Tonight I went to my first-ever professional modern dance performance. The closest I usually come to enjoying choreographed dance is through cheesy movies like Step Up, and for me the words “modern dance” mostly just conjure up a vague image of limbs snaking and feet stomping.
I read a fair amount about modern dance as a kid, though. For a third-grade biography project, I gave a presentation on Katherine Dunham, who, according to Wikipedia, has been called “the matriarch and queen mother of black dance.” Around the same time, I read Andrea and Brian Pinkney’s picture-book biography of Alvin Ailey, who was inspired and influenced by Dunham and who became one of the most popular figures in modern American dance.
It was the Alvin Ailey Dance Company that I saw perform tonight, thanks to free tickets from Metro Mag. Before the show, I decided to read more about Ailey—I figured he was more complicated than a picture book. I learned that he had been an activist, and that he was involved for a time with socialist and pacifist agitator David McReynolds. I learned he prided himself on his company’s multiculturalism, and that he struggled with mental issues and a constant compulsion to prove himself in the face of racism. I also learned that Ailey died of AIDS, a fact he asked doctors not to tell his mother.
When I saw the company was coming to town, I immediately thought of one illustration from the book, of Ailey’s major work Revelations. The story traces a through-line from Alvin singing spirituals and gospel songs like “Rock-A My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham” in church growing up to building his magnum opus around those very songs. Remembering the book’s vivid drawings of black dancers in colorful skirts and wide-brimmed hats, sashaying and waving fans, I was eager to see Revelations in person.
Sure enough, the triumphant last moments of the show made me shiver: It was the picture come to dynamic, fluid life. But for me, the moments of the show weighted with that significance—both what I’d read about Ailey and the larger themes of the history of black people in America—were the ones that stood out. I enjoyed parts of Revelations and the preceding pieces (especially a segment in Ohad Naharin’s Minus 16 where the dancers pulled a few audience members onstage for a lively round of cha-chaing), and I was impressed by the dancers’ grace and power, but I don’t think I could have written a real review of the show. It’s still an art I know virtually nothing about.
I’ve been thinking about dance lately, though. I write every week for MPLS.TV about Kickstarters I like, and I couldn’t resist donating to one for Aniccha Arts where the reward is a one-on-one lesson with the company’s choreographer. I may end up gulping, “Well, that was embarrassing, but at least it was a new experience,” but I’m intrigued to express something physically besides “I have a butt, and I want you to dance on it” or “I really enjoy the music of Blackstreet.” I’m looking forward to giving it a whirl.
