IMPROMPTU

This past Thursday after an unfamiliar subway ride into Queens, I found myself on a fairly desolate street.  Walking around with my map (yes, I printed out a map) I tried to find the theater where I would be watching and reviewing a dance performance in a mere thirty minutes.  Through two green garage doors propped open, I walked back to the theater which was tucked away behind simple glass double doors.  I sat in one of the two metal chairs in the quaint lobby space, and instantly began entertaining myself with my phone. 

Only three other people were in the room.  One gentleman was sweeping up the floor while talking to two girls (dancers, I assumed, based on their dress and makeup).  It was apparent that they all knew each other well as they discussed a previous night out and an upcoming party, going out to drink and dance.  The girls hugged the man goodbye and left, now leaving just the two of us in the quiet space.  I was busy glancing out the window, wondering if my friend joining me for the show was close by. 

The appropriate amount of time for awkward silence passed before the man acknowledged me.  We began to make small talk about how there are always so many last minute things to get done on the opening night of a performance while he adjusted a red shag rug by the theater doors.  Politely, I responded that I understood.

He asked if I was a dancer.  For some reason this question is always a struggle for me since I think of myself as someone who enjoys and takes dance classes regularly, but whose relationship with dance is more complicated – a dance writer, an occasional choreographer, a dance studio administrator.   This stranger didn’t need to hear my life story, I decided, so I went with a simple “Well, yes, I do dance, but I also write about dance and am actually here to review this performance tonight!”

A look of slight confusion swept his face followed by a sigh of relief and little eye roll as he sighed, “Ohhhh.”  An unusual reaction, I thought.  The casual vibe between us was instantly flipped as he extended his hand, haphazardly pushed the broom against the wall next to the table, and introduced himself as the theater’s Artistic Director.  He sat down, still seemingly taken off guard to see me, and probably because I was the only person there at this point, and fumbled for his business card.  I quickly dropped my phone into my obnoxiously large purse, self-consciously fixing my posture, as he began asking me about who I was writing for, if I had ever seen this dance company and so on – the norm.

It wasn’t so much what we were discussing as it was the circumstances surrounding this impromptu discussion.  There were clear roles we each had and were aware of – him, the artistic director of this theater that houses many a dance performance, and me, the dance reviewer (the only one scheduled for this company’s performance run, I later discovered).  There was certainly a mutual understanding of respect between us for each other’s purpose here on this specific Thursday night, but I also felt a sense of awkwardness. 

Having real, in-depth dance conversations is something I often (regrettably) attribute to my long-gone college lectures.  From time to time my editor will tell me anecdotes of her interviews and relationships with dance big wigs back in the seventies and eighties, but they are often surreal images of the past to me.  Most recently, I was pleasantly surprised to spend a good hour of a Manhattan night out at a bar talking with strangers about the controversial Darren Aronofsky film, Black Swan.  The twists and turns in these conversations, I noticed, always come in to play depending on who the conversation is with – a fellow dancer?  A performer? Someone who has no performance experience or invested interest?

Here I was, now unexpectedly discussing dance with the person who made this performance possible, and thus my reviewing opportunity possible.  His face lit up as he eagerly spit out information about all the upcoming dance performances at his theater as well as some site specific work he curates in the Queens area. Our conversation evolved into a discussion about how space and environment shapes a dance and he seemed genuinely interested to hear me speak of other performances I had seen at places like the World Financial Center’s Winter Garden.

“I really hope you enjoy the show, Jen,” he said as a few other people walked in, interrupting our semi-professional conversation.  I found it funny he called me “Jen” as I had introduced myself as “Jenny,” but it was also a sort of assertion that our conversation had gone full circle.  We were both back in the present moment - a more casual atmosphere, “just people” again, gathered with other strangers for a New York City evening of dance, performance and art.