Zen and the Art of Solo Performance Practice

Here's a piece of writing about and from my lonely solo studio practice. This must be the extrapolation of the 7 minute solo I did on the Saturday of the Con-ference. I hope you enjoy it, I had fun writing it.

Zen and the Art of Solo Performance Practice

 

The sound of one hand clapping

Hello. Ree here, reporting from the border region outpost where, rest assured, I am single-handedly keeping dance improvisation alive for the betterment of humanity (or at least one human), despite a distinct lack of local interest. They say one monk given to meditation does multitudes to spread peace and the light of consciousness about him. I think one dancer given to improv, alone in a karate dojo 4 times a week, without witness or audience, arguably does something similar.

Whereas the monk sits alone on the cushion, I dance alone in the dojo: fearlessly and patiently moving through the boundaries and limitations (and swamps and quicksand) of my own mind, falling and flying beyond the frontiers into unknown territory, turning up again and again to no-one else but myself.

Oh, it's you again.

yeah, sorry, should I go home?

no, no, you're here now

I'm developing compassion, tolerance, kindness, a fondness even, for the dedicated dancer who keeps showing up. Who is in fact wearing down the critic who has always had an uncanny knack for inevitably showing up at exactly the same time (go figure!). I'm actually discovering some enjoyable and interesting (on the good days) ways to bear witness to my practice and keep it alive.

You know how it can be, alone in the studio: You catch up on sleep, ponder your relationship problems, stare at the ceiling, write in your diary, make up to-do lists, acquire the abilities of a zen monk to do nothing at all, and finally wise up and stop going to the studio alone.

For me at this time it's a case of dance alone or not at all. It's been fabulously cheap therapy, which I'm more than happy to spend some of my dancing time on. But it's a challenge to keep myself on my toes when I'm working alone almost all of the time. How do you stop yourself getting lazy and self-indulgent (beyond healthy levels) and maintain some rigour, when practice with an audience or a witness is a rarity? How do you keep yourself honest, playing the edge between the known and the unknown where improvisational practice is real, without the energy of an audience's attention and presence (or lack thereof) in palpable dialogue with you?

So what do you do in there?

I'd love to hear from others who've gone long stretches without a community close at hand, without a performance schedule to keep your attention tuned, and with more pressing excuses like paying the rent. I've tried not bothering at all, but it turns out I'm a Dancer whether I like it or not. So at least that clears that doubt up. I suspect we all go through this in some way at some time, more than once. The demands of life can create a distance from practice just as real as physical distance from the dance sangha. So what happens when the dance community you want just isn't there?

For what it's worth, here's an overview of my dancing alone experience. The stuff I describe has taken place within a variety of practice structures (all by myself) including no structures at all, warm-ups and scores (spatial, physical, poetic, ritual), setting of myriad tasks and setting no tasks at all, timing and not timing things, always noting/describing everything done and observed, and so on.

For a while I filmed my practice and watched it later, getting into a visual feedback loop. For a period, about 5 years ago, that feedback was invaluable. I'm pleased to have some of those documents. I often appreciate my dance more when I'm no longer in it. But I admit it's never taken hold as a satisfying process or method of reflection for me. I tried bringing it in again as my witness last year. Then my laptop camera stopped working (warning to mac users: my advice is stay away from Mavericks).

I've recently taken to writing haiku (well, using the syllable structure anyway). At least one a day for the past 2 months. My daily ritual dedication to dance, body, being and poetics. As far as a practice of reflection and presence goes (to my everyday, including dance) it's a good one. It's becoming the most succinct and honest diary I've ever kept.

I offer my dance

Inquiring of my nature

Risking the reveal

Dance like someone's watching

I often pretend you are in the studio with me. Of course it's not the same without you. I miss you. Nonetheless, I dance and I talk to you in my mind as I dance. I witness the difference between pretending you are my witness and having no witness at all. I watch myself step up, I feel the heightened tension which can so easily slip into anxiety. I tell myself to relax, you're not really here, now is the time to take a risk, surge headlong into unknown territory, wait, fall all the way back into a deep stillness.

Are. You. Watch. Ing. Me?

Did. You. See. What. I. Just. Saw?

Au. Di. Ence. Di. Vide.

That particular haiku emerged spontaneously last week, an authentic part of my imaginary performance improvisation. My very first genuine performance improv haiku.

Sorry you missed it.

This is the postcard version

I wish you were there.

But in my mind you were there. Can I call it a performance if I only imagined you watching? If I was utterly brilliant, but the only person there, did it happen the way I say it did? If a tree falls in a forest and no-one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Does the moon truly exist when no-one is looking at it?

Dancing with myself

I'd actually thought about calling this blog entry Dancing With Myself. But a while ago I heard someone reel off a list of songs about masturbation ('solo sex' he affectionately termed it) and Billy Idol's song of that title was on it. So I can't utter that phrase without linking it to masturbation. I've heard, I've seen, heaven forbid I'm sure I've done improv unfavourably accused of being self-indulgent, which I suppose is a non-crass way to say masturbation (in this example).

But that's not the worst of it. I've also taken to dancing with myself in front of the big dojo mirror. I no longer ignore my reflection (who else do I have to witness me)? I try to create some separation. I don't imagine the woman in the mirror is me. She inspires me more that way. And I judge her less, even when she's having a bad hair day. We laugh a lot (cry too), we play games, hide and seek, etc. She's a kook. I keep things sane and balanced.

Am I turning into a narcissist? Am I 'self-indulging' in dance? Am I kidding myself with the 'sane and balanced' comment? I do get lonely and it can get pretty weird in there. Is it weird to find yourself in duets with spiders or to join an ant ensemble? To be invoking Terpsichore and praying for invisible entities to come and inject some inspiration and something unpredictable into the dancing?

Dance as writing, writing as dance

No doubt I'm losing it, but all's not lost. There's some cool stuff out there beyond the frontiers, and when it's not cool it's usually character building. I do love dancing and writing. I always have. It's becoming more important now without regular practice buddies, feedback and discussion. But the dance as writing is its own bigger topic which I am playing with more practically in the studio. The writing as dance bit is what I hope we'll all share more of, extending our practice into dialogues by blogging (and completing your PhDs – no pressure!). Please write. Help stem my slippery slide into insanity.

Can you see me here?

Soloing for all I'm worth

Bated breath, all ears

Feed me extract of PhD. Slivers of scholarly richness. Morsels of modest musings.

Hope to hear from you

Send some postcards from the edge

Still wish you were here