A few weekends ago, I went ice skating again for the first time in several years.  The first step on the ice was strange, but I was wearing my old familiar skates, which brought me some comfort that I wouldn’t actually kill myself.  I kept telling myself, “You can do this.  You did this for 14 years.  This is all still in your muscle memory.”  And it was.  First I just skated around the rink.  Then I let myself try out single rotation jumps, one by one.  Salchow. Toe Loop. Flip.  All OK.  After a few hours of ice time, I worked up the nerve to try an Axel, which is 1.5 rotations in the air.  And I surprised myself with how easy it was… once I just got out of my own way and let it happen. Once I trusted my body, I was able to land a jump that I hadn’t actually attempted in years.  (So many years that I can’t remember the last time I had tried an Axel.)

With any sort of movement, whether it’s sports or dance or painting, if we have trained and dedicated time to ingraining an action in our bodies, we know it.  Of course we can always improve our skills, but I think a very difficult thing for adults is to trust it.  To let it happen.  To breathe and mentally step out of the way.  Children don’t seem to have this second-guess quality in to their thoughts the way that adults do.  They just do something, and part of that is because they’re too young to have a lot of people tell them they can’t.  They’re also too young to think that they can’t.  Many times when we find something difficult or it seems outside our reach, it isn’t because it isn’t attainable… it’s because we psych ourselves out of it.  We tell ourselves, “Oh, that’s too hard,” or “That’s scary”, or “Oh, I can’t do that”.

The reality is, though, if you tell yourself you can and that you will, you will probably surprise yourself and be able to push yourself well beyond your perceived capabilities and limits.

—

There’s also a really fantastic book about this topic called The Body Has a Mind of Its Own, by Sandra and Matthew Blakeslee.  It’s accessible for those without a background in neurology, and I recommend it to anyone interested in how the body learns how to move itself through space.

Of course, I like to compare things like this to my past life in figure skating.  A skater wears a specific costume for a specific program.  The costume for the short program is different than the costume for the long program.  Sometimes skaters take the “match the costume to the music” thing to the extreme.  You know that the competitor wearing the black and red costume with the ruffly skirt and a rose in her hair is going to be skating to Bizet’s Carmen or Lecuona’s Malagueña.  And the skater wearing a fire-colored costume, complete with a flame-like skirt?  Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite.  It (almost) never fails.  And of course, the skater wearing the purple (sometimes blue) outfit with the illusion mesh midriff?  Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherezade, or something Middle Eastern-ish like Samson and Delilah or even Peter Gabriel’s “The Feeling Begins”, which is actually based around an Armenian folksong (See Oksana Baiul’s costume)  Even when it’s trite or stereotypical (or even an inaccurate interpretation like Baiul’s), the skater makes an effort to match the costume to the performance in some way, because if it didn’t, a judge can actually reduce the competitor’s artistic mark.  The costume is part of the presentation, and while it might not count for as many points as if the skater landed a triple Lutz, it still matters.  Thankfully, in recent years, figure skating costumes have become less matchy-matchy, however the costume is still a reflection of the sentiment or feeling of the piece.

In belly dance, we don’t seem to match the costume to the performance as much as we could be, or (I think) should be.  And, of course, I have worn costumes that don’t really reflect the sentiment of the piece I’m performing… and I look back and ask myself, why did I do that?  A performance is a complete package, and the costume is part of that package.

I’ve seen many performances by dancers in all styles who have worn absolutely gorgeous costumes… but these costumes had very little to do with the music to which the dancers were performing or the sentiment of the piece.  Some outfits even seemed to inhibit the dancers’ movements: the skirt was too tight, or the bra was too embellished, or the belt was too heavy.  It seemed that the dancers chose the costumes before they chose their music.

However, there are some dancers, such as Heather Stants and Urban Tribal Dance Company, have truly fused everything: the music, the movements, and the costuming are all minimal, modern, and sleek, as shown in their performance to Murcof’s “Memoria” (one of my favorites). The costumes seamlessly allow the dancers to move and breathe with the music.  Zoe Jakes and Kami Liddle’s duet to a remix of “Makaan” by Natasha Atlas also exhibits a costume that matches the music and the movements.  All three elements are elegant, feminine, contemporary, ethnic, yet still pulling from Arabic roots.  It is obvious that these dancers have considered the complete package of their performances.

Sometimes it’s not financially or temporally feasible to create a new costume for each piece we perform, but we should remember that the costume is part of the package.  Ideally, I would have a different costume for each piece, but I do have several costumes that fit a number of different songs and performance pieces: there’s the 40s-inspired gold assuit bedlah I made for my more cabaret performances, the rich burgudy velvet bra and belt made for my more Andalusian and Medieval-inspired pieces, and the sporty and flashy rhinestone and coin set I created for my pieces to more hard rock-inspired music.  The first thing our audience sees when we take the stage is what we are wearing, and that is the first message they receive about the nature of our performance.  It is integral to the performance and should reflect our personal connection to our movements and our music.

So, if this is the case, why do we see similar things happening in belly dance so often?

Let’s replace the hypothetical situation above with a dancer and a top-of-the-line costume.  Just as the instrument does not make the musician, the costume does not make the dancer.  No matter how well a dancer costumes herself, a costume will not make up for a lack of training, strength, conditioning, flexibility, emotional expression, choreography, or technique.  A costume can not hide the absence of these essentials, and without these elements, the dance can easily become a fashion show.

Of course, a dancer’s costume must match her performance in theme and style.  It must fit her well and be made of good quality materials; it must allow her to move and express herself without restraining or distracting her.  As dancers we must look good on stage.  Dance is a visual art, and the costume is an essential part of the performance, whether it’s a classic beaded bedlah for oriental style, or coin bra and tassel belt for American Tribal Style, or a unique creation sewn by the dancer herself.  The costume is part of the experience, especially for theatrical performances.

But… if we spend more time worrying about costuming ourselves than we do actually in the studio or our dance rooms training, we hold back our beloved art.  No matter how good we look on stage, if we don’t have the movement to back it up, then the performance will fall short.  The costume is only one part of a complete performance.  There’s a reason that if someone says, “Well, she had a great costume”, it’s often because her performance was lackluster and her costume was the only thing that stood out.  A dancer’s costume shouldn’t upstage the dancer herself, and we should be spending more time and money on our training and the development of our choreographies than we do on our costuming.

Another way of putting this is: You can buy the best paint brushes, the finest oils, and the top-of-the-line canvas, but unless you practice your brushstrokes and actually learn how to use your materials, you won’t become a better painter.

If you take away your costume, can your choreography speak for itself, or are you relying on your costume to speak for you instead?

I do want to encourage dancers to find Middle Eastern music that they like, even if it’s a few songs or just one style.

One of the things that came up in the responses to the last blog is the idea that dancers want to perform to music that is culturally more familiar to them than Middle Eastern music.  I completely understand.  BUT I want to add that one can become acclimated to, appreciate, and learn to understand music that is initially unfamiliar.  Chapter 8, “My Favorite Things: Why Do We Like the Music We Like” in Daniel Levitin’s amazing book This is Your Brain on Music speaks about this very concept.  I’d give you some excerpts here, but a friend is currently borrowing my copy.

I remember the first time I heard Venetian Snares’ crazy breakcore.  I was overwhelmed. I didn’t know how to listen to it.  But the more I listened to it, the more I appreciated it… and then I decided to dance to it.  I think one can do the same with Middle Eastern music.

Also, I am hardly a member of the “Ethnic Police”.  Seriously.  I dressed up as H.R. Giger’s Alien and danced to Autechre’s “Second Bad Vilbel”; how could I EVER say that one should only dance to Middle Eastern music?  I’d be a raging hypocrite!  I do, however, aim to educate.  Part of my job as an instructor is to bring up issues that might be uncomfortable, so that my students and readers can continue to learn and educate themselves.  There are so many dancers out there without mentors, and I strive to be a little beacon of light for those dancers who might not have someone of which to ask questions.

I hear this all the time.  Honestly, every time I hear it, my heart breaks a little.  It’s a bit like hearing, “I’m a ballerina, but I don’t like classical music.”  Or, “I’m a jazz dancer, but I don’t like Duke Ellington.”  You can be sure that a ballerina who hates classical music has learned to love it, or at least like it.  She’s going to be dancing to it nearly EVERY DAY.

Maybe this all-too-common sentiment makes me sad because I do love Middle Eastern music.  I admit that I don’t love all of it, but who loves everything in a particular genre or style of music?

But I wonder, why would you self-identify as a belly dancer if you don’t like dancing to Middle Eastern music?  It’s one thing to experiment with non-Middle Eastern music.  It’s another to eschew it completely from your performance repertoire or to say that you dislike all of it.  If you’re not dancing to Middle Eastern music, I really don’t think you can call yourself a belly dancer.  There.  I said it.

Belly dance is inherently Middle Eastern.  Whether it’s Turkish oryantal, Egyptian folkloric, Lebanese-style cabaret, Moroccan Shikhat: It’s all Middle Eastern.*  One might argue that belly dance as a genre is at a developmental crossroads, with Westernized belly dance being one branch of its evolution and Middle Eastern belly dance being the other branch.  I don’t think that we’re quite to that point, nor do I think that this argument (or any argument) is an excuse that allows for ignorance or dismissal of the historical and regional roots of this dance.

As Westerners (I’m an American, and many of my readers are also non-Middle Eastern), we are intuitively drawn to music from our own culture.  This makes complete sense.  (You all know that I’ve danced to crazy breakcore, arty electronica, and progressive rock–all of which are not at all Middle Eastern. But I’ve also danced to medieval Arabic muwashahat, Egyptian taqsasim, and drum solos)  We want to dance to music that moves us, and rightfully so.  We want to be able to give an honest performance to music that speaks to our hearts and souls.

I also think (and I do hear this quite a bit) that many of us are afraid that we won’t be able to do Middle Eastern music justice.  That somehow, because we’re not experts on how they dance “over there”, we’ll disrespect the music and the culture.  That we’ll misinterpret the song and do something offensive and uncouth. I know that I feel this way sometimes…  BUT: If you research the song’s meaning and history, and you go into your new choreography with awareness and understanding, you won’t be disrespecting the song or its mother culture.

I’ll recount a little anecdote from a Level III workshop I attended with Suhaila Salimpour a while back.  Before the workshop, we were required to create a work-in-progress choreography, using the feet and body placement only.  No belly dance moves, no hip work, no arms.  Just feet.  One incredibly talented student had completed the assignment using a French tango of sorts: slow, languid, and sexy.  Suhaila said, “OK, your choreography is lovely, but this isn’t Middle Eastern music.  The assignment was to choreograph to Middle Eastern music.”  She then asked this student, and the rest of the class, what sort of Middle Eastern music would have the same sentiment as this non-Middle Eastern piece that the student had selected.  Many of us answered that a nice chiftetelli would work, but then Suhaila said to the student, “Actually, while a chiftetelli would work, this needs to be a debke.  A really HOT debke.  Go find a debke song and come back tomorrow with the SAME choreography, but to the debke.”  The student was skeptical, but completed the assignment, performed the same choreography to the new song the next day, and DAMN if that wasn’t the HOTTEST fricking debke I had ever seen!  It was “Village Girls Gone Wild”, and it was astoundingly brilliant.

I learned a lot as I observed this dancer complete this assignment:

• You can use Middle Eastern music and put your own sentiment into it.
• The movements you put to Middle Eastern music don’t necessarily have to be what they do “over there”.
• You can learn to love the music if your choreography and emotional perspective are precise and clear.
• You won’t be disrespecting the music if you choreograph outside the traditional “box.” (In fact, you’ll probably be even more creative in the process!)

If we are to continue to call ourselves “belly dancers” we must absolutely know how to perform to Middle Eastern music, and… we must learn to love at least some of the music from that region of the world.  Chances are that we won’t love all of it, and that’s fine!  I admit that I just don’t love Arabic pop, and shaabi music just gets on my nerves.  I’m not a big fan of most of the “made for Egyptian bellydance” compositions (frankly, to me, they often lack emotion and start to sound all the same!).  But I love Umm Kalthoum.  I love a good drum solo.  I love a beautiful ‘ud taqsim.

If you all were my students, I would give you an assignment:

Find a song you like.  ANY song, regardless of regional origin.  Choreograph 16 counts of 8 (or equivalent) to that song. THEN find a Middle Eastern song that has a similar sentiment or feeling.  Take your choreography and set it into the Middle Eastern song without changing any of the steps.  Does it work?  What would you change?  What would you keep?  What did you learn in the process?

I am pretty sure that there will be a style of Middle Eastern music that will speak to you, too, but maybe you just haven’t found it yet.   Take the time to explore the many styles of the region’s music, and don’t limit yourself only to recordings that are labeled “Belly Dance”.  Middle Eastern music is more than just belly dance music.  It is rich, varied, and it can be hauntingly beautiful.  Saying, “I don’t like Middle Eastern music” is like saying, “I don’t like Western music.”  There is SO MUCH variety in one region’s musical landscape.  And if you find a song that does speak to you, and you dance to it from your heart, you won’t be disrespecting it or the culture.  I promise.  As non-Middle Easterners, we have to take some of our own culture with us into our choreographies and performances.  How could we not?  But we must also respect and research and honor the region’s history and arts.  And, I am absolutely not saying that you have to dance to Middle Eastern music all the time; but being able to enjoy doing so is something I hope that every belly dancer can and will do in the course of her creative journey.

*I like to include North Africa–Morocco, Tunisia, Libya, and Algeria–in with the Middle East region because of the similarity of customs, language, and culture.

Recently, I’ve seen a few performances that seemed to be more about the dancer showing off a series of “tricks” than actually dancing, expressing, and emoting.  You know those performances… the one where the layback/backbend into a drop is gratuitously placed in the set, or the dancer does several drops in one performance (and I’m not talking about FatChanceBellyDance, or the other master dancers).  Or the one where the dancer is ticking, locking, and popping all over the place, but lacks any sense of expression or grace.  Or the one where the dancer shimmies her way through a 10 minute set when she could be accenting her very interesting music in very beautiful ways. So, you can move your body in fascinating ways, but what about that makes you a dancer and not a contortionist, acrobat, or just another entertainer?

Now, I’m certainly not saying that a dancer shouldn’t have a few tricks up her sleeve.  I love showing off my backbends, belly flutters, and shimmies. Those moves are crowd pleasers, and I’m totally aware of that.  As dancers we also must entertain, and frankly, it’s fun to show off our tricks.  But when the performance becomes all about the tricks and less about the dance, then I begin to wonder, “who is this dancer? What does she have to say? And why isn’t she showing us what’s really inside her?”

I think the use of tricks indicates a few things about the dancer: She’s afraid to dance as herself, and she’s hiding behind her “Wow Factor”; she’s not aware that dance can be an emotional outlet as well as a physical one; she believes that the tricks will gain her more recognition, praise, and attention (which, sadly, is often true).  What really bothers me is that after seeing a performance composed mostly of tricks, there will be a host of audience members lavishing praise on that dancer, telling them how amazing they are.  Seriously? Is that what this dance, particularly in the vein of that which we call “tribal fusion”, become? A series of crowd-pleasing movements set to electronica or neo-Balkan brass? I certainly hope NOT.

I ask of you, dear readers, that the next time you find yourself out at a bellydance show, ask yourself, “is this performer really dancing, or are they relying on their tricks?”  And a few tricks are fine, and some take great skill (balancing and layering, for example), but don’t let yourself be tricked by the tricks.  Each of us has so much to say when we’re on stage, and I believe that we must start saying it, even if that means that we won’t be as “impressive” to the layman viewer.  Dance is not a series of tricks set to music. It is moving art, and moving art can also be dynamic entertainment.

The Yiddish word schtick means a comic theme or gimmick. The word schtick, having been applied to show-business and the entertainment world for over a century, has a connotation of a contrived and often-used act—something done deliberately, but perhaps not sincerely.

I’ve been in the performance world since I was six years old, and believe me: I’ve seen a lot of schtick.  Most of the time this schtick is used to gain the judges’ or audience’s attention by using something other than technical or dramatic skill.  Schtick is also often used by performers to cover up a lack of mastery of the main skill being demonstrated, a distraction from the fact that the performer is really only mediocre or just not accomplished at her craft.  This might mean flashy or strange costuming that doesn’t fit with the performance, unusual props that the performer hasn’t mastered, the act of stripping off an article of costuming (I admit, I did this once as a figure skater: I removed a big fake mink stole as I skated to “Take Back Your Mink” from the musical Guys and Dolls).

Why are some belly dancers using schtick?  One reason is that I think it’s to cover up the fact that they’re only average dancers and performers, and they feel like they need something else, something extra, something that no one else has… but more often than not, these little extra things have nothing to do with bellydance. What does stumbling around on stage with a wine bottle have to do with bellydance, a dance form that comes from an area of the world where the main religion, Islam, bans alcohol? (Think about that one for a bit.)  What do fishnet tights, short skirts, and ruffly bustles have to do with bellydance, a dance form from a region with plenty of rich textiles and jewelry in which we can find much inspiration?  Why must a dancer don a plain costume, only to strip it off and reveal her beaded and sequinned costume underneath?  Is this what bellydancers have resorted to in order to be noticed by the event producers in order to be offered a coveted teaching position at next year’s event?  And you all know that I am not the ethnic police, but I’d love to see more deference to the original art form that we call “bellydance.”

I also suspect that many of the performances that use what I call “gratuitous fusion” (fusion for fusion’s sake, not because the elements being fused work together or should be put together) are a way for the dancers to act out their unfulfilled fantasies, and belly dance is just one means for them to be something they’re not in their day-to-day lives.  There are times and places for people to act out their fantasies, but I really don’t think that the stage at a bellydance festival is the place for a dancer to pretend she’s a can can dancer, saloon girl, or burlesque dancer… unless she’s fusing some damny good bellydance in with that routine, and performing whatever she’s fusing in an accomplished, respectful manner.  Unfortunately, more often than not, accomplished dancing is noticeably lacking in such fantasy performances.

Of course, professional dancers with years and years of training can get away with a little schtick.  But even they get bored with their own routines.  And frankly, I’m bored with the schtick, particularly schtick labeled as “fusion”.  Seriously, ladies (and gentlemen):

• You don’t need to imitate Vaudeville routines.  Frankly, you shouldn’t unless you’ve had some serious acting training.
• You don’t need a gimmick.  If you think your dance alone isn’t memorable, maybe you should work on finding your voice as a dancer.
• You don’t need a costume that cost you more than you spent on training in one year.  In fact, I highly recommend you spend more on your training than your costuming.  Otherwise you’re just a pretty girl on stage.
• You don’t need to dance with the latest prop, and if you do use a prop, be a master at the prop.  Don’t bring a sword, veil, water pot, snake, basket, fire, or anything else on stage with you unless you really know how to use it.  Frankly, I’m not impressed by the mere presence of the prop on stage with the dancer.  I want to see that dancer really integrate that prop into her performance so that she is one with that prop, whatever it might be.

This isn’t belly fashion, belly comedy, belly acting, belly gimmicks, or belly schtick.  It’s belly dance.  So, please, for the sake of the future of this dance form, go learn technique, culture, and history; master your craft; and master your dance if you’re going to continue in the belly dance world.

Recently tribal fusion bellydancers have adopted a new kind of “vintage” look, using costuming elements inspired by the late 1800s to early 1900s, incorporating lace, ruffles, frilly skirts, and “Granny” boots.  This style also incorporates the use of Balkan Romany (Gypsy) music, carnival and circus themes, as well as Vaudeville and sometimes burlesque.  This trend is everywhere in tribal fusion right now, not only in the United States, but it appears that it has made its way to Europe and beyond.  And, I have to say, that I wonder if this new style that has taken the tribal fusion dance world by storm is even tribal style anymore.  And what are we conveying to the general public and those who know nothing about bellydance through the use of these vintage elements?

On my travels I’ve seen several troupes attempting this “vintage fusion” style of bellydance… but they’re incorporating props and costuming that I find somewhat inappropriate in a bellydance, particularly a “tribal” bellydance, context.  I wonder if these troupes and dancers have reflected on their choreographies, or prop, costuming, and music choices, and have they considered what someone completely ignorant about bellydance (especially tribal) might think of our dance style as a whole after seeing one of their “vintage fusion” performances.

I’d like to caveat this post by saying that when done well, “vintage tribal fusion” is beautiful and captivating.  There are several troupes who perform “vintage tribal fusion” elegantly and professionally.  The Indigo, Zafira Dance Company, Delirium Tribal Bellydance Company, and the Mezmer Society/Onça all pull in vintage and antique elements into their costuming, music, and dance artfully and tastefully.  I also like to break out ruffles and lace once in a while.  I have nothing against what I call “vintage fusion” tribal bellydance.

Aspects of “vintage fusion” that strike me as odd…

One element that I’ve seen often is the use of wine and whiskey bottles, sometimes empty… sometimes not.  Now, I have nothing against having a drink.  What does bother me, though, is when dancers, especially inexperienced ones, are on stage pretending to (or actually) getting drunk and stumbling around on stage.  From what I have observed, only very experienced and serious dancers can really pull off the use of wine bottles and alcohol in their performances.  It takes a certain amount of technical and performance skill to be able to pull that off without looking like a fool.  Otherwise the performance can look haphazard, lazy, and unprofessional.

Another element that I find a little bit odd is the wearing of undergarments on the outside as part of the costuming itself, such as frilly panties and bustiers.  Maybe I’m “old school”, but my mentors told me that even though our costuming might be revealing at times, we should never wear anything that still looks like underwear.  It seems to me that the resurgent interest in burlesque has influenced this trend, and I have nothing against burlesque… but I often wonder what someone new to bellydance might think if they saw a troupe in underwear-like costuming.  They’d probably wonder, “what does this have to do with the Middle East, and what does it have to do with bellydance?”  If I didn’t know anything about bellydance except that it’s something I’d seen at a Middle Eastern restaurant, I would probably be very, very, confused.

Something else I’ve noticed amongst the less successful attempts at “vintage” style bellydance performances is that there has been more emphasis on the comedy, acting, and slapstick than the dancing itself.  Again, I have nothing against theater or comedy… but if you’re going to call yourself a tribal style bellydancer, please make tribal style bellydance the primary element of your performance. The playful, flirty quality often found in “vintage fusion” isn’t very tribal, if we’re using American Tribal Style bellydance as our standard of what defines Tribal style bellydance.  Posing and being cute with a wine bottle isn’t tribal, and it’s not bellydancing.  Dance first… then add the theater once you have a good foundation in bellydance. So, if you’re going to play with “vintage fusion” bellydance, be aware that what you are doing might not be tribal anymore.  It might be something entirely new and different.  And please focus on the dance first.

From the point of view of the outsider…

What if someone from the general public came to see one of these performances?  What if this person knew nothing about bellydance?  Do we want to give the general public the impression that we’re only comic relief and slapstick acts that have no qualms about showing our frilly panties to strangers, particularly as we lose (or pretend to lose) our inhibitions through the imbibing of alcohol on stage?  Is that bellydance, and, more importantly to me, is that tribal?  And, I know that many of us bellydancers are trying very hard to elevate this dance into the realms of both popular and high art… and in order for that to happen, we must earn the respect of not only our peers but also the general public.  How do we expect to be respected as an art form when we’re stumbling around on stage in our underwear?

The importance of training and self-reflection.

As an artist and dancer I’m not against experimentation and pushing the boundaries of bellydance.  I have been fusing bellydance with other dance and movement influence for years.  I am, however, passionate about fusion with integrity. What that means to me is that in order for your artistic experimentation to be successful, you must spend time in the studio training, drilling, and focusing on the dance.  If you want to continue to call yourself a tribal style bellydancer, you must make your primary focus tribal style bellydance, not acting, slapstick, comedy, costuming, props, or music.  Also, as you’re preparing a performance, take the time to reflect on it and ask yourself, “What message am I giving the audience by dancing to this music in this costume with these movements?  Is that something I want to convey?  Why am I putting these influences together in the way that I am?”  It’s also completely acceptable to have a good time on stage.  So much of why we dance is because we find joy in it, but there is much joy to be found in the dancing itself, and you don’t need a frilly costume and a bottle of wine to enjoy it.

Well, for one thing, it’s better for body alignment, and keeping the feet close together underneath the body keeps the center of gravity focused in one place, rather than two.  It’s a lot easier to dance and keep your balance if the feet and thighs are together.  Really.

For another thing, keeping the feet together looks more elegant, poised, polished, and dancerly than keeping them wide.  If the thighs are open, it also gives off a less modest appearance, and belly dance is, at least in its more Middle Eastern forms, an inherently modest dance.  Pointing the toes also finishes the line of the leg, whether or not the dancer is bare foot, in shoes, or in boots.  And for tribal and fusion dancers, more and more we’re wearing costuming that reveals the feet and sometimes even the thighs, and if the legs aren’t together and if the feet aren’t pointed and elegant, the whole performance can fall apart and just look bad.  A dancer could be performing beautiful torso isolations with a radiant smile, but if her feet aren’t poised, and the thighs are apart, the feet can distract from the whole presentation.

This revealing of feet and legs seems mostly to be happening in troupes trying the tucked-up skirts, striped tights, and boots like the Indigo has been wearing over the past few years.  I’ve seen dancers perform can-can inspired kicks with loose feet, and frankly, it looks unprofessional, unpolished, and lazy.  I’ve seen dancers in skirts tucked up in the front with their legs wide apart, nearly in a squatty position, performing interior hip circles, and other hip work that looks raunchy and overtly sexual when the legs are apart. I’ve also seen dancers in the “garter shorts” style of costuming that also have been dancing with little awareness of what their feet and legs are doing, and those costumes are even more revealing than the skirts and tights inspired by the Indigo.

If we bellydancers are to present to the general public that we’re professionals, that we’re not dancing to be sexual, that we’re just as respectable as a ballet or modern dancer, then we need to pay attention to what our feet and legs are doing.  Sure, you can get away with your feet a little bit wider apart if you’re wearing a classical American Tribal Style 20-yard skirt with pantaloons underneath because chances are, your audience isn’t even going to see your feet.   However, even underneath a skirt and pantaloons, the feet should always be pretty and not an afterthought.  The thighs should be close, which brings an elegant line to the whole body.  And the upper body should be lifted, opening up the solar plexus, heart center, and collarbones.  I would like to see every tribal and fusion dancer pay more attention to their lower bodies, and how that affects the entire performance. The legs and feet are our foundations, what connect us to the ground and the stage. Bellydance, while it is about isolations in the torso, should never neglect the legs and feet.

For new dancers, the next scariest thing to actually performing might be watching that performance on video.  I have to admit that I have never been terrified of watching my belly dance performances on video, but that doesn’t mean that I’ve enjoyed the experience. Believe me.  I’m not exactly a fan of watching my own performances, but doing so is like eating my vegetables: it’s good for me.

The video camera is perhaps the best tool by which to improve your technique, stage presence, and overall appearance on stage.  It will show you all those things you never realized you were doing when you practiced your performance either at home or in front of the studio mirror.  The video camera doesn’t lie.

A videographer at Rakkasah East once gave me some valuable advice about watching my performances. He said to watch my performance three times in a row.  The first time, he said, is when you see everything you did wrong.  The second time is when you see when you did things well.  The third viewing gives you enough distance from yourself to start evaluating your performance with an objective and constructive eye.

The video camera doesn’t have to just be a tool for finding ways to improve your dance.  It can show you how much progress you’ve already made.

If you’ve collected videos of your performances for several years, watching your older videos will show you just how far you’ve come and how much you’ve improved.  We sometimes lose sight of our progress when we’re watching our most current performance.  We pick it apart and see all the things we could have done better… but I guarantee that your performance this weekend was much better than your performance last year.  Or last month.  Or last week.  The camera gives an excellent means of measuring our growth.

Video cameras these days aren’t so expensive.  You can pick up a digital video camera for less than $300 (or less if you enjoy bargain hunting) which is pennies compared to how valuable the camera is to your progression as a performer.  Being able to view your performance the day after you’ve taken the stage is invaluable, whether you’ve been dancing for a year or 20 years.