Over the past couple of days, Kim and I have been discussing the concept of choreographing a dance piece to a fugue, specifically a Bach fugue. Intrigued by Kim's entry detailing the process from the choreographer's point of view, her adviser at Goddard recommended that each of the performers weigh in on what they find challenging as well. I am one of those performers.
The result was fascinating: All three of us handed Kim very different takes on what we found "challenging" inside the work (Read our responses here). Yet even more fascinating was the sudden realization that came to mind as I wrote my response. For the first time, I found myself putting a clear visual to Kim's style of choreographing versus my own.
We are both sculptors. Not literally, though I suppose my years of ceramics training somewhat counts! But that's beside the point. Conceptually, we are both choreographic sculptors.
When Kim and I walk into the studio, we each face a large block of clay. Yet while I'm a chiseler, Kim—I'm realizing—is a thrower. Traditionally Kim takes longer to dive into actual phrase work. She sees that block of clay and chooses to first soften it, add some water and break it down. She kneads it, works it, all before ultimately throwing it on the wheel.
For me, I walk in with chisel in hand, deciding where to make the first blow. Like David staring up at Goliath, I'm anxiously excited to make that first mark on my work. Yet right from the beginning, I'm creating a finished product. Whether I start in the middle, chiseling a torso, or start at the end by chiseling a foot, my work unfolds in fully developed sections with very little editing left in the end.
Intriguingly, this is how I work as a writer as well: Schools adore the "first draft, second draft" approach—a style I abhor for myself, as I prefer to carefully fine-tune every sentence, every paragraph to satisfaction before moving on to the next. As a result, in school my "first draft" was always my final, with teachers searching for changes to give me, and often coming up empty-handed. (Sorry to ruin your syllabus, past teachers! I'm not trying to be a perfectionist; it's just how I create.)
But back to clay. Once Kim's clay is on the wheel, a beautiful ever-shaping, ever-shifting experimental process unfolds. With each rehearsal, the clay spins steadily in her hands, with fingers gently nudging for new intricacies to appear. So too is this true in the studio, where often it feels as though Kim's our quiet, all-knowing tour guide gradually exploring the terrain of the piece as we go.
And then there's me: Chiseling away again, this time on a limb, a head, a set of sturdy shoulders. Occasionally I step back and look at my work. I like it. Sections of my clay are now sharply defined, while the rest still stands there, daunting, as a solid cube of untapped territory. I look over at Kim's. What the hell is happening there… She's spinning her amorphous blob of clay in her hands, occasionally ripping off chunks and rethrowing them on the wheel. I wish her all the best, but wow, I have no idea where she's going with that.
Back to my block. I glance at the clock and realize the deadline for the grand unveiling isn't all that far away, so I turn back to my work and begin to connect the sections: An ankle to connect calf to foot; a few missing vertebrae on the back to connect the spine… I stand back again—This time I see a full person greeting me in return, with just one small corner left to tackle. Truthfully, I'm nervous. There isn't much time left, and I don't want to chisel it the wrong way. But hey (I remind myself) at least I'm way ahead of Kim. How is Kim, anyway… Jesus! What the hell??
Kim sits across from me contentedly glazing (aka "layering the final sound score onto") her now fully formed masterpiece. Of course it's a kangaroo. How did I not see it before? It was in there the whole time! And now there it is, glazed, ready to present, finished…
But this isn't a race, and as Kim wanders off to rig up the lighting for our works' display case, I'm left staring at that one final unchiseled chunk. We both tackle our blocks of clay with the same amount of excitement, vigor, and purpose—we just each form the clay in our own unique styles. (But seriously, why does Kim always have to magically finish at that exact point when I get stuck.)
So that is my metaphor for who we are as creators, as told through clay. I can't say I have a definite answer for how I manage to consistently get past that final clay-corner hurdle, and yet I somehow always do. Sometimes it requires taking the piece home with me and staring into its eyes until it gives me the answer; sometimes it requires talking aloud with my sig other (Sean) who helps remind me what my goal for the piece has been all along; sometimes it requires picking up my sketchbook and literally sketching out possibilities until I choose the right one. Yet somehow—always—I cross that hurdle; Kim's thrown clay magically takes its shape; and we present our odd, yet striking, little duo in our display case on time and together to a sold-out crowd.
With our feature production Spektrel just seven weeks away, I wonder what corner will be left for me to chisel this time?
I'm thinking the hands… There's just so much I need them to be holding this show.
The result was fascinating: All three of us handed Kim very different takes on what we found "challenging" inside the work (Read our responses here). Yet even more fascinating was the sudden realization that came to mind as I wrote my response. For the first time, I found myself putting a clear visual to Kim's style of choreographing versus my own.
We are both sculptors. Not literally, though I suppose my years of ceramics training somewhat counts! But that's beside the point. Conceptually, we are both choreographic sculptors.
When Kim and I walk into the studio, we each face a large block of clay. Yet while I'm a chiseler, Kim—I'm realizing—is a thrower. Traditionally Kim takes longer to dive into actual phrase work. She sees that block of clay and chooses to first soften it, add some water and break it down. She kneads it, works it, all before ultimately throwing it on the wheel.
 | |
| Throwing clay on a wheel. From Bethan John's Trying My Hand at Pottery at West Dean College. blog.decoratorsnotebook.co.uk |
For me, I walk in with chisel in hand, deciding where to make the first blow. Like David staring up at Goliath, I'm anxiously excited to make that first mark on my work. Yet right from the beginning, I'm creating a finished product. Whether I start in the middle, chiseling a torso, or start at the end by chiseling a foot, my work unfolds in fully developed sections with very little editing left in the end.
 |
| Auguste Rodin, Thought, 1886-89, marble. reclaimbeauty.blogspot.com |
Intriguingly, this is how I work as a writer as well: Schools adore the "first draft, second draft" approach—a style I abhor for myself, as I prefer to carefully fine-tune every sentence, every paragraph to satisfaction before moving on to the next. As a result, in school my "first draft" was always my final, with teachers searching for changes to give me, and often coming up empty-handed. (Sorry to ruin your syllabus, past teachers! I'm not trying to be a perfectionist; it's just how I create.)
But back to clay. Once Kim's clay is on the wheel, a beautiful ever-shaping, ever-shifting experimental process unfolds. With each rehearsal, the clay spins steadily in her hands, with fingers gently nudging for new intricacies to appear. So too is this true in the studio, where often it feels as though Kim's our quiet, all-knowing tour guide gradually exploring the terrain of the piece as we go.
And then there's me: Chiseling away again, this time on a limb, a head, a set of sturdy shoulders. Occasionally I step back and look at my work. I like it. Sections of my clay are now sharply defined, while the rest still stands there, daunting, as a solid cube of untapped territory. I look over at Kim's. What the hell is happening there… She's spinning her amorphous blob of clay in her hands, occasionally ripping off chunks and rethrowing them on the wheel. I wish her all the best, but wow, I have no idea where she's going with that.
Back to my block. I glance at the clock and realize the deadline for the grand unveiling isn't all that far away, so I turn back to my work and begin to connect the sections: An ankle to connect calf to foot; a few missing vertebrae on the back to connect the spine… I stand back again—This time I see a full person greeting me in return, with just one small corner left to tackle. Truthfully, I'm nervous. There isn't much time left, and I don't want to chisel it the wrong way. But hey (I remind myself) at least I'm way ahead of Kim. How is Kim, anyway… Jesus! What the hell??
Kim sits across from me contentedly glazing (aka "layering the final sound score onto") her now fully formed masterpiece. Of course it's a kangaroo. How did I not see it before? It was in there the whole time! And now there it is, glazed, ready to present, finished…
But this isn't a race, and as Kim wanders off to rig up the lighting for our works' display case, I'm left staring at that one final unchiseled chunk. We both tackle our blocks of clay with the same amount of excitement, vigor, and purpose—we just each form the clay in our own unique styles. (But seriously, why does Kim always have to magically finish at that exact point when I get stuck.)
So that is my metaphor for who we are as creators, as told through clay. I can't say I have a definite answer for how I manage to consistently get past that final clay-corner hurdle, and yet I somehow always do. Sometimes it requires taking the piece home with me and staring into its eyes until it gives me the answer; sometimes it requires talking aloud with my sig other (Sean) who helps remind me what my goal for the piece has been all along; sometimes it requires picking up my sketchbook and literally sketching out possibilities until I choose the right one. Yet somehow—always—I cross that hurdle; Kim's thrown clay magically takes its shape; and we present our odd, yet striking, little duo in our display case on time and together to a sold-out crowd.
With our feature production Spektrel just seven weeks away, I wonder what corner will be left for me to chisel this time?
I'm thinking the hands… There's just so much I need them to be holding this show.
SPEKTREL
October 27 . 29 . 30 . 31
Multicultural Arts Center
Cambridge MA
I love this, it is great and pretty accurate of our processes that both result in developed striking unique work!
ReplyDeleteWhat actually struck me while reading (besides the "what the hell is happening over there?!" which definitely earned a laugh out loud, and the kangaroo... how did you know?) was actually our similarities outside of movement creation. Writing in school was a similar process for me; though I tended to start all of an essay's paragraph's simultaneously, what was handed in was always a final draft and completely thought out. I know we have similar viewpoints on group projects, and frustrations about surrounding ourselves with others that don't pull the same weight. Maybe this points to the fact that while we have vastly different processes, we have the same work ethic and that's why the processes can coexist so well?
I can imagine that if I worked the way I did, and regularly presented something sloppy that I didn't care to finish (and finish not even meaning masterpiece, but perhaps just at a stopping point along the way) it would be infuriating to work aside. Likewise, if you worked in your incredibly specific way but perhaps stopped before reaching an end (blob fingers and toes on your otherwise lifelike sculpture), it would be hard to be around time and time again.
Anyways, thanks for being a great partner and for this bit of comical/insightful reading!
What a great piece of writing here illustrating how different paths can result in creative outcome. I am glad you can trust each other as I know that is difficult to do when you have your own visions that need to be given life! I also know that as well as I know my daughter, I have never once seen her process as it appears she is just curiously exploring or playing when boom! There it is. It took me years to realize I would never see signs of her looking like she was plugging away at anything! She taught me how to trust in differences.
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