Let's call a spade a spade: in case you haven't heard, the eleven months I spent in Paris last year was hands down the most transformative experience of my life. However many months removed -- eight, I think -- I'm still figuring out exactly how transformative and what the ramifications are.
I probably couldn't tell you exactly what happened. All I know is that I spent a good several months after I came back trying to reconcile the person I had been and the person I had become. It was like staring in a mirror and having no idea who the person looking back was.
Well, I'm going back. Five weeks to the day, to be exact. And I'm not quite sure what to think.
Of course, I'm excited. I've been told by numerous sources that they have never seen me so at home as when I was in Paris. I found something I wrote about halfway through my time there: I don't know if I love Paris, but all I know is that I fell into living here as easily as breathing. There are people I haven't seen in months, and the culture, the city, the food...
But I also know that when I left, I left some incredibly powerful energy behind. And honestly, I'm not sure -- and I'm a little concerned -- about what will happen when I reopen that existence. It's not anything I can prepare for. Hell, I tried to prepare for the culture shock, but found myself facing a monster whose face I didn't even recognize.
Of course it won't be the same. A lot of time has passed since I left, and I've changed again. But I do wonder.
And then there are times when I don't worry, and I just remember how completely and ferociously alive I was, and I can barely speak for impatience.
I may have to amend the title of this post. I'm not going back to Paris.
For a week, I'm coming home.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Here, have a part of my soul: Separating Life and Work
It's not late, not by most college student standards. For me, a bit. The later it gets, the shorter the time between now and when my alarm goes off.
Normally I'd be in bed. But I'm not. I'm here, writing this, carefully breaking off chunks of a chocolate fudge poptart and letting the knot of anxiety in my stomach loosen.
The piece I'm choreographing for my senior creative thesis -- which will also be performed in Paris as part of a larger festival of contemporary dance -- is the first time I have deliberately and intentionally crafted a piece, with narrative and spacing. Essentially, everything I've been learning, as a dancer, in choreography classes. As such, it's a first try, but I want -- as with any artist -- my craft to be complete now, so I can make the best choreography anyone has ever seen now.
First of all: That's ridiculous. My mom often quotes a zen saying, that you can become a master in 20 years, and if you try very hard, 30 years. In other words, it takes time, and you can't rush it. You have to be a novice for awhile. And trust me -- in an artistic world where validation is the law, that's tough.
The piece in question was not meant to be autobiographical. In fact, I'd like to say it's not. But today when the female dancer -- there are three in total, two male -- hurt her ankle, I danced the part and fell into like breathing. Oh crap -- a lot of me wound up in it.
I promise I'm going somewhere with this.
Today I had two visitors in rehearsal, people I very much respect and trust. And I was terrified. That's where the knot in my stomach came from. You know how it feels. That same, clinging feeling of needing validation, of wanting and hoping desperately that these people you like will like the piece, because their opinion very much matters.
Here. Have a part of my soul. Doesn't it feel like that? Creation, we think, is from us, from our souls, and my god, showing that is terrifying. The most you part of you, the thing that beats and loves and makes everything you are? And then you have to show it, and let it be judged?
Good lord, it's a wonder there even are artists.
But I realize that there's a trap there. Oh god is there a trap. Does creation come from us? Or the genii -- the daemons, the little spirtis -- in the corners, to use a metaphor from Elizabeth Gilbert? This piece was given to me. By who, I don't know and I'm not going to get into a discussion of the 'higher power'; I'm an atheist and it's not a religious blog, anyway. But Inspiration -- to be inspired -- is a funny thing, and happens in the blink of an eye. I'd like to think it's the daemons.
What are the implications of the artist not being the one who tries and in trying, creates?
Freedom.
You aren't responsible anymore, except to the spark of inspiration itself. The piece was given to me because my experiences allowed me to craft in such a way that it expressed the essence of the piece. Then all I can do is work to get it as close as I possibly can to that essence -- the thing that first inspired me to move in this or that way, to structure movement like this, or that. But then it is not mine, not mine to be judged, not my soul to be tossed from dirty paw to dirty paw like a precious gem.
The artist and his work have been inseparable since the 18th century at least, perhaps before. The artist has also become more and more self-destructive, and melancholy, and alone. No. Let's not fall into the trap. The artist's life is important in that it gives him the ideas and the possibilities to realize the work, but in entwining the two together, art becomes too personal.
It's why I can't dance the part, and why I don't want to. I may physically and emotionally be able to, but it hopelessly confuses what is me and what is the movement. The movement is mine because I channeled the idea, but it is not me. And nor should it be.
Normally I'd be in bed. But I'm not. I'm here, writing this, carefully breaking off chunks of a chocolate fudge poptart and letting the knot of anxiety in my stomach loosen.
The piece I'm choreographing for my senior creative thesis -- which will also be performed in Paris as part of a larger festival of contemporary dance -- is the first time I have deliberately and intentionally crafted a piece, with narrative and spacing. Essentially, everything I've been learning, as a dancer, in choreography classes. As such, it's a first try, but I want -- as with any artist -- my craft to be complete now, so I can make the best choreography anyone has ever seen now.
First of all: That's ridiculous. My mom often quotes a zen saying, that you can become a master in 20 years, and if you try very hard, 30 years. In other words, it takes time, and you can't rush it. You have to be a novice for awhile. And trust me -- in an artistic world where validation is the law, that's tough.
The piece in question was not meant to be autobiographical. In fact, I'd like to say it's not. But today when the female dancer -- there are three in total, two male -- hurt her ankle, I danced the part and fell into like breathing. Oh crap -- a lot of me wound up in it.
I promise I'm going somewhere with this.
Today I had two visitors in rehearsal, people I very much respect and trust. And I was terrified. That's where the knot in my stomach came from. You know how it feels. That same, clinging feeling of needing validation, of wanting and hoping desperately that these people you like will like the piece, because their opinion very much matters.
Here. Have a part of my soul. Doesn't it feel like that? Creation, we think, is from us, from our souls, and my god, showing that is terrifying. The most you part of you, the thing that beats and loves and makes everything you are? And then you have to show it, and let it be judged?
Good lord, it's a wonder there even are artists.
But I realize that there's a trap there. Oh god is there a trap. Does creation come from us? Or the genii -- the daemons, the little spirtis -- in the corners, to use a metaphor from Elizabeth Gilbert? This piece was given to me. By who, I don't know and I'm not going to get into a discussion of the 'higher power'; I'm an atheist and it's not a religious blog, anyway. But Inspiration -- to be inspired -- is a funny thing, and happens in the blink of an eye. I'd like to think it's the daemons.
What are the implications of the artist not being the one who tries and in trying, creates?
Freedom.
You aren't responsible anymore, except to the spark of inspiration itself. The piece was given to me because my experiences allowed me to craft in such a way that it expressed the essence of the piece. Then all I can do is work to get it as close as I possibly can to that essence -- the thing that first inspired me to move in this or that way, to structure movement like this, or that. But then it is not mine, not mine to be judged, not my soul to be tossed from dirty paw to dirty paw like a precious gem.
The artist and his work have been inseparable since the 18th century at least, perhaps before. The artist has also become more and more self-destructive, and melancholy, and alone. No. Let's not fall into the trap. The artist's life is important in that it gives him the ideas and the possibilities to realize the work, but in entwining the two together, art becomes too personal.
It's why I can't dance the part, and why I don't want to. I may physically and emotionally be able to, but it hopelessly confuses what is me and what is the movement. The movement is mine because I channeled the idea, but it is not me. And nor should it be.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
The Artist's Conundrum: Validation and Destruction
I'd like to talk about a struggle that is not necessarily exclusive to artists, but certainly particular to them. It's particularly prevalent in my life at the moment, or at least, it was this week.
Artists make art. I think we can all agree on that. Since the days of the Renaissance, art and life have become inextricably entwined, to the point that the artist is generally agreed to be expressing his soul in whatever he creates. Art is personal, and we as artists take it so.
Let me restate that: there is a prevailing feeling that, as an artist, you have to prove yourself to the world that the art you make is worthy, and by extension, that you yourself are worthy of being called an artist. It's a deeply vicious cycle.
You know the show "A Chorus Line"? It's like all of the characters in that show: cynical, desperate, wondering what they need to do to prove that they're worthy of the part. Life and the audition become one another. Life itself looks like one giant audition.
Conventional wisdom says we can't avoid that. If you're stupid enough to go into art as a career anyway, you sure as hell better be creating something worthwhile. It's a big struggle to be noticed, to get acclaim, to do something, to be something, to stand out. Right?
This past week I fell into the trap. I felt dearly as though I had to prove myself to my peers and my superiors and no one was buying it. I was looking for validation and ended up feeling decidedly shat upon. The result was a small incident that prompted a deep, burning rage - and by the way, I don't just get angry about things - and me in tears - and by the way, I don't just cry about things. It takes a lot to do both, and with one simple thing, I was at my worst.
That, my friend, is some high class self-destructive behavior.
But then, in talking to my dad, we started to discuss alternatives to this "conventional wisdom." What if we don't always go around trying to prove ourselves, and just create instead? Is that even possible? Can we get to a place where we don't have to satisfy the demands of our ego?
It's a subject for another post, but it's the life I'm trying to live -- the state I'm trying to get to. When all I have to worry about is staying true to the creative vision and artistic integrity of whatever it is I'm creating.
I'd say that's pretty radical.
Artists make art. I think we can all agree on that. Since the days of the Renaissance, art and life have become inextricably entwined, to the point that the artist is generally agreed to be expressing his soul in whatever he creates. Art is personal, and we as artists take it so.
Let me restate that: there is a prevailing feeling that, as an artist, you have to prove yourself to the world that the art you make is worthy, and by extension, that you yourself are worthy of being called an artist. It's a deeply vicious cycle.
You know the show "A Chorus Line"? It's like all of the characters in that show: cynical, desperate, wondering what they need to do to prove that they're worthy of the part. Life and the audition become one another. Life itself looks like one giant audition.
Conventional wisdom says we can't avoid that. If you're stupid enough to go into art as a career anyway, you sure as hell better be creating something worthwhile. It's a big struggle to be noticed, to get acclaim, to do something, to be something, to stand out. Right?
This past week I fell into the trap. I felt dearly as though I had to prove myself to my peers and my superiors and no one was buying it. I was looking for validation and ended up feeling decidedly shat upon. The result was a small incident that prompted a deep, burning rage - and by the way, I don't just get angry about things - and me in tears - and by the way, I don't just cry about things. It takes a lot to do both, and with one simple thing, I was at my worst.
That, my friend, is some high class self-destructive behavior.
But then, in talking to my dad, we started to discuss alternatives to this "conventional wisdom." What if we don't always go around trying to prove ourselves, and just create instead? Is that even possible? Can we get to a place where we don't have to satisfy the demands of our ego?
It's a subject for another post, but it's the life I'm trying to live -- the state I'm trying to get to. When all I have to worry about is staying true to the creative vision and artistic integrity of whatever it is I'm creating.
I'd say that's pretty radical.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
We meet again, wayfaring stranger
I figured it was time to restart the blog. You'll notice some changes, in the title, the look, and the link. The previous incarnation of the blog was "A Dancer in Paris", which is all well and good except that this dancer is no longer in Paris. The previous chronicle her year abroad, which I can safely say was the most life-changing, enriching experience that I have ever had, hands down.
Oh yes. That dancer, the one who was in Paris, is me. At least, I think so. We've met, and are learning who the other is.
So what can I tell you? The last time you saw me, I had lost my ability to speak. To this day, I struggle to find the words to say what Paris meant. Not the city, not by itself. The year. What happened. All I can say is that I lost everything and found it all twice over, and came out the other side a new -- and better -- person.
Right now I'm in New York. How long I'm going to be here is uncertain. Through June, at least, and in the meantime I'm graduating from college. Sometimes I'm scared, but mostly excited. So much time, and so much life. I have a lot of exciting projects in the works that will no doubt get references on the blog.
What is the blog for, anyway? I can't promise too much. You know me, and how I get distracted by life. I hope to just share some of my enthusiasm and the various lessons that get thrown at me, for whatever its worth. If only so I remember. (Remembering. Remind me to mention that later.)
And finally, what's with the title? The Pixie Dust Chronicle? I'm embracing my lifelong admiration of Tinkerbell - whom I always wanted to be when I grow up - and working to find my own magic. We could all use a little pixie dust, methinks...
We'll see each other soon, I think.
Oh yes. That dancer, the one who was in Paris, is me. At least, I think so. We've met, and are learning who the other is.
So what can I tell you? The last time you saw me, I had lost my ability to speak. To this day, I struggle to find the words to say what Paris meant. Not the city, not by itself. The year. What happened. All I can say is that I lost everything and found it all twice over, and came out the other side a new -- and better -- person.
Right now I'm in New York. How long I'm going to be here is uncertain. Through June, at least, and in the meantime I'm graduating from college. Sometimes I'm scared, but mostly excited. So much time, and so much life. I have a lot of exciting projects in the works that will no doubt get references on the blog.
What is the blog for, anyway? I can't promise too much. You know me, and how I get distracted by life. I hope to just share some of my enthusiasm and the various lessons that get thrown at me, for whatever its worth. If only so I remember. (Remembering. Remind me to mention that later.)
And finally, what's with the title? The Pixie Dust Chronicle? I'm embracing my lifelong admiration of Tinkerbell - whom I always wanted to be when I grow up - and working to find my own magic. We could all use a little pixie dust, methinks...
We'll see each other soon, I think.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
The abrupt and painful death of the blog
Yes, I know.
I haven't posted in months. Two and a half, to be precise.
This post is not a post. I would like to tell you everything that's happened and more, every moment that has passed, every stunning second.
But I can't. There are no words that can describe them, and to try and force them inside the box of language would be a disservice to you, me, and the memories. I will tell you, if you want, when you see me again, and hope that you can see what I truly mean in my eyes.
I could tell you the sketch, the outline -- this party, that party, this job, that trip, this meeting. But you would miss the underneath, the way it's shaping me and the way I'm learning from each moment.
No, this is eyes only.
Oh hell, this is impossible. I can't tell you, even if I wanted to, because I don't know how. I wouldn't know where to start, where to end, and where to go in the middle. So let me tell you that I am lost, and I found absolutely everything.
Cheers.
I haven't posted in months. Two and a half, to be precise.
This post is not a post. I would like to tell you everything that's happened and more, every moment that has passed, every stunning second.
But I can't. There are no words that can describe them, and to try and force them inside the box of language would be a disservice to you, me, and the memories. I will tell you, if you want, when you see me again, and hope that you can see what I truly mean in my eyes.
I could tell you the sketch, the outline -- this party, that party, this job, that trip, this meeting. But you would miss the underneath, the way it's shaping me and the way I'm learning from each moment.
No, this is eyes only.
Oh hell, this is impossible. I can't tell you, even if I wanted to, because I don't know how. I wouldn't know where to start, where to end, and where to go in the middle. So let me tell you that I am lost, and I found absolutely everything.
Cheers.
Friday, April 15, 2011
A new style, just for Paris
I am going to spend too much money on clothes. I have absolutely NO idea how I'm getting everything home (answer: I probably won't).
However, all I have in my wardrobe is winter clothes, and seeing as the weather is getting nice, that had to change. And while I was at it, I decided to go ahead and continue a style transformation that I've been working on and am just crazy about.
So here are my yeses for the season -- and a new, Parisian, rock and roll Gillian:
yes to natural hair color , no to blonde
yes to eyeliner
yes to bijoux (jewelry), especially clunky -- rings, bracelets,necklaces
yes to jeans and jean shorts
yes to light scarves
yes to plaid
yes to easy breezy tops
yes to edgy, yes to rock and roll, yes to chunky watches and the top few buttons undone
yes to androgyny and blazers and fedoras
yes to the look at me if you dare, swagger when you walk attitude!!!!
However, all I have in my wardrobe is winter clothes, and seeing as the weather is getting nice, that had to change. And while I was at it, I decided to go ahead and continue a style transformation that I've been working on and am just crazy about.
So here are my yeses for the season -- and a new, Parisian, rock and roll Gillian:
yes to natural hair color , no to blonde
yes to eyeliner
yes to bijoux (jewelry), especially clunky -- rings, bracelets,necklaces
yes to jeans and jean shorts
yes to light scarves
yes to plaid
yes to easy breezy tops
yes to edgy, yes to rock and roll, yes to chunky watches and the top few buttons undone
yes to androgyny and blazers and fedoras
yes to the look at me if you dare, swagger when you walk attitude!!!!
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Some time to breathe (and work on that paper)
I haven't updated in forever. I didn't bother to check how long but I know we're looking at three or four weeks. I apologize for my laziness but I have a good excuse: I very honestly have not had the time.
I performed with my choreography workshop at Paris 7 last week -- the 5 and 6 april -- as well as my solo on the 6th. The weeks before that were packed with rehearsals and a lot of various errands. I was trying to see people before the vacation and also get some work done on my research paper. It is going very slowly, though I do have an outline now. I also have three books just to start with and really, really need to get writing. That's what these next couple days are for, at least that's the plan. I was going to start today and then decided that I could take one day to just chill -- so I slept in, cleaned my room, did some groceries, got my haircut -- you know, the essentials.
The show, by the way, went really well. I had about ten friends who came to see me. The piece with Paris 7 was 30 minutes long and was an exploration of light -- we had all sorts of awesome special effects with the infrared camera -- like the traces of heat on the floor, echoes of dancers behind them...hard to explain, but it turned out really cool. The only problem was that we only rehearsed with all the special effects the afternoon of opening night and so naturally during the show, for whatever reason, the music completely cut out for about two minutes. We got it figured out eventually -- at least the techies did -- and the second night was just perfect. We took two curtain calls as planned and then were forced to come back for a third one because everyone was still clapping. It was really cool.
My solo was also much better received than the first time I danced it, though I did crash down on a few joints a little harder than I might have liked-- ah well, nobody noticed and they'll heal.
The theatre was a little strange -- we were the last show to perform there before they tear it down and there was a general sense that the techies had stopped caring. The first day of rehearsal the stage was absolutely disgustingly dirty and there were various cigarette butts thrown on the floor in the audience. I was not at all impressed but they did clean it up before the show, thank god. Otherwise it was kind of falling apart, but what hey.
A buffet was provided both nights for the dancers and it was actually really extraordinary. My dad was super impressed, and me too! It was like an extravaganza of bite size amazing little things.
Oh yes, the other major thing that happened was that my Dad came to Paris for a visit -- wednesday to wednesday. I put him on the train back to Charles de Gaulle at 9:15 this morning before going back to bed, rather reluctantly. A week is far too short to catch up seven months worth of talking and hanging out. The first couple days he was here, I had to get used to having someone else in my life, but once that got straightened out, it was wonderful and I didn't want him to leave.
We didn't do the tourist thing -- well, not really. We walked by the Louvre, the Tuileries, Avenue de Champs-Elysée, Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower...but just to see them. We also went to the musée Rodin and musée de quai branly...and for the rest of the time? We ate. And drank. And ate some more. A bistrot for lunch, coffee and/or a beer in the afternoon, and then in a restaurant at night. We ate a lot and well and talked and talked and talked...it was really wonderful.
In any case, I leave for Italy on Monday evening and will be staying for a full week. I am not taking my computer and will not be updating. However, when I get back I do promise to post pictures and tell you all about it.
until next time.
I performed with my choreography workshop at Paris 7 last week -- the 5 and 6 april -- as well as my solo on the 6th. The weeks before that were packed with rehearsals and a lot of various errands. I was trying to see people before the vacation and also get some work done on my research paper. It is going very slowly, though I do have an outline now. I also have three books just to start with and really, really need to get writing. That's what these next couple days are for, at least that's the plan. I was going to start today and then decided that I could take one day to just chill -- so I slept in, cleaned my room, did some groceries, got my haircut -- you know, the essentials.
The show, by the way, went really well. I had about ten friends who came to see me. The piece with Paris 7 was 30 minutes long and was an exploration of light -- we had all sorts of awesome special effects with the infrared camera -- like the traces of heat on the floor, echoes of dancers behind them...hard to explain, but it turned out really cool. The only problem was that we only rehearsed with all the special effects the afternoon of opening night and so naturally during the show, for whatever reason, the music completely cut out for about two minutes. We got it figured out eventually -- at least the techies did -- and the second night was just perfect. We took two curtain calls as planned and then were forced to come back for a third one because everyone was still clapping. It was really cool.
My solo was also much better received than the first time I danced it, though I did crash down on a few joints a little harder than I might have liked-- ah well, nobody noticed and they'll heal.
The theatre was a little strange -- we were the last show to perform there before they tear it down and there was a general sense that the techies had stopped caring. The first day of rehearsal the stage was absolutely disgustingly dirty and there were various cigarette butts thrown on the floor in the audience. I was not at all impressed but they did clean it up before the show, thank god. Otherwise it was kind of falling apart, but what hey.
A buffet was provided both nights for the dancers and it was actually really extraordinary. My dad was super impressed, and me too! It was like an extravaganza of bite size amazing little things.
Oh yes, the other major thing that happened was that my Dad came to Paris for a visit -- wednesday to wednesday. I put him on the train back to Charles de Gaulle at 9:15 this morning before going back to bed, rather reluctantly. A week is far too short to catch up seven months worth of talking and hanging out. The first couple days he was here, I had to get used to having someone else in my life, but once that got straightened out, it was wonderful and I didn't want him to leave.
We didn't do the tourist thing -- well, not really. We walked by the Louvre, the Tuileries, Avenue de Champs-Elysée, Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower...but just to see them. We also went to the musée Rodin and musée de quai branly...and for the rest of the time? We ate. And drank. And ate some more. A bistrot for lunch, coffee and/or a beer in the afternoon, and then in a restaurant at night. We ate a lot and well and talked and talked and talked...it was really wonderful.
In any case, I leave for Italy on Monday evening and will be staying for a full week. I am not taking my computer and will not be updating. However, when I get back I do promise to post pictures and tell you all about it.
until next time.
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