Performing is work. It’s not just physical work; it’s highly emotional. Just as I train physically, drilling and conditioning and sweating, I also train emotionally: crying, yelling, and laughing.

I owe my training to none other than the incomparable and ever-amazing Suhaila Salimpour, who leads her students working at Level 3 and higher through intense emotional exercises to prepare us for performing true, raw, and honest personal choreographies. If it weren’t for her training, I’m not sure I’d be able to give so much of myself on stage, and I certainly wouldn’t be as mature and experienced performer as I am now. That said, I know I still have so much to learn… and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This little introduction brings me to write about “Grist”, the piece I most “famously” performed at Tribal Fest 8. It seems to be my most popular performance, but it was also one of the hardest for me to put on stage. Every time I have performed this piece, it manifests differently. Sometimes, as at Tribal Fest 8, it expresses as triumphant, but most other times it has come out as dark, brooding, angry, and sorrowful. “Grist” took on a life of its own. I created it in the summer of 2007, which was a dark time for me. Without going into details, I started questioning the stable things in my own life, realizing that they weren’t as stable as I had thought and they weren’t bringing me the joy that society tells us that they should bring. I was very unhappy. “Grist” was a physical manifestation of my frustration, my anger, my feeling trapped. The last time I performed it was the weekend before my marriage ended, and it was a “goodbye” to that part of my life into which I had invested so much time and energy. I haven’t performed it since that weekend in October 2009. For now, “Grist” is retired.

And yet, people ask for me to perform it. I’m not sure people understand how difficult it is to perform something like “Grist”. I’m not sure if people think it’s just an “act”, that I was just putting emotion out there for show, that it wasn’t real. Or maybe I really did strike an emotional chord in them, and that’s what they’re connecting with. And part of me, the professional, tells me that I should be able to perform it at any time. A professional can “go there” whenever she chooses, and she can walk off stage and return to the real world without a problem. I am still working on that elusive skill, and I expect to always be working on it.

Maybe one day I’ll perform it again. But for now, as I have been trying to travel the healing road, seeking joy and peace after the dissolution of my marriage, living out of my suitcase and sleeping on a friend’s sofabed for six months, and packing up all of my worldly belongings and moving to South Carolina, I want to create new pieces about this new chapter of my life. “Grist” is a collection of angry memories, and instead of looking back on them, I would much rather look forward.

Personally, I try to avoid the books on belly dance that urge women to “get in touch with their inner goddess” and prefer more scholarly works on the dance. I’m also a little suspicious of research without footnotes. That said, there really aren’t many works on belly dance that stand up to academic scrutiny because the history of this dance is so convoluted, and the first Western writings on the dance were mostly by European men who commented more on the “erotic gyrations” of the dancers than, say, where the dancers came from, the specific movements they performed, or why they danced at all.

By far, the best and most academic book is Belly Dance: Orientalism, Transnationalism, And Harem Fantasy by Anthony Shay and Barbara Sellers-Young. This book is a collection of articles about the various aspects of belly dance: dancers and social stigma in the Middle East, the inherent orientalism of the “Arabian Dance” in The Nutcracker, and the meaning of American Tribal Style. I highly recommend this one.

Another wonderful work of research is “A Trade like Any Other”: Female Singers and Dancers in Egypt by Karin van Nieuwkerk. Van Nieuwkerk explores the stigmas and stereotypes that female performers in Egypt face in order to make a living. An excellent work that looks past the glitter and glam of dance “over there” and gets into the nitty gritty of what life is truly like as a female performer in Egypt.

Although her research is a bit lacking in parts (footnotes/endnotes are also lacking), Serpent of the Nile: Women and Dance in the Arab World by Wendy Buonaventura has become required reading for every belly dancer. I would take the history in it with a grain of salt, but this lavishly illustrated book is a great introduction to belly dance for the new student.

Of course, The Tribal Bible, Exploring The Phenomenon That Is American Tribal Style Bellydance by Kajira Djoumahna is geared more towards dancers of the tribal persuasion, but it has some wonderful interviews with Masha Archer, Carolena Nericcio, Suhaila Salimpour and other innovators in the wider world of American belly dance. Unfortunately, this book is difficult to find these days, and it is a little out-of-date as it does not address the more recent phenomenon of tribal fusion belly dance as performed by Rachel Brice and the like over the past five years. That said, If you can borrow this book from a friend, it’s well worth a read.

Bellydance: A Guide to Middle Eastern Dance, Its Music, Its Culture and Costume by Keti Sharif is a lovely and beautiful little book that contains lots of information on the different subgenres of belly dance and the various steps and costuming specific to each. It’s beautifully illustrated as well. It’s certainly not a heavy academic work, but a good introduction to the various kinds of belly dance and Middle Eastern folkdance.

I hope that you find these books as edifying and interesting as I have.

Next up: Tools for creativity…

I haven’t touched watercolors since high school.  I took a course in oils in college, and I’ve been using pencil and ink on and off over the years.  But watercolors had been my media of choice back in the day…

You see, I used to draw and paint almost every day.  When I started to prepare for college and then actually go to college, my desire to create visual arts waned.  I hardly made anything.  I felt so out of place at my university–I was one of the few students there who had attended a large California public high school whereas many of my classmates had attended East Coast private college prep schools–that I wasn’t inspired to draw or paint.  I felt dry.  I felt dry for a very, very long time.  My inner critic had my inner artist by the throat and choked nearly every idea I had before it even had a chance to make it out on paper.

After I moved to Columbia, I decided that it was time for the critic to go away.  I wanted a space in which I could create without judgement, a little creative sanctuary.  I set up my drafting table in my bedroom, under a window as it used to be in my high school room.  I bought a swingarm lamp with a clamp that attaches to the edge of the table so I can work late into the night if I so want.  I stopped in at a newly opened art store here in Columbia, S & S Art Supply, and bought a set of fine-line rendering pens, because I love detail work.

Yesterday, I treated myself to a set of tiny water colors and a pack of nice synthetic hair brushes.

For the first time in a while, my inner artist is very happy.

And since this blog is about making myself say and express things that I find a little scary to share, I’ve posted photos of my recent art.

Untitled.

Untitled.

Flower

Here I’d like to bring to your attention the köçek dancing boys of the Ottoman Empire.  The köçek were entertainers, dressed primarily in female drag, and danced in the courts of the Ottoman sultans.  The culture of the köçek flourished from the 1600s to the 1800s, and started in the palaces and in the sultans’ harems.  Independent dance troupes helped spread the tradition of the köçek beyond the palaces and into greater Anatolia and the Balkans.  The dancing boys were, however, also available not only for entertainment purposes but also for sexual acts, available to the highest bidder.

Read more about the köçek here on Wikipedia.

When I was a figure skater, I entered local competitions in which boys and girls competed in the same categories, against each other.  It never failed that regardless of a boy’s skill, the judges would place him higher in the results than girls who were better skaters.  The judges wanted to encourage him, to make sure he didn’t quit skating, because there are often so few boy skaters and so many girls.  This phenomenon frustrated me.  And I think it would have frustrated me equally if the genders were reversed.  Skill is skill, regardless of gender, regardless of chromosomes (females having two X chromosomes and males having an X and a Y.  Other than that difference, male and female genetic make-up is fundamentally the same).  Why place someone higher in the results if they’re not actually worthy of that medal or if they have certain “bits” (as the Brits would say)?

Now, as a belly dancer, I’m seeing something similar.  We don’t have competitions in this dance (although sometimes I think mandatory competitions might be a good thing for this dance form, but I just don’t know how they’d be structured), so the question of “judgement” is left to the audience.  But it seems to me that male belly dancers, because of their rarity, are often put up on proverbial pedestals, with seas of screaming female audience members at their feet.  This is not to say that there aren’t male belly dancers who deserve such praise; Rashid from Bal Anat and John Compton of Hahbi’Ru being the first two who come to mind.

I think there are a few things at play.  (Again, I am not a gender studies specialist, and I know that many of you readers are more experienced in that field that I am, so please chime in.)

One is the encouragement of males in a female-dominated field.  Clearly, there just aren’t many men in belly dance right now.  It seems that we want to encourage the few men who do take a chance and try belly dance.  What’s wrong with that, you ask? My problem with this is that I feel like we should encourage anyone who wants to study this art form, regardless of chromosomes.  We shouldn’t be giving more praise and encouragement to one gender or kind of person over another.  It’s not just to give preference to one gender over another, not in belly dance, not in the workforce, not in art. Period.

The other is sexual repression on the part of the screaming women in the audience.  Have you seen the audience at a festival when a male belly dancer is performing?  I’m almost embarrassed for my gender at moments like these.  The screaming is so loud and fervent that it seems to verge on sexual abandon.  Maybe I’m sensitive, but I’m seeing this as akin to a group of men hooting and hollering at a female exotic dancer, telling her to “take it off”.  How would the women on stage feel if the men in the audience screamed with such abandon?  I have a feeling that many of the women would be offended, claiming, “this dance is an art and not for the sexual fulfillment of men!”  (We’ve all heard that line, yeah?)  Seriously.  Listen to the audience next time a male dancer is performing.  This is not to say that there’s anything wrong with sexuality or with male belly dancers, but take a moment, if you will, to reverse the roles. I’m just asking for a sense of awareness…. are you aware that the sentiment of the crowd changes when a human with an X and a Y chromosome takes the stage vice a human with two X chromosomes?  Or are you going along with the wave of excitement and screaming along without a moment of self-reflection?

Would you encourage that dancer the same way if he were a she? Or if she were a he?  Are you judging a dancer on his or her skills, not on the his or her gender, appearance, race, or ethnicity?  Are you aware of what your own personal evaluation of a dancer actually is?

I just want dancers to be evaluated on their skill, their presence, their technique, their emotional expression… not their gender.  Not their race.  Not their sexual orientation.  Not their ethnicity…  not their costume, not their music, not their gimmick.  Give me honesty. Give me dance. Give me art.

What bores me?  I don’t like watching a dancer who has no story to tell.  I don’t like watching a dancer who is just showing off technical skill with no meaning behind it all.  I often find performances that are just energetic and fun dull.  Performances that have put more thought into their presentation than the overall idea of their performance leave me cold.  What’s the point?  What are you trying to tell me?  What is your story?

I want a connection.

Art is about being raw.  Art is not always about being pretty.  Art is not just about having fun.  Art is about expressing your inner Shadow, your demons, your scary secrets in a way that not only provides you with catharsis but also helps others cope and deal with their own demons.  Art is about making a connection beyond, “wow, that performance was really fun!”, or “wow, did you see that girl’s isolations?”, or “did you see that girl with three swords on her head?”.

At the end of the day, I am a dancer because I want to make art, and I want to express my ideas, my demons, my dark elements in a way that feels natural to me.  I practice my technique because my technique is my medium, my paint and my brushes that I use in my performances.  I might not physically practice for 6 hours a day, but I think about dance and art from the moment I wake up to the moment I sleep.  I am not a dancer because I just want to have fun.  I am not a dancer because I just want to show off an aesthetic or my new dance tricks.  I am a dancer because I have things I want to say and ideas to express that I don’t know how to express by any other means.

I think I have figured something out, and of course I reserve the right to alter my conclusion at any time.  At the end of the day, I am an amateur philosopher.  I spend more time in my head than I do in my body.  I am a dancer, but without my musings on expression, art, and integrity, my dance is nothing.  Dance is a vehicle for my ideas, a means to express my ideals and my internal self. My body is a vessel for my contemplations.

My roommates, however, are much more connected, I think, to their bodies as BODIES, as physical beings.  When the three of us were talking about what we’d like done with our bodies after we have passed away (a morbid and yet fascinating conversation), they said that they’d like to be buried, particularly my dance partner Natalie Brown.  I’d rather be cremated. I’d rather return to the spiritual world, whereas they would rather continue to inhabit their bodies even after death.

Megan and Natalie often wake up and want to dance.  I wake up and want to think… and I’ve been thinking about my place as a dancer, as a physical being with a brain that won’t stop.  When I see my roommates just dance and enjoy the act of dancing without analytical thought… and I wonder, “how can I get there?”  And should I get there as a dancer? Or are my reasons for dancing just different, and should I just embrace my motives as they are and build on them?

I love the feeling of being lost in dance, but it is a rare moment when my frontal lobe takes the back seat and just lets my body do a majority of the work.

Is this a good thing or a bad thing, or is it just a thing?  Does this make me any less of a dancer? And what does that mean that I would rather embody my thoughts than my physical self? Does this harm my position as a performer, does it enhance it, or does it just make me different?

I’ve known for a while that my personality type is rare, especially for women.  In the Myers-Briggs lexicon, I am an INTP: The Architect.  The very first line describing my type on this website says:

As an INTP, your primary mode of living is focused internally, where you deal with things rationally and logically. Your secondary mode is external, where you take things in primarily via your intuition.

The second line?

INTPs live in the world of theoretical possibilities.

If you read the rest of the article, you’ll see where this conflict between my body and mind arises.

But is it a conflict at all… Maybe as a dancer, I am meant to inhabit my head and my ideas, whereas my roommates are meant to inhabit their bodies more.  What does that mean? Maybe that’s a post for another day.

Modern dance/belly dance fusion by The Power Company of Columbia College and Natalie Brown, director of Delirium Tribal Belly Dance Company, with live music by Raquy and the Cavemen:

Modern dance fusion by Urban Tribal Dance Company:

Professor Donna Mejia at TribalCon, performing her impeccable blend of belly dance and… everything. (Embedding disabled, click the link!)

Brittney Laleh’s hip hop/contemporary/belly dance fusion, performed with the Suhaila Salimpour Repertoire Ensemble:

Colleena Shakti’s flawless classical Indian-belly dance fusion:

Sera Solstice performing her blend of belly dance, modern, contemporary… with a touch of martial arts.

Theatrical fusion by Anasma of New York City:

The one and only Ebony of Washington, DC, performing her urban fusion style:

Shakra’s industrial, African, bellydance, gothic fusion:

…that’s just a small list of fusion that I like. These dancers know what they’re doing, respect the cultures and subcultures from which they pull, and they create with integrity.

In the world of tribal fusion belly dance, dancers have been taking every possible dance form and trying to “fuse” it with tribal style belly dance, or at least with belly dance.  I’m not sure why, but I suspect that most of this fusion is driven by a desire to come up with the next “new cool thing.”  (Of course, I could be totally wrong!)  We, as tribal and fusion dancers, almost take it for granted that we can take any other dance form in the world, mush it into a choreography, and present it at a fusion dance festival or show.  But what if we took our fusions to the dance communities from which we are pulling?

Because, I have to say it: Many fusions I’m seeing aren’t well-researched, deeply-studied, or solid… and I wonder why some are created in the first place because they just don’t seem to fit together well.  Some fusions I’ve seen are like watching a fish trying to ride a bicycle; sure it would be a cool sight to see, but why even try?

There.  I said it.  Sue me.

What if we took a half-assed fusion of, say, Hawaiian hula and belly dance and took it to a respected hula festival?  What if we took our “interpretations” of Indian classical dance and showed them to an audience of respected Indian gurus?  What if we took our strange blend of vaudeville, cabaret, and vintage dance and performed it for an audience of true stage performers and actors?  I might be going out on a limb here, but I suspect that those communities would react in several ways: They would probably be offended, confused, and might respect our already ill-respected belly dance community even less.  They might ask, “what on Earth do they think they’re doing?” They might also laugh at us.  (And this is not to say that all fusion is bad fusion.  There are some remarkable blends of belly dance with other world and Western dance forms.)

I’m not sure what the solution or approach is to mitigating this issue.  I understand that as artists we reserve the right to experiment, play, and try new things.  I’m not calling on people to stop having fun.  I am, of course, a fusion dancer: I consider my primary fusions to be tribal belly dance, oriental belly dance, and a bit of modern club dancing.  I’m currently in an ATS basics class; dancing regularly with two amazing breakdancers; and continuing my study of oriental dance, music, and culture. And I will say this: my fusion has been a completely organic process.  I haven’t tried to force any sort of styling into my dance for the sake of being “cool”, “different”, or to gain attention from the wider belly dance community.  And I’m not saying that all fusionists blend dance styles just to get noticed, but that certainly does happen.

I’ve been saying this for a while: there are some fusions that work and others that don’t.  To put it another way, peanut butter and chocolate might not appeal to everyone, but for the most part, it’s a really good blend of flavors.  Peanut butter and anchovies, though?  I’m not sure that’s a fusion we really need to have.

We have a responsibility to truly respect the cultures from which we are pulling when we fuse.  What I feel like I’m seeing in this community is a lot of, “Oh that’s cool! Let’s blend that with belly dance!” and not much more consideration before putting that new fusion on a stage.  Maybe, just for a moment, think of how members of that community from which you are pulling will react to your fusion.  Will they ask, “What on Earth are you DOING??” or will they compliment you for your tasteful blend of something that’s near and dear to their hearts with something that’s near and dear to yours?

“Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark. In the hopeless swamps of the not quite, the not yet, and the not at all, do not let the hero in your soul perish and leave only frustration for the life you deserved, but never have been able to reach. The world you desire can be won, it exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours.”  – Ayn Rand, from Atlas Shrugged

Some people have questioned why I am a fan, of sorts, of Ayn Rand, particularly as her philosophies have been hijacked by people calling themselves members of the modern-day “Tea Party” movement. (Her political and economic policies advocate laissez faire capitalism, which, I think if there were no greed on this Earth, might be able to work.  In this world, alas, greed is everywhere, as well as people and organizations to seek to take advantage and harm others.)

Well. Her fiction calls on the power of the individual to follow his/her calling according to his ability, which lies within his/her competence and knowledge.  Her heroes are strong, empowered individuals who fight against collectivism, the naysaying of trends and the masses, the mediocre and the apathetic.  Her heroes strive for knowledge; they ignore those who tell them what they’re doing isn’t “acceptable”.  They march to the sound of their own drum.  Her philosophy also advocates that one must not harm another in their pursuit of their vision.  To harm another means to mooch off of them; to have a victim means that you’re taking from that victim and not working on your own accord.  This aspect of her philosophy appeals to me very much.  Work hard, make money doing what you do best, and don’t harm others in the process.  Sounds like a good way to live, yeah?

If you know anything about me at all, you’ll see why these stories have inspired me so much.  My tattoo, the star in the circle, is not only a derivation of a logo used by the band Rush, but also a visual manifestation of these ideals.  The band’s drummer created the symbol to represent the masses, the collective, the mediocre, the naysayers – I put it on my back to remind me that I have a duty to myself to push ahead on my own, regardless of whatever obstacles come before me.  I am my own leader, and I will follow my vision.