In the last of four texts on the theme of ‘critical distances’, writer and editor Kaliane Bradley recalls grappling with the grammar of dance – if such exists – as an outsider versed in a different language. Also in the series: Sanjoy Roy on navigating editorial dependence and independence; Dom Czapski on writing about a field that you are also personally and professionally involved in; and Budapest-based Lena Megyeri, on critical distances between eastern and western European writers.
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There is no such thing as a grammatically correct dance piece.
Even as I put the full stop on that sentence, I question its veracity. Who am I to pontificate about the ‘correctness’ of a dance? If I accept – as I think I must – that individual gestures may have mimetic meaning, and a sequence of gestures or movements might work within a relational system to convey an intention, then I am surely accepting a grammar of dance; and if there is a discernible grammar, does it not follow that there is a dance equivalent of an incorrect sentence, e.g.: In this medium, I ain’t know nothing?
My background is in editing. Other people write or translate books, and I work with them on the text to make it more betterer. I know a shapely sentence when I see it; I can spot a deliberate misuse of standard English grammar – for humour, for example – and understand its intentions. I’m sensitive to the demands of character, atmosphere and narrative as they are conveyed, ultimately, by combinations of 26 characters and judicious use of punctuation.
I simply don’t have any equivalent expertise in the world of dance. When I first started out as a dance critic, fumbling my way from a mentorship at The Place in London – part of their Resolution dance festival, which showcases new choreography and encourages new critics – to the pages of the Europe-wide Springback Magazine, I was armed with a lot of enthusiasm and the eyes in my head.
I’d come to the medium because I’d been affected by dance. ‘Affected’ is a good word for it – I’d been profoundly emotionally moved by a dance performance, and those emotions had a corresponding physical effect. The body keeps the score, even though we didn’t ask it to do that. My body was in a state of nervous, baffled excitement after a particular dance performance. Being neither a dancer, nor a musician, nor an artist, I had only one viable outlet for the emotion: I wrote.
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In the end, I had to embrace being a stranger
Writing about dance as someone with no ties to the dance world is a bit like trying to write in a language on which you only have the most tenuous grasp. Movement-based references to other dance pieces, to older styles, that reacted to older choreographies, would often fly over my head. Things I identified as unusual or confusing would often turn out to be deliberate stylistic quirks. Worse still, because I did have adolescent familiarity with classical ballet, I tried to ‘translate’ the contemporary dance I was seeing – which was limiting and blinkered.
In the end, I had to embrace being a stranger. If I didn’t understand the language of dance, then I had to make my own pidgin. Little by little, I moved towards – not perfect comprehension – nor academic exactness – but a freeing sense of fluent, if grammatically imperfect, communication. And it worked, because, unlike a printed text, the language of dance is in flux, changing from performance to performance, from audience to audience.
So, there is no such thing as a grammatically correct dance piece. But there is a language, and I feel as if I’m still finding much joy in getting betterer at it every time I see a new piece. ●
This ‘Critical Distances’ series is published in partnership with Mobius Industries – PR and marketing for performing arts, who contributed to publication costs while giving commissioning and editing responsibility to Springback.