Andrée Grau

Andrée Grau is the Professor of Dance Anthropology at Roehampton University.

Yesterday while marking student papers in one of her favourite parks in France, she died suddenly of a heart attack.

I met Andrée in 2010. I was six months pregnant and about to start the MA Dance Anthropology degree at Roehampton for which she was the Programme Head.

At that first meeting, she exuded warmth and interest in her new student cohort. She was fascinating to look at, dressed in beautiful clothes put together with a unique eye. Her lipstick was vibrant, her jewellery works of art and her makeup impeccable. All my misgivings about starting the course in the late stages of pregnancy melted in the presence of this engaged and charismatic person.  I was won over even before I'd even heard one of her fascinating lectures or experienced her wise counsel and acute perception.

I was a part-time student and in the four years it took me to complete the MA, Andrée was ever present. She guided me, helped me and listened to me. When I was in the first year of motherhood, trying desperately to cope with a sick baby, my own ill health and essay deadlines, she was the only person who really saw what was going on for me and told me not to quit. That she could help me find a way through.

Andrée was a internationally renowned dance scholar. She was a pioneer in the field of dance anthropology; a niche discipline which she helped develop and grow. Students travelled from all around the globe to study her course at Roehampton. Despite her reputation and prodigious academic output she had no intellectual arrogance or entitlement. She was down to earth, funny, sharp and kind.

Andrée Grau

It's a terrible lesson to learn that sometimes things you put off, last forever. I hadn't seen Andrée after I graduated from Roehampton in 2014. We made plans to meet occasionally but it never eventuated. She was busy. I was busy. We'd catch up on Facebook from time to time. But that's it. We'll never have that coffee together.

I always thought I would go and seek her advice when it came time to consider a PhD. She would have been expecting me. Even though she knew I had no wish to be an academic, she knew that I am a scholar at heart.

It stuns me that I won't be able to do that. That I won't be able to talk and discuss and laugh with her ever again. I wanted to ask her about fieldwork and how she thought I could conduct it with a family. I wanted to ask her so much.

All day long, tributes from her ex students and colleagues from all far flung corners of the world have been coming up on Facebook. They speak about her warmth, her kindness, how she looked out for each and every one of us. How much she was held in high regard and with genuine respect. We are all devastated.

For all that she gave us, I hope she knew how much we respected and loved her. How much we owe to her and what an impact she had on so many lives. I hope she took heart in the fact that she created many new dance anthropologists, all scattered around the globe. That we honour her legacy and will remember her always.

I can't believe she's gone.

Thank you Andrée. I will miss you.

Brodsky/Baryshnikov

Mikhail Baryshnikov is a good-looking man. Nearing 70, he has charisma in spades which was in full display last night when I attended his show, Brodsky/Baryshnikov.

Marketing for the show

When I booked my (very expensive) ticket, I didn’t know what the show was about. All that my bedazzled eyes could see was Baryshnikov Baryshnikov Baryshnikov Baryshnikov

Later when I informed the Husband that he would be on child watch duties, he read the marketing material and raised an eyebrow:

You do know that he’s not dancing, don’t you?

Of course I know that. What do you take me for?

And that he’s reading poetry.

Uh, duh. That’s why it’s Brodsky/Baryshnikov. Joseph Brodsky. Poet Laureate.

In Russian. He’s reading poetry in Russian.

Oh.

What could I say?

I had not read the small print but quite frankly, I didn’t care. Baryshnikov could be on stage brushing his teeth and I’d still have gone.

Mikhail Baryshnikov is one the greatest ballet dancers of all time. At the height of his prowess as a classical dancer, he defected from Russia to Canada in 1974. Afterwards he went on to wow the world with dance and forayed into acting, painting, photography and writing. He never rested on his laurels. He’s pushed himself artistically and creatively throughout his life and now nearing 70, he’s still taking creative risks.

Brodsky/Baryshnikov is a one-man show. Over the course of 90 minutes, Baryshnikov recites Brodsky’s poetry as if in conversation with the dead poet and performs set movement pieces throughout. The words (thankfully) were subtitled for an English speaking audience. Whilst I do not speak Russian, the timbre and tone of Baryshnikovs’ delivery was compelling. Who knew he sounded so sexy in Russian? The melancholy and hope that permeates much of Russian art and literature resonated in Brodsky’s words. I found myself loving the poetry. 

When Baryshnikov took his shirt off and started moving, the reaction of the audience was palpable.

Is Baryshnikov is going to dance?

But he didn’t. He did some weird performance Butoh which I didn’t like very much. I didn’t think it suited the show but again, it didn’t matter. This is Baryshnikov. However odd the conception, the movements themselves were as crystalline and precise as ever. At 70, his body could rival most men half his age. He is in good shape.

Moody Russian Dancer

At the end, he came out to take his bow. People stood up and clapped and clapped. Not because it was the best thing they had ever seen but out of respect for this great artist who is still taking creative risks and baring himself onstage. He smiled, bowed and then did a little jump-hop-skip and ran to exit offstage.

People were still clapping so he came on and did it again. Bowed. Jump-hop-skip. Run to exit.  

He did it three times. That little jump-hop-skip-run.

I guess it’s like breathing to him that jump-hop-skip-run. After every show, every performance, that is the way he exits the stage.  He’s been doing it since he was a boy, since he started learning how to dance. His body just does it automatically.  This show was not about dancing but still, he took a dancer’s bow and exit. He couldn't help it. 

It was a weighted moment and it's what I'll remember most about the show. His jump-hop-skip exit embodied so much of Baryshnikov's history and legacy.  To quote the show itself:

Life is the sum of tiny movements. 

-Joseph Brodsky

Dance, Dance, Dance!

I was dancing with Dragon in our hallway to, Can't Stop The Feeling, by Justin Timberlake. Dragon was flailing about, wriggling her hips, arms and legs. I was following suit. We were having fun. Dancing with kids is a panacea for what ails you.

I've been thinking about middle aged dancing of late. Mum and Dad dancing have become common cultural phrases. From Ed Balls strutting his stuff on Strictly to Michelle Obama sending herself up on Jimmy Kimmel, dancing after a certain age or period of life segues into old person dancing. While dancing in your teens or twenties is seen as freedom of expression, sexiness, rhythmicality and physicality, dancing in your late thirties and beyond can be regarded as a bit frumpy, a bit uncool. It might feel the same for you, the person dancing, but there is cultural shift in how your moves are viewed.  Who is judging you? Twenty year olds? Your children? Other adults? I don't know. Yet us 'oldies' still keep at it. At Dragon's school, myself and some other parents are attending a street dance class together in en masse expression of mumanddad dancing. We will shake the rafters and bring down the house. You can stare but we just don't care!

Recently a friend mentioned her discomfort at seeing seventy-one year old Lesley Joseph perform on Strictly Come Dancing.

Why were you uncomfortable? I asked. Was she not very good?

She was very good. It's just weird seeing a 70 year old dancing sexily. It made me uncomfortable. I don't know why. We'll all get there one day.

Is it because she was dancing in a twenty year old 'sexy' way rather than a seventy year old 'sexy' way?

Which begs the question - what does a seventy year old dancing sexily look like? Should it look any different to a twenty year old ? Why are the same dance moves that are acceptable at twenty not at seventy? Or are we just not used to seeing it on a seventy year old body?

I think about this because I am someone who dances. I do wonder now in my forties whether I should be pulling the same moves as I did in my twenties. Ageism surrounds dance. Yet the boundaries around dance are socially constructed. So why is ageing discriminated against in the free dance arena? The fact that we can move at all should be celebrated.

Dancing, for me, irrespective of age, has usually been a direct connection to joy. A symbiotic expression of musicality, sensuality, personality and sinuosity. As we age, our experiences of these qualities become more profound. You would think that this would be reflected in the way we boogie. That our dancing becomes enriched with experience and age. Not defiled and mocked because of it. Let's be honest. To be able to move to music when your joints ache and muscles strain is a triumph.

As Justin sings:

I got this feeling, inside my bones. It goes electric, wavy, when I switch it on.

Keep it switched on people. Don't turn it off.

Mortal Engine

A few weeks ago I found out that Chunky Move were touring to London to perform Mortal Engine at the Southbank Centre.

I am going to see Chunky Move, I told the Husband. Can you look after Dragon that night?

Who is Chunky? he asked. Why do you want to see him move?

Chunky Move is an Australian contemporary dance company based in Melbourne, Victoria. Founded by Gideon Obarzanek in the mid 90's, they have been on my radar since 2003 when I lived in Melbourne and took classes at their studios. Their HQ resembled a big bar of chocolate which had been gnawed at by a giant rat:



Cadbury or Nestle?

Inside the windowless studios which were painted a honeycomb yellow, I would take weekly contemporary classes, wondering if I would catch a glimpse of Mr Obarzanek looking artistic and moody. The dancers from his company often taught our classes and over time, I came to view Chunky Move as a dance home by default.

Artistic? Moody? Nah....

On Saturday night, I was the first to enter the empty Queen Elizabeth Hall theatre. As I took my seat and watched the audience come in, I saw Gideon Obarzanek walking down the aisle, takeway coffee in hand, looking like, well, Gideon Obarzanek. I felt like shouting Hi! before I realised he did not know me even though his company felt like a piece of my past.

Mortal Engine is known for being a contemporary dance piece which wholly embraces motion capture video and sound responsive projections as part of its choreography. The technology utilised is not an adjunct to the piece but very much an equal performer in its own right. In his notes, Obarzanek, describes the work as a dance-video-music-laser performance.

Usually this kind of thing turns me right off a dance piece. I often feel that if the work is good, it doesn't need the flashiness of lights and lasers to embellish it.

Mortal Engine proved me wrong. As I watched the piece unfold, I marvelled how he had seamlessly integrated all the different components together to create some wonderful performance moments that were fresh to my eye. The sceptic in me got a big slap.

There was also slightly too much laser and noise work at times, making me feel as if I were trapped in a bad rave venue. And some choreography which made me wonder if Obarzanek is bored with bodies.

Nonetheless I left excited about what this work it meant for the future of dance. And curious as to how quickly all the London creatives in the audience that night will start to adopt these methods into their own work.

Congrats Gideon. Good job.


 

Cha Cha Charleston!

I've been back at work now for three months and boy, those three months have been jammed pack. As any working parent knows, to work at your job, to look after your family, to look after yourself, to look after all the infrastructure (house, plants, etc) to have a social life, to keep doing some things that are important... you gotta be on the ball 24/7. You have to have the organisational skills par excellence. You need to be Superwoman!

Which I believe all mums are.

This mum looked after herself a few weeks ago and took herself, her husband and some friends to watch Cantina at the Priceless London Underground;  a carnival site that has been set up next to the Southbank Centre.  Cantina caught my eye because it is an Australian show that it is held in a Spiegeltent.  Spiegeltents really capture the romantic, lavish and slightly dark entertainment quality pertaining to carnival/burlesque/cabarte/circus acts of years gone by. The one that hosted Cantina was from the 1920s and looked something like this:



Inside the Spiegeltent during Cantina
 

Cantina itself was a show worth seeing. Dark, slightly twisted, humorous and at times, uncomfortable, it was not your normal cabaret-circus-one-trick-pony. I loved the atmosphere, I loved the performances, I loved the live music and I just loved the sections where the performers did the Charleston.

They all look slightly bonkers. What's not to love?

There is something about the Charleston that makes me happy. I am no expert but whenever I break out into those jerky moves, I can't stop smiling.

So inspired was I by the tone of the evening that I decided to go to a Charleston dance night. I found one happening four days later hosted by The Bees Knees at Wild Times which is an evening run by the London Swing Dance Society.

A friend gamely came along for the ride and after a swift drink at the local pub, we found ourselves flapping and swinging, twisting and kicking in a underground basement that looked like a studio den from the 1970's. Our teacher taught us a whole routine and whilst her teaching manner was a bit under par; the moves she taught us were pure 1920s jazz, baby!

It was a big dose of performance and dance bliss. Something I sorely needed and won't neglect for too long again.







 

International Dance Festival Birmingham

A few weekends ago I travelled up to Birmingham to attend the International Dance Festival Birmingham. I was on a mission to see a woman perform.  A woman who is fifty three years old and the mother of twins.

Her name is Louise Lecavalier; a prominent contemporary dance artist from Canada. Formerly of the company La La  La Human Steps. Well known for her kinetic, feral energy on stage and her triple barrel horizontal spins.

Does she look 53 to you?

I travelled alone, feeling the gap widen between myself and the demands of a 13 month toddler. I luxuriated in the ability to read, think, dream, gaze unhindered. I stayed in Birmingham the entire weekend, during which I read books and papers and magazines. I read as if I was starving for words.

Before the show, I enjoyed the time in the foyer alone; people watching over a glass of wine. Inside the theatre, the dancer from Canada showed that age and artistry are excellent companions. Her partner onstage was Patrick Lamothe who had a bit of a pot belly and looked like he'd been up drinking all night. He looked like a regular guy. I like it when dancers look real and then surprise you with what they can do on stage with their real looking bodies.

Where did his pot belly go in this photo? Photoshopped?

When the weekend was over, I returned to the squalling embrace of my pissed-off toddler and my relieved husband. We were all exhausted. He was exhausted by our child. She was exhausted (not really) because she is a non stop machine. I was exhausted by all the freedom I'd had .

Yet the outcome of all this exhaustion was that something in me had been reclaimed.  Through my trip to Birmingham, I had also made a trip back to me.

Tango Till They're Sore

Dance is the simplest, most eloquent and perhaps honest expression of the human condition that we have as sentient beings. Music comes a close second.  However when it is your body that is the instrument of expression, it doesn't get much more intimate than that.

My body has not been my own for many months.  It has belonged to Dragon. It has served her needs, day in, day out to the point that I did not know it anymore. I do not mean that it had sagged and bagged beyond all recognition. I simply did not feel a part of it. I had detached. Exercise and the physical demands of looking after a baby did nothing to re-engage me with my corporeal self.

I knew what I had to do and finally last night, I got to it.

I went dancing.

Tango in fact. Argentine style.

As my feet slid across the floor in the familiar sinuous shapes of my past, I felt serene for the first time in a long, long while. Tom Waits (of all people) flashed through my head

Well ya play that Tarantella
All the hounds they start to roar
And the boys all go to hell
Then the Cubans hit the floor
And they drive along the pipeline
They tango till they're sore
They take apart their nightmares
And they leave them by the door

Instead of the usual tango feet image, I give you Tom Waits. A man I'd like to tango with

Dance has been the longest relationship I've had with anything or anyone, apart from my parents. And I had been neglecting that relationship for far too long

The body remembers always and reminds you of what you have forgotten.

It's all there; waiting beneath the surface.

A Little Tenderness For Heaven's Sake

is the name of the show I went to see at Sadlers Wells last Friday night. Actually the name was Un Peu de Tendresse Bordel de Merde! by Canadian choreographer Dave St Pierre.

I went to the show by default. A friend who works at Sadlers had free tickets and asked if I was interested. To be honest, I didn't even look to see what the show was. I just said Yes for it meant a night out without baby. A night out BY MYSELF. For the first time in nine weeks.

As I travelled on the tube to Sadler's, I looked around the carriage at the diverse, eclectic population that dwells in London and felt extremely happy. Each person in the carriage seemed so interesting.  For the first time since birth, I felt in sync with the city again.

When I got to Sadler's, I asked my friend, What show are we seeing?


Don't you know? 
No, I just wanted to get out
So if I'd asked you to come out and play chess, you would've come?
For sure. 

As it turned out, the show was the one that's been causing all kinds of controversy in the arts/dance world of late with its nakedness and dangly bits on display for all to see.  For me, it wasn't this that was shocking, although having naked men in blonde wigs clamber onto the audience and stick their penises in unexpected places was surprising; it was some of the other crudity within the show. I didn't think it needed to be so blatantly crude.  Pina Bausch, who St Pierre is obviously influenced heavily by, dealt with similar themes in a far more majestic yet intimate manner without resorting to in your face crudeness. I think the key difference was that Pina drew the audience in and made them feel connected to her pieces. St Pierre has more of a shove-it-in-your face-and-deal-with-it-attitude within this work.

They reminded me of Blonde Smurfs for some reason

That said, during the 145 min show there were moments of bright humour, wit and tenderness too. It was an interesting first night out post birth but for me the tube ride in had been far more engaging and peformative. Just goes to show that real life trumps art almost every time. 

Rhythm is a Dancer

Last night I had the following conversation with a woman in the change rooms at the gym:

Woman in Leopard Print G-String: Are you pregnant?

Me in Ultra Stretch Granny Pants : Yes

WILPGS: How many months are you? You're still going to the gym!?

MIUSGP (bristling): Nearly six months. Yes. I still go the the gym.

WILPGS: How do you find it?

MIUSGP: It's good. But you just have to vary some things depending on how you feel.

WILPGS: Good on you. Well done you.

Phew! Cat fight in the gym quickly diverted to sisterhood rulz!

For the record, I did a body jam class. I find dancing in any form really helpful for me during this pregnancy. Belly dance, latin, african. All the styles that make you move your hips. The baby seems to like it as well.




Belly dance is great for pregnancy, and for women in general!


Afterwards I met up with my husband who said:

Husband Who Can't Dance: What class did you do?

Me: Body jam

HWCD: What?! What are you doing that now? Isn't it too vigorous?!

Oh good grief. I can't win.

Student Daze

Many moons ago I was presented with the opportunity to return to academia and undertake postgraduate studies. I wrote about that here.

Well I did it. I signed up and am a bona fide student again. Part -time. I couldn't quite commit my whole life to poverty.

The campus I am attending is gorgeous. It's like the Lost Gardens of Heligan plucked from Cornwall and plonked into London. Swanning around the grounds makes me feel very at one with student life. It reminds me of the times I spent sitting on the lawns of Bush Court at Murdoch and the Great Court at UWA, chatting with friends and skipping classes. The library at this institution holds more dance resources than any other place I have been. As I am a library junkie that is studying dance, this is heaven.

Just like this woman in the Lost Gardens, theory waffle sends me to sleep

The only thing that bugs me right now is Theory.

What did I expect. What did I think I would be doing?

But why does so much have to be hot air? Why can't some of these published academics say in one sentence what they use a  whole page for? Why can't the language be plain instead of convoluted? Why do you have to read twenty crappy pieces of theory to find one brilliant one.

Keep it simple people.

So the wall I came up against in my past studies is still there.

But this time, I'm going to smash it down. Or get kicked out. Or fail.

Pina Bausch

Pina Bausch changed my understanding of dance forever. When I first clapped eyes on her choreography, I was a teenager who was sick of tendus and plies but didn't know how to get past the strictures of classicism, nor the abstractions of contemporary. Pina stripped back the pretensions of form and showed that dancers could be individuals; nuanced and real. That dancers need not be dancing lines in the air but characters that speak, fart or fall down onstage. Her work was poignant, dark, wicked and funny. It influences me to this day.

For all the impact that she had on me, I'd never seen her work live. That drought came to an end when I scored tickets to Kontakthof at the Barbican. The piece was to be performed by two casts; one group aged 65+ and the other, teenagers. I plumbed for the oldies because how often do you get to see a group of pensioners in a major dance work?


Kontakthof, trans. - a place to make contact, to meet, was simply that. A dancehall where a group of people had assembled to play out all the games we humans play with each other. Taking my seat, I was afraid that up close, Pina's work would fall flat of my (sky-high) expectations.



I needn't have worried. The piece drew from me a range of responses. I laughed till I snorted. I wondered what the hell was going on. I wanted to know more about those people onstage. I felt uncomfortable by some of what I saw. I thought it was too long. I loved, loved, loved that the dancers were 65 and over. It gave me hope.

I walked out still a grateful fan and aware even more of her influence on my dance education.

RIP Pina. Thank you for the moves.

'Tis the Silly Season

Since I moved to London, I’ve come to experience the months leading up to Christmas as being high pitched and action packed. In anticipation of the holidays and perhaps in an effort to stave off the dark gloom of winter, the sheer amount of social and cultural activities for everyone seem to quadruple as does the desire to attend every single thing possible. It’s a marathon few months run at break neck pace. By Christmas, we are all exhausted and fall down post Xmas in a crumpled, sodden heap.

The lead up this year has been no exception, crammed full with catch-ups with friends, parties and shows galore. London at any time offers a veritable feast of rich pickings and in the last few weeks I’ve been to several shows. Here is a snapshot of each:

Michael Clarke Company

With Kate Moss as a patron, Michael Clarke Company is well situated in positing itself as the cool, hip kid on the block of contemporary dance. Presenting a revival of his 1986 classic, Swamp, together with a medley of pieces set to music by Iggy Pop, Lou Reed and David Bowie, Clarke had his unitard clad dancers performing gymnastic, Cunningham-influenced choreography that reminded me of moves executed by the Chinese gymnasts in Cirque du Soleil. Clarke’s ascetic, constrained style may appeal to some but I prefer my dancers with a little more expression even if it means a little less épaulement.



The Blind Boys from Alabama

I have always wanted to attend a Gospel revival and on a cold, winter’s night at the Barbican, I got my wish. The Blind Boys bounced onstage in their sharp white suits and showed us the meaning of puttin’ on a show. Slightly diminished in number (one had died the week before and another had been waylaid in transit), they nonetheless raised the roof with their rich, booming voices which resulted in a concert unlike no other. By the end the entire, and I mean entire audience were on its feet dancing, shouting, clapping, hooting and singing. If I could've bottled the atmosphere there that night, I think I would have captured the essence of joy. Eau de Joy courtesy of the Bad Boys. Hallelujah Amen!

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

When the husband told me that we had tickets to go see Tennessee Williams’ classic play, I wasn’t sold. Unlike him I am not a sci-fi geek so the thought of James Earl Jones (voice of Darth Vader) starring as Big Daddy did not make my head turn. But there are worse ways to spend a Friday night so I went along. The minute the Big Man strolled onstage in Scene Two, a quicker reversal of opinion you never saw. His rich, mellifluous voice delivered line after gorgeous line which combined with a dynamite stage presence and solid, assured acting held me in thrall. Mid scene his stage prowess was in full flight; tearing up the boards and eating Adrian Lester for breakfast. His relative absence in Scene Three left a huge belly-shaped hole in the acting which made me want to shout out, Come back Daddy Darth! Show these youngsters how it’s done! James Earls Jones. The man’s got acting in his bones.



Susie Orbach and Marin Alsop

My friend Cassandra and I went along to Southbank last night to hear Susie Orbach and Marin Alsop talk about women in leadership. In 2007 Marin was appointed director of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra and was the first woman to be appointed as such in America. Susie is a psychoanalyst, lecturer and well–known author, with the phenomenal anti-dieting treatiseFat is a Feminist Issue under her belt as well as the more recent, Bodies. She is also the co-originator of the Dove Campaign for Real Beauty and convenor of the website AnyBody. To cap it off, Shami Chakrabarti, director of the human rights organisation, Liberty chaired the event. In the presence of such luminaries we expected interesting discussion and we were not disappointed. Marin spoke about the complexities of being in a leadership role where she found herself a female role model simply because of the sheer lack of any others in her field. Susie was more keen to examine the psycho-social reasons why women still do not 100% feel they can grab hold of the brass ring. And that when they do, why their leadership style has to emulate that of men to be deemed as “real” leadership. After all, she said, Women have been leaders for centuries as guardians of the home but that intimate, complex style of leadership is not regarded as valid. Why? The night ended far too soon and we walked out, our heads filled with questions and a brightness of purpose that being inspired will do to you.

They say there is no rest for the wicked and that's true in my case as the week ahead brings me to see the sexy man of dance Carlos Acosta showcasing Apollo & Other Works at Sadlers Wells and also to hear the great Ranulph Fiennes, explorer extraordinaire talking about his adventures at the Royal Geographic Society.

I'm knackered but I can't wait.

He's Gone with the Wind

It's a sad, old world now that Patrick Swayze has gone. Say what you like about the man and his song lyrics, but he was a marvel to behold when he moved those muscles. On one hand he was a horse-riding, football playing, jock-cowboy and on the other, a pirouetting, hip-shaking, chick-lifting danseur. A dichotomy of sorts but he pulled it off without descending into caricature. He was a man that straddled the worlds of Rawhide and Rachmaninoff with equanimity and a level of grace.


Patrick flickered onscreen as Rob Lowe's brother in The Outsiders before he burst upon us in all his sweaty glory as the tortured dance instructor/gigolo, Johnny Castle in Dirty Dancing. Our hearts swooned when he taught Baby the pechanga (someone tell me what that is. I never figured it out) and showed her how to boogie; upright and horizontally. We wanted him to teach us and would have carried many watermelons and sat in any old corner for the chance.

After soaring into the stratosphere by shaking his booty, Patrick's magic continued in Ghost where he transferred his Art to Craft and swapped Ballet for Bowls. The theme of dirt continued too. By smearing clay all over himself and Demi, Patrick gave the pottery world a makeover that they've never recovered from since. He then starred as the uber-cool Bodhi in Point Break in which he and Keanu swapped personas. Here Patrick was the dude; the surfer- mystic- mask-wearing-bank robber and Keanu was the tortured, trying-to-find- and-come-to-terms-with-himself-Johnny-Castle character-cop called, strangely enough- Johnny Utah. There was not much dirt in that film but if there was, they were always rushing into the ocean to wash it off anyways.


After that, the descent was gradual. We had forgiven him the lyric,She's like the wind, through my tree. We had forgiven him Roadhouse. Fatherhood was pushing it. But when he appeared in Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights, there was no more forgiveness.

But the love never died. When he announced that he had pancreatic cancer, a billion hearts around the world pounded, No! Not Johnny Castle!

I got to see Sexy, I mean, Swayze in the flesh a few years back. He was in London appearing in Guys and Dolls and I happened to be in the vicinity when he exited the Stage Door. Up close his face was leathery and lined as you'd expect from a man who rode horses outdoors and smoked in his fifties. This made me strangely happy. I don't think I could've borne it if he'd had plastic surgery. He was in dancerific shape and seemed like a humble, nice man.

I wish that before he departed this world that Patrick had given us one last dance on celluloid. Despite his work as an actor his true nature was displayed, for me, when he danced. He was in his element. As the man himself said:


There's just something about dance. It's like a primal thing in all of us.
- Patrick Swayze

RIP.

Sutra

I've just come back from seeing Sutra at Sadlers Wells. Of the current Sadlers' programme, it was the one show I was most anticipating seeing. The combination of Shaolin monks, Antony Gormley design and contemporary dance posed an interesting challenge and I was curious to see what the outcome would be.

I don't go see many dance shows these days because I have become super picky. It's not something I'm proud of but rather the by-product of having watched dance shows since I was five. It actually started earlier when I was a toddler but I don't remember those shows even though my mum was in them.

As I sat watching the theatrics of Sutra, I tried not to be uncharitable in my thoughts. I looked for the bright spots. The clear lines. The light humour. The interesting idea of putting a show together as if it was a Lego set. The visual synchronicity of the monks in dark suits. I did like some of the images. I tried hard to like the rest. But I had to try. It didn't set me on fire.

Before we went into the show, my friend and I had a chat about dance choreographers. We discussed (in our opinion) which current choreographers rated on the world stage and which were big locally. We tried in vain to list more than a handful from memory. We couldn't. As we both work in the dance industry this means we officially suck at our jobs.

You know what,? I said. You know why we can't think of anyone apart from one or two?

My friend looked askance. No. Why?

Because there aren't any that are so amazing that we remember them.

It occurred to me this week after Michael Jackson's death and also Pina Bauschs' that dance has lost two of its brightest sparks. Jackson was a superlative dancer. He had it and he shared it and made us all want to dance as well. Pina was brilliant too. She plumbed our murky human depths and conjured up some of the most beautiful and eloquent imagery onstage that I have seen in contemporary dance. Both were pioneers in their own way. Both of them set me alight when I watched them.

The term Sutra means (according to Wikipedia), a rope or thread that holds things together. I looked for this thread in the performance tonight and I saw only what I see too often in dance shows. Nothing holding anything together apart from a few gimmicks and a lot of hot air. It was entertainment I guess but it wasn't enough for me.

I want the real deal. Where is it? Who is it?

Thank You Michael

Apart from death and taxes, I think another possible truism in life is that sometimes you don't know what you value until it's gone. With his death, I think Michael Jackson has reminded billons of people around the globe of this.

If you had asked me a few weeks ago whether I was a Michael Jackson fan, I probably would've said that I liked his music growing up but did not really consider myself a fan. The circus surrounding his personal life (actually did he ever have a personal life) left me cold and for a long time, it seemed that his name was synonymous with scandal rather than music. Even with the announcement of his impending tour dates the media focus was on his health, his wealth, body doubles and whether or not the whole thing was going to be a scam. Not about the man and his music.

Now he is dead and suddenly, all the scandal that surrounded him has melted away (for now) and the music has re-emerged. We're now reminded, post humously, of the brilliant legacy that he has left us. We've remembered why we loved him in the first place.

And I have been reminded of the hours and hours I spent as a kid and teenager singing his songs and making up dances with my friends. How at school discos, the girls would dress like Madonna but try to dance like Michael. How all the music videos I watched on the weekends as a teenager owed much of their format to his vision. I miss those less cynical times and perhaps he did too.

I realised Michael was also very much in my present. Billie Jean will always get me on the dance floor. And I confess I have a few of his ballads on my ipod.

I didn't realise it till now. I'm a fan. I'm sorry it took me so long.

Thank you Michael. For everything.