What's going through my head right now #27

‘Ambivalence’

At the age of fifteen, I discovered dancing for myself. ‘Free dancing’. Detached from athleticism, ambition and the drive for perfection. A physical fulfilment and a very unique form of expression began to manifest itself. A kind of elixir of life.

At the latest after I successfully organised the first movement workshop in my hometown at the age of eighteen (while still in my final year of secondary school) – an intensive weekend workshop with six different dance classes and dance teachers as well as over seventy participants from the southern Black Forest – and subsequently founded an amateur dance ensemble – the Backstage Dance Theatre – the direction was set and clear: I would devote my life to dance for the time being. Completely. My private life would therefore always take a back seat, if not a back-back seat. In the years that followed, I developed some wonderful friendships that continue to this day, and I am still in close contact with many colleagues. In terms of relationships, however, most things were rather vague and short-lived. Moving around and the uncertainty of where I would end up next did not exactly help.

I have now been living for dance for over forty years. Nevertheless, a lot has changed in the last ten to fifteen years. My private life has increasingly squeezed its way through the cracks, gaps and empty spaces, repeatedly giving me a foothold and ultimately creating a balance that counterbalances dance, the whole artistic existence, and stands up to it. A balancing act, not always easy to manage, but feasible. And also healthier. For the psyche, the physique, but also for the soul.

Creative work, this immersion in an imaginary world, communicating these visions to other dancers, artists and the audience, absorbs so much space, energy and time. Lifetime. You can lose yourself in it. You can also lose touch with your humanity. Especially when success is palpable, the acclaim overwhelming and the career ladder seems to lead ever higher.

Of course, there is also the feeling and the special nature of standing on a stage, presenting yourself to other people without major restrictions, experimenting and embodying your innermost self. It's almost a privilege. And then there's the applause, the attention – the artist's bread and butter (even if that may not sound particularly desirable) – which is tantamount to a kind of admiration and expression of respect. Something that you can't necessarily preserve, but that you somehow miss when it doesn't happen for too long.

Over the last fifteen years, I have become quite reclusive here. I have limited my choreography to a few events. Even the urge to express myself through choreographic works, to convey stories, to communicate, has diminished. Spending time at home or in a protected space with my partner, dog, friends or family usually feels more valuable and fulfilling.

Nevertheless, there are moments when something like melancholy arises; missing this active, almost exuberant phase of creating, communicating, organising. Watching how, piece by piece, a whole emerges, a small, newly created universe opens up before you. This immersion and publication. The excitement of wondering whether it will be well received, whether it will captivate the audience, the reactions of colleagues and experts. All of this, the attention, the focus on you, has left its mark and become part of a long and important phase of life. I can't just brush it off and pretend it's no longer important. To simply disconnect from this thrill, but also stress, with all its ups and downs. That also means living and exploring boundaries (including all possible transgressions, both positive and negative). And yet: devoting oneself solely to dance also means renunciation. Renunciation of everyday life, of roots, of the quiet happiness of routine.

At the same time, however, I also feel a sense of relief. The relief of no longer being exposed to this constant pull that can completely engulf you. The pressure has eased. It has been replaced by an inner calm that allows me to choose more consciously – when to dive in and when to surface. So the question is no longer either/or, but when and how much.

But I also know that it is very difficult to strike a balance here. 50/50 doesn't always work. Either/or? And we know that every action has a reaction. So we need to learn to find the right balance, or rather, to alternate between engaging with art and then with life again. I can't say whether that's the solution.

In any case, I'll keep at it, because I've come to understand that ambivalence isn't the problem; it's part of the solution.