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It's a quiet Tuesday outside my window as I write. The weekend went by in a rush and a blur and now I'm home, working and reflecting on what it felt like to be wrecked, what I gained from the experience and, perhaps more importantly, what I lost. I could easily slip into reverie here and not write to you about the experience, sip my tea and listen to the silence of my room and go about my day. But I won't. I'll write.
This is what it felt like: The way someone saddles up beside you when they can see you're looking confused and worried, in the middle of something and needing to take a break. The way that person takes the pen out of your hand as you write, pressing the head of the pen down into the paper hoping some truth will come out the other end, and takes a deep breath with you. The way that person then smiles and starts to show you what you're made of, show you all of the things you've already done in your life, what it means to them, what it makes them think of and how it inspires them. The way that person then gives you permission to start writing again but in a wild way, in a way that makes you feel put back into a place of play.
This is what it felt like to have Christy Funsch wreck my solo Spending Time Mending Things for The Wrecking Project this past weekend. She was like a dramaturg in rehearsal, asking me about my work and what interests me. We talked about dance and making dance and how no two reasons for making dance are alike. We talked about her work, what interests her and why she makes the way she makes. We talked about our human, how we love certain things, why we take our time in the studio. We shared stories. We commiserated.
I had no idea how much I've needed to share my stories with someone like Christy until the opportunity arrived. I was incredibly nervous about my solo. It was new territory for me {still is}. And I couldn't believe I was going to present it to an audience. But I knew I had to. Christy was so kind and inquisitive about it, but not precious. She took all of who I am, was able to see and read it, and turned it into what felt like an explosion of my mind these days. The knitting, photography, blogging, writing, dancing, meditating, cooking - all of what I do these days and hold dear to my heart she gathered up and pieced together for a wrecked version of my dance.
And in her undoing of my doing she pieced together what has felt for the longest time like compartments in my mind. I have my writing over here. I have knitting over here. Dance goes here. And photography sometimes here. She let me perform with all of it. In fact, she encouraged me to continue looking at all of it within the context of performance and my art-making practice to further explore what it is I'm trying to come to in the doing of all of those things. She thinks I need to go deep and explode all of it even more. And I do, too.
The sensation of vulnerability I experienced all weekend is evidence of the riches to be had in this new direction I'm headed, STMT the beginning of a longer artistic process in which I'm engaged. I felt so exposed and untethered. I felt so seen and open to everything. I had little time to integrate her wrecked version into my body, as I performed it right after rehearsals. I suppose I had little time to sit back and sip my tea, as I'm doing now, to reflect on what was happening. But that's, then, exactly what allowed for what happened to happen.
I would not have been put into the perfect relationship of a wreck with Christy had it not been for my friend and colleague, Julie Mayo. She saw Christy's work and thought the pairing of us made sense. And it did. A tender gratitude to her and all she does for dance. And a tender gratitude to everyone who came to see us wrecked in our own way, to those who helped me get to the show on time with food and water - to every hand that makes an evening of art possible.
I write to share one story of vulnerability with you, knowing you have your own stories of what it means to be seen and be vulnerable as an artist. As I write, I'm listening to Jack Kornfield talk about how Rilke said, "It is upon our vulnerability that we depend." I know what Rilke means now more than ever thanks to two brave ladies and inspiring artists, Julie and Christy, my family and my own inner artist who was willing to take the leap and get wrecked.
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{Photo above by Colleen Leonardi of a postcard featuring the painting "Le boudoir," 1921 by Matisse}
