We’ve all seen it: Someone posts an unsuspecting dancer’s performance on a bellydance discussion forum and other dancers jump right in to badmouth the performance as if the dancer in question has no access to the forum, and as if she or he would never hear that other dancers are trash talking about her.

The internet, with its convenient anonymity and inherent distance between users, is no excuse for demeaning or insulting language.

Under the guise of “protecting traditional bellydance” or “starting meaningful discussion”, I’ve seen conversations turn into bash-fests.  Just because you don’t know a dancer and you think her performance was not good, lacking taste, or otherwise offensive, that does not mean that you should insult her on the internet in a forum in which she can read the comments.  In my mind, this behavior is akin to schoolyard drama between pre-teen girls.

What are you doing when you bash a dancer on the internet? You’re probably trying to validate your own dance by putting down someone else’s performance.  Instead of spending your time on the internet looking for what’s wrong with someone else’s dance, I say go work on your own.  If there’s something about another’s performance that bothers you, and that person hasn’t solicited feedback directly from you or the internet forum in question, please don’t talk about that dancer as though they’ll never read it.  And if it bothers you, don’t do it yourself.  If you’re an instructor, you can teach your own students to avoid dancing like the dancer in question… but please don’t mention the dancer by name.

This sort of behavior does nothing to lift up this dance form.  It isn’t professional. It just isn’t nice.  I believe it does more damage to the reputation of the dancer doing the badmouthing than the one being badmouthed.  But maybe that’s just because I don’t like bullies.  And I know we’re not all nice all the time, but at least try when you’re speaking in public, especially in a forum that is searchable, archived, and available for anyone to read.

As a child, I was always interested in anything Middle Eastern, mostly in a fantasy context.  The Arabian Dance in The Nutcracker was always my favorite part of that ballet.  I constantly asked my mother to play her worn out copy of Scheherezade on the record player in the living room.  I would pretend that the oriental rugs in our house were magic flying carpets.  The Tales of 1001 Nights were my favorite fairy tales.

In 5th grade, I learned very basic elements of Middle Eastern geography.  Our teacher told us about Iraq and the basics about the Gulf War.  I never quite understood why the border between Yemen and Saudi Arabia was always a dotted line on maps, but I figured I would learn someday.  I didn’t understand much about Israel and the Palestinian territories, but I had an idea that it was contested.

It wasn’t until 7th grade that I really had any idea about the Middle East, its people, arts, music, or history.  And I stumbled into my future through something quite unexpected.

In 1991 I saw a trailer for Disney’s newest movie, Aladdin. I remember being so excited.  The art captured my imagination, and I got my hands on anything I could about the film.  I read up on the making of the movie, on the research the artists did on Islamic art to give the movie its look.  When I learned about Islamic art, I started to look further into the culture.  I remember dragging my parents to the Freer and Sackler Museums in Washington, DC, during our annual summer visit to the East Coast, because I wanted to see an exhibit there of illuminated Qur’ans.  I still have the poster I bought in the gift shop that day.  What started as a childhood fancy started becoming something near and dear to my heart.

My obsession with the Middle East carried on through high school.  I bought Passion: Sources during my Freshman year of high school, which first exposed me to the music of the Middle East, North Africa, and South Asia.  I listened to that CD over and over and over again, letting the melodies and rhythms feed my imagination.  It’s still one of my favorite recordings.  I continued researching what I could about Islamic art and other aspects of the Middle East.  During my senior year, I took beginner Arabic classes through the local parks and recreation department.

When I entered college, I discovered that my university had one of the oldest and established Near Eastern Studies departments in the United States.  With the department’s small student numbers and reputable professors, I was hooked.  Early on, I decided to major in Near Eastern Studies (before 9/11, i.e. before it was popular).  I took Arabic language classes every semester (but my brain has a hard time with languages, and I don’t remember as much as wish I did!). Even my University’s Arab Society considered me a bit of an honorary member, even though I am not at all Arab (and if I am Semitic at all, I’m part Sephardic Jew). When my friend (who also majored in Near Eastern Studies – we were the only ones in our graduating class who did) and I saw that the university gym offered belly dance classes, we decided to sign up.  Hey, it’s Middle Eastern and related to our studies!  Why not?  I took my first belly dance classes (with the amazing Kim Leary) in January 2000… and I was completely hooked.  I loved the music, the movements, the expression, and it was one more thing to bring me closer to this culture to which I have always been so drawn.  For my next four years or so of studying belly dance, I stuck very much to being a Middle Eastern dancer, dabbling in everything I could: Saaidi, Turkish Oryantal, Turkish Romany, Egyptian Oriental, Khaliji, Modern Egyptian, and American Cabaret.

So… you might be wondering what happened after that… well.  That’s a tale for the next blog entry.

So, what’s this year’s theme, you ask?  Frankly, I’m not sure.  Maybe it’s forgiveness, compassion, gratitude, growth…  Well, all of those things are important, but one idea prevails: Trusting my gut and my intuition.  Because my innards seem to know what’s better for me than my frontal lobe does.  Trusting my gut also means trusting myself.  Why is trusting your own self so damn hard, and why is it when we do, we feel so free and liberated, but we were so scared to take the leap?

2009 helped me realize the strength in myself and my abilities… In 2010 I aim to continue my journey.

How will this year help you?

Here are a few thoughts to get you started:

….

The following video made the rounds a few years ago, but it’s been a while since I’ve seen it re-surface:

(Or, visit this link.)

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.

I don’t mean commitment in a relationship sense.  This blog is certainly not to discuss those issues. But rather to committing to an idea or artistic endeavor, movement, choreography, or event.

I’m a procrastinator, and I know that the main reason I procrastinate is because I’m a perfectionist.  I wait until the “right moment” to do something – to write a new blog post, create a new workshop topic, make a new flier.  And I used to be a lot more of a procrastinator, but what I’ve needed to do is just commit.

This applies directly to dance and to art in general.  Anyone who’s read The War of Art by Steven Pressfield (read it!) knows that procrastination is a form of resistance.  Resistance prevents us from moving forward, from growing, from making progress and making art.  My hesitation to write a new blog post is not only because I am afraid that this post won’t be as good as my last posts, but also because I’m worried about making this blog post the most amazing blog post ever. Or, what if this just isn’t good enough?  If I’d just sit my butt down and write a blog post, then maybe I wouldn’t be worrying about all these things, and I’d actually write something worth reading.

When it comes to dance, these same concepts apply.  I see students in my classes hesitate in executing a technical movement, because they so want to get the movement right. (I’m terribly guilty of this myself, not only with dance but also when I was a figure skater.)  I’ll try so hard to get whatever technique correct that I won’t commit myself fully to the movement itself.  If I’m learning a choreography in a workshop and I forget a section, instead of dancing that part of the choreography at half effort–or worse, just standing there and not doing it at all–I should dance something simple with dedication and poise until I can catch up to the song again with the steps that I do know.

What we need to do is commit to the movement with the mindfulness to know when we’re doing it incorrect, but at least we’ve given it our best effort.  Rather than tip-toeing around the movement in an attempt to get it right the first time, we need to just jump right in and give it a go.

We also need a balance between gusto and perfection. While I admire a dancer who tackles a movement or a performance at full-force, such enthusiasm can also lead to a messy and unpolished performance.  But what’s worse is when an artist or dancer agonizes over one set or song so much that they never feel it’s ever right to perform, and then we’re all robbed of sharing that art.

Perfectionism is the enemy of art.  I need to remember that, and I’m writing this blog post to let you all that I am committed to writing more, even if my posts aren’t perfect.  I’m also writing this to remind you all to make art, even if it doesn’t always live up to your own personal standards.  The only way to improve is to keep creating and to learn from our own mistakes.

What you might not know about me is that this summer I have been facing a bit of an identity crisis.  The Asharah that you might hire to teach and perform in your city or at your festival is probably the Asharah of two years ago.  Angry and dark, and fighting.  But that Asharah has changed into someone softer, more delicate, and less discontent with the world.  What happens when you hire the Asharah two years ago and gets the Asharah today?  Do you appreciate the Asharah who is in your city now, or do you lament the fact that “she’s not what she used to be”?

At the end of the day, I am a belly dancer.  And within the genre of belly dance are a multitude of influences, styles, music choices, and costuming choices that I want to feel that I can explore and perform.  I want to feel free to change, evolve, morph, and experiment.

Like a rock band who has changed throughout the decades, playing different sounds, and eschewing popular trends, I want to feel as though I can follow my artistic convictions without being called a sell-out, or without my audiences thinking that I have betrayed them.

For if you are a true fan of an artist, you will change with them.  You will accept their evolution.  You will learn to appreciate and love their artistic explorations.  The Beatles of the early 1960s were not the Beatles of the late 1960s, but that does not negate the fact that I find all of their music entertaining and solid.  And of course my favorite band, Rush, sounds so different today than they did in the 1970s… and yet I love all of their work, partially because they have allowed themselves to change and mature.  (Not that I think that I am nearly as popular and amazing as the Beatles or Rush… far from it!  But hopefully you get what I’m talking about…)

I would like to state for the record that I do not consider myself only a “fusion belly dance artist.”  At the end of the day, I am a belly dancer.

Behind me I have years of training in oriental and tribal styles of belly dance.  If I choose to dance to oriental music, or a belly dance drum solo, don’t accuse me of “going cabaret.”  I have not “gone cabaret”; if you look beyond my costuming, you’ll see that I’ve always been cabaret (probably more cabaret than tribal, really) and I have always blended styles to create what I want to be.  I want to dance in a way that comes the most naturally and organically to me.  What comes most naturally to me will change from year to year, as it should.  A true artist is never satisfied with their current state.  As Bob Dylan said (he’s another artist who changed through the years), “He not busy being born is busy dying.”  So true, so true.

I refuse to be stuck in a box, or to keep myself in a box.  I draw inspiration from so many sources, so many dancers, so many artists, and so many musicians, and I want to feel free to pull from all of them when performing.  To call me a “gothic belly dancer” or a “tribal fusion belly dancer” is to confine me within a certain paradigm, a certain expectation.  And I don’t want to feel like I must live up to anyone’s expectation of who I am as an artist.

And… at the end of the day, I ask for you, dear readers, to do the same.  Feel free to change and morph and evolve… because that is how great art is made.

Many people value an up front, honest criticism, myself included.  I really appreciate when someone I admire or respect gives me feedback that is relatively objective and isn’t insulting.  I’m also a fan of the “Kiss-Kick-Kiss” method for longer critiques and reviews: compliment, criticize, compliment.

What I don’t appreciate is when someone is insulting or downright mean in their critiques and then try to frame their statements as “telling it like it is.”  If a student in my classes has lazy arms, I’m not going to tell her that her arms “look like shit.”  That demeans the student and creates an uncomfortable learning environment.  I will, however, tell her what she should do with her arms: “Your elbows are a bit low, and your fingers are limp – extend through the fingers and lift the elbows, and that will look much better”  The second statement is also “telling it like it is”.  Sure, the students’ arms might need work, so what about them needs work?  Saying that they “look like shit” doesn’t help. The student’s arms were lazy, so what about them can be changed to make them look better?  I don’t need to tell my student about her arms in a way that might make her feel demeaned, hurt, or belittled.  For me, the classroom should be a place where students feel safe, where they can feel that they can learn and grow to their greatest potential.  It is not a place for hurtful language or actions.  This doesn’t mean that I don’t expect my students to work hard and correct themselves when I ask them to fix something.  I just expect everyone to be respectful and kind, including myself.

Sometimes teachers hide behind the idea that they are “telling it like it is” when they use what could be construed as hurtful language in their classrooms.  I think this is a lame excuse for not being able to frame their crititques in a constructive manner.  Teachers who hide behind downright mean statements like, “your arms look like shit” seem to be trying to gain a position of power over their students.  It’s as though they’re saying, “I’m insecure, so I’ll make my students feel less-than so that I can have control and power in the classroom.”  Sure, their students might fix their arms, but they might also feel belittled and shamed in the process.  Shame has no place in a learning environment.

As a subject of excessive teasing and bullying from my classmates as a child, I learned at an early age that if someone is using hurtful language against another, that usually is a reflection of the bully’s own emotional state.  A child from an abusive home will act out against his classmates because he doesn’t know how else to express his pain.  If a teacher is using hurtful language, and then using “telling it like it is” as an excuse to use such language, what hurt or frustrations is she trying to hide?  What is hurting inside her that causes her to treat her students as less-than?

The next time you hear someone making an excuse for hurtful or unnecessarily critical language by saying that they were just “telling it like it is”, ask yourself if there could be a more constructive way of phrasing the criticism or hurtful statement.

OK, tribal and fusion dancers. I know we generally don’t dance to classic Middle Eastern music, but we should know these recordings and know them well. We should also be able to dance to them, should the opportunity arise. If you haven’t yet invested in a few good oriental music recordings, now is better than later. It’s a part of your education as a bellydancer. In my opinion, if you’ve been dancing for over a year there are no excuses for not knowing most of these songs. There’s also a reason these songs are essential: They’re damn good.

The songs with links to translations if available.  Hardly a complete list:

• Alf Layla Wa Layla (A Thousand and One Nights)
• Aziza
• Habibi Ya Ayni (My Sweetheart, My Eye)
• Enta Omri (You Are My Life) Sometimes transliterated as “Inta Omri”.
• Lama Bada Yata Sana (When She Begins to Sway)
• Laylat Hob (Love Night)
• Lissa Fakir (Do You Remember?)
• Mashaal
• Mastika – Turkish Karsilama
• Rompi Rompi - Turkish Karsilama
• Salam Alay (She Greeted Me)
• Sawwa (Vagabond)
• Set al Hosen
• Tamer Henna (Henna Flower)
• Zay al Hawa (Like the Wind)
• Zayna (Zaina, or Zeina)

Where do I find this music?

• Bellydance Superstars Volume 1
• Suhaila’s Surpreme Selections
• Jalilah’s Raks Sharki Volume 1.
• Jalilah’s Raks Sharki Volume 3.
• Jalilah’s Raks Sharki Volume 5. I love this recording.
• Masters of Bellydance Music Volume 1 and Volume 2

Please, dear fusion dancers, give these songs and these recordings a chance.  Not knowing these songs and not respecting them is like disowning yourself from your family.  And, who knows… you might find yourself loving some of these songs.

Before I left my day job, I had been reading several blogs on freelancing, escaping the cube, creativity, and simpler living.  (I also follow most of them on Twitter, which is how I found out about Pam’s DC workshop.) Some of these blogs include:

• Pam Slim’s Escape From Cubicle Nation. (@pamslim on Twitter)
• Jonathan Fields’ Career Renegade and Awake at the Wheel. (@jonathanfields)
• Michelle Goodman’s Anti 9-to-5 Guide. (@anti9-to-5guide)
• Seth Godin’s Blog. (@thisissethsblog)
• Freelance Switch. (@freelancesw)
• Dumb Little Man. (@dumblittleman)
• Zen Habits. (@zenhabits)
• Business Pundit. (@businesspundit)

To me, it seemed like the natural thing to do.  I wanted to start my own business as a freelance, independent creative contractor, in charge of my own schedule and my own life.  It seemed natural to want to approach dancing full-time as an entrepreneurial endeavor, so I wanted to read blogs written by and that inspire entrepreneurs.

What surprises me, though, is that many dancers, even and maybe especially the part-time professionals (those who are dancing, performing, and teaching for pay) are not looking at their dance as business.  They don’t file taxes with their state or with, in the case of the United States, the Internal Revenue Service (IRS).  They don’t have business licenses on file with their home city.  They don’t itemize their deductions at tax time (because they’re not even paying taxes).  They aren’t demanding that their sponsors obtain work visas for them when they teach outside of their country of residence.

This lack of business prudence indicates several things to me:

• We, as a community, do not place a high value on being legally official.
• We, as a community, do not think that we need to pay taxes because, at least in the case of the part-timers, we make very little.
• We, as a community, do not take ourselves seriously as businesswomen… Even though we are selling services, knowledge, skills, and sometimes products.

And what that boils down to, in my eyes, is a fundamental lack of self-respect.

We owe it to ourselves and the community to go to our local government authorities and get the appropriate business license to teach and perform (and sell wares). Plus, it’s a pretty awesome feeling when you come home with a business license to put up on your wall at home.  We owe it to our students as examples and mentors that belly dance is a legitimate business venture, something respectable and honorable.  We owe it to ourselves and our community to show that we can be professional artists in an obscure and often misunderstood dance form, and still be official and legal about it.

If you’re teaching dance or performing for pay, it takes only a few hours to set up a business as a sole proprietor.  If you have questions about how to set up an official business, take a look at the blogs I’ve posted above… or ask your mentors.  Ask me.  I might not have the answers, but when we fail to report our income and our expenses to our local and federal governments, what we’re saying is, “What we’re doing isn’t a legitimate business”, and therefore “What we’re doing isn’t legitimate.” It’s under the table, shady and hidden.

In my eyes, belly dance deserves better than under-the-table dealings.  It demands respect, which we all claim to want, but unless we can respect ourselves enough to look at ourselves as businesswomen/men and entrepreneurs, then how do we expect those NOT in our community to respect us?