Over New Years, I initiated a series on what professionalism means in dance, since it’s one of those occupations wherein it’s difficult to find 30 to 40 years of continuous salaried work. I have my own wobbly insecurities about my legitimacy as a dance artist, especially since I made a conscientious decision four years ago to leave San Francisco in the wake of the rising costs of living, settle down in funky New Mexico, and take a salaried job writing for a magazine. My pieced-together dance life definitely doesn’t look like my 15-year-old fantasy of being a professional. But my 31-year-old assessment of the dance field makes it increasingly clear that the dream had a few gaping holes.

So what does it mean to be a professional dancer in 2018? In our increasingly “woke” culture when it comes to racism, able-ism and privilege, is the generally accepted definition of “professional dancer” waking up to an aware, more-nuanced reality? When money often equates with power, and making money is tied up in social constructs of professionalism, who has the power to decide what professional dance is?

Over the past two months, I have garnered the views of 15 different dance artists on the topic of professionalism. The voices vary in age, ethnicity, orientation, ability and, perhaps most significant for this discussion, genre, though contemporary dancers dominated due to my connections bias. Some are totally self-made artists, others have worked with large and well-endowed institutions. Some live in small towns, most live in big cities. Some are quite young, others answered my questions with the benefit of perspective.

Here are some of the most interesting and unexpected findings from the series (though I assure you it’s well worth reading each perspective individually):

1. The dancers who practice a specific form (as opposed to the nebulously defined contemporary dance genre) had more concrete parameters about what professional dance is, what training is entailed, and why professionalism matters. It seems the types of gigs are more straightforward (again, as compared with contemporary dance), so the requisite training and preparation is more scripted.
2. Most respondents believed getting paid was part of being professional (though most were liberal with how much). Interestingly, it was the two dancers who have performed within the most institutional companies (and have since left them) who felt anyone can define his/herself as a professional dancer who chooses to.
3. For many respondents, it was clear that the question of what makes a professional dancer was a psychological exercise in evaluating their own sense of success. I found this personally relevant, as I experience the same mental gymnastics when I consider my professional writer and dancer selves. I do not spend any time at all wondering if I am a professional writer, and I have no intense emotional attachment to the label. Well before I worked fulltime as a writer, I was running this blog, which in many ways is more important to me than my “job,” even though I don’t get paid for it. But since I do make a salary from other writing, I don’t have any hang ups with broadly calling my writing professional. Since most of my dancing is marginally compensated at best, and I don’t seek out grants nor teach, I struggle with wondering if it must be an elaborate hobby, even though I have more extensive training and experience in dance than journalism.
4. Which brings me to my next point: In my mind, there is a difference between “professional dancer” and “dance professional,” but almost every respondent seamlessly combined the two. Dance teacher and dance administrator tended to be the most common occupations lumped with “dancer.” Though they are not the same activity, it seems apparent that if someone wants to make a living completely from dance, most likely some sort of teaching and administrating is going to be involved.
5. More than one respondent brought up the fact that there are more people calling themselves dancers than 25 or 50 years ago. This is because the slender body stereotype perpetuated by the ballet and modern dance world is increasingly problematized, and we see more dancers of different shapes and sizes confidently considered professional than in the 60s, 70s or 80s. If there is more funding to subsidize the growing field remains to be seen.
6. The flamenco dancer and the burlesque dancer brought up the fact that some of the most well-regarded contributors to their respective fields don’t consider themselves to be professional. And many respondents brought up the greater commitment to the art form that might transcend any monetary compensation.
7. Finally, there was a general frustration with “the system” and how taxing it is for an individual to “make it” in dance over the long run.

In closing, let me get on my soap box: I hope one day I’ll email a bunch of dance artists about whether or not they consider themselves to be professional, and they will all respond, “Duh! Look at how my community, culture and society value, appreciate and compensate my work! Why do you even ask?”

The post Observations on the Definition of ‘Professional Dancer’ appeared first on Stance on Dance.

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What does your current regular dance practice look like?

I keep a daily morning practice routine, which includes a combination of yoga, breathing exercises, stretching and strengthening. This also depends on my performance schedule; at least two months minimum before a performance, I start a more intensive morning practice routine, which means longer time, more specific poses, and added postures and trainings, coupled with evening work exploring music and costume ideas.

Would you call yourself a professional dancer?

Yes.

What do you believe is necessary for a dancer to call themselves professional? Is part of being a professional getting paid?

I think it is being professionally trained and practiced. Being paid is part of it, but not necessarily the first criteria. A dancer who has trained and practiced isn’t necessarily professional either; it is an attitude as well –  how you respect the profession and the people involved in the work, etc.

Is there a certain amount of training involved in becoming a professional dancer?

Yes, for sure. These days all around the world there is this instant culture going on. Everything is instant: instantly famous, instantly becoming something. However, I have personally believed since a young age in a solid and lengthy training process. Like a martial art or kung-fu, you can learn and remember the steps quickly, but you need various experiences to be able to learn about your opponents/partners, and most importantly, yourself. Once a dancer knows their self deeply, allowing and embracing all facets of oneself, it shifts their performance from just a nice form/shape into something completely different, the embodiment of beauty outside and inside. And I think only time can do that.

Do you consider project-based work to be professional?

Yes. I think it all depends on quality of project, rather than quantity. Although consistently producing work and working with concepts are important, sometimes one needs to live in order to dance, and I don’t mean making money. I mean fully indulging into other aspects of life, to dance with life so to speak, and then bring that experience onstage.

A good project is better than 10 lousy rushed ones. After all, first and foremost you must dance for yourself, right?

Do you consider solo work to be professional?

Yes, I just did a solo work last year and was invited to perform it in a dance festival of professional work.

Do you think the definition of a professional dancer is different than it was 25 or 50 years ago? If so, do you have any ideas why it might have changed?

Yes. As times change, it is the nature of definitions to change, even the definition of “dancer.” Out of many factors, I think the advancement of technology and its changing relationship to our bodies, both the perception of body and how our bodies might feel, has shifted.

Are there instances when people apply the term “professional” to a dancer or group of dancers when you feel it shouldn’t be applied?

Yes, but the term is applied so widely I think everyone has his/her own measures. Artistic measures are always subjective, I think.

How might your cultural perspective – where you live, where you’re from, what form of dance you practice – influence what you think of as professional?

Here in Taiwan, the dance profession is similar to how it is defined in the western world in general. Getting paid and regular gigs, recognition from institutions such as government, awards and degrees, a.k.a. fame and fortune, are how people measure whether you are a professional or not.

What do you wish people wouldn’t assume about the dance profession?

Oh, there are so many things!

To give one or two: If you are a dancer, people immediately assume you are always on a diet or keep a very rigid eating style to keep fit. Although one must stay fit to dance, and dance itself makes you fit, it by no means indicates that a dancer is always on some kind of starvation diet (some might do this, many others don’t!).

Another assumption is that a lot of people think dancers are only pretty things, just physically amazing and not interested in anything else than spinning ourselves around. I personally have had the pleasure of meeting so many interesting, and yes beautiful, dancers and having great inspiring conversations. I think among the many artistic professions, dance is sometimes seen as less serious than other artistic genres. People often forget it needs a lot of dedications and hard work to make a profession out of it.

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Born in Taiwan, Delphine Hsini Mei has practiced dance in the US, Europe and Asia. She studied dance at the Taipei National University of the Arts, received a BFA/BA in art history and arts from the University of Illinois, and received an advanced diploma in physical theatre and dance in Helsinki, Finland. She’s been a resident artist at Cite American-Foundation (Paris, France) and Dance Short (Amsterdam, NL). Her performance video works have been shown on ARTE CREATIVE Channel Europe and ARTOPIA Taiwan.

Watch videos of Delphine’s choreography and performances here.

The post The Attitude of Being a Professional appeared first on Stance on Dance.

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What does your current regular dance practice look like?

I tend to be a somewhat lazy dancer, unfortunately. I’m terrible at disciplining myself to practice my own solo acts. That said, I do work privately with my mentor once a week, I teach three burlesque classes a week, and I usually also have a regular evening rehearsal for our weekly show once a week, where we warm up, run group burlesque acts, and occasionally show solo work.

Would you call yourself a professional dancer?

I do, though my definition of “professional dancer” might look a little different from others’, thanks to the particulars of working in burlesque. I am a full-time freelance creative, and derive 100 percent of my income from performing and teaching burlesque, making costumes, and modeling (usually for art classes). I typically perform about six times per month, both for Vaudezilla – the production company that essentially trained me – and independently for other producers in the city.

What do you believe is necessary for a dancer to call themselves professional? Is part of being a professional getting paid?

I believe that compensation is part of being a professional, but it’s only a part. Being a professional, to me, has much more to do with attitude and behavior, both during rehearsal, performance, and backstage. Conducting yourself professionally in your correspondence with producers, showing up on time and ready to work, and being generally agreeable when in close quarters (like the dressing rooms/backstage) are all super important if you intend to cultivate a long career in burlesque.

One of the unique things about burlesque shows is that A) they frequently happen in bars and B) the lines between hobbyists and professionals are quite blurry. Performers may be very talented and perform for many years, but not consider themselves professionals. Occasionally, this manifests as a willingness to work for a lower-paying producer (which is something we in burlesque love to bemoan as the reason people devalue our art form, which… may or may not be completely valid. That’s a complex issue). Sometimes, it just manifests as a desire to have fun at shows, going onstage after a few drinks, etc. If you do, however, consider yourself a professional, the stakes are often much higher for you, and you tend to behave accordingly.

Is there a certain amount of training involved in becoming a professional dancer?

I’m pretty sure there’s a certain amount of training involved in becoming a professional in any field. That said, there’s no one way to become a professional dancer, particularly in burlesque. Our art form is part dance discipline and part Vaudeville/theatre, so there are people who come into burlesque from all kinds of backgrounds. I had 11 years of formal dance training and a degree in theatre, but there are folks who find burlesque who have had no formal dance or performance training to start out. When people are serious about becoming professionals, however, it usually becomes clear that seeking out some kind of training is necessary, whether that becomes formal dance classes, one-on-one work with a mentor, or training in related disciplines like pole, circus skills, gymnastics, improv, etc. It really depends on the kind of acts you’d like to perform, and the aesthetic you feel most drawn to.

Do you consider project-based work to be professional?

I think most burlesque performance is project-based, honestly. Vaudezilla, the company with which I work most often, rotates themes on a monthly basis, and sometimes also does standalone (that is to say, fully-scripted) shows. Other production companies produce long-running scripted work, and still others produce single-evening productions or monthly shows with rotating casts.

Do you consider solo work to be professional?

The vast majority of burlesque performances are solo pieces. The average burlesque show can be anything from three or four solo performers to a fully-realized production with 15+ dancers, scripts, sets, costumes. Speaking from personal experience, the shows I typically perform in involve two to three group acts and eight or 10 solo performances, all centered around a theme. Sometimes this theme is very broad (Roaring 20’s/Prohibition, Carnival, etc.), sometimes it’s a narrower focus (Women in History – my favorite theme). Performers cultivate their own solo acts based on what speaks to them. Performers also typically retain ownership of their own acts, including choreography and costuming.

I did see a single performer produce an entire one-woman burlesque show once. That presents its own unique challenges, since so much of burlesque also involves striptease. If I recall correctly, this particular performer alternated a striptease with a reverse striptease (where one starts in pasties and ends the act fully dressed), and also involved some elements of video and non-strip-based dance to create time for costume changes, etc.

Do you think the definition of a professional dancer is different than it was 25 or 50 years ago? If so, do you have any ideas why it might have changed?

I think the definition of a professional dancer is a bit broader than it was 25 or 50 years ago. A lot of that is thanks to the internet and the accessibility people have to alternative media sources. You could be a professional dancer who derives all their income from YouTube videos, for instance.

I think acceptance of burlesque as being a “professional” dance discipline is a new thing as well, although I could be wrong. There certainly were professional burlesque performers 50 years ago, but they were a somewhat more marginalized group, due to the constraints of society. You might have been considered a professional stripper or a professional Vaudeville performer, or even a professional circus performer, but not so much a professional dancer.

Are there instances when people apply the term “professional” to a dancer or group of dancers when you feel it shouldn’t be applied?

This is kind of a tricky question as it applies specifically to burlesque, as the lines between hobbyists and professionals are quite blurry. As I mentioned previously, there are many talented performers who have been around for years who also have unrelated day jobs and don’t consider themselves to be professional performers. And burlesque shows often have performers of many different experience levels working together in the same show. So, unless it’s specifically a “student showcase” or a “newbie night” or something of that nature, it’s a little difficult to define what constitutes a “professional” level show.

How might your cultural perspective – where you live, where you’re from, what form of dance you practice – influence what you think of as professional?

Being from Midwestern America, I think there is still a lot of stigma around being a burlesque performer. A lot of folks have conservative family members or family members/employers with more “traditional” values, and so they find it difficult to “come out,” so to speak, as a burlesque performer. Likewise, being from the Midwest, it’s hard to get the general public to come out to see shows. In the winter, no one wants to go outside, in the summer, everyone wants to go outside, but not to a show, and the rest of the year, everyone is rooting for their favorite sports team. The attitude of embracing art and culture that exists on the East and West Coasts isn’t the same here. To that end, I think it’s more difficult to make the kind (and volume) of work that we would culturally associate with being considered a professional. Many of us (myself included) do a lot of semi-related accessory work in order to make a living, while still considering ourselves professionals in the field.

What do you wish people wouldn’t assume about the dance profession?

In the general sense, that it doesn’t all look like Black Swan. In the sense specific to burlesque, that it doesn’t look anything like Burlesque. Professional dancers do not all have to be skinny, young, white women, and there are tons of super-talented performers in all areas of dance who are working to change that narrative. Look at Misty Copeland, but don’t just look at Misty Copeland. Seek out the numerous burlesque performers of color, like Jeez Louise, Po’Chop, the Shanghai Pearl or Sydni Devereaux. Seek out and support burlesque legends like Tiffany Carter, Judith Stein, Pillow and Toni Elling, who paved the way for modern burlesque performers. They have a wealth of knowledge and so many stories to share with us. Don’t just throw together a tribute to Josephine Baker’s banana skirt act, but really research and understand the reason why she created and performed it in the first place. Artists don’t exist in a vacuum; we’re all a product of the society in which we live.

Also… don’t look down on strippers. People love to say that there’s some kind of artistic difference between burlesque and stripping, but really, if we’re being honest, the only difference is that club strippers get a heck of a lot more flack for what they do, and they get paid very well to deal with a ton of emotional labor that performers in a burlesque setting don’t have to deal with. They train just as hard and invest just as much in their work as the rest of us. What a note to end on, right?

Photo by Mike Licari

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Raven Gemini is the gal that has it all! Her acts span genres, from horizon-expanding character work to beautiful classic dance pieces. She has been a proud member of Vaudezilla since 2012, and has performed at numerous national festivals including the Windy City Burlesque festival in 2012, 2014, 2015 and 2016, the Show-Me Burlesque Festival in 2016, the Ohio Burlesque Festival in 2016, the Michigan Burlesque Festival in 2014 and 2015, and the Freezing Tassel Burlesque Festival in Anchorage, AK in 2017. In addition to regular appearances in the Chicagoland area, Raven can also be seen traveling throughout the Midwest and beyond as a solo act and with her partner-in-crime, Monterrey Jacques. When she’s not onstage, Raven spends her time as photographer for Singing Raven Photography and maintaining her vintage fashion/lifestyle blog Revisionist Vintage. Learn more at www.vaudezilla.com or
www.ravengemini.com.

The post Professionalism Through a Burlesque Lens appeared first on Stance on Dance.

Kelvin Vu in Ohad Naharin’s Project Secus (2014)

Photo by Gadi Dagon, courtesy of Batsheva Dance Company

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What does your current regular dance practice look like?

My current dance practice includes daily training in Ohad Naharin’s Gaga movement language before rehearsals. Since I work as a freelance dancer for a few different choreographers, my rehearsal schedule constantly changes. Some weeks are very heavy and some weeks light, but taking class every day is the cornerstone of my ongoing research. In the future, I’d like to include more ballet classes as a consistent part of my practice, and workshops in other movement languages for variety. I also teach Gaga and create my own work, both more recent additions to my practice.

Would you call yourself a professional dancer?

Yes, I am a professional dancer.

What do you believe is necessary for a dancer to call themselves professional? Is part of being a professional getting paid?

As long as a dancer identifies as a professional, then he/she can call him/herself one, regardless of talent, success or income. Self-identification is key. He/she can be terrible and broke, but still be a self-proclaimed professional.

I wish, though, that every professional dancer could make a living wage.

Is there a certain amount of training involved in becoming a professional dancer?

I believe that ongoing training is necessary for a healthy and sustainable career, that it’s important not only for becoming a professional dancer but also in continuing to be one. Like other artists, a dancer’s range and richness of expression depends on a set of well-stocked and well-maintained tools. Developing this toolbox requires consistent and continued training, as does a dancer’s longevity, growth, and physical health.

Do you consider project-based work to be professional?

As a freelance dancer, of course I consider project-based work to be professional! Almost all professional dancers are or have been involved in projects of some kind, though in different capacities and with different commitments.

Freelance work is a pillar of the dance profession. Most choreographers, at least here in Tel Aviv, work from project to project, which means that the dancers they hire also work in the same way. A few dancers and choreographers work exclusively for full-time companies, though there is a lot of crossover between company and freelance work.

Even though it’s often more difficult and less stable, working from project to project has its advantages. As a freelance dancer, I feel that I can take more risks and enjoy a wider range of work. I just wish that there were more protections and higher wages.

Do you consider solo work to be professional?

Not only do I think that solo work is professional, but I really admire anyone who chooses it. It’s hard to go it alone, and you really need to be driven and disciplined to make a solo body of work.

I think that the freelance work has been an important part of the dance profession for a long time, and that there are fewer and fewer clear divisions between company, project-based, and solo work.

Do you think the definition of a professional dancer is different than it was 25 or 50 years ago? If so, do you have any ideas why it might have changed?

Since I haven’t been a professional dancer for much time, I’m not sure how to compare my experience to those of professionals 25-50 years ago. Generally though, I think that since the “gig economy” has picked up in popularity and recognition, more people accept freelance dance work as legitimate. That, combined with crowdfunding, has made more permutations of work possible for professional dancers.

Are there instances when people apply the term “professional” to a dancer or group of dancers when you feel it shouldn’t be applied?

I haven’t felt that yet.

Vice versa, are there instances when people don’t apply the term “professional” to a dancer or group of dancers when you feel it should be applied?

I also haven’t felt that yet either. I do feel that people often use the terms “professional” and “amateur” to comment on the quality of a dancer or piece, but I would rather people use more specific and useful terms.

How might your cultural perspective – where you live, where you’re from, what form of dance you practice – influence what you think of as professional?

I think that culture often defines what people think of as legitimate or possible professions. In a country like Germany, where there is state support of the arts, state theaters, and even unemployment compensation for freelance dancers, it’s much more realistic to imagine making a living as a professional dancer. In places that offer fewer resources, venues, and support for professional artists, it is much harder. Therefore, what it means to be a professional dancer–in schedule, form, etc.–depends on location and era. A certain cultural perspective or place may delimit professional definitions, though professional artists often do their work in spite of cultural and popular limitations.

What do you wish people wouldn’t assume about the dance profession?

I wish people wouldn’t assume anything about the dance profession!

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Kelvin Vu is a freelance dancer and teacher based in Tel Aviv, Israel. He grew up near Boston, Massachusetts, and attended Yale University, where he received his BA in environmental studies. From 2011-2013, he trained at the San Francisco Conservatory of Dance under the direction of Summer Lee Rhatigan. He then moved to Tel Aviv to join Batsheva the Young Ensemble where he danced for three years under the artistic direction of Ohad Naharin, and performed the repertory of Naharin, Hofesh Shechter and Sharon Eyal. Since leaving the company, Kelvin has worked with Noa Zuk and Ohad Fishof, Roy Assaf, and Dafi Altabeb. In 2017, Kelvin rejoined Batsheva as Ohad Naharin’s assistant and assistant rehearsal director for both the main company and young ensemble.

The post Exploring the Identity of Professional Dancer appeared first on Stance on Dance.

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What does your current regular dance practice look like?

I have a daily practice that allows my body to awaken the feedback loop between listening and moving. I have a lot of trainings in my body – I have had a meditation practice since I was 15, I have studied Qi Gong in China, yoga in India, Body-Mind Psychotherapy and Pilates. My primary interest is the languages of the body. I’m interested in keeping my body available. If I don’t do that, pain is an incredible teacher. I also work with improvisation every day. If I have a half hour, for instance, I’ll do two 15-minute improvisations, even if I don’t have a lot of space or I’m sitting in an airport. Improvisation to me is a process of emptying, then finding sensation and seeing where that moves me.

Would you call yourself a professional dancer?

I do, but I don’t have to. Here’s what I mean: A lot of people think if you’re not getting paid to dance, you’re not a professional. I’m a dance/movement therapist; I use dance and movement modalities to address issues folks have. I work with movement every day and make money from it. But that’s not the same as dancing and getting paid for it. However, I recognize that I am engaged, experienced and skillful at movement and dance, which defines professional for me. I’ve been involved with dance all my adult life. I have worked with different companies, at nonprofit events, and done a lot of solo work, but our culture does not necessarily value what I do as an artist. The fact that many artists are not adequately compensated for what they do during their lifetimes has more to do with where they happen to live culturally than with talent. I look at what is paid and, though I often find beauty in it, it seems squeaky clean and focused solely on entertainment. It doesn’t require audiences to show up in their own bodies.

What do you think is necessary for a dancer to call themselves a professional?

When I go see a show, it’s easier to watch if I am connected and have a heart for who I am watching. I think a dancer must have heart and engagement in what they’re doing. That can mean a lot of things, like being fascinated with history and multiple forms. There are people who are technical but not engaged. I don’t want to look at them. I see that mostly in ballet and modern dance companies, but even in physical theater, people can get wound up in rules and how they are supposed to look. You can go to classes and learn to make shapes, but lack an aliveness that reaches through the body. For me, being a professional comes down to skillful experienced practice. I don’t want to use the word “training.” It’s more about being awake.

Is there a certain amount of training involved in being a professional dancer?

We can all benefit from learning from someone who has a different experience than we have. I try to stay away from the word “training,” though I think taking class and learning from a skillful teacher is wonderful. There are certain technical skills that are hard to develop out of class. Training is important, but it can be overemphasized and imply a negation of the individual. In my view, awake experience is training.

Do you consider project-based work and/or solo work to be professional?

I don’t see any model of working as more professional than any other. The thing what’s great about having a project or working solo is it can be done in a chunk of time that allows work to develop in a certain way. In my life now, I really like solo work for a variety of reasons. One of those reasons is I get to make choices for myself. Even in a project, and certainly in a company, you have to commit to a bunch of people and their decisions for a certain amount of time.

It’s similar to what goes on in the world of visual art. There is art in fancy galleries or museums selling for millions of dollars. But I can also stumble into a studio of an artist who is, for whatever reason, not able to be a part of that big market, and their work might be amazing. There’s a real engine around “professional,” and I don’t have a lot of respect for that engine. It’s often about the money and the sleek blurb in the paper.

Do you think the definition of a professional dancer is different than it was 25 or 50 years ago? If so, do you have any ideas why it might have changed?

I think it’s changed, and yet it’s still the same in some ways. There’s still a lot of fantasy around the world of ballet. Most audiences don’t truly know how incredibly difficult and punishing of the body it is, and how little those dancers make. In some ways, I don’t think the dance world has changed enough.

I hardly ever call myself a performance artist even though that’s what I consider myself to be because of the 60s when men would walk onstage with a banana in their underwear, pull it out and eat it, and that was the show. If someone is incredibly present and reflective through their body, they can pull that off, but a lot of performance art has been known for being self-indulgent and in-your-face.

Are there instances when people apply the term “professional” to a dancer or group of dancers when you feel it shouldn’t be applied?

Yes. You can make money dancing, but if I watch you and don’t feel myself light up in any way, I wouldn’t call you a professional. A performance is about communication, so when you put dance out there that is devoid of communication, it’s not professional.

Vice versa, are there instances when people don’t apply the term “professional” to a dancer or group of dancers when you feel it should be applied?

Sometimes dancers don’t take their own seat, so to speak. You should decide for yourself what your interests are and how you want to work. There comes a time, and it can happen anywhere and intermittently, when you have to weave together all your threads and integrate the person you are and the experience you have, and then take that to the next level. That, to me, is a professional mindset, regardless of pay.

I personally believe the dancers who are most professional spend many hours alone in a studio just moving and seeing what happens. If you’re going after experience and shaping your life around a practice, then call yourself a professional. Why not?

How might your cultural perspective – where you live, where you’re from, what form of dance you practice – influence what you think of as professional?

Borrowing from the world of visual art again, there are the museums up on the hill and then there are the out-of-the-way studios, but beauty is beauty. Humans may have some different perspectives about that, but there’s also a through line that is indescribable, but for me has to do with having heart. It’s not a feeling that comes from the brain. It’s about connection. There’s something about form, shape, rhythm and color that allows humans to connect in terms of beauty.

What do you wish people wouldn’t assume about the dance profession?

I wish most people wouldn’t assume dance is completely separate from them. I don’t want everyone in the world to get up on stage, but I do want people to not think of dance as something distant and unknowable. I want people to know they can connect to dance. We’ve lost some of that. In our culture, we tend to like entertainment. We want a show. We don’t want to be challenged. But when dance touches a person, they might start a movement practice or support a kids’ dance program. It spurs empathy and connection, and sometimes even financial support in the world of dance.

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For more information on Holly,  visit www.bodymindwellbeing.com.

The post Professional is Awake appeared first on Stance on Dance.

Photo by Su Pang

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What does your current regular dance practice look like?

I consider myself an experimental and interdisciplinary dance artist with a foundation in contemporary modern-release technique. I support this foundation with ballet, contact improvisation, somatic methodologies, Pilates, yoga and occasional cross-genre practices such as writing, singing, musical engineering or costume design. Recently, I started learning aerial bungee as part of a human-piñata installation I am working on. As a second-generation Chicana, queer and female choreographer raising my son in the Bay Area, I am interested in how multiple layers of identity reveal themselves through the body and can be supported within the language of dance theater.

I’m a dancer in my 40s and, while I would love to be in the studio every day, now that I am a presenter of the Festival of Latin American Contemporary Choreographers (FLACC) heading into its 5th year, much of my work is in the business of art: writing grants, developing alliances with local and international arts organizations, having production meetings, tackling administrative tasks, budgeting, publicity, etc. I am also a dance educator teaching creative movement, beginning ballet and yoga to children, contact improvisation and modern dance to adults, leading on-going motivational movement classes to seniors with memory loss, and I work as a Registered Somatic Movement Therapist (RSMT) based in the Tamalpa Life-Art® Process (TLAP) founded by Anna Halprin and her daughter Daria Halprin. TLAP is a movement-based expressive arts therapy model that has been instrumental in my healing process and in providing resources for my pedagogy and choreography whenever possible.

Would you call yourself a professional dancer?

Only when I spent a year dancing in Europe did I realize I was a professional dancer. After I graduated from the dance department at CSU Long Beach at age 21, I didn’t see myself as a professional because I only got paid a couple times for performing and I never felt I was dancing enough. While working three part-time jobs, I kept taking class and doing small projects, but I had some personal life challenges that took my dance path off the performance track and into the realm of dance therapy and somatic healing. Four years later, at 26, I sold my car and traveled to Europe to dance professionally (for pay) for a year in Germany. I showed a solo at a dance festival in Wurtzburg, I was hired as a dancer for the Frankfurt Opera, and I danced in several project-based companies while I was there. I was always paid for performing in Germany and was told that I was a professional dancer several times. It was a stark contrast to dance in a country where being an artist actually placed me somewhere in society, with a certain amount of status and privilege. Even though I was barely making ends meet in Germany, being a dancer was perceived as a viable profession that made me feel valued. Dancing for free simply was not an option.

When I returned to the US, dancing for free became the norm for me again, but I knew I was a professional dancer at that point. Everything I have done since then, including solo improvisations, dancing for other choreographers, offering performance labs to target populations, creating the Piñata Dance Collective, performing my work in the US and Mexico, deepening my research in somatics, teaching, curating and presenting, have all been part of my professional career. It has grown to include working for pay and working in larger venues and universities as I evolve.

What do you believe is necessary for a dancer to call themselves professional? Is part of being a professional getting paid?

I think it is necessary to both achieve a certain level of mastery of your craft and to choose dance as a career path. Some would say, dance has to choose you; it has to be something you can’t avoid. Or something that you always follow as it unfolds in your life. Whether as a dance educator, choreographer, performer, movement therapist, writer or dance historian, these are all professional tracks. It doesn’t always mean you get paid for your work as an artist but we are constantly training, collaborating and developing as artists in the community. Everything we do as dance professionals feeds into the tapestry of experience. Writing these responses for Stance on Dance is not a paid opportunity, but it is an investment in my art as a professional. It supports what I do and supports the field at large. There is something about being socially engaged, rather than in isolation, that is included in the title.

From my experience, I think there are real financial challenges for modern, experimental, contemporary and social change dancers in that there is often a deliberate choice not to be an entertainer, dancer-for-profit, or selling the body in a certain way. I remember adopting that philosophy as an anarchist/feminist dancer, making a shift from feeling objectified and artistically restricted as a competitive dancer in high school, to being an “artist” in college. It took me many years to realize that I do value dance as a form of entertainment and that one can have monetary value as an entertainer without being reduced to a product. I wish I had not equated commercial dance with the commodification of my female form. It is still an art and can be fun, clever and shiny. So, I respect the aerial dancer working for corporate parties, for example. Or the music video dancer who can do it all. Or erotic, pole, burlesque, drag and vogue dancers. Contrary to my former beliefs, dance doesn’t always have to be a service to others, as a somatic healing art, a social experiment or a political response. It can be a job to keep a roof over your head. There is no shame in that.

The competitive nature of the audition process was also a huge deterrent in my early career philosophy, so I did very few. In contemporary dance, it is known that if you attend the classes of the choreographer, you will eventually be asked to join the company organically. In my case, it was true to a certain extent and then I became a mother, which interrupted my focus again and sent me on a much more self-created dance path which came with more financial challenges. I think I am coming to terms with being a late bloomer as a dance professional but I am glad my creativity carried me though.

Is there a certain amount of training involved in becoming a professional dancer?

Absolutely. I’m a snob in that way. Like any profession, there are long hours of developing your craft and it takes dedication, time and learning to be a dancer. Whether it is the trees, wind, YouTube, or the culture you grow up in that teaches you how and why you move, there is a relationship to the spirit of dance and to the field of dance at large, that can grow you professionally. It doesn’t matter what the dance style is; it is how it has informed your body that allows you to carry it. One can be born with a natural ability to dance but there is always a practice leading to professionalism, I believe.

According to the 2016 New England Foundation for the Arts National Dance Project’s report “Moving Dance Forward,” 80 percent of respondents said they were doing project-based work and 50 percent said they were doing solo work (there was room for crossover). Do you consider project-based and solo work to be professional?

The cost of living and the lack of funding for the arts forces many artists to work alone or work very fast with who is available for a single project. There are very few salaried positions. However, there is an enormous amount of generosity, creativity and love that allows us to make work within this inherently social art-form. From individual monetary donations, to commissioned work, to artist residencies, to self-made costumes and work exchanges, there are many forms of in-kind donations such as: donated studio space, free professional consultation, cross-promotion by fellow artists, or the many volunteers who help out during a production. All of this and more supports the professional artist where our government doesn’t or when grant funding can’t cover costs. It’s a major hustle that definitely impacts our work as artists, but we become very resourceful.

For example, in order for me to make a month-long residency in Mexico feasible in the summer of 2014, I had to sublet my apartment, have my 13 yr-old son stay with his father while I was gone, and I held a benefit showing at Shawl Anderson Dance Center where I was given free space and publicity, raising about $1,400 for travel costs and artist fees. When I arrived in Jalisco, the artist residency included an apartment and a small stipend in Chapala, but it was a little too far from Guadalajara, so I contacted my friend, Maria Di Maruka, who knew the artist Lila Dipp, who knew Ailyn Arelles and Ramón Vázquez, who produced my show at a live-work space and connected me to the dancers and musicians at the Centro Cultural de Barrio San Diego where I took classes and held auditions for the show. I was really supported from all directions without any grant funding at the time. I paid 12 artists and two tech staff small stipends and I was invited to return to teach and perform in Guadalajara the following year. I also made life-long friends.

Do you think the definition of a professional dancer is different than it was 25 or 50 years ago? If so, do you have any ideas why it might have changed?

I’m noticing the semantic difference between “professional dancer” and “dance professional.” Today, I think we could be seeing the definition of a professional dancer embracing a broader spectrum of dance styles internationally, which is more inclusive of diverse backgrounds and body types. And the dance professional can encompass numerous career tracks within the field.

Also, I believe the approach to teaching is becoming more anatomically sound and emotionally healthy, making it more sustainable for dancers physically and psychologically.

According to the NEA, there is less funding for the arts now than there was 25 years ago, so this has had an impact on the whole ecosystem of dance. And while there is now a thing called “crowfunding,” I think it is more competitive overall.

Are there instances when people apply the term “professional” to a dancer or group of dancers when you feel it shouldn’t be applied?

This is dangerous territory. I would hate to offend anyone. But it’s a dynamic conversation.

It makes me think of male athletes who become paid contemporary dancers on salary with only a year of formal dance training under their belts and little knowledge of the form. But then again, what is dance? They have essentially been training all their lives with an intense physical practice that has developed a highly intelligent body to learn steps very quickly. What is more central to that conversation is how men in this country are discouraged to dance professionally and how it creates a gender imbalance for the field overall.

I would also say it is an unfit title for someone who is making money by appropriating or plagiarizing material from cultures outside their own or from other dance professionals in the field without crediting them. There are several untrained dance entrepreneurs leading entire communities of people to free their bodies via social dance or exercise. They are making a huge impact increasing the accessibility of dance to the general public while earning a profitable living from the practice. Some of these trademarked dance forms are methods that actually can carry a lot of wisdom and change people’s lives. It only gets tricky when the wisdom is borrowed or taken from other traditions or from other dancers without any permission.

Vice versa, are there instances when people don’t apply the term “professional” to a dancer or group of dancers when you feel it should be applied?

Yes.

Erotic, burlesque, pole, vogue, drag and queer dancers etc. are professionals and can be highly skillful technically or artistically.

Cultural dance forms, ceremonial dances rooted in Indigenous traditions, or dance/movement as a therapeutic and healing modality can be professionalized, performed, taught and hold monetary value.

Dance improvisation can also be developed as a highly sophisticated skill in performance and taught in academia or elsewhere.

How might your cultural perspective – where you live, where you’re from, what form of dance you practice – influence what you think of as professional?

To elaborate on my earlier statements, the art of dance (and theater) is generally visual and centered on the body and its politics. Issues of race, class, body type, age, ability, gender, culture, geography and other influences effect the credibility and the accessibility to certain dance genres for many aspiring dancers. However, where there is creativity and commitment, anything is possible.

As mentioned above, I am a queer, female, Chicana, divorced, low-income, single mother and dancer. I was raised the youngest of seven in the suburbs of LA county with a Mexican-American father who grew up poor in a culture that believed dancing was only a hobby for Mexicans and was instead for privileged, rich, white people. There was some truth in that. My Euro/Canadian mother believed that it was too late for me to be a dancer because I didn’t have formal ballet training until I started college. There was some truth in that too… but thank goodness, they didn’t block me from taking on the challenge. If I had listened to their cultural beliefs, I would not have formed a life as a dancer, which has given me a powerful language to communicate thought, emotion, energy and metaphor. It’s a language that crosses borders and cultures connecting me to people internationally. I would not have found a personal place of belonging, a source of strength, joy, freedom, healing, knowledge and wisdom, right inside my own moving body. I would not have helped others do the same. I have developed a unique skill set that I am passionate about sharing. It has not come without enormous effort and challenge, and I am simultaneously aware of my privilege based off my skin color, body type, education and eventual formal training that I embarked on at a relatively late stage of my physical development.

Admittedly, I have not yet reached my professional goals. With a BA in Dance, an MFA in Interdisciplinary Art and a certification in the Tamalpa Life-Art Process, I still do not have job security teaching in higher education. I am living month to month in my Oakland apartment, on Medi-Cal, dancing on a precarious edge of time as a project-based choreographer, presenter and dance educator. It feels like I am still hustling, but dance is at the center of my life. Some people think this is a measure of success but I am still climbing. Thank the lord, I am still dancing in good health, which is more than many dancers at my age, and I’ve remained committed to the coalescence of technique, somatics and cultural wellness as a form of livelihood that supports who I am.  My cultural background and my life experiences are all resources with which to create art and to help others learn, connect, grow and achieve. By curating, presenting and teaching, I am working to provide more accessibility to the art-form and hopefully more accessibility to funding as well.

What do you wish people wouldn’t assume about the dance profession?

That you can’t dance past 40. Or with a disability. Or with a kid.

That you have to start training when you are pre-pubescent.

That it requires classical training.

That it is only for entertainment.

That we aren’t artists.

That all male dancers are gay.

That all female dancers are straight.

That dancers are dumb.

That it is easy.

That it is only a hobby.

That we don’t need to be paid for our work.

Photo by Yvonne Portra

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Liz Duran Boubion, MFA, RSMT, is the artistic director of Piñata Dance Collective and co-director of ¡FLACC! Festival of Latin American Contemporary Choreographers. She has been choreographing and teaching in the San Francisco Bay Area since 2001. Her work embraces the temporal nature of the body and a shapeshifting attention on identity politics, mental health and strategic cultural curating. She teaches on-going dance classes to youth, adults and to elders with neurodegenerative diseases. Visit www.lizboubion.org and www.flaccdanza.org for more information.

The post The Credibility and Accessibility of Professional Dance appeared first on Stance on Dance.

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Would you call yourself a professional dancer?

Not now. I would call myself a former professional dancer.

What does your current regular dance practice look like?

My current dance practice is pretty minimal. I quit dancing almost 20 years ago, and, although I’ve always been and continue to be physically active, I haven’t danced or trained as a dancer since then. During that time, I went back to school, got my BA, then went to law school and became a lawyer. For a long time, I thought I had to reject my dancer self in order to fit some idea I had of being a lawyer. I tried to fill the hole left by the absence of dance with running, biking, etc. But while I enjoy those activities, they aren’t dance. They don’t fulfill the same need, at least not for me. Flash forward to a few months ago, I had a revelation—I didn’t need to banish dance from my life in the sort of extreme way I did. Dance is bigger than I thought it was, and, even if I’m no longer a professional, I’ll always be a dancer. I began renting rehearsal space at Maple Street Dance Space here in Albuquerque once a week to find out what I could still do. My “dancer self” of yore was very athletic and I was used to working in ways I can no longer work, so I’m struggling with that. But the payoff is that I’m allowing myself something I never really allowed before—the luxury of experimentation.

I’m also taking Alexander Technique teacher training, which is a huge mental and physical re-set. I want to teach it eventually, and in a more inclusive way, i.e. to people who can’t usually afford it. I also run, walk, bike, stretch. I do something physical every day. Being a lawyer is very sedentary, and that’s not the way I naturally deal with the world.

What do you believe is necessary for a dancer to call themselves professional? Is part of being a professional getting paid?

“Professional” was a very loaded word when I was dancing, and probably still is. First: Yes, getting paid is part of it. I would say that if you’ve never been paid to dance in any way shape or form, you’re probably not a pro. But money’s not the only part. I don’t believe that you have to make your living exclusively from dance income in order to call yourself a professional, because that’s an incredibly small pool of dancers. Even some of the Broadway dancers I knew had to wait tables or do temp work in offices between shows. Also, auditioning took up a lot of their time. That’s not something people often factor into the idea of “professional”—the fact that a lot of your jobs will be temporary.

Second, and more importantly, the word “professional,” and all its baggage, may not be all that helpful when applied to dance, or to any art. In this country, to make a sweeping generalization, art, especially dance, is not seen as a “serious” pursuit. So, for example, while most people with a law degree can probably get a fulltime job doing law, i.e., can make their living as a lawyer, most trained dancers cannot, even those who are incredibly gifted. I know it’s not a straightforward analogy, but I think it’s worthwhile making the comparison because it highlights the fact that “professional” is not a one-size-fits-all term.

To borrow from law, we can talk about “descriptive” versus “normative” terms or claims. A descriptive claim is a factual statement; it doesn’t contain a value judgment. A normative statement contains an inherent value judgment—it speaks to the way something “should” be. I think the danger with the word “professional” is that we think it’s used descriptively, when really it’s used normatively—to refer to a whole set of circumstances and attributes that the dancer or artist should have to be considered worthy. Thus, to be “unprofessional” in a normative context means more than just not getting paid all the time. It means that someone is unworthy of being taken seriously.

To expand that, the idea that “professional” is somehow a neutral term is flawed. Instead, it’s highly political—it essentially has to do with who is worthy to be seen and who isn’t. Often, the very struggle to become a “professional” can include the tacit obligation to keep quiet about a lot of things. For example, I remember an outcry over auditions for a Broadway show back in the 80s, some cowboy story, where the female dancers were to appear dressed as cows and be roped. A lot of dancers refused to audition for it on the grounds that it was sexist, but a lot didn’t. The show didn’t last long, but I believe it did open, with all the dancers it needed. Why? Because those dancers needed the work. They were professionals who didn’t have the luxury of complaining about the paycheck. So, the idea of professional can be a way of keeping out dissent. I think we have to be very careful about the normative baggage attached to the word.

I was fortunate enough to work with choreographers who believed in paying their dancers, but I rarely made enough to live on. I worked in restaurants or I did temp work to supplement my income. So, while I did consider myself professional, I always felt a certain embarrassment around the term, because in my dark moments I bought into the idea that “professional” meant making your living from dance. Again, most non-dancers I knew had that idea, and it was always hard to explain otherwise. For example, one man I knew, in response to the statement, “I’m a dancer” always replied, “So where do you waitress?” He thought it was funny. It wasn’t if you were on the receiving end, but it illustrates perfectly that idea most people have of “professional”—a kind of “either/or” notion.

On the opposite side of the coin, the highest paying jobs I ever had (film and TV work) actually required the least talent, time and effort, while the concert dance I did—much less well paid—required a lot more of all the above. So the well-paid work that most non-dancers would consider “professional” did not automatically equate with ability, skill or dedication.

Is there a certain amount of training involved in becoming a professional dancer?

Yes, although it can vary according to the dance you are doing. But to jump out of bed one day and call yourself a dancer—I don’t think that works very often. There are prodigies of course, and some kinds of dance are less physically demanding. And, as I mention below, street dancers don’t generally learn their craft in the hallowed halls of ballet class. But they do train. Basically, training keeps you healthy. You have to know how not to hurt yourself. Part of being professional is just that—how to not hurt yourself in a very demanding career. Also, the discipline of getting up and working on dance every day seems essential to be able to call yourself a dancer. You put yourself out there every day, trying things, and failing or succeeding. It’s not an abstract art.

Do you consider project-based work to be professional?

Yes, certainly. Broadway dancers are, essentially, doing project work, although they can often collect unemployment when the job ends. The only dancers who aren’t doing project work are those in the very few well-paid company positions. I’d be interested in the numbers, because that’s probably some minuscule fraction of all the dancers in the US.

Do you consider solo work to be professional?

Sure, it can be, but it may be a question of “I’ll know it when I see it.” I think the demands of solo performance would tend to weed out someone who wasn’t serious. But again, the word professional is not so useful in this context. For example, if I were to do a studio showing of some of the stuff I’m working on, I’m not sure I’d even want to think about whether I’m being professional or not at this point—because that question would squelch the experimental mindset I need right now. On the other side, if you’re doing an evening length work, or even smaller polished pieces, at some larger venue, that’s probably professional. So the answer is maybe.

Do you think the definition of a professional dancer is different than it was 25 or 50 years ago? If so, do you have any ideas why it might have changed?

I think it has changed. Dance is more inclusive now. I danced 20-30 years ago, and we had pretty rigid ideas, although even then the dance world was very big. All the late 1960s exploration—minimalists like Yvonne Ranier and venues like the Judson Church—was still active in my time, and there were newer choreographers doing extremely experimental stuff. But by the late 80s, a lot of experimental dance was being “professionalized,” by which I mean that choreographers felt less free to explore ideas that wouldn’t pan out. It was the Reagan era, “go go” capitalism, and “greed is good,” and all the fallout from that. New York City went from affordable in certain areas to prohibitively expensive in most. Choreographers had to appeal more to the deep pockets; they couldn’t just do their thing in their lofts. Deep pockets tended to want more “spectacles” and less stuff that would push buttons or make people uncomfortable. I’m speaking very generally, of course, and subjectively. But in my, admittedly myopic, experience, the 1980s represented a kind of turning away from experiment and towards a kind of “professionalism” which concentrated in technical proficiency and athleticism. So, while experimental and politically provocative stuff existed, it was largely in the margins. That was the context within which my ideas of “professional” were formed.

Now, dance is opening up to a lot of experiment again. It’s exciting. For example, I worked briefly with Heidi Latsky, a former Bill T. Jones dancer. At the time—the mid-90s—she was doing some pretty athletic stuff, modern dance, theatrical dance. Now she has a company of differently abled dancers. That expansion was probably in the back of people’s minds in my day, but no one I knew was doing it, or even questioning the paradigm of athleticism. So I do think there has been a wonderful opening up in what we think of as dance. Accordingly, there should be a corresponding shift in the notion of what is professional… if we need the term at all, and I’m not so sure we do.

Are there instances when people apply the term “professional” to a dancer or group of dancers when you feel it shouldn’t be applied?

If you’d asked me back in the day, I might have said that I’d seen some experimental stuff I didn’t consider professional. But if I think back to what I was objecting to, it was often that the experimental stuff eschewed dance technique, as I saw it then. And, as I said above, I did have a rigid idea of technique and professionalism. So, right now I don’t know.

Vice versa, are there instances when people don’t apply the term “professional” to a dancer or group of dancers when you feel it should be applied?

I’m not sure I’ve seen that. The truth is, I’m in the process of changing my own ideas about dance, so the term has grown a lot more nebulous for me.

How might your cultural perspective – where you live, where you’re from, what form of dance you practice – influence what you think of as professional?

Very heavily as you can probably tell. I come originally from the neighborhood ballet/jazz/tap school of dance where the only accepted trajectory was show dancing. Or ballet, but that was rarer; the ballet girls were a whole different breed. I went to New York thinking that dance was Broadway—A Chorus Line—and having no idea the level of competition I was getting myself into. Fortunately, I happened on a ballet class I loved where a lot of modern dancers studied, including dancers from Merce Cunningham, Twyla Tharp, Paul Taylor—the biggies, and then a lot of smaller companies (and those dancers were often as good as the big company dancers.) So I got interested in modern dance. I straddled those two worlds for a while. I liked the modern world more and felt more comfortable with the work, but my ideas about what was professional were very much limited to Broadway, show dancing or big companies.

Certainly, class and privilege colors my experience. On one hand, a lot of the modern dancers I knew came from a more upper-middle class, college-educated idea of dance than I did, so were more open to experimental forms. Some had the conservatory experience. I hadn’t had any of that, just the chain-smoking, false-eyelash wearing ballet teacher who taught in her basement. On the other side, I had the dance classes. I wasn’t learning on the street. When I first arrived in New York, breakdancing was big. I worked in a video with some breakdancers who had never studied dance “formally” because they’d never had access to classes. They’d developed their work on the street, or in clubs. And they were professionals.

What do you wish people wouldn’t assume about the dance profession?

Don’t assume it’s easy, and don’t assume a degree will automatically make you a professional—like a law or medical degree, or that there’s some test you take to become a pro. Don’t assume that dancers who work waiting tables or as temps aren’t professional.  Don’t assume it’s boring, or elitist, or irrelevant to your experience. Don’t assume “dance” is only one thing, either. It’s enormous, like music. Go out and see a lot of different kinds of dance before you make any assumptions about it at all.

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Lorien House danced in New York and Nova Scotia during the late 1980s through the 1990s, performing with choreographers including Gina Gibney, Phil McAbee, Joanne Jansen, Errol Grimes, Meg Eginton, Christina Hamm, Denise Dalfo, and Diane Martel, as well as in the Latin Rhythms Dance Company; in venues which included Dance Theater Workshop, Lincoln Center Out of Doors, and the Joyce Theater. She danced in the Off-Broadway Play, “Funny Feet,” and her television and film credits include Bill Irwin’s segment from Alive from Off-Center, titled “As Seen on TV,” R.E.M’s “Stand” video, and the film “Bloodhounds of Broadway.” She studied ballet with Jocelyn Lorenz and Maggie Black, and jazz dance with the legendary Betsy Haug and Luigi. She presented her own solo work at the Halifax Fringe Festival, in the New Choreographers’ Showcase produced by Live Art Productions in Halifax, N.S., the fFIDA Festival in Toronto, Ontario, and in various New York City venues.

The post Assessing the Contexts of Professionalism appeared first on Stance on Dance.

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What does your current regular dance practice look like?

Personal dance practice: One hour a week, somatic movement practice with two colleagues.

Broader dance practice: My teaching practice is the channel for much of my dance practice and research. I teach over 800 hours per year. Each class I teach is grounded in my original quest to understand myself through movement. I teach with an improvisational mind, always responding to my students so that the class becomes the shape of our engagement and can at times become extraordinary art. Since it’s not ultimately possible to teach improvisation if I’m not doing it, I get a lot of regular dance practice every week.

Would you call yourself a professional dancer?

Yes. And I’m not sure all the time.

What do you believe is necessary for a dancer to call themselves professional?

I find the term ‘professional’ to be problematic relative to art. Are we talking making money, being socially validated, attaining highest degree of excellence? Or are we talking about a lifelong commitment to a practice of altruism and poetry? The term suggests a false binary of either ‘making it’ in the field, or not.

In my mind, I always equated the idea of ‘professional’ with excellence (there are no shortage of examples of great artists who didn’t make a dime). I think it’s important for a dancer to strive for personal excellence and foster the professional attributes of being focused, respectful and dedicated.

I am constantly reevaluating if I identify as a professional dancer. At 45 and making little income from my dancing and most of my income from teaching, this is a question for me all over again. There is a great interview on Fresh Air from last year with filmmaker Jim Jarmusch where he talks about self-identifying as a professional ‘amateur’ – whose Latin origin means ‘the love of.’ He’s not offering a case for poverty but a case for keeping your connection to the art as pure as possible and letting your love of the work drive you.   

Is part of being a professional getting paid?

Sure, it’s part of it. There is a great satisfaction and pride that comes with making one’s living doing what one loves. But there’s always a trade off somewhere.

Is there a certain amount of training involved in becoming a professional dancer?

No. But commitment expressed through spending enough time practicing is essential. Usually years.

Do you consider project-based or solo work to be professional?

Yes. If the artist feels their work is at a professional level, then it’s professional. If they are making grant and box office income, then it’s professional. If the artist considers their work to represent a furthering of the field, or a comment on historic contributions as a means to continue the artistic potential for the medium, then yes, it’s professional.

According to the 2016 New England Foundation for the Arts National Dance Project’s report “Moving Dance Forward,” 80 percent of respondents said they were doing project-based work and 50 percent said they were doing solo work (there was room for crossover). Do those numbers make you rethink your responses?

No. This data seems to reflect the current climate. The old models are struggling. There are exponentially more dancers in the field than ever before with fewer full time company positions available. The internet has enabled scores of independent dance careers. The easing up of traditional body-type prejudices has opened the door for anyone willing to bust their ass enough to step in. The old gatekeepers no longer hold the keys; if you want to dance, you can do it on your own. It’s a wonderful time right now in dance, but it brings uncertainty.

Do you think the definition of a professional dancer is different than it was 25 or 50 years ago? If so, do you have any ideas why it might have changed?

Yes, it’s very different. In the past, the dance field was much smaller with fewer options. 50 years ago, you had only a limited number of boxes to choose from: classical ballet, neo classical ballet, classical modern, post modern. It was simpler times – if you were lucky, you got a job and you called yourself professional. 25 years ago, all those same professional models still existed, but from the choreographic side of things you started to see trends leaning towards hybridization, which has led to new models of solo and project-based career paths.

How might your cultural perspective – where you live, where you’re from, what form of dance you practice – influence what you think of as professional?

I am always of two minds. I identify with the laborer, the worker, and the working-class reality of making an honest living. It’s a powerfully validating mark of pride to find work that utilizes your skills.

And I identify with the poet, the artist, and the outsider who will not be defined by societal norms and whose deep sense of self-truth is wrapped up in a purpose to communicate their human experience – as an altruistic act. An act of service.

Professional can mean different things to different people at different points in their lives. It’s definitely connected to a sense of self-worth, self-pride, self-validation, accomplishment, excellence and lots of hard work.

What do you wish people wouldn’t assume about the dance profession?

That all we do is dance steps.

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Since 1993, Christian Burns has been performing, teaching, directing and speculating about the numerous ways we can experience, observe and communicate through the body. In the San Francisco Bay Area, his work has been seen at numerous venues, as well as nationally and abroad. He received his classical training from The School of American Ballet and began his improvisation education in 1994 and, since then, has been researching various improvisational methods. Christian was a company member of Alonzo Kings LINES Ballet (1999 – 2002) and James Sewell Ballet (1993 – 1998). In 1998, he established The Foundry with Alex Ketley, which received the support of numerous private foundations, contemporary art centers and residency programs. Between 2003 – 2008, Christian collaborated with Kirstie Simson, together giving over 100 improvised performances worldwide. In 2007, he was invited as a guest artist by The Forsythe Company for the creation of William Forsythe’s installation piece EQUIVALENCE. In 2008, Christian co-founded the interdisciplinary art space Parsons Hall Project Space in Holyoke, MA. Christian is a full-time educator for several programs and independent workshops. He is a founding faculty member of the San Francisco Conservatory of Dance, as well as being on the faculty of Lines Ballet Training Program and Lines BFA at Dominican University. He is the founder and director of burnsWORK. To learn more, visit www.burnswork.org.

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What does your current regular dance practice look like?

My routine: I begin with floor stretches and strengthening exercises that were given to me by my physical therapist, Michael Hoerning, ARC Physical Therapy. I then go into the routine that was taught to me by my maestra, Carmela Greco. It starts with arm stretches to promote more flexibility, it pinpoints the arms, hands and feet, and concludes with full body exercises to promote body connection. Depending on the day and if I will be working on a dance with props, I warm up my castanets or run through various bata de cola exercises. I then move into whichever choreography I am working on.

Would you call yourself a professional dancer? 

This is an interesting question. I am a student in this art form, but this is how I make a living. I still have a tremendous amount to learn, one day at a time.

What do you believe is necessary for a dancer to call themselves professional? Is part of being a professional getting paid? 

There are many people who are aficionados of flamenco who don’t necessarily do it for a living but they have an extensive knowledge of the art form. There are other artists who use it to make a living.

Is there a certain amount of training involved in becoming a professional dancer? 

Flamenco requires a tremendous amount of training and dedication. A saying from my childhood teacher, Maria Benitez: “It takes fire and passion.”

Do you consider project-based work or solo work to be professional? 

Yes. Different artists have different roads in this art form.

Do you think the definition of a professional dancer is different than it was 25 or 50 years ago? If so, do you have any ideas why it might have changed? 

This is a hard question for me to answer as I am 26 years old. I am sure over time, things have changed.

Are there instances when people apply the term “professional” to a dancer or group of dancers when you feel it shouldn’t be applied? 

Yes. I think that to be a flamenco artist, it requires a life-long study wherein one never arrives. It is a camino… a way of life. The goal should not be to become a professional dancer, but to become a good student, a person of respect and humility.

Vice versa, are there instances when people don’t apply the term “professional” to a dancer or group of dancers when you feel it should be applied? 

Today, many people can call themselves professional artists but, at the end of the day, words are a dime a dozen. What matters is what happens when they are doing the art form.

How might your cultural perspective – where you live, where you’re from, what form of dance you practice – influence what you think of as professional? 

I was born and raised in Northern New Mexico, a place of very rich and beautiful culture. One of the things that draws me to flamenco is that it is an art form born of and for the people; it tells a story, your story.

What do you wish people wouldn’t assume about the dance profession? 

Something that I have heard people say to me on several occasions is: “Oh, you have it so easy, you just get to dance all day.” Being a professional dancer requires a lot of dedication, discipline and perseverance.

La Emi, photographed at La Mesita Ranch, Photo © Daniel Quat Photography

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La Emi began studying flamenco at the age of four with the Maria Benitez Institute for Spanish Arts. In 2010, she performed in the production of “El Pintor” at the National Hispanic Cultural Center in Albuquerque. La Emi also began working with Compañia Chuscales y Mina Fajardo, where she continues to collaborate today. In Santa Fe, she has performed with Entreflamenco, the company of Antonio Granjero and Estefania Ramirez, and with the Juan Siddi Flamenco Santa Fe. Since 2013, La Emi has traveled to Spain to study intensively with Carmela Greco and other top artists including José Galván, Juana Amaya, Yolanda Heredia, Ivan Vargas Heredia, Orombo, and Rocio Alcaide Ruiz. She has performed under the direction of Carmela Greco, José Galván, and Torombo and at major venues and events including the Carmela Greco Seminario de Flamenco y Danza Española in Madrid; Cueva Los Tarantos in the Sacramonte of Granada; in Sevilla at the Teatro Alameda Festival Flamenco; and the Café de Chinitas in Madrid. ​Currently, she teaches at the EmiArteFlamenco Academy, as well as performs in many venues throughout New Mexico and the country.

To learn more, visit www.EmiArteFlamenco.com.

The post The Camino of Pursuing Dance appeared first on Stance on Dance.

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What does your current regular dance practice look like?

I am in a weird place with regards to a regular dance practice. I have a growing awareness that the kind of dancing I’ve been trained in will probably have lasting repercussions – detriments to my body and mind. So, when I moved to a new city last year, I made a goal to only engage in movement that feels good and listen to how my body wants to move. This commitment still feels radical and difficult. When I am super honest with my body and its needs, I no longer can engage in a kind of codified “style” of practice per se. No ballet, no “contemporary” where I can’t keep up with the class. Instead, I go to improvisation classes, I have an Authentic Movement practice, an Axis Syllabus dance group, and I’m committed to learning as much about functional movement as I can. I go to the aforementioned classes regularly, but not enough due to time and money. Instead of beating myself up because of that limitation, I have to switch my framework. Can I frame everyday-movement in a way that facilitates my dance practice? Then boom! A dance practice is everywhere! It meets me wherever my body is – hiking, cooking, slow dancing with my boyfriend in the kitchen, even cleaning in a squat position! Haha! It’s noticing my weirdo idiosyncratic movement. Now, I am finding my authentic body, so dance isn’t limited to dance with a capital D. It’s still uncomfortable. I will always fantasize about being a ballerina and all of that, still have the guilt about not being in class all the time. But in truth, I just don’t have the body, or the stamina. So ok. I don’t have those things. Now my question is: “How is this body meant to move?”

Would you call yourself a professional dancer?

Well yeah, but, no. Yes – I’ve been paid, I have professional experience where my name is in a program, performed at reputable theaters with notable choreographers, blah blah blah. This American society treats dancers like dog shit in general, and especially independent artists. We have to finance our own work most of the time so, except for performing in fully funded dance companies, this is about as professional as I’m going to get.

But no, because I don’t dance for other people any more. There’s a certain assumption I have in my mind that being a professional dancer means dancing in other people’s work instead of making work of my own, so I guess… I am a choreographer now? Whoa. That’s a loaded term for me, a little too high and mighty. I don’t fully resonate with that term either. I am making my own work with collaborators and trusted friends, most of which features dance but is highly interdisciplinary. I like the term dancer-person now instead of professional dancer or choreographer. My old boss who ran Pieter Performance Space in LA coined that term and I really believe in it. Yes to being a dancer, but equal yes to being a person. Being a project based artist, I don’t get to perform super regularly, so dancer-person feels most true to how I feel.

What do you believe is necessary for a dancer to call themselves professional? Is part of being a professional getting paid?

Getting paid. This is important even though I have worked for free to deepen my craft and build community. It’s contradictory for sure. There are opportunities with no pay and so sometimes as dancers we take those because we know it’ll help us hone our craft. All that being said, it’s something I’d love to see improved in the future. We have a capitalistic society and economy – if we aren’t compensated, how else are we supposed to make art and improve upon it when national funding is so bad? I had a professor in college say, “I either pay my dancers or the work doesn’t get made.” What if all us dancers and choreographers practiced that commitment? There’d be significantly less dance and art no doubt, but perhaps then patrons, rich people, and our communities would recognize the gap, step up, support more art financially. LOL. I sound like a republican.

Is there a certain amount of training involved in becoming a professional dancer?

No, (although my ego opinion is that my parents and I paid a fuckload for me to get to this place!) as a dancer and art maker, I am more curious to involve “non-dancers” in my work. They have “trained bodies,” just not the kind I have. Like a Marcel Duchamp perspective – who gets to decide what training is anyway? What dancers get to dance with what kinds of backgrounds and abilities? What if you are a fantastic mover but can’t afford dance training? When we limit dance to having “training,” we are missing a lot of dynamic performers in the process. That is why it is crucial to expand the idea of how dance looks, both in practice and performance. This is what will push our form forward. When people see themselves reflected in the work and the performers we feature, it’s affirming. It’s making manifest the true strength of live performance: building instant community.

Do you consider project-based work to be professional?

Of course! It’s a creative solution to an impossible system that again, is so limited in funding. We decide to make work while we have day jobs and families, and invest in the art we care about.

Do you consider solo work to be professional?

Yep. I just did a solo show where I collaborated with my mother as the other performer but wrote and conceived of the piece in the studio on my own. Let me tell you, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The solo thing is no joke. People paid money to come to see it – so definitely professional.

Do you think the definition of a professional dancer is different than it was 25 or 50 years ago? If so, do you have any ideas why it might have changed?

I think this question again relates to funding, and also a shift in body politics. First, there is such little funding for the arts in America compared to other western countries. US arts funding also decreased significantly in the past 30 years. Who knows for sure, but I think that phenomenon lead to a higher rate of project based work rather than large scale, proscenium stage productions. And the project based work is interdisciplinary. Those of us doing such work have day jobs and can’t train as if we were in a national company, and, frankly, need to hone other skill sets in order to make money. Eventually, the money-making jobs make way for other connections and ideas, both in the dance world and beyond it, and I see these connections influencing the dance work (at least for me).

Second, there is widespread awareness about women’s issues in the past few years, and thankfully it’s becoming more acute in the dance world.  The way we view dancers’ bodies and the way choreographers treat a lot of dancers during the rehearsal process and in their training is, frankly, fucked up. I see a lot of women who are dancing professionally well into their 70s, people who are trying dance out in their 30s. It’s wonderful. Simone Forti puts great effort into bringing both dance and art students in her classes, for example. I spent many classes of hers dancing with art students who had never conceived of moving in a contemporary dance class. But with facilitation such as hers, they were pulled to do it. And I’ve learned so much from those experiences: curiosity, gratitude for my body in all its imperfections, new ways of moving. I hope, in this way, we will feature performers in dance work of all shapes, sizes, talents and abilities. So what I see shifting in my own community is a more expansive definition of dance and performance than we’ve seen in dominant American dance culture.

Are there instances when people apply the term “professional” to a dancer or group of dancers when you feel it shouldn’t be applied?

No… It’s not for me to decide who gets to be called what and when and why. I can’t pretend to really know what makes people professional because performance isn’t like most jobs. There is so much that goes into being a professional performer that transcends most skillsets and job descriptions.

Vice versa, are there instances when people don’t apply the term “professional” to a dancer or group of dancers when you feel it should be applied?

In reflection, the term professional dancer feels so limited to me. I see so many people who call themselves professional actors but move so well. Or those ladies in the park near my house who do kick boxing and are getting paid to facilitate the class. Again, it goes back to: What is dance anyway? To me, it’s movement of any kind. So I guess it’s movement + payment. Or something like that.

How might your cultural perspective – where you live, where you’re from, what form of dance you practice – influence what you think of as professional?

If I didn’t get into UCLA’s World Arts and Cultures department, my perspective on dance and performance would be incredibly limited in scope. I had the privilege of exposure – I danced, researched, made, and talked about a range of performances and trainings which departed from the normative Eurocentric dance practices found in a conservatory style department. I learned about institutional critique. I learned performance theory. For God’s sake, I took a class called “Choreographing the Voice.” And my privileged ass took it all for granted. I look back on it now, and marvel. Those teachers gave me the tools not just to be a dancer, but to be thoughtful and intelligent. Making work, I’m using what I learned, and am so completely grateful that I had the education I did. And someday, when I transition into teaching such classes, I look forward to passing it on.

What do you wish people wouldn’t assume about the dance profession?

Ugh, so many things! I wish people would come to more shows! I wish people wouldn’t be so afraid to watch dance because they don’t completely “understand it.”  What does that mean anyway? When you go into a gallery or see a mural on the street, do you say, “I wish I could understand ALL of this?” No. You pick up some things, you leave the rest and walk on by. I just wish more people would give themselves the opportunity to say, “I don’t understand what the fuck I’m seeing right now, but at least I showed up!”

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Madison Page is a dancer movement person who makes work that, with any luck, examines the relationships between people, process, and performance. Informed by a background in contemporary dance, her work proposes making dances from models of vulnerability and selfhood. Her most recent work The Crack, made in a residency at New Expressive Work in Portland, OR, is an autobiographical piece involving the intimate history between her dance career and her mother. Her dances and collaborations have been featured recently at R/SF Projects (San Francisco), The Hammer Museum with collaborators Samantha Mohr, Caitlin Adams and Chelsea Rector, and Moskowitz Bayse Gallery with playwright Rachel Kauder Nalebuff in Los Angeles. She is a graduate of the World Arts and Cultures Department at The University of California, Los Angeles, and holds a certificate in Dance Theatre from Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music and Dance in London, England.

To learn more, visit www.madisonpagemoves.com.

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