A Circle of Women, Raging.

Weeks ago now, I was excited to take my mother to a salon-style gathering centered around women’s rage at On the Boards. Mumsie had just arrived into town to help me adjust to my newly acquired single-mother status. After 12 years, and 2 children, my marriage was apparently over and I had more than a few reasons to rage. So, there I was on the way to a space that promised me even more than a little room to breathe—it promised the precious space to rage.
 
Not shockingly, my relationship with my mother is nothing short of complex. I mean, how well do we relate to the fully integrated wonder that is The Mother? Ironically, she and I got into an argument on the way to this Rage Salon and she did not end up joining me. I linked up with my “exponential bestie,” Anastacia Tolbert, who may have been one of perhaps three black bodies (including me) in the all-woman space.
 
We both recognized some friends, exchanged warm greetings, and made ourselves comfortable with cups of hot water before joining the circle. The event was organized by Pat Graney and Elliat Graney-Saucke, and is connected to Graney’s premiering work, GIRL GODS. We responded to questions both aloud and in writing that explored our personal histories with rage—as something more keenly felt than anger in the heart and in the body.
 
If you were to ask me what I remember most about this salon, now that time has already seeped back in with the minutiae of daily living stresses—getting children ready, maintaining order and functionality, going to work—I might say that I don’t remember enough anymore. But that’s a lie. I remember what it felt like to take for granted that I would always have someone there (who was equally invested) to help me with my children.
 
What’s left with me now is the memory of so many women sitting in a circle and respectfully listening to each other more than anything else. I remember the bravely smiling voices (both strong and faltering), the glassy eyes, the springing tears—the rarity of the space as a whole. I remember feeling grateful and relieved.
 
But what I remember most was a piece of writing that one of the women shared with the group. In the memory she was recalling the nostril-flaring rage that comes with getting children to do what you say to them when their wills are new and still fanning out like butterfly wings. The guilt in her voice when she remembered her own anger, steeped inside of her, thick and poisonous as quicksilver—I remember that. I remember my sympathy, my empathy shooting out from my heart like a sharpened stone or a harpoon and locking with hers. She could’ve been my sister, my daughter, my friend. At that moment, her fragility was just as close to me as my own. The blur of her rage was nuanced and multivalent. There was sexual assault in those clouds and the blinking nononono no of it. The get off of me. The lingering filth. Except this was a story of motherhood and so many parts of me needed to hear it.
 
The aftermath was pregnant with connection-making because one woman’s truth became a bridge for all of us to walk over. Relief and validation were on the other side. And yes there should always be a space—physical or virtual—where women can rage. Always. But, for now there’s a closed Facebook group called Women Raging that interested parties can request to join.

 

The Next Afternoon Women's Rage Salon is Saturday, December 5th, 3-6pm @ Studio Current (contact us for address)

_________

 
NATASHA MARIN is a local Seattle writer, artist, and community organizer. By day she is the Community Outreach Coordinator for Resource Media, a non-profit PR Firm, and after work she tears holes in the space-time continuum to run an international experiment called Miko Kuro’s Midnight Tea (www.mikokuro.com). Follow her on Twitter @mikokuro.

 

© #GirlGods Blog 2015, Text by Natasha Marin.

 

#GirlGods Blog No.2 : Why I Dance (By Shannon Stewart)

 

I.  t h e   l i s t

 

I started dancing when I was three because I wanted to be like my sister.

I danced because I wanted to be able to do things with my body.

I danced because I wanted to be pretty and talented.

I danced because I wanted to be seen.

Then I danced because I didn’t know what else to do.

I danced because I loved music.

I danced because it got me through stuff.

I danced because I wanted to rigidly define and control my body’s image and its actions.

I danced because I wanted to be different.

I danced because I was lost and depressed.

I danced because I wanted to be in shape.

I danced because I wanted to be seen.

 

 

I stopped dancing.

 

I started to dance again because I wanted to try to subvert dance’s conventions and reverse its negative impacts on me and other people.

I danced because I didn’t know how to live without dancing.

I danced because I liked the people I was around.

I danced because I loved music.

I danced because I was trying to see myself.

I danced because I was trying to learn to be in and comfortable with my body.

 

I thought I would stop dancing.

 

I kept dancing because I needed therapy.

I danced because it altered my state.

I danced because there was so much I didn’t know.

I danced because of women who intimidated me.

I danced because I thought it took me outside of male dominated spaces.

I danced to prove that modern dance wasn’t all bad.

I danced because I wanted to know my body and learn from it.

I danced because I thought it was an act of transference and generosity.

I danced because I believed existence presided in my physical body.

 

I dance because I want to not always know what is happening.

I dance because I want to learn something outside of my rational mind

I dance because of the exchange between performers and audience, community and issues, self and other.

I dance because it repels binary.

I dance to be subversive.

 

I dance for the male gaze.

I dance because I want people to think I’m beautiful and talented.

I dance for media attention.

I dance because my parents thought women needed to be educated and have an after dinner parlor talent.

I dance because my family could afford to send me to lessons, buy my leotards, shoes, and support me when my finances fell apart.

I dance because I feel like I have to prove something.

I dance because I want to do something right, well, good, helpful, meaningful, challenging, virtuous, controversial, transgressive, elegant, inexplicable.

I dance because it means I’m in spaces where I feel like I belong.

I dance in spite of feeling like I will never stand out.

I dance because it brings me face to face with sexism, internalized misogyny and white privilege.   

I dance because there are far out mind-body epiphanies that can unravel dominant paradigms. 

I dance because there is possibility.

I still dance because I love music.

 

 

II.  t h e    d r e a m

Pat Graney and I are going to collaborate on a piece where a large cast of women and trans men dress like principle ballerinos (male dancers in black tights, white t-shirts and white ballet shoes) and do minimal “back-up” dancing while other women move large appliances on and off the stage. 

Men in Dance will produce and present it.

 

 

III.   c o n d i t i o n s   i n / u n d e r   w h i c h   w o r k   i s   m a d e

 

 Ben Harries Ben Harries/PR
Look before you leap: The Jasmin Vardimon Company rehearse for Justitia at Sadler's Wells. Photograph: Ben Harries Ben Harries/PR

 

I hope by now that any experienced dance goer and maker has heard the statistics about the disproportionate number of male choreographers and dancers who get opportunities and recognition in a field where they are far outnumbered (but if not, here you go: http://www.theguardian.com/stage/2013/apr/28/women-choreographers-glass-...).  [And I hope too that there is a general understanding that there is no such thing as reverse sexism, just as there is no such thing as reverse racism or reverse sexual orientation discrimination.]  And I understand that to write of said statistics will be largely received as a feminist rant instead of a presentation of information. . . so why bother? 

In this opportunity to provide an informed, even scholarly feminist critique to launch the work of a fearless choreographer whose work is artistically genius because of the embedded politics and politically genius because of its artistry, the realist in me still presides. Neither statistics, rants, or intellectualisms provide the magic bullet to deconstruct our unconscious and conditioned biases. . . not in the battle of gender equality or the other fights of our time – environmental destruction, mass incarceration, and unending war.  So I lose my steam just as I’m catching momentum.

General dance audiences delight in seeing young talented bodies, particularly men’s, perform feats of athleticism in aesthetic designs that present themselves as appealing according to some universal standard of quality that are in fact white  (perceived as non-ethnographically specific), western (of the “developed” world), and patriarchal (reinforcing women as objects, things to be manipulated, used and exchanged). 

It isn’t conscious or sought out purposefully (though sometimes it certainly is), it’s embodied.  In both performer and viewer.  Intellectually understood sexism may be, aggressively attempted to be dislodged it might be, experienced quite differently depending upon an individual’s relation to the power dynamics of race and class and sexual orientation, but deeply learned and bodily embedded.

To age as a woman in dance is to continually experience a kind of stunted maturity, a body needed to be restrained and put into the forms that are recognized and appreciated.  To be a woman aging in a dance audience, is to see the reification of youth as supreme, to stop being able to relate to the content, form and material of what is presented as contemporary dance.  To see the dispensable nature of women’s bodies.

 

 

iv.  m a t e r i a l

Because of the dual consciousness, this embodied clusterfuck of social conditioning, education, training, right now as a dance artist, as a white woman, as an educated and middle class American, I see my body as material.  In my physical practice I have an unwavering push to find some sort of an edge, a desire to mine out every bit of physical information stored – pirouettes, foites, cartwheels, baby freezes, six steps, texas two step, salsa, downward dog, birds of paradise, bartinieffs, forsythe improvisation, body mind centering, authentic movement, contact improv, long distance running, hiking, biking, snowboarding, skateboarding, nonprofit leadership performance tools, bodily shapes of being an employee, a student, a date, ballet, yoga, ballet, yoga and more fucking ballet.   

[I don’t want to be pretty.  I don’t want to make dance phrases.  I don’t want you to know what this is.  I don’t want you to know its gender or its sexuality.  I don’t want you to buy or sell it]. 

 

What is this body saying?

 

(What is this body of the audience saying?)

 

     In that space, there is possibility for dance. . . and . . .  

 

 

© #GirlGods Blog 2015, Essay by Shannon Stewart

 

#GirlGods Blog No.1 : Quiet Riot: Modern Dance as Embodied Feminism/Women Respond to Elles @ SAM (By Tonya Lockyer)

The following essay offers some historical context on how women choreographers have been, in Tonya Lockyer’s words, “kicking-ass as ambitious, forward-thinking creatives for over a hundred years”

In contemporary discourses on the body, dance has not received the same critical or philosophical attention as the fields of art, literature and cinema. Yet dance would appear to be a natural starting point. It is one of the few art forms in which feminist theory is actually embodied.

Janet Wolf proposed in her essay Reinstating Corporeality, “Since the body is clearly marginalized in Western culture, it might appear that dance is an inherently subversive activity.” (422) What to make then of the ballet Swan Lake where, given the choice between a real woman or a swan, the hero prince Albrecht chooses the bird? Romantic and classical ballet, rather than celebrate a real corporeality, colluded a weightless, classical ideal of ‘Woman’ as a symbol of spiritual purity. In contrast, Modern Dance, since its inception at the turn of the twentieth century, has predominately been viewed as a breakthrough for women. Early modern dance repudiated ballet’s fetish for other-worldly swans and sylphs, firmly planting women’s feet on the ground. The first, second and third generation pioneers and innovators of modern dance and the leaders of the Judson Dance Theater were also predominantly women.

When Isadora Duncan removed her corset and danced barefoot in a Grecian tunic, in the context of her day (1898), she was as good as nude. For Duncan, this physical and sexual liberation was necessary for women’s’ physical, spiritual and social emancipation. Duncan designed her dances to bring into being the “new woman” . . . “the highest intelligence in the freest body.” Twenty years later, German choreographer Mary Wigman concealed the gendered body altogether in The Witch Dance to emphasize the motion and tensions of time and space. Wigman’s contemporary Martha Graham rebelled against her own puritanical upbringing by creating works that celebrated iconic embodiments of female power.

By the 1960s and 70s, worried that the ‘sexual revolution’ might not have been so liberating after all, Judson Dance Theater dance-makers Lucinda Childs, Trisha Brown and Yvonne Rainer mirrored the sexual restraint of second-wave feminism. Many of the Judson-era choreographers struggled with the dilemma of how one could display the body in an art form that relied on physical presence, without becoming an exhibitionist or mere object for the spectator. With dances entitled The Mind Is a Muscle or Leaning Duets, they attempted to subvert the voyeuristic “male gaze”, demonstrating they were more than bodies by wearing unisex outfits and performing often resolutely un-sexy, austere, cerebral tasks with deliberately blank, unemotional facial expressions.

In the 1980s, the ‘natural’ body of just a decade earlier became passé. In 1981, as the world witnessed the first baby fertilized in vitro, female dancers became muscle-bound dynamos. American dancer Mollisa Fenley made the glossy pages of People Magazine as the embodiment of the new “aerobic body.” Sleek, fit, and muscular she eschewed dance classes for Nautiliaus machines, calisthenics, and running. Choreographer Elizabeth Streb also achieved substantial recognition for herphysically brutal, androgynous “equipment pieces.” Her muscle-bound male and female dancers dressed in identical unitards, dove from great heights and threw themselves against walls; the impact of their hard bodies amplified for visceral effect. This was dance that spoke its politics through direct physical risk and force.

Duncan’s turn of the century luminous sensuality and Streb’s brutal post-modern asexuality may be stark contrasts on the surface, but both embodied aspects of the prevailing feminist ideologies of their eras. It is easy in retrospect to critique the essentialism of early modern dances evocation of the ‘natural body’ or Graham’s embodiment of essentialist icons of ‘Womanhood.’ The Judson strategy of ‘erasure’ has also been critiqued by feminist dance theorists like Ann Cooper Albright who questioned if the “erasure” of subjectivity was the “ultimate route for feminists to take.” Albright evoked the work of Canadian choreographer Maire Chouinard to argue that contemporary dance in the 80s could potentially fracture the “conventional reification of body image and jolt the gaze of the spectator” by shifting the discourse away from the body to the space of the “physical experience of the dancer—her moving, her motion- her subjectivity.”

From the beginning of her career, Chouinard shared philosophical and aesthetic concerns with other artists of the 70s and 80s feminist avant-garde. These women forged new creative territories and shared Chouinard’s interest in the complexity of embodiment; performance as ritual or sacred art; the sensuous experience of the body as the source for movement and voice; and a belief in the body as a special medium or spiritual force. Chouinard began her work as a self proclaimed Body Artist. In the 80s, ‘the body’ was a focus of growing intellectual interest both within and without feminism. Body artists of the 70s and 80s used performance as a subversive means to question and expose the construction of the body in culture, to act outside of social expectations and to release energy contained by cultural taboos. During this period Marie Chouinard created some of the most provocative and controversial choreography of the late twentieth century.

It was Petite danse sans nom (1980) that first gained her notoriety. Dressed in a geometric white dress, Chouinard walked on stage, drank a glass of water, parted her legs in a plie a la second and peed into an amplified aluminum bucket. Her reputation grew with solos like Marie Chien Noir (1982) where she calmly slid her hand down her throat until she reflexively gagged, then quietly sang a simple folk song while masturbating. Chouinard insists her intention was not to shock, but to shatter classical expectations of female beauty with the reality of her body.

I only have second-hand accounts to go on but according to Albright and others who have written of being in the audience for Marie Chien Noir the masturbation was not presented in a way that elicited desire. Former Chouinard dancer (and now Seattleite) Louis Gervais has described not knowing Chouinard was masturbating until “the rhythm of her breath began to change the rhythm of her singing.” These “petite” dances, although early in the development of her research, embody Chouinard’s desire to give audiences a palpable sensory experience of her body. Chouinard experienced herself through her felt experiences and she insisted that the audience be given opportunities to recognize these experiences. She aimed to allow the intense reality of her female body to fill the performance space with a tangible density.

In 1987, Chouinard created a gender-bending performance—a solo that blurred biological, social, cultural, and historical boundaries. Chouinard’s metamorphosis in L’Apres-midi d’un faune (1987) involved the appropriation of famous danseur Vaslav Nijinsky’s body through an elaborate costume with a padded calf and thigh; and through her interpretation of his famous dance of the same name.

At the time of Chouinard’s performance, mainstream gender-bending had taken hold in North American culture with a politically charged vengeance. This social movement predated Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble (1990) in which Butler introduced the term performativity. She stated that identities and genders are not innate but performed and socially constructed. According to Butler gender was something you ‘did’. It was not natural or organic. It was fluid, variable, and could shift or change in different contexts. Chouinard’s performance reflected the cultural zeitgeist but, even from a dance history perspective, it was provocative.

When Nijinsky performed his Faune in 1912, it was instantly notorious, inciting charges of indecency and amorality for making a spectacle of male sexuality. In Nijinsky’s version, the Faune surprises a group of nymphs. One of them drops her scarf and he carries it back to his rock where he stretches it out and thrusts his pelvis into it. With a few jerks of pleasure he then lies still. In Chouinard’s version, at the end of the solo the faune detaches a ram’s horn from his/her head and attaches it to their pelvis. Sheathing the phallus in a red condom the faune then plunges it into a beam of light. As Albright has pointed out the ambiguity (and I would add the potential spiritual implications) of Chouinard’s object of desire shifts the viewer’s awareness to the powerful sexual desire of Chouinard herself.

Chouinard’s work can be experienced as a liberatory feminist vision.Driven by the vital energy of eros Chouinard’s dances arguably fulfill French feminism’s dream of a real liberation of sexuality. Much writing on dance and feminist theory focuses on the representation of gender and the body. But Chouinard’s work reveals that beyond the body is the somatic experience of the dancer—the subjective changing perception of movement in flux.

Today, the feminist rallying cry “The Personal is Political” has been interrogated by a post-structuralist agenda that questions the political ground of subjectivity and essentialism. As a result the public revelation of a woman’s subjective/ personal/somatic/erotic/ spiritual experience is no longer seen in itself as necessarily a political act. However, post-structuralism also demonstrated that whether a performance is political, and what it ‘means’, depends not only on content but context: who makes it, who sees it, where and when. Given post-structuralism’s emphasis on context one can still convincingly argue that within their historical milieus these women dance artists (and many more) embodied the feminist project to emancipate women by subverting dominate cultural ideals of ‘appropriate’ behavior for both sexes: constructing new identities, new bodies and new feminist spaces.

What is today’s feminist project? Does dance still construct new identities, bodies and feminist spaces? Where can current feminist theory be found, embodied in dance, in 2012? Or, is the goal of representing women vs. men (to quote Camille Morineau who organized elles @centrepompidou in 2009) “no longer important?”

 

© 2012 Tonya Lockyer  |  Originally Published at STANCE: Journal of Choreographic Culture

Additional Related Articles:

The Female Choreographers Collective 

Vanishing Pointe: Where are all the great female choreographers? 

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