Tagged: the shimmying writer

Behind the Scenes

Behind the Scenes

posted on February 23rd, 2012 by Vanessa Blakeslee

Dun tek. Dun dun tek.

One of my favorite props in Bellydance is the cane, or assaya. Last week, my Sunday Master class began to learn a cane choreography for the upcoming dance show in April—exciting since I’ve only had one previous opportunity to perform a cane dance, over two years ago now. The cane is a traditional prop of saidi, the folk dance native to upper Egypt. Men dance with canes in choreographies that resemble stick fighting; when women perform the dance, twirling and thwacking the canes on the ground, we are essentially parodying the men. The movements of saidi dance are more earthy and bouncy than cabaret-style Bellydance, executed with pride and a splash of sassiness. Saidi is a dance of the country, of farmers and harvests. Dun tek, dun dun tek is its signature rhythm.

I love saidi dancing not only because it’s pure fun to twirl a cane and smack it on the ground now and then, but because the dance isn’t typically what Westerners expect when they think of “Bellydance.” Yet the cane is a far more traditional prop than say, the sword, for example, and poses as many challenges (on more than one practice session, I’ve sent my cane whirling like a helicopter to the corner of the room—this is bound to happen sooner or later). Saidi dancing serves as an apt reminder that what we in the West term “Bellydance” is derived from folk dancing, and shares roots with Greek, flamenco, Romani, etc.—all brought by the Roma people as they dispersed throughout the Middle East and Europe. ( Read more )

So You Want to Be a Professional Artist?

So You Want to Be a Professional Artist?

posted on January 31st, 2012 by Vanessa Blakeslee

Over the past two weeks, I’ve begun my first season as a member of the Gypsy Sa’har troupe at the Orlando Bellydance Performance Company. Troupe practices take place at night, following the regular classes, and dancers learn choreographies at a much faster pace. Thus far it’s a fun challenge, but I would be lying if I didn’t admit that the jump up from Master-level class to professional isn’t an adjustment. The artist in me is excited and a little bit nervous for the challenges ahead—and likely the dramatic question of this year’s “Shimmying Writer” column will remain, is it possible to dedicate oneself fully to two art forms? What will that look like? And to a lesser extent, will I remain sane?

Regarding the latter, I am only half-joking.

No matter the lurking doubts, I wouldn’t have gone for it if I didn’t love to dance and believe I could dedicate myself to the rigorous practice and artistic growth. I’m happy and proud that I took this next step in my dance journey—and suspect the importance of doing so won’t become evident for months down the road.

But why? one might ask. Wasn’t it enough to perform with the Masters’ classes several times a year? Couldn’t you have “grown” on your own terms, without joining a troupe?

These questions unearthed a discussion pertinent to anyone who believes in excellence and desires to join the ranks of history’s greats. Since my audition two months ago, I’ve pondered what it would be like if artists of other disciplines had to “audition” and be accepted by the masters (dead included) to be deemed worthy, a professional? What might that look like for writers? Scary, perhaps, to think of Flannery O’Connor, Tolstoy, and Alice Munro facing you i.e. some kind of literary Flashdance, but what if that’s how advancing to the next level worked? Now, I’m well aware that there are plenty of ways emerging writers “audition” to join the ranks of the established—defending a creative thesis, publishing in literary journals, winning awards and fellowships, and the like—but I’m talking about a bona fide audition, where one of your mentors says, as my dance instructor, Suspira, asked immediately following my audition piece, “So, why do you want to join the dance company?”

There are no definite answers here—only that your response must be true to you. Mine was to push myself and to gain confidence as a performer, because often it’s not until you venture into uncomfortable, challenging territory that you realize what you’re capable of. And that’s when you may truly astound yourself.

So, why do you want to join the greatest writers in literature?

Several crucial points are embedded in such a question as well as the asking of it—namely, who is doing the asking, and why. The question itself is a test of the artist’s self-awareness about her practice. Recently I attended the Key West Literary Seminar, and after one of the panel discussions, someone in the audience asked the authors on stage, one of whom was Margaret Atwood, a question akin to why writers write, and is it to express themselves? The panelists exchanged looks and I believe it may have been Atwood who answered quite glibly that no, the aim of the literary writer was not to express oneself—if one wanted to do that, he or she could run outside and scream—but rather, the literary writer serves the story as it develops on the page. I couldn’t have agreed more. Expressing oneself is perfectly fine when journaling or putting on music and dancing at home, and it may remain part of what the artist does, albeit casino en ligne francais in a more sophisticated aspect—but “expression” ceases to be the overarching aim if that artist aspires to the highest standards of the discipline, and serving his or her craft.

But why ask this question in the first place? What’s behind it? Again, place yourself on the stool in front of O’Connor, Tolstoy, and Munro (or feel free to imagine other, scarier great authors you admire). They’re staring down at you from the lofty panel because they’ve climbed there, and climbing requires struggle, pain, and sacrifice of ego if not actual physical sacrifice. Their work didn’t attain greatness without perseverance through hardship, rejection, dedication to craft—and now, what’s that you say? You’d like to join them? Well, are you willing to do the same? Hold on, now. Think about it. Are you really willing to take up what they are asking of you?

For when you play out the scenario this way, you realize what they are asking you to commit to—achieving a professional level of artistry—is as serious as marriage vows. Can you answer yes to in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or for worse? For art may take you there. It’s no coincidence Lady Gaga’s song “Marry the Night” is an analogy of the pivotal point in which she decided to “marry her art” as she would a spouse.

Lastly, but just as important, the question is asked by a person or persons representative of the community the artist wants to join. An artist may create in solitude, but as soon as that piece of writing or dance solo is sent out into the world, he or she becomes a representative of those who practice that same craft. The audition question of why do you want to join the dance company? or why do you want to join the greatest writers in literature? is a vital one for fellow serious artists to ask of you, to hear your intentions and commitment to create at a level of excellence. Amateurs, hobbyists, and dabblers need not apply.

I encourage you to write down your fantasy audition and discover what your response is to the question of joining your art form’s top ranks—the answer may take you by as much surprise as the exchange I had several years back, midway through my MFA in Writing at Vermont College. I was studying under Douglas Glover when he stated that a writer should aim to make every piece of writing the best it could be—whether it was an essay, a letter, or an email. That’s the standard to which a master artist aspires. After I swallowed my shock (every piece of writing?) and absorbed his wisdom, I vowed never to take my words for granted again. My craft—blog posts, status updates, and tweets included—has never been the same since.

 

 

 

Doorway of Dreams

Doorway of Dreams

posted on January 17th, 2012 by Vanessa Blakeslee

As a young reader I had a bookmark which read, Dare to dream the impossible against a glittery backdrop of Pegasus in flight. When the bookmark wasn’t wedged between the pages of a worn Judy Blume paperback or illustrated classic like A Little Princess, it was jammed among the rest of my bookmarks, a bouquet which sprouted from the small jar in my room. The bookmarks shared similar dreamy backdrops, unicorns, fairies, and sayings. I’d never paid much attention to the peripheral instruments of my reading, or so I thought, until this afternoon. Dare to dream the impossible. I couldn’t shake the phrase from my mind. Why?

“The things we do before the age of five are built into the package,” author Margaret Atwood said last week, at the 2012 Key West Literary Seminar. She was leading a lively panel discussion with Michael Cunningham, Gary Shteyngart, and Dexter Palmer. She added, “All kids do it, but writers don’t stop.” Substitute any type of artist for writer and who she’s referring to remains the same—those of us who refuse to believe we must grow up to be accountants, bankers, and lawyers, or at least we refuse to only be those things, to deny ourselves the multi-faceted nature of what it means to be human. ( Read more )

Choreography as Poem

Choreography as Poem

posted on December 6th, 2011 by Vanessa Blakeslee

Today I wrote a new poem. Only not with words, but with my body.

This poem is set to music, a slow, snake-like song called “The Sensual Chifti” which I fell in love with a few weeks ago upon stumbling across it on iTunes. My complete rendition comprises two minutes, thirty-eight seconds—not an epic by any means, but an average length, with enough rhythm, repetition, and surprise to sink your teeth into. The “writing” has taken place over several days in the clear but cramped space between my dining and living areas, close to where I’ve written the bulk of my novel, plenty of stories, and this column, to mention a few. Like any poem worth writing, the initial phrases flowed rather easily until I eventually hit a sticky spot or two where I wasn’t sure how to move forward. So I stepped away for a few days and when I returned, was able to push through and figure out the rest. There’s plenty of revising and polishing left to do, but all works of art, if they’re going to amount to anything, have to at least get off the ground. Or so said Billy Collins a few years back, at one of the Rollins College Winter with the Writers’ sessions. ( Read more )

Audition Season

Audition Season

posted on November 22nd, 2011 by Vanessa Blakeslee

Several weeks have passed since this October’s production of An Evening Unveiled, the twice-yearly show presented by my dance school, Orlando Bellydance. As darkness falls sooner and the nights grow cooler, so too the rhythm of our school slips back into a quieter routine of classes and workshops. But underlying the quietude there grows a pervading hum, the question those of us who have been dancing for a year or more at the Master-level have the opportunity to ask ourselves: am I going to audition? Are you? ( Read more )

On Nonfiction, or Taking Center Stage in a Gold-Sequined Bra with a Sword on Your Head

On Nonfiction, or Taking Center Stage in a Gold-Sequined Bra with a Sword on Your Head

posted on November 8th, 2011 by Vanessa Blakeslee

I’ve been writing a lot of nonfiction lately: short memoirs, essays, and book reviews, in addition to this column. This isn’t a particularly noteworthy or interesting revelation, except when you consider I have shirked the realm of “creative nonfiction” in all its forms up until now in my writing career. Even during my MFA program, in which we turned in a lengthy craft essay and lecture which incorporated the informal “I” in lieu of a more stringent academic voice—I had loved writing both critical essays—I cast aside any thoughts of delving further into nonfiction. ( Read more )

The Audience vs.The Self

The Audience vs.The Self

posted on October 25th, 2011 by Vanessa Blakeslee

It’s mid-October, and the dance studio buzzes with pre-show jabber: of sections that still challenge us in our now-memorized routines, of costume and prop woes. I’m spending more time there, renting the smaller rehearsal studio for practice sessions with fellow dancers. Classes have shifted focus to the fine-tuning and cleaning-up of routines, and much like in a writing workshop, we engage in somewhat nerve-wracking feedback sessions. Half the class splits up and sits along the mirror to watch while the other half performs, and vice versa. Afterward, the “audience” goes down the line and shares observations on what the dancers did well and what could be better—from technique to timing to expression. Sometimes we’re given a partner to focus on for individual notes. ( Read more )

Limbo or Limitless?

Limbo or Limitless?

posted on October 11th, 2011 by Vanessa Blakeslee

I’m having one of those rare weeks as a writer. After nearly a month of editing the novel, reading each chapter aloud to catch any typos or clangs I might have missed, then making those corrections, I created a document titled “Final Draft” and said, “it’s done.” Thus followed a long, agonizing weekend of drafting the query letter to agents, running versions past my dedicated readers and supporters to whom I owe a Caribbean cruise at this point, followed by more tightening, tweaking, rewriting. Finally, at 2 a.m. Monday morning, I proclaimed the third draft of the query letter to be the charm. By midday I had sent it out to my list of ten agents. ( Read more )

Now You See Me, Now You Don’t

Now You See Me, Now You Don’t

posted on September 27th, 2011 by Vanessa Blakeslee

What makes a compelling drama?

The question unfolded this week as I reread my nearly-completed first novel. The manuscript had been cooling off this summer while I awaited reader feedback on the revisions I made in May (I can’t emphasize enough the value of developing a “cold eye” as you return to a novel-in-progress—setting the draft aside for one or two months minimum seems to do the trick for me). As I scratched notes in the marginalia, alongside my reader’s, I took a mental step back and donned my Booklover’s Cap as well, observing my reading experience as I would any other novel. What was my emotional investment as I met the characters? How eagerly (or reluctantly) was I turning the page? Did the plot twists make not only logical, but thematic sense in the end?

Imagine my relief, joy, and pride when I reached the end and found that the novel indeed accomplishes all those things in a suspenseful, resonating way. In the coming weeks, I need only tweak the opening and the end, read it aloud and make line-edits, and the novel will be officially ready to submit for publication.

But how, exactly, did I do it? For in order to create a drama compelling enough to pull a reader through four hundred and fifty pages, one must create drama on every page, and within the sentences themselves. Not a gesture, image, prop, or dramatic opportunity must be wasted.

Evenings, as I returned to the dance studio and began learning choreography for the upcoming fall show, the answers I sought about drama floated down to me. Especially during veil class, perhaps because the veil provides the ultimate now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t illusion in Middle Eastern dance. Illusion is integral to any art form, and dance exhibits mystery and suspense as does any great literary work. Often this is accomplished by the layering of simple basics to create complexity, along with aesthetic rules-of-thumb as to what works on stage.

The Advanced Veil routine is flirty and rife with veil manipulations that create illusion, the song bewitching and catchy. In short, this is a number that reels you in from the beginning and leaves you spellbound; when it ends, the audience is left holding their breath, yearning for more—but alas, the magic is over. I know because I was lucky enough to see the choreography performed a couple of years ago, and when the curtain closed I was squirming in my seat with envy, wishing I’d been in the veil class. It’s the same agonizing feeling you get when you clap shut, say, Bridge of Sighs by Richard Russo, or Margaret Atwood’s Cat’s Eye, and say to yourself, My God, I wish I had written that.

One of my favorite ways to think about drama and plot is the connection/disconnection model, perhaps because it is an even more simplified version of the inverted checkmark, conflict-crisis-resolution structure. While one could argue that the “storytelling” in dance is not imbued with a power struggle on par with the demands of fiction, there still needs to be dramatic tension on stage, no matter how joyous, sexy, or haunting the dance.

In “Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft” (Sixth Edition), author Janet Burroway borrows from dramatist Claudia Johnson regarding the “something else” at play here:

Whereas the dynamic of the power struggle has long been acknowledged, narrative is also driven by a pattern of connection and disconnection between characters that is the main source of its emotional effect. Over the course of a story, and within the smaller scale of a scene, characters make and break emotional bonds of trust, love, understanding, or compassion with one another. A connection may be as obvious as a kiss or as subtle as a glimpse; a connection may be broken with an action as obvious as a slap or as subtle as an arched eye-brow (38).

Which is why in veil class, our teacher, Anamitra, is constantly advising us where we should be looking at certain points during the choreography. If we look to the right corner as we toss the veil to the right, repeat the same on the left, and on the third beat come center, we make eye contact with the audience. If we do hip lifts in a circle with the veil above our heads, we maintain eye contact with the audience as long as we can before facing the back. If she forgets to mention this while teaching, it won’t be long before a student will pipe up, “And where are we looking?” Sometimes we are gazing off in a romantic, dreamy way; other moments our chins are lifted, and we peer down our noses in a snotty, you-can’t-have-me fashion; it all depends on particular type of dramatic effect we want to portray. But no matter what type of dance, the choreography of when we are looking at the audience, when we are not, and how we are doing that is crucial to the creation of drama on stage—the connection/disconnection as interpreted by the audience. Without it, the dance would be void of emotional effect.

Another aspect of creating drama is “revealing and concealing”—the favorite saying in fiction workshops which translates to when, and how much, an author chooses to reveal something integral to the plot versus conceal the information for later. Great fiction is a juggling act in which the author reveals just enough, at a certain time, to satisfy the reader while keeping him or her hungry—with the unspoken promise that even more will be revealed later on. Nothing in Middle Eastern dance exemplifies this writerly device more than the veil, with its various ways of concealing the body, only to reveal the dancer—surprise!—when least expected. There are a plethora of veil techniques which partially or fully conceal—the Roman cape, the butterfly, kimono sleeves, and one of my favorites, dubbed “the burrito”—and as with fiction, the timing of when to conceal and reveal is crucial to creating interest and suspense. And like fiction, the veil looks easy but is not; the key is to keep it constantly moving, never at rest. This illusion of now you see me, now you don’t is another facet of connection/disconnection.

Tired yet? All this creating drama takes quite a bit of work. But that’s because great art isn’t just about creating drama but sustaining it, whether the medium is a novel or a two-act dance show. If the techniques above aren’t enough to challenge your synapses, there’s also something else to keep in mind—clean mechanics. It’s always the details that count. In literary writing, this means telling detail, the active voice, and all the invisible magic of proper grammar, formatting, and punctuation. In dance this translates to straight arms, pointed toes, the synchronicity of the dancers on stage, good posture. Good form. For all of the illusion falls flat if the mechanics are sloppy; the audience member is distracted by the saggy arm resembling a chicken wing, or the reader is yanked out of the story by the overly descriptive dialogue tag; the “vivid and continuous dream” made famous by John Gardner is ended. But create your drama right, and you have magic indeed.

And now, back to the novel.

**Note** For further reading on the subtleties of creating dramatic effect, I recommend “The Art of Subtext: Beyond Plot” by Charles Baxter, although numerous other craft essays and articles on the topic abound. The discussion above is hardly meant to be comprehensive; rather, it serves as a starting point.

 

Movement and Writing: A Difficult Friendship

Movement and Writing: A Difficult Friendship

posted on August 30th, 2011 by Vanessa Blakeslee

And the body, what about the body?
Sometimes it is my favorite child,
uncivilized. . .

And sometimes my body disgusts me.
Filling and emptying it disgusts me. . . .

This long struggle to be at home
in the body, this difficult friendship.

            -Jane Kenyon (From “Cages”)

In my inaugural post I mentioned that perhaps I would never really know why I was drawn to Bellydance, but I’d like to dig a bit deeper into that mystery—partly because I don’t believe it to be entirely true. Like the legions of other modern-day Westerners living mostly sedentary lives, I believe I was searching for a different type of wake-up, one that I didn’t know even existed. I wouldn’t realize how starved my body was for strength and movement until many months after I started a regular dance practice.

If you are a writer reading this, my story may not apply to you. I have writer friends who were athletes through grade and high school, lovers of literature who now lead spin classes, swim, run, bike, play baseball and surf. If you are one of those sporty folks, I commend you for your longtime practice of being in touch with your physical self, for the enjoyment you derive from such activities.

But I am not one of you, dear athletes. Never was. As I coined in my inaugural post, I was a “skinny, couch potato-bookworm” ever since I can remember. After school I’d rush home, ride my bike up and down the driveway once or twice for good measure, then curl up with Judy Blume or one of my own notebooks. I despised gym class and had no interest in taking up any of the sports popular with my classmates—field hockey, soccer, cheerleading. None appealed.

Dance, however, did appeal, ever since I saw “The Nutcracker” at five and subsequent ballet recitals of my cousin’s. The problem was, of course, that dance is not offered in schools—at least not public ones. And my parents, busy with their multiple small businesses, did not have the time or money to shuttle me to dance lessons twenty minutes away. I faced a similar setback when I found myself drawn to acting. I took up the craft that was free aside from pencils and paper. Writing would be my calling. Dance faded to a distant memory of what might-have-been.

And so things remained. Until a student’s essay rocked my world at twenty-seven.

In the months leading up to my enrollment in classes at Orlando Bellydance, I could feel the inactivity of my literary lifestyle creeping up. When you’re naturally thin, people make comments your whole life akin to, “But look at you—not an ounce to lose!” At which one politely smiles and says, through gritted teeth, “Yes, but being skinny doesn’t mean healthy.” Health means strength, balance, and not getting winded when jogging up two flights of stairs. And since the only exercise I was getting happened when I took the stairs from the university parking garage to my classroom, I knew I was in trouble.

At twenty-seven I slammed up against the grim reality that if I kept up my literary couch-potato-habits for the rest of my life, I would likely be setting up a path to poor health. How would I write all those novels and stories I was envisioning? For writing lengthy, quality prose takes stamina, or so I was learning in grad school. If I wanted to stick around for another fifty years and write anything worth reading, I would have to take care of myself. And that meant being active.

The problem was I hadn’t found a form of exercise that I could really commit to. I had delved into a running regimen the year before, soon cut short by shin splints, among other conditions. So I had switched to swimming, which ended mid-October when the first cold snap descended upon Florida. And I’ve always hated gyms—the equipment, the TVs flickering, everyone minding their own business yet scoping the scene, since there’s nothing else to occupy oneself with. A gym was not where I wanted casino to spend my free time.

How many others fail to connect with their bodies because they feel the same way? And how many of the standard workout activities we are familiar with lack imagination, variety, and a mind-body-spirit connection? I shudder to imagine. As a child I loved recess but hated the competition which surrounded school sports and gym class. The message wrapped around physical activity was that it involved getting knocked around, striving for some (in my eyes) trivial goal, driving a puck or ball into a net. Some people thrive in such arenas, but it only made me feel uncomfortable, less of myself. Now I wonder how many others like me are out there—who would have thrived as kids, physically and mentally, if introduced to dance, yoga or martial arts as an alternative to gym or extracurricular sports, rather than suffer the humiliation of shrinking against the wall, being last pick for the team? How many carry these fears to adulthood, where such thoughts hold them back from exploring alternative forms of exercise?

But these are questions that have only recently begun to arise from my practice, nearly four years later. The self I was back in Level One & Two Bellydance was having no such epiphanies yet—for it takes awhile for the reawakening body to open up new pathways in the mind. I clearly remember the first “aha moment” brought upon by dance. I had only been taking classes for a few months when I sprained my ankle badly, jumping into a neighbor’s swimming pool. I was confined to crutches and the couch for four weeks, with nothing to do but write my fiction thesis for my MFA in Writing program. So I’ll get to write for a month, I thought. What’s so bad about that?

Except I was no longer the couch potato bookworm I’d been my whole life. My newly-toned muscles twitched, hating to remain still; my whole being ached to move, to walk. To dance. It was then I realized, for the first time, how much we take our bodies and youth for granted. That one day, if I didn’t take advantage of the physicality and health I was blessed with now, I would be an old, fragile woman, looking back with regret, thinking, “I could have become a dancer. I thought I was too old to start in my late-twenties. My God, what a fool I was!”

The restlessness I felt, the longing to resume the strength and stamina I had achieved in just a few brief months through dance, not to mention the fun of going to class, sealed my decision. Once my sprained ankle healed, I would learn to Bellydance to the extent that my ability, wallet and time would allow. I would never allow myself to fall so out of shape again, not when I was an otherwise healthy young adult. To do so seemed inexcusable, an insult to who I was as a human being, let alone to those in the world who lack the ability to fully move—the elderly, the sick and disabled.

I set this as my intention over three years ago. But it has not been easy. Unless you are someone who writes fiction by walking around with a recorder, writing requires sitting for long periods. For me, it requires long periods of stillness and quiet, (sometimes a strange trance-like state of staring at walls—I’m only being somewhat facetious). It requires long periods of research on the computer, reading, taking notes, editing, typing; in nearly every aspect writing is counter-opposed to dance. Yet I know I need dance as much as ever, and for the writing. Six months after starting Bellydance, my ankle healed, I was back in the studio. I received my first publication acceptances that fall; my writing was stronger than ever. The following year I would begin my novel, and I know I would not have made it through the first draft had I not shoved aside my laptop in the late afternoons, grabbed my dance bag and headed for the studio. I was awarded my first residency that fall and brought my music, veils and hipscarves with me, so that after a long day of writing at the VCCA barn I could dance for half an hour.

Would I be writing as well without dance? Was the breakthrough in my writing several years ago inevitable, independent my lifestyle change? There’s no way to know for sure, of course, if the same creative achievements I’ve made on the page might have resulted from long daily walks, tai-chi or meditations. But having written for decades without movement, I’m not willing to experiment with abandoning the practice. My health, and the health of my writing, depends on it.

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