One extremely important lesson I learned as a professional dancer is the necessity of daily discipline. Yawn. Sounds so rigid and boring, right? “I’ve gotta do something every day to move me toward my goals?” Yes. “I’ve gotta practice, practice, and keep practicing?” You bet. “I need to keep honing my craft little by little?” Darn tootin’. Professional dancers didn’t get where they are by spending their days lazing on the couch in front of the boob tube. We had to get up, get going, and shake our groove thing whether we felt like it or not. And, believe me, there were plenty of days when the last thing my sore, tired, rebellious body wanted to do was go to dance class. But practice really does make perfect. Get in the habit of taking daily baby steps toward accomplishing your dreams, and you’ll be amazed at the miraculous results.
Enjoy the next excerpt from
by Kristi Lynn Davis
Once the Mirmdance performance weekend was over, it was back to dance classes and auditioning during the week and Celebration Magnifico gigs on the weekend. I missed the regimen of the daily Mirm rehearsal schedule, but our funding had run dry, and I was forced to relinquish my short stint as a “real artist”—a modern dancer changing the world one “piece” at a time with sophisticated social commentary—for the commercial dancing that had the potential to pay the bills.
When I spotted an audition in Backstage for what looked like a promising dance show to be held in Japan, I was hopeful. Always up for traveling, I thought, “Why not give it a try? Japan could be interesting.” At the audition, we learned a short, choreographed combination and then were asked to do some improvisational dancing to sexy music. Having already done quite a bit of this type of thing with Celebration Magnifico, I was on top of my game and comfortable.
I got the gig and was overjoyed until Jenny warned me, “Did you know that girls from America have been hired to dance in a what appears to be a legitimate show and then were sold into white slavery once they got to Japan?” My innocent little spirit was crushed. I didn’t know if any of what she told me was true, but my imagination went wild envisioning what would happen if I took the job, arrived in Japan knowing no one and speaking not a word of Japanese, was forced to go topless, and couldn’t afford a ticket back home. I would be stuck like a clump of white rice on a burnt frying pan. The company name, NBC Productions, sounded legit, like it was part of the National Broadcasting Company, but for all I knew it could have stood for “Naughty, Bare-Breasted Cuties.” I decided to pass on the offer and be more discerning about what jobs I considered in the future.
In addition to auditioning and working to pay the rent, I knew I needed to take oodles of dance classes if I wanted to be fit and competitive. Let’s face it: I was also determined to be prepared for the next show that required me to bare my belly or be vacuum-packed in spandex. Dance class is a world of its own, with its special structure, unwritten rules, internal drama, and colorful cast of characters. It can be extremely intimidating if you don’t know the code of conduct. There is proper etiquette, and you’d better follow it or you’ll be ostracized or trampled at best and kicked out of class at worst. Survival of the fittest dictated that I pick up on the protocol quickly.
First of all, most studios follow a standard class format. Each session is usually 1 ½ hours long and is traditionally broken down into three sections: 1.) a warm-up (stretching, calisthenics, strengthening, and balancing exercises) done in one place in the center of the room or at the ballet barre, followed by 2.) moving dance combinations (choreographed turns, leaps, and kicks) performed from one side of the room to the other and back again, either one at a time or in small groups, preparing you for 3.) a short, choreographed “combination” (a short dance routine). The process is not unlike athletes doing drills in preparation for the game.
Second, you must stand in a “window”—a space not directly in front of or behind another dancer—so everyone can see herself or himself in the mirror. Dancers have an interesting relationship with the mirror, which we spend an inordinately long and probably unhealthy amount of time staring into. It starts out innocently enough—we really do need to see ourselves to know if we are doing the moves properly. But at some point, the relationship gets a little warped, and we can’t help but stare at ourselves in anything reflective. “How do I look as I walk by this window of the United Bank and Bust? Do I look fat?” Bottom line: don’t mess with a dancer and her or his mirror.
Third, one’s warm-up “spot” in the class room is of vital importance. The teacher’s pets would always stand in the front row nearest the teacher and the mirror. It took some guts to man/woman the front line, and if you did, you probably wanted to show off. As a newcomer, you had to be either really brave or really stupid to take one of the premier spots, for it would surely cause a ruckus with the divas who had long ago staked their claim on that part of the room.
If you were somehow able to wrestle a spot away from the showoffs, you had better be fantastic at doing the warm-up, or risk looking like a dancing fool. Plus, the people in back were depending on you. I was neither brave nor stupid, so I learned to strategically place myself safely somewhere in the middle of the room. That way I had people in front to follow and also behind me if we faced the back at any point, and I could still see myself in the mirror well enough.
Fourth, when dancing combinations across the floor, you must make certain that you start on the right beat. “Get into groups of four, and go every eight counts. Pay attention, and don’t miss your entrance!” the teacher would demand as we herded ourselves to the edge of the classroom and scrambled into foursomes. God forbid if you stop the traffic flow and waste everyone’s time. More importantly, get it right or prepared to be stampeded like an oblivious tourist at the running of the Bulls of Pamplona.
Fifth, if you talk during class, chew gum, or wear jewelry, expect to receive a public, verbal spanking from instructor.
Lastly, regardless of how much the teacher tortured or inspired you, always applaud at the end of class. The teacher earned the right to stand up front and is to be treated with respect.
Dance teachers, I discovered, are celebrities within the dance world and act as gurus with their own little following of devoted students. Each teacher has his or her own special style and warm-up which is generally repeated verbatim at each class. The more often you attended the class, the more comfortable and proficient you become with the warm-up and the style.
My two favorite dance studios were Steps and Broadway Dance Center, which were known for their top-notch jazz and tap teachers. Between the two, there was such a smorgasbord of classes that it was challenging to choose what to try. I sampled several before settling on a few favorites. Even the worst, I rationalized, succeeded in exposing me to new and different flavors.
For one class at Broadway Dance Center, we lined up at the ballet barre for the warm-up, and I nearly jumped out of my skin at what sounded like an explosive gunshot. I turned my head to see a jazz teacher who, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear was Sonny Bono whacking away on a hand-held tom-tom. The entire warm-up was done to the beat of his drum. “‘The Beat Goes On’ and on and on,” I lamented, recalling the Sonny and Cher song of the same name. Too intense for me. It felt more like an Indian Pow-Wow than a dance class.
An ex-Las Vegas showgirl taught me “tipping” and Vegas-style dancing. Up until that time, I thought tipping was something one only did at a restaurant or to cows in the country. In this class, I learned that it was a sexy, stylized type of walking where you move sideways leading with your hip. “Kind of fun, but who am I kidding? I’m no showgirl, and I’ll never dance in Vegas,” I said to myself.
Much more my style was the jazz class I took with the famous, funky Frank Hatchett, who had a large group of loyal devotees and even sold his own line of jazz shoes. I excelled at his high-energy, high-kicking choreography, as I could kick with the best of them.
My most unpalatable experience was the jazz class at Steps that began with a warm-up so complicated and contortionist that I’d have needed several months of practice and my bones removed to do it. The easiest part was something along the lines of splits, backbend, wrap your leg around your neck, and tie it in a knot. The regulars had these frenetic and wildly unpredictable movements memorized, so the teacher didn’t bother demonstrating for a new person like me. She’d go out for a cup of coffee and casually saunter back half way through the warm-up to find me flailing and flopping about, struggling to stay alive.
Steps should have had an agreement that the instructor had to actually be present in her classroom for so many minutes out of the hour-and-a-half in order to qualify as having actually taught the class. I should have asked for my money back, as a good chunk of the class I spent trying to use my dance ESP to figure out what the heck to do in her warm-up.
Natasha Baron’s jazz class at Steps, on the other hand, was so much fun I absolutely ate it up. She declared, “We dance so we can eat brunch!” Sounded like solid dance philosophy to me. Her class was challenging enough to help me improve without being too frustrating to enjoy.
I ended up having a few favorite teachers, all from Steps: Natasha Baron and Denise Webb for good old-fashioned jazz and Zena Rommett, who introduced me to floor barre—essentially ballet exercises done lying down on the floor. It was the perfect way to gently and safely wake up one’s muscles in the morning, particularly after a late-night margarita marathon. It was heavenly and relaxing, but still strenuous and toning and great for practicing perfect ballet technique and alignment.
Not only was I intrigued by the various instructors, but I was also mesmerized by the dance students, particularly those from the local performing arts high schools. These whiz-kids were a force with whom to contend. It appeared that all they did all day was take classes, and they were darn good at it. When leaping and jumping, they stayed airborne for so long, it seemed they were immune to the law of gravity. They could spin like a top and had muscles that knew no bounds of flexibility; they were Gumby in jazz shoes. These dance prodigies could have done the warm-up and dance combinations in their sleep. I was enthralled, intimidated, and thoroughly humbled.
Then there were the real professional dancers and the die hard ballerinas (a.k.a. the “trinas”) who were all skin and bones and wore pointe shoes in every ballet class. New York ballerinas duct-taped their favorite, comfy ballet slippers if they were falling apart and wore their dance clothes until they were rags. It was hard not to spend much of my class time either marveling at the amazing dancers or looking with fascination out the studio windows at the hustle and bustle of Broadway below.
One day while at Steps, I overheard the excited whispers of girls peeking into a particular classroom. “There she is: Brooke Shields!” I was star struck. I patiently waited until this famous actress’s class ended, acting nonchalant and completely uninterested but secretly peering peripherally at her like a hawk honing in on its prey. Then, when she headed to the women’s dressing room, I discretely followed her. When she went into a bathroom stall, I took the one next to her. Why? So I could say I peed next to Brooke Shields, of course. The next time I saw Jenny I said, “I peed next to Brooke Shields!” You never know the famous people you might urinate alongside while in New York City.
Although I was finally becoming more comfortable with the whole dance class scenario, I was also becoming more concerned that at about $8 a pop, this expense was really going to add up. Especially if I took one or more class a day. Fortunately, I learned that some of the big name studios periodically offered work-study scholarship auditions, and one was being held at Steps just in the nick of time. As a scholarship student, you worked the front desk or did whatever other menial labor was needed in exchange for free dance classes. It was worth a shot.
I auditioned and, by the grace of God, landed one of the highly coveted scholarships. Incredible! No more worrying about paying for classes! My assignment was receptionist-type work at Steps II—their second, smaller, less-impressive, sister studio down the street. It felt a little like being shipped off to no man’s land, but I knew how lucky I was to have the opportunity, and I was not going to complain.
What left the biggest impression on me at Steps II was the sixty-some-year-old retired professional ballerina who wore a turban on her head and was still a die-hard ballet class attendee. Still continuing her craft. Still doing what she loved, even in her seventh decade of life. “I hope I’m still taking ballet class when I’m an old lady,” I projected into the future. “But perhaps I’ll skip the turban.”
Keep on keeping on. Every day. In some small way. All your tiny efforts will miraculously add up, and you’ll be better, stronger, and closer to your dreams than ever before.
Take a bow,
Kristi
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