Available

If you are ever able to go a gaga workshop; a week or more dedicated to deeper investigation of the concepts of gaga as well as the chance to learn material from Batsheva’s repertory, you are able to purchase a t-shirt. On the front of the t-shirt is the word, boldly spelled out, “Available.” This could be particularly engaging for many men, who upon seeing a young female dancer advertising her status, may search the back of the t-shirt for a price list and menu of services. But for those in the know, it suggests that you are available for movement.

But what a great philosophy to adopt daily. Available. Open for communication, open to discovery, open to changes and differences of opinion, available to the world. It is a simple word, and we tend to use it in myriad ways, more often than not, to suggest our eagerness or ability to give ourselves over to someone else, but how about being available TO ourselves? Listening and unapologetically giving voice to the thoughts and ideas that lay dormant because they aren’t called upon by others, who need us to be available in different ways.

My last two days in Tel Aviv were sad, as predicted, but surprisingly, I felt ready to return. I had done what I wanted to do and I was eager to see whether or not my new state of mind could endure the pressures of wedding planning, rehearsals, additional commitments, the stresses of everyday life that take their toll on the availability of peace. Regardless, I find myself feeling resolute, determined to not allow this and a newfound sense of ownership to be chipped away by my need to make myself über available to others. Appropriately, this happens to be my 21st post on this blog, and consequently, my last one for now. I had no quantity in mind when I began this thing and I find it rather fitting that this  is the magic number with regard to drinking, and more importantly, adulthood. Clearly I have been an adult for a loooong time, but now, I feel like I graduated from a different university and feel grown up in a different way. I will cling to this “diploma” with the tenaciousness of a pit bull.

I decided that no experience worth its weight, will leave you with all the answers and so the questions I bring back center around me and my work, and my interactions with others:

Will I continue to consider my needs more regularly? How does one balance that and being available to others?

What do I have to say as a choreographer? How is it different from what others are saying? Does it have to be that different or can I say the same thing with my own accent? People love accents, right? How unique does one’s vision have to be? How different is Mark Morris from Lar Lubovitch? How different is Maroon 5 from Train from  The Foo Fighters? There seems to be plenty of room for all of those voices and accents, is there enough room for mine? If so, how will I define my accent?

Can I give Kathleen everything she needs, without expectations, with full commitment, indulge the effort and find pleasure in the work of the relationship? Will she forgive all the missteps?

Can I live each day in the present and not as though it is already tomorrow? Can I be in my kickboxing class and not worry about my next appointment while I am trying to remember “jab, cross, kick, jab, cross, jab,jab?”

Can I learn to say “no” and take time to make decisions with Kathleen and myself in mind?

What happens the next 5 years?

We all have these issues and concerns and I am in no way even trying to suggest that this is different from any other human thought that has existed over the last 4,000 years. I only iterate all of the above to signify the preciousness of what has been discovered, and illuminate the delicate act of preserving it. We bury ourselves in the elusive notion of the  ”American Dream” we find comfort in the phrase”Everything Happens for a Reason” and by doing so, are we simply avoiding responsibility? Fate is a powerful thing, but can we pre-empt her programming and just grab someone’s or something’s horns ourselves? Can we find what we are looking for without looking so hard? Can we catch a snowflake, admire its beauty and keep it forever? How do I prevent it from melting? Is it so bad if it melts?

I used to think I could no more control any of that or enjoy any jurisdiction over  anything so complicated as I could security efforts at an airport. But I can try. By the way:

Leaving Tel Aviv was more complicated than entering. I was 2nd in line to go through the security check dedicated exclusively to my flight home. Out of 400 hundred people who were going to be traveling the 12 hours to JFK on a flight that departed at 12:05 A.M.! Yes, A.M.! I was 2nd in line. When it was my turn to submit my passport, similar questions to the ones I answered five weeks ago were asked, my passport was taken away, brought back, I then became a powerless observer as the security people unpacked  E V E R Y T H I N G from each of my 4 bags.Some were larger than others of course. I watched them unwrap all of the pottery that was meticulously bubble-wrapped and placed into a small suitcase with the precision of a watch mechanism, unpack 5 weeks worth of clothes and laundry, go through every piece of paper, each book, my laptop, toiletries, etc. etc. Two hours later, I was escorted to the metal screening room, felt-up in a way that normally follows dinner and drinks, taken back to my bags, and personally escorted through passport control. All the while I was told this happens to everyone – bullshit – because after being 2nd in line, I was the only person left in the main entry terminal when I was finally allowed to leave. I had outlasted 399 other people. 

I am home now, enjoying my dog, eagerly waiting for Kathleen to come back from Asheville, and am confronted with a schedule that is just as full as it was before I left. No gentle denouement into my previous life. I hit the ground running and hold on to my unwillingness to go back to the way I used to exist – being available to all people at all times. I refuse to allow myself to get caught up in saying yes, just to please others and make myself miserable. I am available and will be available—usually.

For some reason, I am reminded of how my sister used to help me develop my career as a magician when we were kids. She would let me try out my magic tricks on her and would provide courteous feedback from time to time. I was never happy with the simple card tricks and coin disappearing acts. I wanted to go big! When my parents supplied me with a rather large cardboard box, I asked Rosalind to tuck herself into the box. I closed the box, taped it shut, then retrieved a dozen of my mother’s 24 inch shish kebab skewers. I would then run each skewer through the box, one side through to the other, and try to avoid her fragile, 8-year-old flesh. Never with success, never without a blood-curdling yelp from inside the box. Even when I tried to make pathways and align the skewers in a way that would avoid important body parts, I couldn’t quite make it work consistently. And never with all 12 skewers, the pathways were like a plate of spaghetti. Yet, I was always able to convince her to hop into the box time and again so that we could develop all the skills necessary to turn ourselves into, what we truly believed, would be the next Donny and Marie.

She availed herself to torture, I connected to sinister pleasure. Together we were forging pathways to stardom. I would have fewer cuts and puncture marks, however.

Available, hmm…….. I really am.

wow

Toda Raba (Hebrew for: thank you very much)

I can’t state this with any degree of certainty, but I am sure that five weeks in a state penitentiary go by fairly slowly. The daily grind of eating powdered eggs, making license plates, breaking rocks apart, washing your striped suit, avoiding furtive glances cast in your direction by Bubba, and hauling that ball and chain around make for agonizingly slow days and short nights.

But in a place like Tel Aviv, five weeks go by with the velocity of lightning. It seems like I just arrived, but at rare moments, when I am walking along Yehuda Halevi Street and I talk to a friend who rides by on her bike, for instance, I feel like I have been here for quite some time.  Once you are recognized, and you are enveloped into the fold of other people’s lives, and you start to get a sense of pacing, it all helps to contribute to feeling anchored in some way. If I wanted to feel like a part of something, well then, I guess I can say I succeeded.

I had been advised, on numerous occasions, to not expect too much, don’t get your hopes up, take things as they come, don’t go – it’s too dangerous. I also had tremendous support from every angle you could possibly imagine. It is really a rare gift to take leave of your normal routine to experience something that has life-changing power. In short, this trip was all that I had hoped, exceeded my expectations, and has offered me a chance to connect to a part of myself I maybe knew existed, but happened to be tucked away, hiding.

There really is no need to do a recap, it is here in all these cyber words, in my journal, in my memory. There are new ideas that live in my body and in my choreographic imagination. There are new friends, there are new ways of thinking, and new ways of connecting. I am here, geographically closer to where I was born than I have been since 1977. I am also close to a people who define what I remember so vividly. More importantly, I feel I moved closer to my internal home; a place that is authentically me, not an idealized version. There is an ease with which I let go of encumbrances from the past, ideas that were faulty and only served to keep me from using my voice. I connected to my voice, I connect to pleasure.

There has been a reawakening. A renewed vigor and enthusiasm for dance which I was worried would begin to dissolve without the chance to once again be a student. There has been inspiration and there has been a defining. There has been frustration and there has also been doubt. I delighted in how short-lived both were and revel in my ability to now discard the junk and connect to the effort of good work.

There are many very important people to thank for this gift, this journey. I will not, however, thank Delta for making skymiles a difficult thing to deal with. I refuse to thank Visa for being so slow in replacing my debit card. I also absolutely, 100% DO NOT thank the absurd price of of a friggin’ martini over here. If you can get one…

Those who I would like to recognize are:

Sally Radell, who took a chance on me 10 years ago by offering me my position at Emory. She was willing to give me the space I needed to explore my life as a teacher, had confidence in my ability despite minimal experience, and nurtured me every step of the way.

Anna Leo who eagerly jumped into the process of helping me prepare my proposal for and application to the Winship Committee for the award that made this possible. Her excitement for me was humbling.

The Winship Committee  who gave me the affirmation, and  for believing in this project.

Judy Raggi-Moore, Susan Haigler Robles, and Kristen Wendland for all of their very important guidance in helping me prepare my application.

Anne Walker and Kendall Simpson for taking such good care of me and the dance program at Emory.

My Emory Colleagues for giving me the space to just be and a joyous place to be everyday.

My Staibdance dancers for their unbridled enthusiasm for what we have done, what we do, and the incredible places I hope we go.

My sister for being the most amazing wedding planner in the history of the universe. But more importantly for being the most influential, guiding force anyone could hope to have. When you have history with someone you love so much – anything is possible.

Abby, my dog, for hopefully not forgetting me and connecting me to all that is pure, simple, and honest.

My new, dear friend Boaz, whose energy for dance and life are as contagious as laughter, and whose generosity is touching beyond words.

Deborah Friedes for guidance, easy conversations, and for bridging a gap so effortlessly that I felt she was family the moment I saw her.

My Gaga teachers for unlocking a world that I never knew existed. For giving me fresh eyes, fresh ears, and a moving body that I am growing to like again.

Hila for her heavenly kindness, wisdom beyond her years, and encouragement and interest in my life and growth that leave me breathless.

My parents for taking a break from worrying about me  - even for a little bit – and letting me have so many experiences that I am sure made them crazy but also whose pride feels like an ancient pillar.

To a woman who reminds me why we are on this earth, and why we have been given the capacity to love. a woman whose beauty both inside and out could inspire an infinite amount of Renaissance art. A woman whose imagination and vision could alter the course of the planets. a woman who in the midst of all the planning, all the work, all the dog sitting, enthusiastically said “GO” the day before I left when I was scared as hell. a woman whose face I lived to see on skype everyday. a woman who makes me feel like anything and everything is possible. a woman who has helped removed fear from my life. a woman without whom I would never know the meaning of friend, confidante, soul mate. a woman who will soon be my wife.

Kathleen, who I love with all my heart, and I dare say, more than anything I could ever own from Hermes.

To Tel Aviv, Suzanne Dellal, Gaga, all the folks back home:

a humble, heartfelt, and sincere :

toda raba

george

My last post will be completed when I get back home. Consequently it will be my 21st post, a rather symbolic number. Not just where drinking is concerned, but where one enters adulthood. I find this a bit fitting.

Who did Cain Marry?

-and other unanswerable questions…

Some people will leave their home country and take residence in a foreign place, being drawn by romantic notions, work, or the need to simply shock the system. No matter where you go, there is the inevitable culture shock. You can move from tiny town USA to Los Angeles, from the mountains to the beach, from a country where you have 50 cereal choices, to a place where the washing machines can hold a washcloth and maybe two socks. There is a whole new vibe to adopt and being in Tel Aviv, for a while, a new schedule. The weekends are Friday and Saturday and Sunday is equal to Monday, and there is a holiday every five minutes The most difficult adjustment is understanding that the short and exasperated answers to your questions do not mean that the people you encounter find you as simple-minded as a common earthworm. That is just the way things are. But beyond the psychological implications, the way of life in this and European countries, for me, begs so many questions.

The States, the adolescent child of the world, has many major advancements, but at the same time, are surprisingly primitive in the way the way we as a people get around, connect to science, connect to each other. I am left with so many questions that do not necessarily suggest that where I am is better, these questions only ask, why did some things not make it across the ocean?  McDonald’s had no trouble getting overseas, therefore, why will it be so hard for me to find those peanut cheesy poof things? On one hand, I am happy for the exclusivity, it makes trips so much more exciting. What is more at question, for me, are the following, more grand puzzlements:

Traveling by Train: 

This should be something that is a greater part of our lives, don’t you think? The industrial revolution basically began with the steam engine and railroads were all the hype in the early part of the 20th century. So why do we have so few options with regard to getting around from town to town. There is Amtrak, but I am talking about more local options. LIke getting from Atlanta to Savannah or Valdosta quickly and easily by train. Maybe it exists, and I am just not privy to that information. Regardless, it sure would be nice. Plus, trains are so elegant, and rarely produce motion sickness.

Dual Flush Toilets:

I am just now starting to see these pop up, but Europe had had them for AGES. These are the toilets with two flush options. One for a, hmmm, light, delicate deposit that will include a minimal amount of non-liquid waste. Then there is the grand-daddy flush. Strong enough to eliminate the waste of your average elephant. What a great water conservation thing. I only request that we never abide by the Greek toilet ritual which is, not flushing the paper. There is a separate can for that. And yes, it is as gross as you imagine.

While on the subject:

Bidets:

A more glorious piece of porcelain has never been invented, nor will ever be invented again. Who would NOT want that fresh out of the shower feeling all day, every day? Even the most primitive models, which are employed in Iran, are such a great way to feel extra special and clean. In Iran, the bidet is basically a used bleach bottle, that has been cleaned and is kept full of tap water right next to the toilet. No elaborate plumbing necessary, but you do have to be OK with water that is a bit chilly.

Honestly I don’t get why people are so grossed out by bidets – I think that NOT having one is kinda gross. In Las Vegas, my friend Yumiko, a top saleswoman at Hermes, also started selling the “Washlette,” a portable bidet system that fits on top of the toilet seat. She said it would revolutionize America. It would keep us all healthy. These were her reasons for moonlighting in the toilet industry. There has been no Washlette revolution and I am sure Yumiko was more concerned about her 30% commission on each $950 Washlette than she was about by butt health.

High Fructose Corn Syrup:

You really cannot find it anywhere else in the world. This is why Coke and Peach Iced Tea taste so much better here and in Europe, and I am sure that is why the bread is irresistible. The candy is less sugary yet still satisfying and kid cereal is easier to eat without the guilt. I am sure we have HFC to help plentify our food, but there are also a lot of people here to feed, so what gives? I had never considered this as an issue until my lovely wife to be made me aware of the ubiquity of this sugar, now I am certain that my need for liposuction is based on this devil of an additive and I am wondering to whom I may send the bill for the procedure.

Holiday Shutdowns:

It is really remarkable to see such a vibrant city go to sleep. I love how it honors the past with an homage that is stirring, and it also reminds those who aren’t Jewish, that everyone needs time to rest. Watching Tel Aviv enter its slumber on Friday evening and watching it re-awaken Saturday evening has been beautiful The peace and quiet are so rare in this world and rarer still in a place that is often victimized by war and tension. For 24 hours, there is calm.

Weekly Gatherings

…in this case, the Sabbath dinner. What a wonderful tradition. Whether you want to include the prayers and singing can be up to you, but how nice to meet, drink, eat and talk and know that you can do this every week with your family and friends. I am certain many have their own form of this type of gathering, and I decided I want one, too. So I am letting people know that I will eb available to receive invitations starting next week. I was able to go to a sabbath dinner last Friday. The hosts were so gracious, generous, kind, and very animated. They were also VERY kosher in what they served, how they served it, and when.

Being kosher developed out of health concerns regarding food and digestion. These people put every ounce of faith in this method of eating, in fact the meat fork could not be anywhere near the vegetable fork. I enjoyed hearing about all of these health precautions after dinner, when everyone sat around smoking and getting high.

Patient Waiters

If you take a seat in any restaurant or cafe, you should expect to get a really good arm/shoulder workout because of all the times you need to flag down a server who just assumes you intend to nurse your cappuccino for about 3 and a half hours. Don’t expect a menu or the bill to be delivered quickly – and honestly, that is really nice. You are encouraged to eat slowly, talk a lot, and linger. What this extra time does for me is encourage me to buy more stuff. “A red cabbage slaw to accompany my beer? Why, that sounds delightful! Yes, I’m sure the vinegar is a lovely companion to the bold hoppy flavor of the beer.”

Culture

I do have to reiterate that the love of dance is so strong here. The fervor, the excitement, and the appeal is so striking, that I wish we could find this same enthusiasm in our country, especially with regard to funding, audiences, and notoriety. There seems to be a NEED that people have to see dance, a sense of duty to attend shows and a wonderful energy and willingness to talk about the performances afterwards. ( Early in my trip I sat next to a woman at a show who announced how guilty she felt because she hadn’t been to a dance performance in five weeks.) The culture of seeing and taking in culture is refreshing, and although anyone who is reading this blog is in the choir I preach to, it sure would be nice to have audiences eagerly attend dance performances without having to promise them free beer and a cheese plate after a show.

Right now I am staying at Boaz’s place for my last two nights. The apartment owners returned from China, forcing me to relocate. Being in transition is always tough for me. The anticipation of re-entering my life is overwhelming: the struggling with the suitcase, packing, getting caught up, mail, sleep, all those things that prove to be such nuisances that all you can do is live for the normal-ness that will ensue afterwards. I am not taking it easy here, however. My last two days will be full of dance performances, a release class, a trip to the dead sea with Hila, and enough hummus to put any bidet to good use.

too much information?

Gagahhhhh

Boaz has been doing Gaga for three and a half years. He attends class daily, often twice a day. He is still discovering, still learning, and aspires to be a “Gaga People” teacher. After three years of consistent study, Ohad still feels he is not ready. This work is intense and Boaz has such an eye for noticing if someone is really “in it” that I know consistent class takers look to him for feedback, encouragement, and discipline. I think he would be a tremendous teacher. I refer to him as the Mayor of Suzanne Dellal, his enthusiasm for Batsheva, Gaga, and dance is larger than the entire dance compound and the entire neighborhood of Neve Tsedek for that matter.

I am staring down my final classes here and this realization comes with a great deal of sadness and worry about when I will have another experience like this. Gaga classes transport me to someplace I have never been, and like Boaz, I have been taking multiple classes a day. At least two, and on Thursdays, 3 classes. It does not get old. Despite having a familiar framework, the places our teachers have taken us have been profound. The dynamic range, the rhythmic structure, the imagery, and the inventiveness have been so challenging, unexpected, and thrilling that it is impossible to even recognize myself, let alone remember all the discoveries.  Despite writing as much as I can remember in my journal. I’d say for every entry, there are probably 4 more ideas that evaporate from my mind and my only hope is to get it all back in some other way. I got my wallet back – so I am hopeful!

Gaga is so much more than simply writhing around as though there were an alien trapped in your torso ( as so eloquently stated by my friend, Helen.) There is room to play, room to rapidly switch dynamics, the movement possibilities boggle the mind, and the exploration as a performer is a welcomed by-product. The hardest thing to do is explain how these classes differ from other improvisation classes and I am summing it up and defining it as “detailed.” The directives are so specific and produce one very clear image that I feel as though I can work with a single idea for days and continue discovering. What I love is that the movement does not simply reside in simple wiggling, but also in taking HUGE risks, and going someplace wild an unimagined. One second you are as calm as a lake, the next severely percussive.

I often tell my choreography students to be certain that their vocabulary is congruous with what it is they are trying to say. I have seen way too many pieces that claim to be about political injustice, but somehow pirouettes and leaps make their way into the work. Albeit, the dancers are doing them with grimaces on their faces, but that only makes matters worse. In Gaga, there is no superfluous story laid on top of the movement, just the physical image that is supposed to manifest itself. In today’s class especially, I saw the beauty of the expressive body through the movement instruction, allowing us to say more than any sort of arbitrary facial expression or harangue in a show program that tries to define an hour’s worth of dancing. The bound elbows, the unyielding legs, had infinitely more power than any words could ever hope to have.

For some Batsheva dancers who were part of the company in the early stages of Gaga, about 10 years ago, Gaga was the ONLY training they had. There was no ballet background for some, maybe theatre, but certainly no rond de jambes in their past, but they were open to investigating minutia. These days, the dancers may get one or two ballet classes a month, the rest is all Gaga – and they meet almost everyday. Granted, the new crop of dancers hail from Julliard and many other cream of the crop dance schools – so they have a leg up – tee hee – how punny! But this emphasizes Ohad’s interest in deepening the experience for the dancers.

I have had the pleasure of experiencing a wide range of teachers: Gavriel and his goofy approach, Stefan with his über sexual gruntings and pantings, Caroline who stops us if she doesn’t see what she wants, Shoachar and Adam who are the gentle souls of the group, and tomorrow I’ll have Idan, reputed to be the best. Each has a different focus but they use similar devices and imagery, it is just that some are energetically relentless, others more quiet, all are surprising and unpredictable. None allow us to be lazy and all compel us to motivate internally and manifest externally, always moving in an alert way and never burying ourselves in cumbersome thought.

Ohad is now offering the first ever certification program for Gaga teachers. This is a nine month course designed to deepen one’s practice of Gaga and will focus on the subtleties that make this technique what it is. The selection process for teachers is rather rigorous, requiring letters of recommendation, a substantial dance background, the ability to speak multiple languages, and a fierce resolve to work deeply and with unwavering focus. This course is based on the detailed language of Gaga and is a journey through the differences between “quaking and shaking, ” “floating and suspending,” “circles and arcs.” The list feels endless.The images are vivid and for me, offer a new way to think about the relationship each body part has to the other. They are delicious nuggets of motivations and are so sublime in what they produce. They awaken all the senses, even the sense of taste. Yes, taste; it’s a focus in class. AND – did you know you can use the back of your neck to take the temperature of the room? Neither did I!

Understandably, Ohad is very protective of this method and has encouraged everyone to use these ideas and explore them on their own, however, no one is allowed to call it Gaga, except of course, upon completion of the 9 month intensive. The governing body of the Gaga concept or institution has been vigilant in their efforts to protect the name. and rightfully so. Think of it the same way you would think of Pilates, especially with regard to licensing the name. It is all the rage, all the buzz, and few can even begin to understand the depth. Even after my five weeks, it is clear that there is much much more. In fact, here, no one, I mean NO ONE is allowed to attend a single class. It is impossible, regardless of what one’s situation is. Either you are in for a period of investigation or you aren’t in at all. Period. It would be easy to recreate a Gaga class almost anywhere under any circumstances, but that would not do the history of the concept justice, and could potentially dilute the sensation, and possibly take away the beauty of this way of moving. Being a total fan, I do understand the one class rule, even though it may make the experience feel all too exclusive and secretive. In addition, I do intend to share some ideas and concepts which I will morph into my own verbage ( a request from the teachers as well ), yet I admit that I know as much about Gaga as I do about thermodynamics, so what I bring back is just what I was able to glean from the 30 or so classes I have had. I will tread lightly and respectfully, knowing that there is way more to learn, and calling myself an expert would just be wrong. Plus, the LAST thing I would want is to face the wrath of Ohad.

Tonight I see Fresco Dance Company, and per Boaz’s suggestion, I will see it after taking a Gaga class. I’ve done this before and he is right , watching dance after a dance class enriches the experience. I saw Michael Miller last night – no need to review it at all. Throw on the soundtrack from Kanye West’s VH1 Storytellers performance, put 6 high school girls on stage, do the same phrase for an hour, and ask for money.

I really do hope Boaz makes it into the Gaga teacher’s training program. I’ll admit – it is such an amazing opportunity. But at $9,000, it is a bit too rich for my blood! However, for Boaz and his experience, I believe he would be an asset to the teaching community. All you need to do is watch him continue dancing well after the class has concluded to recognize, Gaga can lay claim to changing someone’s life. It certainly did for Boaz, and for me, well, it goes without saying.

Does this Crucifix come in burgundy? um, do you have a larger one? Could I wear it to a dance show?

Being shallow definitely has its advantages. For me, the quality I love most about my politically unaware being and my less than sufficient ability to find meaning and symbolism in even the most simply constructed works of art (except James Cameron’s Avatar, I mean, I’m not brain dead,) is my amazing fashion sense. Very little escapes my attention where sartorial affairs are concerned, thus prompting my inevitable and obvious recognition in 8^th grade as “Best Dressed.” This superlative was the result of never having owned a pair of jeans, and my gift for making even clothes from K-Mart, JCPenney, and Sears have the same look and “je ne sais quoi” as any major fashion house in Paris.  The red plaid suit I wore to a family reunion shortly after the birth of my Chinese sister, to the Garanimals matching ensembles featured at Sears, to the direct plagiarism of any mannequin that crossed my path, gave me the title of style icon, even in my youth. I am certain, had I been a subscriber to GQ at the time, I would have seen my 6 year old, front-toothless image, gracing the cover. I believe this godly gift came from my father, who to this day takes tremendous delight in assembling outfits for my mother. Were it not for him, I really believe she would only ever be seen wearing a beige nightgown with those wooden Dr. Scholl’s slippers that at one moment can protect your feet against the harsh pavement, and the next be used, if aimed properly and thrown with enough force, to thwart any sort of menacing behavior I was intending to take against my sister.

My day-to-day attire consists of cargo pants and t-shirts, and quite often the same pair of cargo pants; provided they pass a strategic sniff test.  This look is neither noteworthy nor fashion forward, but it doesn’t have to be. I have tremendous wardrobe power and if I choose not to use it, well then, that is entirely my prerogative. I need to prove nothing because my gifts are always at the ready, prepared to be unleashed with the force of a semi-annual sale at Nordstrom’s. There is however, one teeny limitation to what I am able to accomplish with my clothes, and that little teeny something is money. I am like Harry Potter without his wand, George Bush without the dumb, gaping mouth, the Royal Couple with just a cupcake for their reception. I am almost powerless in light of the fact that I cannot afford all the necessary layers and accessories to truly make a John Varvatos ensemble soar to its full and proper glory. I have therefore learned to be a strategist, conservationist of “power” ingredients in my wardrobe, and astute with regard to making purchases that are on the cusp of trendy yet enduring. I am clairvoyant. I am the Miss Cleo of Clothes, and no one can tell me any different. Even in my ridiculous Dora the Explorer-esque Flip-Flops and matching v-neck t-shirt.

Consumerism is the way of the world. I don’t care where you are, what your political affiliation is, or the limitations that people have to endure given their governments’ ideologies. We love to buy things and will buy anything. We buy tacky denim outfits that somehow survived the 80’s and made their way to Israeli Bus Stations, we buy Pigeons from pet stores – yes, they are actually for sale here, (side note – isn’t that the height of laziness? In a place where there are approximately 43 pigeons for every human, why would you not just catch one yourself? ) We look through millions of identical wooden rosaries to find just the “right” one to prove that we had been to Jerusalem. We buy tickets to shows, we purchase the services of plastic surgeons, and we buy each other. We sometimes hate buying things: replacing a hot water heater for instance, but we LOVE to buy most things. It feels so good. Even when money is tight, splurging on orchestra seats is a joy, and the sting of the credit card balance is eradicated once you strut into the theatre and egotistically walk down the aisle to the seats that seem to be bathed in divine light. It is a neurological massage, and it is an addiction no one will admit to having.

Shopping is just yet another way we have to categorize ourselves. We love to show the labels of our preferences and we also do not mind commenting on the preferences of others. We look to see what others have, what they do, where they go, and we align ourselves accordingly. We follow trails that have already been forged and we rarely venture into new territory. Ask a Brooks Brothers shopper how often he/she goes into Club Monaco. Do Stallone fans really visit the artsy foreign films cinema? Do release dancers go to see Mark Morris? The answer is most likely “no” and placing myself on the same chopping block, I admit the sadness of that answer. 

Last week I saw two very different dance shows with two very different audiences. The Batsheva Ensemble performed an evening of work created by the dancers, and Barak Marshall presented “Rooster.” Each concert had value, each had not so great moments, each were educational. Neither shared similar audience demographics.

Batsheva’s work was exciting for the most part, but the dances lacked a sense of refinement and completion. Many of the ideas were very interesting yet lacked total fulfillment and focus. Many were marked by constant shifts, awkward transitions, and bizarre music choices. This is how I would characterize the dances:

Imagine if you will. I’ll take two sugars, please. It is obviously much more soft and absorbent than other leading brands. Yes, but will she be able to shimmy when it is all over. Jingle Bells Jingle Bells. Did Abby poop on the carpet or just on the wood floor. Peace Out.

The dancing was superior. What stood out to me the most however, was that without coaching, without a great deal of attention to detail, and minimal rehearsal, compared to what I had seen in work by Ohad, the dancers looked young. Not youthful, but less wise in their delivery. This speaks volumes about the process, the massaging of the work, the tweaking, the exploration. The lack of polish was evident, but again, the dancers are exceptional, so even with them at 75%, they still soared.

On the other hand, Marshall’s dancers were coached to utter perfection. ”Rooster” had unison that mesmerized and precision that would rival any competitive cheerleading organization, and sadly, with so much attention to frontal unison work, that is where I went. Cheerleader land. His ideas could run their course if the actual choreography does not become more layered, more varied, more communicative. He is masterful at creating unique gestures, but when the same ideas repeat intending to say something different each time,  I was left with a lot of hype and little connection. I thought the storyline was insultingly spoon-fed to us and I longed for the less obvious, the more mysterious. There were lengthy bits of narration and one did not have to know Hebrew to put two and two together, and just when things started to feel drawn out, dancers emerged performing intricate movements, in unison, to some rather compelling music.

In addition to being shallow, I have the attention span of a gnat. Magazines, honestly, can often be my preferred reading material. Their bullet point how-tos on style, the fashion Q& A, the ads, especially the ads, all satisfy the urge to get information as quickly as possible. Give me a quick glance at the latest Armani ad and I can tell you spring trends, show me a page or two on grooming and you have my attention – but not if I have to skip to the back of the magazine to catch the end of the article. Hopefully nothing too important lingers in those back pages. I’d hate to find out that the most important step to exfoliating your scalp is buried within the ads for x-ray glasses and corporate gifts. 

The Batsheva audience was made up of friends of the dancers, and had the same young vibe as the performers did. You can easily tell that the audience is younger, not merely by appearance, but by the high-pitched “wooooos” that seem to exist in every culture during the applause. The Marshall audience was much older, a majority had clearly seen the piece before, and many seemed to be in it for the visual spectacle rather than the narrative as the narratives received very little response. Not even a jaded chuckle. The well-coordinated music/dance sections received all of the reaction, the dialogue interludes in turn, seemed to have been something people sat through to get to the next “routine.”

If you were to tell a group of “indie” dancers about Batsheva, you could predict the looks on their faces. If you talk to a “trendy”group of dancers about Yosi Berg, you could predict their reaction. At times, I think these two very different dance worlds get along like oil and water, despite coming from the same place. It’s like parents having two very different children. One child leaves the house, explores, finds something new, returns home, takes a shit on the living room carpet, telling the parents he/she has always hated the carpet, is ashamed of anything that looks like the carpet, and wants to make sure to never look at anything like that carpet again. The other leaves the house, explores, and returns to take care of the parents well into their old age. But along the way, introduces the parents to cell phones, computer technology, maybe cleans the shit off the carpet, using some of the new things he/she learned and is proud of the carpet and wants to show it off. Needless to say, there is tremendous tension between the two very different children from the same dance parent. Each child pretends to like the other, but each is judging the other. Plain as day. Neither really wants to go to the other’s house, but will if absolutely necessary, looking tortured the whole time.

Regardless of how one truly feels about dance, oops I mean, the carpet, it doesn’t take away the necessity of responsibility and mindfulness toward what one offers up for public consumption.  Dialogue, honest dialogue, is so critical and I admit that that is definitely a strong suit here. In fact, during a sharing of choreography where I provided feedback, I was asked: Be honest in the Israeli way, not the American way. This means, maybe we don’t have to be served a dead cockroach on a used piece of toilet paper, be told it is filet mignon on Wedgewood china, then get handed a bill, and swallow the experience bitterly, then pretend to like it.  If we are open, we avoid situations that put is in situations that are less than savory. In short, each child could learn a lot from the other if they weren’t each so stubborn.

 I doubt that I would ever update my wardrobe at “Forever 21” but that isn’t to say I couldn’t find a nifty necklace, or cool leather bracelet. Certainly if I were in a spending mood I could find something of interest.  In addition, just because I can’t afford a custom Armani suit certainly doesn’t stop me from browsing and entertaining the idea that maybe one day I’ll have one. However, if I were a little drunk, who knows, the suit could end up on a credit card. More than likely, I will just pine for the day when my wardrobe equals that of my friend Natasha’s – except with man clothes. She is a woman of inimitable style and class, whose inner beauty is already magnificent, but whose outward appearance is poetic. I’ve never seen her in the same piece of clothing twice. Ever. She carries herself with grace and her clothes don’t define her, but have simply become a part of her African voice.

My time in Israel is sadly drawing to a close, and if I can remind myself to take away an important lesson, it is that I can shop to my heart’s content. I can browse the racks of tacky denim, cages full of pigeons, and even consider the latest kippa. Browsing won’t identify me as anything different than what I am, even buying, for the most part won’t inescapably lock me into someone I’m not. All I seek is accurate product information, humility, and sensitivity. It’s fun to look, fun to buy, and even more fun to enrich.

Որտեղից եք : part two

“Where are you from?

“dunno”

Jerusalem happened on Wednesday. I was there with only 2,000,000 other people, as opposed to the throngs that were there on Easter, and I also made it without losing my wallet. I carried only enough cash to buy sacred gifts, lunch, and a gelato for the walk back to the bus station.

As always, whenever you enter any enclosed public place, you are subjected  to a security screening. If you are carrying anything, you must open it to reveal the contents to a person who couldn’t care less if you were carrying a hamster, bottle of water, or a wheelbarrow full of cow manure. I really am left to ponder the efficacy of these security screenings. The bags are checked with such minimal attention, anyone, with intelligence moderately higher than that of a common goldfish, could get through with almost anything. I will never put this theory to the test, mind you, I would just like to convince someone else to try something a little rebellious. Perhaps sneaking in, maybe, a mannequin head that is covered in dirt and dried cranberries could provide a really good laugh; after bail has been posted, of course. Following the dispassionate search and the request to know if you have a gun, you are immediately granted access to the bus station, mall, museum, or theatre with very little delay. Plus, if your security guy is feeling especially frisky, you may even get a scintillating tap on the butt by his metal detector as you proceed through the gate. I’ve decided to use that pat on the tush as a barometer for how I look at the moment. Fetching? Threatening? Too good to be true? It’s all in the pat, and whether or not you get one.

As I was preparing to go through security at the Jerusalem bus station, I no sooner put my backpack on the conveyor belt when I felt a hand slap down on my shoulder.

Isn’t it amazing how quickly the brain works? I mean, truly incomprehensible how many thoughts went through my mind from the moment I felt the tap, to turning around to meet my fate:

-They are going to ask me for my passport and I don’t have it with me.

-I have been randomly selected for a cavity search.

-Someone thought the choice of music on my ipod referenced terrorist propaganda. But how would they have heard it on the bus? I was wearing earphones and everything.

-Someone installed a micro-chip into a molar that is sending military intelligence information around the world ( OK – not really, but if it happens on “Days of Our Lives” it could happen anywhere!)

I turned around to figure out which of the three light speed options would come to pass, and it turned out to be none other than one of my Gaga teachers saying hello! It was Adam, the most gentle of them all – so no need to worry about being forced to listen to country music while hog tied ’til I divulged enemy secrets. On the contrary, I was about to have coffee with a Batsheva Ensemble Dancer. He was in Jerusalem to teach a gaga class to a group of religious men, and I was about to visit an Armenian potter. Kinda the same – who knew we had such similar agendas?

Following a really nice visit, I made my way to the old city – again defying the warnings not just from Hila, but Emory University this time. I had been receiving email alerts cautioning me against visiting volatile areas, especially in light of the Bin Laden killing. While Jerusalem is a very holy place, there is no denying the tension that exists there, especially with regard to occupancy. Everyone wants a piece of history pie, and no one wants to give up what little they have. Fortunately, I was there on a sedate day, and felt little anxiety that there might have been something to worry about. My first stop happened to be before reaching the sandstone walls of the old city anyway, it was the shop of a very famous Armenian potter.

Arman Darian is a native of Yerevan, Armenia and his work is done exactly the same way Armenians have been making and painting pottery for the last 2,000 years. His most notable clients have been the Clintons, and he modestly displays a letter from each of them on a little table, in the back part of his shop. When I walked in, it was hard to miss another  GIANT table upon which approximately 50 tiles had been laid. On them, a huge black and white outline of a phoenix, a traditional floral pattern, and stunning lettering were all waiting to be painted by a brush that was so utterly small, it could make a toothpick look like a pillar inside St. Peter’s Basilica. My eyes grew even more wrinkly just at the thought of all the squinting that had to happen to complete this piece.

I browsed plates, vases, tiles, tables, and the endless supply of demi-tasse cups, and when asked if I needed help by a round, tall, VERY Armenian looking man, I asked in return if he was the artist. He was and I bid him a jolly good day and commended him on his work; frighteningly, I did this in Armenian. At that very moment, it was as if we hadn’t seen each other in decades. The coffee was offered, the cookies appeared, we worked our way to his office and talked. We talked for well over an hour. He, ignoring the shop, me volleying back and forth between Armenian that somehow found its way to my tongue, and English that proved to be the safe place to go when politics came up. Within that time I experienced what I had only  vague memories of. Though there are plenty of Armenians in Jerusalem, which means I was in no way a commodity, the fact remains that when one Armenian spots another, there is a bond that forms instantly. It has always been that way and I believe always will be among this community. We talked of reverence for families, the joys of playing in a grassy park in Tehran, the beauty of Iran, how important it would be for me to go to Armenia, and the dramatic difference in the lives Armenians are living today as opposed to 50 years ago. Despite the fact that re-reading this paragraph makes the encounter with Arman seem so nauseatingly saccharin, I have to say, trying to find a more culturally affirming situation would be challenging. These types of chance meetings were strictly reserved for my mother and other relatives. Rosalind and I would always be the sweet, quiet children, smiling pleasantly to prove how well behaved we were, giving our mother what every mother wants – the opportunity to prove that her kids are far better than anyone else’s. “Georgie is going to be a Lawyer, and Rosalind is going to be a Doctor.” She hit the nail on the head! I get my  legal education from Judge Judy and Rosalind is really great at slicing meat.

The fact that it was me making the connection, by myself, without my mother to hide behind did feel scary. Yet leaving the shop, I can honestly say, I felt as though I had grown up a little. I felt like an adult, a rare feeling for me. I felt brave. I felt open. Most importantly, I felt grateful for the reminder of where I came from. There is no doubt that feelings, tastes, traditions, etc. from our past all have a remarkable way of staying with us, even though we may not always have access to them. But what was so profound was how instantly comfortable I felt with this stranger. We spoke the same philosophical language, he even commented on how we spoke the same. Armenian, like French, has colloquial glitches that can make it very hard for an Iranian Armenian to understand a Lebanese Armenian for example. Arman and I, of course, spoke the correct way, which he stated on more than one occasion.

It was great to get really wrapped up in the simple traditions of interacting with a kindred spirit. There was no guess work, no worrying about what the other was thinking. It was a human encounter that dripped with centuries of protocol and familiarity. This was definitely all nature, with a little nurture thrown in.  I did not even have to refer to any TV program to dictate how I should behave. I was flying without a feather; particularly scary since some of our family customs were not exact derivatives of Armenian customs.

We were so much a TV family, we often borrowed many things we saw on television shows, and made the cool lovey dovey things part of our family rituals and also allowed them to guide our modest, less than extravagant lives. My mother was and still is a tremendous fan of “Days of Our Lives” and there was no escaping it in our house. The power family on that show was the Horton family. My mother, being so enamored with the perfection of the Hortons decided that their holiday traditions should be ours as well. So if you ever happen to join us on Christmas, what you will discover are some things that came directly from a soap opera, that in addition to warm family values, offered viewers a glimpse into what it is like to be cloned, possessed, buried alive, and micro-chipped. This happened to a character named Hope, and her micro-chip made her truly believe that she was the supreme ruler of a haunted house in New Orleans. Fortunately we borrowed the happier variety of  family dynamics and admittedly, some of the Horton family things were rather warm and fuzzy.

The only problems I encountered when trying to recreate those happy holiday traditions, were that I had no way of knowing when something should be over. The Hortons always had delicious dinners, lots of laughter, and a fade to black. I genuinely did not know when closure would appear and was, and still am, bothered by the basic human needs that creep into family traditions. In other words, the Hortons never had to go to the bathroom, deal with holiday traffic, or nurse severe indigestion. Without a guideline for dealing with those things I crumbled and saw them as terrible blemishes on what could otherwise be a perfect holiday. I know I will never learn how to cope with that. Ever. This is why I usher in every holiday at midnight and make sure I am awake when it technically turns into the next day. It’s the only way I know how to create the “lights up” and  subsequently the fade to black.

Not being a good swimmer, I can only assume a decent one feels the way I did, after talking with Arman, the moment he gets in the water. There is buoyancy, support, and the freedom to move around with ease and comfort, all the while retaining the ability to twist, turn, and dive any way he wishes. There is a kinship with the water/culture, and a fondness/admiration for it. By and large, I could be making a much bigger deal out of this than is necessary. But in this pilgrimage of mine,  I only came looking for and expected to find my dance home. I never imagined that I would walk by a different dwelling, open the door, and find that I knew where everything was, though I had never been there before. It feels good to be back. I never want to leave.

Ես հայերեն եւ ես սիրում եմ Ատլանտա
I’m Armenian and I live in Atlanta.

 

D’ou Venez Vous: part one

Here in Tel Aviv, “Where are you from?” is naturally either the first or second question I am asked. The normal order of interrogatories is: Where are you from? Why did you come here? How long will you be here? Where are you living? I almost always initiate the request for names after all of that. Furthermore, not once have I been asked what I do for a living.

“Where are you from?”

“Where would you like me to be from?”

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I was surrounded, rather, encircled by approximately 14 other 10-11 year olds in the playground of my new elementary school in Milroy , Pennsylvania. I had to be enrolled in the morning which therefore meant I wasn’t present at the start of class, making it harder for me to slip in unnoticed. Instead, during recess, I was dropped into this circle from the alien ship that brought me to such a place, and was introduced to everyone as a new friend from another part of the world. “Everyone, this is George, he is from a place that you have never heard of. It is called Iran.” What I remember with frightening clarity is that I was then examined. Not in the way one looks lovingly at a basket full of newly hatched chicks, nor with the disgust at seeing a dead possum on the road. Which by the way, really should adorn the Pennsylvania State Flag. I was ogled much in the same manner as one looks at something like, let’s say, Ethiopian food. You are a little frightened, a little curious, and have no idea what to do with it. Essentially, I had no insecurities about this situation, since it seems it was par for the course. Even in Iran I stood out at school because my parents chose to send me to the Tehran American School, a place primarily for children of military employees. It was a campus that serviced k-12, and I was one of two non-American students. The other, Steven Nichols, was my very pale, Armenian counterpart. He always had a slight sunburn. We became inseperable.

Having always stood out in one way or another, either in my home country where as a citizen I looked different than my classmates, or in Milroy as an alien from Iran, I grew impervious to stares and awkward glances. This is probably why I didn’t flinch when a native Milroy-ian asked my sister, in a very innocent way: “Why is your brother black?”  I actually remember thinking after hearing that comment, that I really was black. What a revelation. I didn’t know what I was, so this seemed a fitting description especially since my exposure to different cultures was severely limited. I’m black! Okey Dokey, anyone up for kebab?

I knew nothing about genetics or how things were made, certainly hadn’t had “the talk” so I just found it cool that I now had a way of identifying myself. This is the same naivete that earlier in my life, made me question, but later love, the fact that my newborn sister was Chinese. That’s what she looked like to me. I asked why she was Chinese, because since my mother is Armenian, and my father is white, and I although I had yet to learn that I was black, I somehow knew that she did not fit any standard equation. I don’t remember the answer, but there she was, my blond-haired, blue-eyed, Chinese sister. Fresh out of the womb, or off the boat. Her hair later changed color and so did her eyes and I was very envious of that transformative power, that I assumed all Asians had. I was after all, a HUGE fan of Ultra-man – look him up.

The question “where are you from” has always been a daunting one for me. No one can ever escape this question, unless you have chosen to stay in your hometown all your life – then everyone knows. But the moment you relocate, travel, become a social creature, you are asked that really simple question over and over, which usually has a very simple answer. But for me, placing enormous weight on not only wanting to be efficient with answers, but sensitive to what people want to hear, and always a little curious if the answer should be the place where I was born, or my cultural background, or where I lived most of my life, is where the difficulty lies. The long-winded response is usually this:

“I was born in Iran, but was never accepted into hostage school because I am an Armenian, so don’t worry, I am not carrying a bomb, and my father is American which is why my last name doesn’t end in -ian, and we moved to PA when I was 11, and I lived there until I finshed grad. school, but then moved to Las Vegas, and now I live in Atlanta.

All the bases are covered and by then, the person has fallen asleep.

The cultural identity thing has always been of importance to me, but more so in the recent past than in my formative years. Worlds always merged in my youth; my mother cooked that weird, smelly food that people truly seemed to enjoy, my father’s rural family accepted her with warmth and love, but we always lived in places, except for Iran, where we stood out as being wildly different. We existed with somewhat intrusive questions from time to time, and they were often the source of a good laugh. ( Yes, we had electricity and NO! I did not own any sort of large desert animal.) In Waynesboro, Pennsylvania the cultural topography was as follows: four African-Americans, 5 Indians ( one of which was a noted Ob/Gyn, in turn, very famous by Waynesboro standards,) my mother, and me. The rest of the approximately 10-12,000 people were lily white, and hadn’t been outside of the tri-state area their entire lives. I wanted to be one of them. In fact, I thought I was. Even the image in the mirror could not defy what was so firmly planted in my head. I was from Waynesboro, and I was going to make sure I let everyone know. Even during the grips of the Iranian hostage crisis, when our house was egged and tear-gassed, when I was threatened, shoved into lockers, told to go home –  I had no idea where that was, because that home seemed a distant memory, I was still a proud Waynesborian. I do recall feeling legitimately, very worried about my grandparents being killed by air rades as strains of “Bomb Bomb Bomb, Bomb Bomb Iran” to the tune of the Beach Boys song “Barbara Ann” were shouted at me in the hallways.

But then college came and with it many new people to envy. I met fascinating buddhists, made many cool Jewish friends; I wanted to be them. I started learning more and more about France and I knew that I was of French aristocracy in a former life and wondered where that life went. Then I wanted to be the guy who bought his clothes at thrift stores, then I wanted to be a suave man of the ’80′s and wear lots of gold chains, then I wanted to be a lawyer, then a dancer. Whatever I saw, I wanted to be. Because being Armenian or from Waynesboro became really boring, and so 1979. Sadly what this later meant is that this identity crisis would be a little atypical. I chose to ignore an identity that was handed to me and one that I would later grow to cherish a bit too late. Rendering me a tourist inside my own culture. Hindsight is what it is, and at the time, I couldn’t care less.

Time passed and in grad. school I was still searching. My first year at Temple ( or THE Temple, as my mother referred to it ) we were treated to an amazing performance by the Chuck Davis African-American Dance Ensemble. I had never seen anything like it – which is surprising considering that I was black. How had this escaped me for so long? Regardless, the performance etched itself into my mind. The explosive power of these joyous and energetic moving bodies, the music that had a way of redefining your soul, and the movement that was richer than the most dense chocolate cake, stirred me in a way that I was not accustomed to. I was enthralled and envious of these dancers who knew who they were, who celebrated who they were, and were proud. Following the performance my friend Jennifer and I ( the same Jennifer who would later choreograph the infamous chicken dance ) approached Mr. Chuck Davis to offer our admiration for what he did. This man was easily 23 feet tall and his voice makes James Earl Jones’ sound like an eight year old girl’s. He towered over us. After gushing over the performance I had finally summoned the nerve to boldly say: ” I really want to be black!” Jennifer chimed in with: “yeah, me too!” To which Mr. Chuck Davis replied: “That is easy my brother and sister, I am making you, George, an honorary black man, and you, Jennifer, an African queen.” I was elated! -but for only about 2.5 seconds, then it dawned on me: It was MY idea to be black and I was the one who told Mr. Chuck Davis that I wanted to be black! Why then, did Jennifer get the regal title? I mean, if titles are that easy to come by why not give me an important role in the community, too?

Regardless, the identity I had defined for myself at age 11, now came with a certificate of authenticity and staggering approval by a noteworthy citizen of this remarkable group of people.

The most difficult time I had answering a question about my identity came when I was in Grand Central Station in Manhattan about 4 years ago. I was traveling with an Atlanta dance company, Gathering Wild, and when we got off the first bus I realized I had left my wallet on the seat.

Stresser #1 – Run after the bus, make it stop, beg the driver to let you on. PRAY that the wallet is still on the seat.

Stresser #2 – Most of the group had already entered the terminal and I didn’t know where they were.

Stresser #3 – A menacing looking man darted towards me, I had no idea what to do. He unleashes two questions:

Question one: Hey man, are you white?

—–”Um, well, yes, kinda, but, maybe not so much right now, but yeah – uh, I guess, that depends, but- I just got back from the beach so I am really tan right now.”

Question two: Whatever. Do you have some money I could get my hands on?

—–I looked in my wallet, I figured a buck for some peace of mind is well worth it. I had no small change prompting this response:

—–I am so sorry. All I have is a stack of 20′s and 50′s, nothing smaller.

I tell this story four years later and my friend Daphanie, who was there, still dies laughung while trying to also say simultaneously: You coulda got yo’ ass kicked!

This question is really important to me, especially in Tel Aviv. One of my Gaga teachers exclaimed ,when I requested class to be taught in English, “You’re the most Israeli looking one here!” I am constantly asked, in Hebrew, for directions, and while that feels really great, it actually kills me to not have any of the language. Not having more than two words prevents me from doing what I have learned to do so well: Pretend.

“Where are you from?”

“Where do you want me to be from?”

—–to be continued…..

Steak, war paint, and nascar…a dance review

Unrelated to the post below: My wallet was returned to my apartment this morning by a kind, sincere, grandfatherly man via moped; helmet still on his head, who fretted over the fact that the contents had been a bit rearranged. He explained that the police would have been less than effective, and he himself had even tried the American Embassy to see what they could do. They were less than enthusiastic about helping – above and beyond  so purely defined. Right after he left, the shop keeper called to see if I received the wallet and to make sure I had what I needed. After explaining how grateful I was and how moved I was by his kindness, he simply said, in his beautiful broken English: “I hope you will do this for someone else if the need appears itself.” 

eyes closed, breathless, and touched…

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If you go back far enough, you will discover that men totally invented dancing. Yes, it’s true. As with almost all other great inventions, men are responsible for this phenomenal art form, for its richness and diversity, for its ability to serve as social affirmation, for its theatricality, and for its utter cool-ness. Men danced women’s roles in the high courts of France, men would dance to celebrate a particularly abundant harvest – ie. lots of slain antelope for food, and men invented spinning on your head. Men even invented pointe shoes – so take that. We certainly didn’t want to wear them but knew someone had to. Dancing men make the world go around and when men dance together on stage, the world stops to watch.

ummm, in case Ani DiFranco asks, yeah, sure…..give her my email address….

All joking aside, there is a different kind of energy on stage and in the theatre when men dance. But there would also be a different energy on stage and in the theatre if walruses took to dancing. Anything that offers us a chance to see something unfamiliar is going to catch our eyes: circus acts, bumble bees in tunics, men dancing together on stage. And more often than not, subject matter for dances comprised of men often hinges on masculinity, female companionship, and bravado. It is somewhat rare to see a men’s piece that lives in more sensitive subject matter and I think it is because the opportunity to work with an ensemble of men is so rare, that as a dance maker, one may wish to capitalize on the rarity of the assembled group of guys and use them the way people are used to seeing them used: throw each other around, be acrobatic, show off your skills, wear loincloths and do lots of movements close to the ground. Or you could ride the fine line between being masculine and being really balletic, that always gets a crowd going!

Yossi Berg and Oded Graf presented a work in Suzanne Dellal’s smaller venue. The work was called:” 4 Men, Alice, Bach, and the Deer.” In this 50 minute piece, there were four men who entered the stage in super hero masks, they sang and talked about a woman named Alice, danced to Bach’s Chaconne, and there was a stuffed deer on stage. I so did not understand the title.

The piece began with men cha cha cha-ing, repetitiously, in a straight line upstage and then suddenly the partnering began. Sumptuous, detailed, and mind-boggling partnering that took me away from the fact that I was watching an ensemble of men, and led me to seeing four, really talented people dancing on stage. The movement was organic, the dynamics constantly shifted, and there was so much being said that it was hard to read it all, but I delighted in the abundance of the words and felt the liberty to pick and choose what I wanted to watch. Then came a moment that made me cringe: all four men in the middle of a lengthier phrase, yelled “yeah” and simultaneously beat theirs chests. Oh no! Was this going to go down that familiar path? Bravado? Machismo? It was too early to tell if this was tongue in cheek or if it was really a sad turn in the road. I was guarded, prepared to throw my hands in the air with disgust, prepared to sigh audibly…but:

It was relentless, the assault of typical masculinity, and these choreographers knew how to work the room. They had us in the palms of their hands because they were bold with the clichés and knew how to play them. The piece later evolved by adding text, allowing the men to basically sing and danc a tribute to Alice, which gave way to emotional conflict, jealousy. There was a duet that developed with Darwinian speed and was so gripping that I never wanted it to end. Always surprising, remarkably simple, arrestingly powerful.

Israeli choreographers don’t abide much by that Doris Humphrey rule of making your ending the most important part of your piece. In fact, every show I have seen so far has left me hanging. No tidy bows and ribbons, no pretty packaging. Just a stop or a fade into the distance, leaving some questions unanswered and doors open to multiple interpretations. Cunning? or an oversight? Who knows, but there is an unmistakable penchant for leaving dances a little unfinished. This piece certainly fell into that category. After a strobe light section – thank goodness I am not epileptic is all I can say,( there were NO warning signs that we would be entering a rave 25 minutes into the work) the deer was slaughtered. Subsequently it was dragged away, and what was left were three of the four men partnering the “murderer” one by one until it was just him on stage. I don’t really know what all of that meant, but as is the case with much of what I have seen so far, I didn’t care if it was mysterious. Dances here aren’t designed to narrate a specific story. They get inside and leave residue that becomes more a feeling than an intellectual connection. You may not “get it,” but somehow you don’t care because what remains is powerful enough.

The dancers here are good. I mean, real good. Charismatic, flexible, diverse, committed, engaging, and so serious about what they do. I was haunted by this work for some time after it was over because of the content and the brilliant performances. There is so much to be said about dance makers who can give us something juicy, provide incredible movement, and work with text in a way that is so clever it defies reason – especially since the text was English, not the native language of the dance makers, making it even more poetic. The choreographers aren’t afraid of movement. They embrace it, all kinds of movement, and have a gift for making dances that actually dance, and dances that speak volumes. Well, there was the Kibbutz mess of a piece, but I’ll just chose to forget that I actually saw a reputable company do heel stretches one second and west African movement the next. What a disaster!

Maybe it is the fact that men aren’t such a hot commodity here, (there seem to be plenty to go around,) that instills in them a kind of drive that propels them to such admirable places. I will admit in Yasmeen Godder’s work, the men did pale in comparison to the women, but honestly that was the only show I saw where that was the case. In all others, the men held their own, and with the “4 men” piece, the guys astounded me by merely touching upon the notion/novelty that the cast was all men, but that soon dissipated into some really wonderful choreography and really wonderful dancing, about men, by men, and solid, not because they were men.

Telegraph, Telephone, Ships, Planes, Printing Press, and chauvinism – ALL invented by men!

You really can rely on the kindness of strangers! an unexpected entry about an unexpected event.

Today is a day of remembrance in Israel. At 10:00 am, what sounded like an air-raid siren began blowing for approximately 2 minutes. The entire country came to a stand still, not another sound reverberated from anything else; just the ominous sound of the siren that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Had I not known what this was, especially in light of the Bin Laden news, I would have again thought about those adult diapers and sought shelter under lots of concrete; or an orange tree, whatever I found first.

These sirens sound to request a moment to honor the memory of the Holocaust and it consumes the entire country. Already, skyscrapers, taxis, buses, ice cream shops, etc. had been wearing the Jewish flag with dignity, but this dark and meaningful tribute put everything into a very different perspective. Those two minutes echoed with decades of anguish and spoke of resiliency and triumph. Not all is so solemn, however, there is quite a bit of dark humor to be had, and Tel Avivians have this remarkable ability to take their traditions seriously, but not without a sense of humor and relief that the world is happily, a much much different place than what those sirens represented. They will sound again next week.

Considering what this day means to the country, I suppose it added even more meaning to what I will call:  Dumpster Diving for Dollars

I had set out to visit Jerusalem today. I was going to take a workshop with Peter from Berlin. I suppose that is all anyone needs to know about him. He’s just Peter. From Berlin. He does dance stuff – I guess. En route to the bus station, I missed my street and had to do a 180, for some odd reason I decided to look into my backpack and realized that my wallet was gone. All the credit cards,debit cards, receipts, drivers license – you know – your life that you keep protected in an overstuffed fold of leather. I don’t lose things. I am too anal, my life is too ritualized, I am too neurotic. Could it be that it still sits on the kitchen table? I knew that wasn’t the case, but you do hope for those moments when you veered from your habits. It wasn’t there, nor was it anywhere to be found. I asked several shop owners along the way if anyone had turned anything in and the unanimous response was something to the effect: “Not in this neighborhood.”

Except one man did not answer my question – instead he chose to give me a tongue lashing because I didn’t speak to him in Russian. He stated over and over, “43 years in Israel, I speak Russian, no one knows. 43 years 43 years no one knows, no one knows.” How was I supposed to know? If only I knew how to say “a neon-sign and a fur hat could paint a clearer picture” that could have put him on my side. I conceded and did ask him about my wallet in my very nervous Russian, and of course, he hadn’t seen it. And so, three hours of phone calls began.

When all was said and done, my next task was to walk to a Western Union to pick up some money my bank wired to me. I felt awful. It was hot, I didn’t have the trappings that make me feel complete, and although this is terribly inconvenient, you know you can bounce back from these sorts of things, but still, it always feels so unsettling. In addition, my identity was out there for the world, and you know just as well as I do, there are thousands of people out there coveting my life. Can you blame them? Who wouldn’t want to take over student loans that, like rabbits, astonishingly multiply each month. I haven’t been in school for 17 years and am still paying. I must be paying for someone in Omaha or something. If so, I hope he/she is getting good grades.

I returned to the apartment, checked my email and found three emails with the subject “Did you lose your wallet?” Actually one said “Did you lost your wallet.” If I were playing the piano at that moment, I could have done the minute waltz in 3.5 seconds. I had never typed faster in my life. My fingers cramped and I am blaming it on gaga – we do a ton of finger work, and well, my digits are severely out of shape. They haven’t dialed a phone in ages, nor have they had a chance to change radio settings in a car for weeks. Poor things.

Check out this play by play, and tell me Israelis and consequently, Atlantans, aren’t decent people:

Man on motorbike finds wallet

Motorbike man takes wallet to shop adjacent to the place where wallet was found.

Shop keeper emails his sister in US and asks her to research “Staibs” in Georgia.

A, Miss Ginny Staib from Atlanta gets a phone call and email from the Israeli shop keeper

Ginny googles me and finds me on the Emory website. She emails me and the shop keeper.

Shop keeper emails me directly with his phone number

I respond to Ginny and Shop Keeper

Shop Keeper supplies alternate phone number, I call and we talk about the wallet. Which at this point is about 30 minutes away – for safe keeping.

Shop keeper offers to send his delivery person to my apartment to hand deliver the wallet to save me the trouble of trying to find his place. Delivery person is supposed to be here any minute – it is 12:18 am.

Although everything has been canceled and a replacement debit card is on the way, it really is remarkable that not ONE person in this entire saga deferred responsibility to anyone else. There was quite a bit of investigation going on and to think that all someone could have done was thrown the wallet away when they discovered there was no cash in it. I thought that may have been the case and looked through every trash can from here to the point where I realized it was missing: Approximately 2 miles.

If this isn’t enough to make you love the Israelis, then knowing that the Israelis invented movie subtitles surely will. Without them, think how weird the movie “Amelie” would have been.

hmmm, where is the delivery guy?

Travertine Tablets

Esquire Magazine has a regular feature that I have really grown to enjoy. It’s called “What I learned” and it excerpts interviews from people of all walks of life. From directors, to singers, to a man about town, to coal miners, it doesn’t discriminate against money, race, fame, religion, anything. It extracts the most salient parts of the interview and highlights the philosophical tidbits and/or nuggets of advice that are universally relevant. You will rarely read something like; “I learned that my wife is a hooker.” You would read instead, “I learned that hookers make great wives.”

Things are no doubt shifting for me. I have traveled alone before, but never for as long, never to stay in one place as extensively, and never needing to connect to other people as much. It goes without saying, that all of my other mini-excursions had more to do with seeing a place rather than being part of it. Where teaching/dancing/life is concerned I can sense that while I wait for my next sabbatical – WILL IT REALLY BE ANOTHER TEN YEARS? – I can think of no better to place to invent some new commandments. What place could be more fitting to carve out some shiny new stone tablets than Israel? Actually, stone is a bit dated. I will therefore work on some rich, Italian marble. I am sure Moses would have done the same thing, if he had had a choice.

Disclaimer: None of the following is meant to be preachy by any means. In fact, keeping in mind that my life lessons dawn on me much later than they do for the rest of the world, these commandments are meant to serve as a guide for me for the next 10 years. Kernels of ideas that I think are important in teaching, dancing, choreographing, and most importantly, interacting.

1. Thou Shall be More Spontaneous

Spontaneity isn’t what I thought it was. If you have to respond to a question, a movement directive from a gaga teacher, or an oncoming car, I don’t think you are being spontaneous. You are demonstrating what has been learned. Spontaneity is something that requires space. It requires time. One may hear the gaga command and if he/she responds right away, he/she is responding with the familiar. Only space and time will allow you to move someplace new. The same is true of living. As an example, my knee jerk reaction is to avoid social contact because it tends to make me nervous….

However, last night after the performance of ” Four Men, Bach, a Deer and Alice ( I’ll talk about that in the next post ) I ran into Boas. He invited me to dinner, and I gave myself time and space to say “Yes!”  - instead of going back to the apartment to sit by myself, which was the less stressful option. I met his girlfriend ( at least I think that is what they were to each other – a little tough to tell ) but she was also a dancer – that was easy to tell. l/ we had a great evening. Consequently, she produces dance workshops in Israel and is VERY excited to pursue producing Staibdance in an Israeli workshop next summer!!!!!

This would not have happened had I chosen to return to my place and eat left-over chicken curry.

2. Thou Shall be Less Conservative.

We are all conservative in one way or another. The fact that I refuse to give country music a chance is a form of being conservative. I can’t say that I will ever buy a Carrie Underwood CD, and I feel as though country music is where I absolutely draw the line, but I can apply this to other things.

I tend to decide very quickly whether I will like something or not, without giving the certain thing a chance. I am too conservative. Obviously I will never like uncooked tomatoes or that red stuff you put on hamburgers and french fries. I can’t even bring myself to type out the word for that stuff, and will never give them or it another chance. Yet, that doesn’t mean I should write off classical ballet – who knows, I might see an arabesque I’ve never seen before.

OK – probably not, but you get the point.

3. He Who Findeth Balance, Findeth Bliss

Good dancers, I mean the really stellar ones on stage, not just the ones who can kick high, have mastered the art of finding a balance between being an extrovert and being an introvert. If you are too extroverted on stage, you end up saying nothing. If you are too introverted on stage, you end up basically talking to yourself. You have to live somewhere in between in order to communicate effectively.

I find that this could be applied to my everyday life as well. The talking to yourself thing does carry a huge social stigma anyway – so why even mess around with that? Being too extroverted? Well then, you risk being compared to Justin Bieber.

4. Ye Shall Focus Thy Lenses

The eyes and their focus are so important when performing. Look just above the horizon, not much, just a degree or two higher. I think this opens the body and allows the entire vessel to speak. Anything else, you are only observing yourself and disregarding the people who paid to see you.

Important side note: if you look a degree or two above the head of someone you are talking to, you will just look crazy. I suggest eye level for all other worldly interactions. When someone’s eyes focus on me when I am talking, it feels really nice. When your eyes light up upon seeing someone you love, I think there is no greater gift.

5. Thou Shall Take Responsibility for Yo’ own damn self

Dancers dance because they want responsibility. Responsibility to carry out a message, vision, or are purely invested in being responsible to themselves. There is an accountability thing happening and there is no hiding on stage. Either you own up to the task or you sink. At the point of performance, no one knows what situations led to the performance, nor how great or miserable the process was. All they know is what they see. Blame is useless.

–sort of like blaming the bartender for your drunken stupor…

6. Thou Shall Befriend Criticism

All criticism is an attack of some sort, regardless of  tactful delivery. No matter; take it all in and embrace it, even if only for a brief moment.

Much easier said than done.

As dancers we tend to be very delicate with what we say to one another and how we say it. Dancing makes us very vulnerable, but so do a lot of things that have to be done in the world. The fact that we are dealing with our bodies does not make it more or less difficult to swallow or dish out. It is just as hard, I’m sure, for a restaurant manager to tell a waiter that he is too slow. It is equally painful for me to hear that as a dancer/choreographer I am ________________. But for all the times I have been told that I was_________________, I grew so much more. Even though the pill was bitter and got stuck in my throat, those sensations went away and I was left with something of value.

Boas offered some feedback to me after gaga class the other day. At first I was like…”Wow, that’s really forward!” ( SO Not Spontaneous and TOTALLY Conservative) Thanks to the comment, I found something new to play with. The honesty that Israelis live by is a bit startling, but really refreshing at the same time. I haven’t lost a minute of my life wondering what someone meant by what he/she said. There is never a need to read between any lines. The break from all the deciphering has been incredible.

7. Thou Shall do Everything Full-Out

In Gaga, there is no resting, only working at a lower volume, but still working with effort and range. Fatigue is a good thing – it helps you become more efficient and less inclined to act in the ways you normally act. The fatigue often gives way to a deeper understanding and more discovery. I feel like when I learn something via tiredness, it stays with me.

On that note, where dance is concerned, I now no longer believe in marking*. EVER. Marking paves the way to finding and creating more excuses. It helps you dodge criticism as well. Marking is for sissies.

Commit! Commit! Commit!

* – marking is a dancer term which means indicating the movements rather than doing them fully. Sorta like, spritzing yourself with tap water in lieu of taking a for real shower.

8. Thou Shall Savor Disagreements

Since arriving in Tel Aviv, I have heard on more than one occasion that being a hypocrite is akin to wedding the devil. In fact, it seems that most polite dinner conversation becomes far more interesting and important when disagreements arise. Differences of opinion and differences in interpretation lead to startling discoveries and do more to strengthen relationships than always being the “yes” person does. When I hear, “I disagree” certainly my ears perk up – but at that point, listening truly starts and exchanges become driven more by a need to dialogue than a need to be part of the crowd.

The most profound lesson for me regarding all of that came last night. My dinner companions were still my friends after we debated what felt like a hot topic. They gave me a ride home and did not trick me, take me to a pier, tie me to a cinder block, cut off my thumbs, and throw me into the sea. Which is what I thought happened to anyone who had a contrary opinion. In fact, they both said they had a great time. Huh, who knew…

9. Cast Aside Thy Fears: Be Not Afraid

Whether it is being shy, being self-conscious, being invisible, etc. It is all motivated by a fear of some sort. Fear of an answer, fear of rejection, fear of opinions. I operate with this undercurrent and I am recognizing, slowly, that it is the thing that drags me farther and farther away from the connections I crave. In trying to shield myself, I also block the things I am so desperately seeking. A shield is just that, a shield – not a filter. It prevents anything and everything from getting through. Well, I’m sure a cannonball could get through your average shield, but I am speaking metaphorically, so ease up on all the exceptions to the rule. These area, after all commandments, not rules of nature.

10. Ye Shall Practice Patience not Procrastination

Being an Aries I want it all and I want it all right now. However, that only works if you successfully play the lottery. In dealing with issues surrounding my back, I’ve been seeking the one thing that will take away 10 years of pain in an hour. I look for success that paralleles dance companies that have been around for decades. I look for profound evolution in my work within a matter of 6 months. In the meantime, I put off the work to improve my back, promote my company, and develop my choreographic voice.

This waiting for something to fall in my lap business is getting really boring. I guess I have to ask for things, do the things, and do the things to get the ball out of my hands. This isn’t high school PE class, where I would literally run from ANY contact with whatever ball we were playing at the time. I absolutely did not want to be responsible for my team’s downfall, and certainly did not want to jeopardize humiliation by doing something less than cool with it.

Now that I am older – I guess I need to be in the line of fire – and take responsibility for my own damn self.

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These Commandments, and many others can be seen on display at your favorite Cathedral, Bus Stop, and at all participating Pizza Huts.