wanted more.
From Rita Dove:
Poetry is a kind of dance already. Technically, there's the play of contemporary speech against the bass-line of the iambic, but there's also the expression of desire that is continually restrained by the limits of the page, the breath, the very architecture of the language--just as dance is limited by the capabilities of our physical bodies as well as by gravity. A dancer toils in order to skim the surface of the floor, she develops muscles most of us don't even know we have; but the goal is to appear weightless. A poet struggles to render into words that which is unsayable--the ineffable, that which is deeper than language--in the hopes that whatever words make the final cut will, in turn, strike the reader speechless.
8 Comments on Poet at the Dance, last added: 4/28/2009
I love the way she describes dance to which I would add that dance is one of the rare forms where you can compose a poem in the air without the aid of a pen. Your body draws the lines, thus turning the dancer into the ultimate painter, too and the result is a sketch whose lines get blurred and disappear as the performers move to another corner of the stage, but whose essence stays with you long after the lights are switched off and the curtains closed.
Many thanks for that interview, I enjoyed it thoroughly.
House of Dance has a slightly modified cover in store for its release next March as a paperback; thank you, Carla Weise and Jill Santopolo.
In this trailer (the last of the three that I've been creating these past few weeks), we go through the streets of Ardmore and up into the Dancesport Academy studio, where it has taken an entire planet's worth of gifted dancers—Scott Lazarov, Jean Paulovich, John Villardo, John Larson, Jim Bunting, Cristina Rodrighes, Aideen O'Malley—and one very fine manager (the lovely Tirsa) to teach me a few things about the box step. This is the studio that inspired this novel, which was named one of the best of the year by Kirkus in 2008.
11 Comments on The House of Dance Trailer, last added: 4/21/2009
Thank you, B&BM (am I the only one who calls you that) and Q and LN. A professional videocamera holder I am not. But I've had fun making these.
Q — SO glad you like the new cover!!
Vivian said, on 4/18/2009 12:16:00 PM
Oh, I love the new cover. Amazing what a change of color will do to make things pop and look more sophisticated.
You are having too much fun with the videocamera. Nice reflection of the dancers!
Maya Ganesan said, on 4/18/2009 12:21:00 PM
I really love the new cover -- it's gorgeous. Amazing trailers.
Priya said, on 4/18/2009 10:27:00 PM
I like the new cover too. It's more dynamic and makes me want to read the book all over again!
Em said, on 4/18/2009 10:42:00 PM
A new cover, interesting. Is it the one on the side, red and black? Maybe you could do a post about why they changed the cover? I love to learn little insider things like that. :)
Oh, to be this boy among girls. To have access to their riffling suspicions, their percussive dreams. To know when they mean what they say, and also what they would say, if only asked. At the dance studio last week, Jean claimed, "Every story a woman tells about a man is the same."
"Can't be," I said.
"Oh, yes. Believe me."
(And I pictured this ballroom dance instructor day after day, hour after hour, women in the hold of his cha-cha, his rumba, confessing and declaiming and wanting and hoping.)
"Every. Single. Story. The same?"
"One story," he said.
"So what is the story?"
"The story is simple. The story is this: Men and women are two separate species."
11 Comments on Boy among Girls, last added: 4/11/2009
This post makes me smile, as so many others of yours have done. This is the charm that you bring into the world, that makes you the amazing person you are.
Lately, I have been choosing women writers to read. Do I favor the female point of view because I believe we speak the same "soul/heart" language? Possibly. Often, in my experience, many men want to curtail the length and subject matter of a conversation. I think that is why women tend to flock to each other for conversations with more substance. Beth, when you write, do you prefer writing to a primarily female audience? Does it change how you approach a story?
At the dance studio today, it was all of us. It was, at the heart and pulse, Cristina, who brought her baby—six weeks old and already dreaming music. The baby's long and perfect fingers sculpted the air. Her soul absorbed our love. Her grace was our grace as Scott took her on and cradled her within his rise and fall.
You don't dance at my age to become a ballroom star. You don't dance with illusions, when you dance with Jean. You dance because you trust the others who gather with you there, because they have, in so many ways, become a family. I danced a lousy jive today, and I also held a baby. I hugged a radiant, brave, and dear new mother, and I looked around—at the good in us, the awe, the tender.
New life is new hope. The music plays beyond us. The music is dreamed by the young.
This is one of those times when I don't have anything insightful to say, but am just glad to have stopped by to read your words and look at your photos.
There are days when I show up at the dance studio for a lesson certain that I'm headed for disaster. My brain is locked, my limbs are ice, I can't distinguish left from right, and honest to goodness, I think to myself, Jean (vested with the responsibility of teaching me, poor thing) is going to kill me. I apologize in advance for the coming catastrophics, and then I beg for mercy. I mean, the guy and his gorgeous wife, Iryna, are on the cusp of huge ballroom dance fame. Can you imagine how much it hurts his head to return, with me, to the basics?
Yesterday Jean took one look at me and said the following words: "Let's not worry about teaching today. Let's just listen to the music and dance." A waltz was on. Jean (the world's greatest mimic) pantomimed a bird. And then my head was arced back and we were dancing. Two false starts, but the third time there it was—the glide and air that I go to dance to find, the float that I'm perpetually seeking.
"What are your goals in dance?" Jean had asked me two weeks before, and I should have said, This. This ageless, timeless, everness. This gift of release from myself.
Oh, well, I don't know about being a terrific dancer, dear Sherry. Perhaps a committed one. And a delightful student? We'll have to ask Jean. I bet he wishes he didn't have to talk at all—that he could just lead and I'd seamlessly follow. That's the goal. Sometimes I'm nearly there (for about thirty seconds). PJ — I am just me. Seeing me as I see me. (what a drag)
It's funny because as I get wiser in years, I've come to terms that living fully means taking risks, taking chances at all life has to offer. Yes, some may see it as "making a fool of oneself," and I think we all have the blushes of "youth" behind us on things we've done or perhaps decided not to do, for fear of embarrassment or how others would see us.
Maybe it's when we finally accept ourselves, we appreciate the chances to make fools of ourselves. (which I did today in the most public way)
It's only been in the last couple of years that I've realized the value of regularly putting oneself in discomfort of some sort...pushing the boundaries...facing one's fears...making a fool of oneself...however you describe it. It gives us a chance to remake ourselves and our perception of ourselves again and again. It grows new muscles, sharpens the vision, limbers the mind and pushes out the horizon.
I believe that's the secret of staying young in spirit.
Thanks for posting this video! As you spoke, I thought of Lewis Carroll's "Lobster Quadrille" (which I've set to music), and how much I try to take my daily living lessons from that poem:
What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France -- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.
Thanks for this reminder, Beth. I'm often too afraid (and shy and nervous) to do things that I don't understand or that I'm not good at. It's fun to remember that making a fool of yourself can be a good thing. I'm going dancing tonight and I'll keep that in mind. :)
... Then she stood there, hands on hips, waiting. A tango, with its blood-beat fatality. She began to dance. She didn't look at me, but her choices of where to advance and step, acknowledged my presence.
Tangos are made up of scraps of life, which have happened to survive. Scraps, rags, gathered together into the zigzag of the legs, continually obedient to flowing blood, spilt or unspilt.
John Berger, From A to X
One dance book later, several blogged confessions about dance lessons gone awry, and I have not yet said with clarity how elusive dancing is, how bound up with magic. Or how much I love dance but can't withstand dance, want to keep going, want to quit, am desperate to get it right, never do get it right, want to explain it, can't find the words—always competing thoughts in my head that make dance what? A pain? A pleasure? The beauty that is dance is nearly unattainable in all ways, except: Look at Iryna, here. And look what Berger has done with words to capture the raw "blood beat" of tango.
It's Kelsey Coons (Linda's daughter). I've been reading your blog for awhile, I love your style. The way you talk about dance is igniting; this post really lit me up! I shared it with a friend of mine who shares your passion for tango. I hope you and your family had a wonderful Thanksgiving. Take care, hope to see you soon!
Oh, Kelsey. What a nice thing to see you here (and to remember your pretty face while I type). Tango. Has your friend seen the movie by the same name, directed by Saura? It's an amazing achievement, brought me right back to Berger's words.
This isn't really me, but it is a photograph of happy dancing feet, which I found myself in possession of last evening. I'd been practicing the samba with the champion Belarusian, Jean Paulovich, and last night, among friends, we performed it. Though perhaps "perform" is too strong a word, perhaps "perform" suggests glitter and glued-on lashes and fish-netted thighs, and that will never (to Jean's professional despair) be me.
What is me is only this: The music goes on, and my bones take it in. My heart beats higher in its cage. Someone waits for me to get it right, and occasionally (but never wholly) I do. Frankly, I missed a few steps last night. But I never lost the music.
It's a privilege, dancing with Mr. Paulovich. It's a happy thing, to be forgiven for less than perfect bota fogas, voltas, whisks. It's good, after a stretch of worry, to come back home, to dance.
Oh, the merengue is so much fun. Really, I love all the dances, though I've yet to try a quick step or a paso. But in every dance there is some magic. And in every time one dances, there is the chance for magic, too.
PJ, this weekend has been indescribably wonderful. I hope yours has been, too.
I'm going to tell you something: I did not look pretty today. My hair is two weeks past the cut I'd promised it (I'm getting to it, I tell it). My clothes are the ones that aren't in the laundry room (sorry, but that means they are not my favorites). My mascara is tending toward globby.
I think your hair looks really good. I like the new spikey style and those black highlights are very fashion-forward. (You're an Autumn, you lucky girl, you can get away with that palette.)
And don't you just love having a wash-and-go cut?
;-) A.
So I am so out of the loop - wash and go hair. I am jealous!
Sorry to have been an absentee commenter. Been commiting the unforgivable sin of reading posts without commenting.
I'm having an ugly day too.
I bet you look great dancing the cha cha. Dance is beauty in motion.
Beth, thanks for your prayers and support. It really means the world to me :)
I often lurk at your blog, but I thought today I'd let you know how much I enjoy the photographs you post.
Today is one of those days where your picture says as much as your words. Hope you enjoy your haircut, butterfly. :)
I'm certain you looked lovely! I had to chuckle at the 'two weeks past a hair cut' comment, because I'm the same way ... I think it actually starts about a week BEFORE the haircut! :-)