Slowly I Turn

This year has gone by quickly. Already it is late October and I wonder where the time went. Blogs are good for this though... reminders of what we do, how we spend our time, of our progress and evolution in our own personal journeys. Dancing and healing are part of mine.

Since I last posted I've gotten stronger. Still not 100%, but headed in the right direction. And physically stronger is one thing, but sometimes we have no control over the ills that come upon our bodies. What we do have control over is the way we respond to illness, as with anything in life... the way we respond can make all the difference in the world. So even on my low energy days throughout the year, I've always felt hopeful and have looked forward to the good days which I knew would follow, as they inevitably did.

This year I had several performances scheduled at various venues including a benefit for Japan in Brentwood, NY, a special event at Cinema Arts Centre in Huntington, NY, a Quarterly Arts Soiree at Webster Hall in New York City, NY and recently at Cornucopia Noshery in Amityville, NY where my paintings hang on the walls. That is where I did two performances a couple of weeks ago, one dressed in red to a piece of music sung by Enrico Caruso. That's what I was doing in the photo above, taken by friend and fellow artist Tom de Gruyl.

That dance was one I had practiced. Not that butoh is choreographed, because it isn't. But many times when I dance in my apartment, whether to music or not, I find myself turning around very slowly like a figure on a music box. Music boxes have always intrigued me and symbolize for me a sense of nostalgia, family, home, memories. When I chose this piece of music for this performance two weeks ago, it felt right because I happened to be playing it at home when I began turning again, slowly, in place. It felt... nostalgic... as if I were embodying something that evoked nostalgia.

Slowly turning was something I also did not think I would ever plan to do, particularly in a public performance, as I've had issues with my balance for many years. But when I began turning this way while dancing on my own, it felt as if I were making peace with the movement, joining with it, engaging it and embracing it into my dance. A close friend was surprised, but I explained. It felt natural. If I had been spinning around quickly, that would have been another matter entirely. But this... felt good. One person in the audience said afterward that it looked as if I had been standing on a rotating pedestal, which made me smile to hear because I wasn't. But that's what I was hoping people would see.

One friend captured and created a video of the dance, which can be seen here:
http://youtu.be/jf9kChVd-UA

In more ways than I can describe, there is healing through butoh.

Peace,
Robyn

Deathbed Butoh

At the end of January I started moving a bit more but was still weak. One evening I thought I would do a very slow movement, a butoh dance in my bed, and the idea that came to mind was this - "Deathbed Butoh". The concept, the name all felt right with what I was going through. Chronic illness, weakness, concern about a dear friend with a terminal illness, mourning the recent loss of a relationship, all of it. What I felt was this.

I did a video of that 'dance' which can be seen here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tk664m03Fng

It felt really good to do this. I was honoring what I was feeling, and expressing it through movement at the same time.

Peace in butoh,
Robyn

Fertile Hibernation

This is me on January 1st, the first day of 2011, walking back to the car on a cold winter's day after dancing in the snow. I wanted to, but realized when I did just how weak I had become. It was frustrating because I really, really wanted to dance, and aside from not feeling as strong as I did a few months ago, I hadn't anticipated how difficult it would be to move around in six to eight inches of white mush.

This winter has turned out to be a period of hibernation for me, and at times I've tried to battle it by pushing myself to do more than it felt my body wanted or could manage to do. So I'd rest. But in my mind I am dancing. And while I'm resting, I have often lifted my arms into the air and moved them around, or curled myself into a ball, stretched out my legs, writhed slowly as if in a cocoon, waiting for the time to emerge from its paper-like shell. And that time will come. In the meantime I'm allowing my body to regain its strength, and moving when I can, as I can, even if it's slow-movement up and down in gentle bouncing wave-like motions in the kitchen as I'm waiting for a meal to be ready. It's all dance, really. It all has my heart and soul in it.

I'm thinking about the times when I painted regularly years ago, and about the times in-between when I would go through short, temporary dry spells devoid of inspiration, when I would often sit and stare at the paintings I had done and examine their lines and forms for meanings that I hadn't seen or felt or understood before then. Or the times when I would start a painting but then stop because I had no idea how to continue with it. So I'd sit and stare, and just be with my art, as an observer. That is often where I found so much in the stillness... so much life as if the spirit of the thing were analogous to what is felt when reading between the lines of a poem... understanding what is not in the words. That time of hibernation of sorts gave me as much as doing the actual art did, if I allowed it to. Then I would be able to see clearly what was going to come next, and I've heard so many other artists describe the same exact thing. What is said in a moment of silence is often much more profound than the most boisterous scream. Without these quiet periods of non-doing, there is actually a great deal of doing going on, and I am finding the same thing in this period of non-doing with dance.

So I have chosen to embrace this period for what it is. I am getting ideas for when I'm stronger. They swirl around my head in an enticing, almost taunting fashion and I'm glad they are there offering me glimpses of what may come. I'm moving every day and making my body stronger again after having had a setback with my health. And when I am stronger, I will explore my more ambitious ideas and be on fire once again. I can't wait... but I will... like Winter itself... wait, in this incredibly fertile period of doing in stillness.

Peace,
Robyn

A Dance of Mourning

During the last month and a half of needing to rest because of my health, I've done only a few dances, videos or other creative works. I wanted to do much more, but as they say, the spirit was willing but the body was not.

In November I had the need one day to do a mourning dance of some kind, and the idea of dancing in a cemetery felt right. Mourning, grief... these were things I was feeling so strongly for so many reasons. It could have had to do with the season, as green leaves turned to brown and then fell to the ground leaving the trees bare. It may have had to do with the fact that I visited my mother's grave a couple of months ago for the first time since she passed away in 1992. Mourning can take place as a result of a number of things, such as the keen awareness of the fragility of life when knowing that a dear friend is terminally ill, being accutely aware of my own fragility as I manage my own chronic health issues, the falling away of things and of people from life in the various forms that falling away can have. Whatever it was, I felt the need to express it through my dance.

With a friend I found the right place to dance and I had the music already chosen - a beautifully moving acapella female vocalist singing in Norwegian. I don't know exactly what the words mean, but I knew the song was a lullaby, and the sound of it and what it made me feel told me it was right for this.

I knew I wanted to come from the side, off-camera, carrying a branch with dead leaves on it like a withered bouquet. The rest just happened naturally and spontaneously. I felt weak, so my movements were slow and unambitious. I gave it a few tries with the music, but of course the very first one held the magic, with the wind and the light cooperating (something I didn't really see until I viewed the video later that night). It can be seen here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wt39XjXkCM.

That day, even though I was not feeling well, I needed to create and express more than anything else, and afterward, there was relief.

Peace in Dance,
Robyn

"Dia de los Muertos" - A Butoh Day of the Dead

November 1st of this year was the last time I performed and I haven't danced much since then, despite wanting to. It's my health, again.

That day in my "Dia de los Muertos" dance, I had the idea to channel the spirits of the dead through my dance. More specifically, I told myself that I would be an open "channel" in dance, for anyone who attended that night to receive messages from those who have passed. Not that it was choreographed in any way (it never is), but I did have the idea in mind once I was asked to perform for the event with that theme. And it's not so much of a stretch, being that I am a highly spiritual person and I believe in so much more than what we can see with our eyes. As I danced, before I knew it I was pulling invisible messages, like strands, from above and putting them gently into the hands of people around the room. I didn't know that was going to happen! One person told me later about how cold my hands were as I placed a 'message' in hers, and how that sensation added to what I was doing. That, I thought, was really interesting.

I really allowed myself to let go and be free in that performance and afterwards so many people thanked me and told me how much it touched them. One lady who had come into the gallery shortly after I began said she felt sort of called to come in and watch, and said she was so glad that she did because of what it made her feel. Here I am thinking, well, I am dancing because I need to, and it just happens to be touching other people on some deep level, which is more than I could hope for! Another man wrote the following to me in an email the next day:

"I would like to thank you for your performance last evening. It was wonderfully feeling, you projected your spirit into the entire room. I could actually feel myself pulled out of my body, and shared a piece of my spirit with all there. A moving experience, brought about through your powering of the environment. It is evident to me that you are experiencing the spirit (unnamed) as a vessel."

Wow. He got it. Others did too. My fondest hope, oh yes. :)

I look back on that night and remember feeling so much stronger (physically), feeling so free, looking forward to dancing at another event two nights later (which I had to cancel for health reasons), and to dancing so much more in general. But since then it has been a lot of rest. Well, rest and one "Mourning Dance" I did in a cemetery which I'll write about in a separate post.

As I sit here hoping to get my strength back in coming weeks, I'm missing dance more than anything. Last night I read through some of Susanne Daeppen's book "The Art of Slow Movement", and I felt a spark of life come back to me a bit, remembering the butoh workshop I took with her back in October. I remember the exercises she had us do where we moved so slowly, taking ten minutes to walk across the room with slow, fluid movement. I remember her saying it was okay to go as slowly as we need to, and I thought about how much I want to move and dance. I also thought about Momo and how she recently suggested I dance while in bed, in a way that would feel nurturing and healing for me. So as I sat there in bed last night, I began moving very slowly, as if beginning to come to life from a place of dark stillness... my illness... that's how it felt. And in no time I was doing it, simply by allowing myself to... slowly, but surely. Powerful stuff, this dance.

I will be back dancing again like I want to, but for now I'll begin dancing in whatever minimal way I can and need to. In two days I'm going to be an angel at a holiday party and I'll be moving minimally there, too... simply offering my presence will be... enough.

Peace & Healing,
Robyn

A Tango Night on the Town

The man dancing with me in this photo didn't really want to dance with me. He was much more experienced than I am. When he asked me to dance, I told him I'm a beginner with the Argentine tango. Once we began dancing and he saw that my words were not mere modesty but truth.. yes, I am indeed a beginner... he went to dance with someone else. That's okay! I ended up enjoying the evening because there were others who didn't mind my novice status and danced with me in whatever way I was able, gave me some helpful pointers here and there, and it turned out to be a really fun night.

The Argentine tango is much different from butoh dancing! There are steps, nuances of movement and posture, even the way to hold your arms and hands, and it takes many years to learn with dedicated practice. My dear friend and roommate (who is one of these dedicated souls) has been introducing me to the Argentine tango for about a year now. She recently brought me with her into New York City for a milonga (where this photo was taken) because I had not been feeling well, and it definitely lifted my spirits. I had been resting a lot, feeling fatigued and low in energy and a night of tango seemed like it might help if I could muster the ummpphh to get up and get dressed for the occasion, and it did. As I write this I'm still battling a bit of weakness and fatigue, but thinking back on that night makes me smile.

I danced with different people that evening. One man is a tango instructor from Argentina who was particularly understanding and helpful as we made our way around the dance floor with a good sense of ease. By the time the music stopped, I felt like I knew how to dance. A good leader (tanguero), or teacher, makes a novice like me feel that way, like we know something, like we can.

One man I danced with toward the end of the night had his own way of dancing and left me wondering if he even knew how to tango, lol! My friend said he was doing some tango, but other things he did were part of his own 'style' I guess, but as a beginner and also a dancer who does other forms of freestyle dancing like butoh, I appreciated it for the 'break the rules' way it was and enjoyed dancing with him. He moved quickly and spun me around a lot, which was very difficult with the balance issues I have, but I didn't say anything because I figured any dizziness I felt would pass once we stopped dancing, and it did. And this was definitely a lot more fun than going to physical therapy for my balance like my doctors suggest. I'd rather dance!

I do hope to learn the Argentine tango a bit more when I can, although my heart is with butoh more than anything else. Something in me entertains the possibility of combining the two, if indeed there were a way to do that. Perhaps? Hmmm... that is definitely something to ponder. In any case, I'm going to keep dancing in any way I can, when I can, despite the days when my health issues flare up, because it most definitely strengthens the body, lightens the heart and the spirit, and makes me feel so, so alive!

Peace & Healing in Dance,
Robyn

Flower Dance for Kazuo Ohno

On October 27th, 2010, Kazuo Ohno, one of the founders of butoh dance, would have been 104 years old. That day, butoh dancers around the world participated in something called the Butoh Flower Dance Flashmob in Honor of Kazuo Ohno, organized by Sonja Heller in Germany. At the same exact time (it was 10:00am here in NY), we all did a flower dance for Kazuo Ohno. Here was mine: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yM10unpXgp0. It was a joy, and an honor.

Peace in butoh,
Robyn