UnEncumbered
A Series of Musings in the Shape of a Blog
Prometheus
July 13, 2023
I remember the snow. The way that it took on the orange glow of the lamps. I remember the quiet, and the deep dark sky above.
We were in rehearsal for an early work, not the work that would become my defining work, but an earlier work. I had chosen my performers carefully, and I was thrilled to have an extraordinary team of collaborators. Rehearsal had been productive, but challenging. As was usually the case, I had waited for all of the dancers to leave, lingering behind to tidy up the studio and turn off the lights. It is a ritual of mine – first one in, last one out. I believe in rituals when it comes to making art. I believe those little acts of sameness help us transform an empty space with mirrored walls into a sacred space where magic happens. And I love those moments at the end, those moments when the cast is gone but I can feel their energy in the space, their laughter still ringing in my ears.
On this particular night one of my collaborators had lingered behind as well. He and I were trying to work out a particularly difficult section. His writing and my choreography were slipping past each other, not connecting, and we were immersed in a discussion of why. I remember feeling so bundled up as we made our way down the back stairs behind the stage and out into the little alley space behind the building, prepared for the snap of cold to hit us when we walked out of the door. He wore a plaid scarf and I remember that he wrapped it more tightly across his chest as we pushed through the heavy door.
But it wasn’t so cold. Snow was softly falling and it seemed to have magically insulated our little corner of the world. There, in the brilliant reflection of streetlamps on glittering snow, we stood and continued to talk, working through our creation, running through the possible outcomes, solutions, strategies we might try in rehearsal the next night. It seemed like no time at all had passed when we said goodnight, creativity exhausted for the time being, and my collaborator turned to head home.
When I looked down to where he had been standing, his footprints were inches deep. How long had the snow been falling around us? How long had we stood beneath that winter sky, our minds on fire with possibility, warmed by our own creative energy?
I stood there for a long time, watching the snow slowly fill in those footprints. I closed my eyes and breathed in the night air. I felt safe, and still, and yet every cell in my body felt alive. My whole self was engaged in creation.
I don’t remember the moment I gathered myself into motion, setting off into the sparkling snow to make my own way home. I don’t remember how we resolved that particular creative challenge, or much about the final production (except that I have seen the recording and I know it happened). What I remember is the process. I remember the energy, the ideas, the movement of bodies in the studio. I remember the feeling of being alive, and so entirely focused that the world fell away.
And I remember the stillness. In the midst of the whirl of life – I remember that moment of stillness, standing in the falling snow, beneath the orange glow of the lamps, breathing in the winter air, and knowing with my whole being that, no matter what came before or after, in that moment I was exactly where I needed to be.
jas.
(c) 2023