What's going through my head right now #28

´Movement is not yet dance'

The interdependence of dance and music is well known. It is also true that dance can and should stand on its own. Nevertheless, I repeatedly observe how dance subordinates itself to music. For while music always seems to be an independent entity, dance takes on an almost submissive position.

Today, thanks to the algorithm (which is, of course, very dance-heavy), I was shown another solo improvisation by a dancer on Instagram. To a well-known jazz song (Elvis Presley, ‘Unchained Melody’) with meaningful lyrics, an attractive dancer moves in the middle of a dance studio with mirrors and a few spectators in the background, contorting himself, playing with axes and dynamics, switching to a formal language only to dissolve it again immediately, his focus largely introverted, occasionally glancing outwards. A sequence of movements that eventually becomes arbitrary, follows no dramaturgy, omits feelings, and at some point, after 32 seconds at the latest, I scroll on.

It's not that I don't find this way of moving exciting, or that I don't appreciate qualities such as flexibility, sensitivity and articulation, fine tuning and admirable body control. But it reflects the current situation in the art and theatre world in numerous cases that I encounter with many choreographers and dance professionals: **Movement is not yet dance!**

Of course, one could say that Instagram is not theatre, and a solo improvisation in the studio is not a finished work. That's true. But when someone publishes something – even if it's ‘only’ on social media – they are entering the public sphere. And that raises the question: What do I want to show? Who do I want to reach? And why this music in particular? If the answer is, ‘It was just a finger exercise,’ then it belongs in the studio, not on stage – not even on the digital stage.

Movement only becomes something alive that can captivate and enchant us through an inner attitude, through the need for dialogue, through expression. The direct communication of rhythm, a beating beat that strikes you in the heart, allows you to perceive your own heartbeat, even intensifies it. Or the dynamics, the speed, the power that lies in a movement and is immediately communicated. The tempo of the feet or the almost slow-motion lifting of the arms above the head. The direct eye contact, the jerky breathing, the scurrying sound of feet on the floor, the gentle breeze that blows past you when someone does a pirouette. All of this draws me into this dialogue and, despite or perhaps because of its complexity, can trigger something in me.

This is less about aesthetics, less about circus-like skills and certainly less about tricks. When dance communicates, triggers something in us, we are drawn in and carried away by the physicality and sensuality of the dancer. If there is also a dramaturgical structure that provides a subtext, giving the arbitrariness of pure movement a note of content, then we are moving into the realm that I expect from professional dance makers. For then we are not in an almost therapeutic something wallowing in a swamp of movement, a space that I like to describe as ‘living room dancing’ (moving around unobserved in closed rooms for one's own sake and a purely egomaniacal physical monologue), but in a true dialogue addressed to one or more viewers who want to be engaged on different levels.

And this is where music comes into play. Of course, it is a motivator and inspiration. I myself have explored a wide variety of musical genres, composers and musical works. But I have also created enough dance works that were initially developed independently of music. Here, the music was incorporated more like a soundscape and was secondary, if not sometimes tertiary. For me, dance must also work without music, creating its own melodies, rhythms and atmospheres, because the human body has such wonderful possibilities to present itself as an instrument (audible and also silent) and make itself visible.

That doesn't mean that music is unimportant. On the contrary: when I decide to work with music, I make a commitment. Then I have to relate to it – whether in harmony, in contrast or in conscious contradiction. But I can't just use it as wallpaper that plays in the background while I lose myself in my own cosmos of movement. The decision to use music is the decision to choose a partner – and you don't ignore your partner.

So when this young dancer moves so beautifully, plays a world-famous jazz song (sung by a unique voice, no less) and publishes it, I expect a dialogue. Between the music and him... and thirdly with me, the audience, because why else would he want to make it public and accessible to countless people? But that didn't happen here. To let the music run as inspiration without addressing the content of the lyrics, to simply ignore the mood of the music, which immediately presents itself clearly, I find cheeky, if not disrespectful.

Using music, dancing to it, always means a responsibility towards the composer, the lyricist, the musicians who recorded and released this music. Equality comes to mind. This is not always successful, but you learn from it and take a closer look next time. It is not always clear whether the idea of interpreting the music, using it as a basis for choreography or improvisation (especially if you want to show it publicly), also fits together. You learn to sense whether you are only scratching the surface or whether the music is given priority and the dance is merely added as decoration.

As a source of inspiration, as a finger exercise, ‘trial and error’ or test run, something like this always works. This game and the search for the right ‘partner’ with whom you can step into the boxing ring and measure yourself against, grow and, at best, surpass yourself, is an exciting process, but not something I have to hold up in front of everyone's nose.

Meryl Streep said in an interview some time ago that you don't really need an audience during the development of a work, but should please leave them outside the door. Because it is a process. A process of trying things out. And when, in the end, there is an almost perfect, or rather successful, performance on stage that effortlessly and directly appeals to the audience, you don't see the hundreds and thousands of hours it took to get there. And that's a good thing. So when dance and music are successfully combined so that they go hand in hand, resulting in a symbiosis on equal terms, it is a wonderful thing that is usually immediately recognisable and palpable.

When I think of choreographers such as Mats Ek, Jiri Kylian or Crystal Pite, I see how it can be done. Mats Ek, for example, uses the dramaturgy already inherent in the composition to create a new approach to the story behind the music. Or Crystal Pite, who knows how to evoke emotions even in abstraction, thus adding another dimension to the music, amplifying it and making it more accessible. This is where the dialogue on equal terms that I am talking about arises. Here, the music is not decoration, but a counterpart.

For me, it's always about the whole. Because a dance, a choreographic sequence, an entire dance work contains so many facets that are brought together that simply moving to a piece of music (no matter how skilfully) is far from enough to make an artistically relevant statement.

This attitude has nothing to do with generational conflicts or nostalgic rigour. It is about artistic integrity: the willingness to really engage – with the music, with the audience, with the moment. And the clarity of knowing that not every movement deserves an audience. But every audience deserves an attitude. And that attitude should be sustainable, not just momentary.