Next Friday and Saturday I guest perform with GoVertigo, the university's student dance ensemble. The process has been fun -- I especially enjoyed the weekly full-company rehearsals that operated like a dance workshop/class and included drills in turns and leaps -- but more grueling than I expec
ted. Practices begin after 9 pm, for one, a time at which I prefer to be getting ready for bed. It's hard to come home and go right to sleep after jumping around and using the part of your brain responsible for remembering choreography. This part of my brain has atrophied. It was once robust: I was the girl that always got put in the front row because I remembered the moves. Now I'm in the back trying to follow the girls in the front, struggling to stay on beat and recall what exactly to do with my arms. I'm in a modern/lyrical number set to the Ron Pope song "Fireflies," and the full-company number, a hip-hop affair that incorporates cheerleading and ballet moves, to the tune of Taio Cruz's "Dynamite." These are both really stupid songs. I wanted to dance to Ready for the World's "Oh Sheila," but nobody asked for my input. As you can see,
la d
urée de vie d'une danseuse has not been easy. My knees and ankles are bruised, I skinned my left big toe, and worst of all, I pulled a muscle in my butt. And I have to wear something called booty shorts in the recital. At least the cats provide a constant source of entertainment. Here they are, united in mutual adoration of newspaper and gazing out the window at birds.
Next Friday and Saturday I guest perform with GoVertigo, the university's student dance ensemble. The process has been fun -- I especially enjoyed the weekly full-company rehearsals that operated like a dance workshop/class and included drills in turns and leaps -- but more grueling than I expec
ted. Practices begin after 9 pm, for one, a time at which I prefer to be getting ready for bed. It's hard to come home and go right to sleep after jumping around and using the part of your brain responsible for remembering choreography. This part of my brain has atrophied. It was once robust: I was the girl that always got put in the front row because I remembered the moves. Now I'm in the back trying to follow the girls in the front, struggling to stay on beat and recall what exactly to do with my arms. I'm in a modern/lyrical number set to the Ron Pope song "Fireflies," and the full-company number, a hip-hop affair that incorporates cheerleading and ballet moves, to the tune of Taio Cruz's "Dynamite." These are both really stupid songs. I wanted to dance to Ready for the World's "Oh Sheila," but nobody asked for my input. As you can see, la d
urée de vie d'une danseuse has not been easy. My knees and ankles are bruised, I skinned my left big toe, and worst of all, I pulled a muscle in my butt. And I have to wear something called booty shorts in the recital. At least the cats provide a constant source of entertainment. Here they are, united in mutual adoration of newspaper and gazing out the window at birds.
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