Yesterday, our director suggested this artificial form of inspiration was merely a crutch, stifling the growth of our professional artistry. So we kept the lights on. And I fell apart.
The first run was rough. I kept catching myself in the mirror, hating what I saw (dancer problems), and throwing off the piece. While I should have been deepening my plié and relaxing into the floor, I was self-consciously tip-toeing around the studio robbing this gorgeous pas de deux of all emotional purpose. So, after some encouragement to dig deep into my emotional history, we ran the piece once more. And I fell apart. In a good way.
Without the dim lighting helping me to feign dissolution, I was forced to crawl into one of the darkest corners of my mind. Here, in this routinely averted fold of grey matter, I became so distracted with the weight of my despair that I forgot to notice what my body was doing until the last chord rang out and our run was over. If that sounds dramatic, it’s because it was.