Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
This post is also about ballroom dancing
Cooperation is good. Communities are helpful. People who are good at what you do can give good advice on how to do it. Success is making the most of the opportunities ahead of you, and often times those opportunities come via the people you know. Cassie's writer friend showed her a piece she'd written, and Cassie said, "You should submit that to Nature, because I know what they're looking for, and this is exactly it." So the friend submitted, and was published in Nature.
The problem is, I don't want to make friends with people who do what I do. If they're not up to my standards I hold criticism in my heart. If they're good then I'm threatened. It's not that I won't befriend photographers or writers. Obviously, I have friends who do these things, and do them well. But when I meet someone, the fact that they share those traits with me is a point against them. It's only later, after I have come to know and love them, that I can let go of my territorial instincts. Once there is an us, then we can be writers together. But when there's just two people, only one of them, and it has to be me, can occupy that space.
I'm not proud of this, and I try to squash it as much as I can, but the instinct is there. Part of this is competitiveness. And part of it has to do with identity. If I am used to being The Weird One in a group, then that becomes part of my self-identification, and if someone else takes that title, then I have lost a little of who I think I am. Which is why I don't bristle when confronted with someone who knits better than I do, or dances better, because I am not used to taking those things as identifiers. I actually do still bristle a little bit among drama people, because I used to be one. And even though I haven't acted on stage since my junior year in college, it bothers me that people don't see me that way.
I have complained a good deal, although not so much on this blog, about the interactions I've had with ballroom dancers. The in-club people stick with themselves, and barely even seem to see anyone who isn't in the club. I went to a ballroom dance, and the only people who said hi to me were swing dancers, who I had met just as recently as anyone else in the room. When I asked people to dance, no one actually refused me, but they still seemed to barely notice I was there. And I spent a lot of time standing in front of someone, waiting for them to acknowledge my presence so I could ask.
It's been pointed out to me that ballroom dancers don't necessarily come to it as a social activity. It's a competitive performance. And even when they're dancing "socially," they see it as practicing for the real thing, which is competition. So there isn't any point in dancing with someone who might not know every step that they do.
But I just realized that, beyond the difference in what we think we're doing at a dance, I am pushing a lot of boundaries. I'm nobody. And I walk in, obviously confident, stand in front of the class as if I think I'm teaching it (see previous post). I haven't paid my dues (I mean, I have literally, but not figuratively) but I expect to be welcomed into the circle. They're not being snobbish, not necessarily. They're being territorial. They're acting, actually, just like me.
The problem is, I don't want to make friends with people who do what I do. If they're not up to my standards I hold criticism in my heart. If they're good then I'm threatened. It's not that I won't befriend photographers or writers. Obviously, I have friends who do these things, and do them well. But when I meet someone, the fact that they share those traits with me is a point against them. It's only later, after I have come to know and love them, that I can let go of my territorial instincts. Once there is an us, then we can be writers together. But when there's just two people, only one of them, and it has to be me, can occupy that space.
I'm not proud of this, and I try to squash it as much as I can, but the instinct is there. Part of this is competitiveness. And part of it has to do with identity. If I am used to being The Weird One in a group, then that becomes part of my self-identification, and if someone else takes that title, then I have lost a little of who I think I am. Which is why I don't bristle when confronted with someone who knits better than I do, or dances better, because I am not used to taking those things as identifiers. I actually do still bristle a little bit among drama people, because I used to be one. And even though I haven't acted on stage since my junior year in college, it bothers me that people don't see me that way.
I have complained a good deal, although not so much on this blog, about the interactions I've had with ballroom dancers. The in-club people stick with themselves, and barely even seem to see anyone who isn't in the club. I went to a ballroom dance, and the only people who said hi to me were swing dancers, who I had met just as recently as anyone else in the room. When I asked people to dance, no one actually refused me, but they still seemed to barely notice I was there. And I spent a lot of time standing in front of someone, waiting for them to acknowledge my presence so I could ask.
It's been pointed out to me that ballroom dancers don't necessarily come to it as a social activity. It's a competitive performance. And even when they're dancing "socially," they see it as practicing for the real thing, which is competition. So there isn't any point in dancing with someone who might not know every step that they do.
But I just realized that, beyond the difference in what we think we're doing at a dance, I am pushing a lot of boundaries. I'm nobody. And I walk in, obviously confident, stand in front of the class as if I think I'm teaching it (see previous post). I haven't paid my dues (I mean, I have literally, but not figuratively) but I expect to be welcomed into the circle. They're not being snobbish, not necessarily. They're being territorial. They're acting, actually, just like me.
Ballroom dancing and black pointy hats
An anthropology professor performs an experiment with her classes every semester. She tells them that there is a "witch" in the class. This witch might be male or female, and is secretly the cause of all of their troubles. If they stubbed their toe, it was because the witch cursed them to do so. She then asks the students to write down who they think would be the witch. Since this is done in a large lecture class where students don't necessarily know their classmates, she has each student stand up, one by one, and say their name. One can expect that none of the students actually believe in that kind of witchcraft, and they have very little information available to make this decision. They have physical characteristics: appearance, dress, voice. And they have each person's name and place where they are sitting.
I would have expected that any pattern that emerged would point to the students who stood out, by appearance or speech, as being "outsiders." A lone Boston accent in the Midwest. Or the safety pin punk. It turns out that her students do overwhelmingly identify a specific kind of student as "the witch," but not by appearance. It's the students who sit within the "T" in a classroom: across the front row, and down the center. Those students are the outsiders.
On my first day of ballroom dance lessons, the leads and follows arranged themselves in rows on opposite sides of the room. I chose the front row because either a) I would pretty much already know the steps, in which case I might as well be seen doing it, or b) I needed to learn the steps, in which case I wanted the best view of the instructor. There was one woman who seemed to always be a little further forward than the rest, and so I used her position as the line where the front row should start, and I assumed that the other women were just sort of lagging back a little.
I later learned that the instructor had a pair of assistants, advanced students who could model the steps for the class, so that no matter whose part the instructor was demonstrating at the time, there would be at least one person modeling each part. That girl I was standing next to wasn't the front line, she was in front of the front line. Or rather, she was supposed to be. So, rather than just showing confidence or eagerness to learn, I was apparently also announcing that I thought I was helping teach the class. Oops. I might as well have worn a black pointy hat and a sign on my back saying "burn me."
So now, I hang back a little further. But I'm still the witch. I want a good view, and I don't really care what it looks like. Or rather, I care what it looks like, I just don't care if anyone likes me. I make sure to dance with the instructor after class.
(Which is, actually, what I'd meant to talk about in the first place.)
The thing is, these ballroom dance lessons are ridiculously easy. I may have only learned how to rumba a week or two ago, but a rock-step-outside pivot turn is the same step whether it's followed by a cha-cha-cha or just a step-and-hold. It's the same step in salsa, and mambo, and rumba, and cha-cha, and nightclub 2-step, and even if I didn't already know two of those five, we learned all of them in class. So when the instructor asks, after we've done a few steps in tango, if I've done this before, I'm not sure how to answer.
I think I learned in college that a basic American tango is one two three four five six seven eight, and the basic step (for the follow) is back, back, back-side-together. I doubt I've been taught anything more than that, but all I have to do is keep that rhythm and follow where I'm lead. So I step on one three five six seven and go wherever he puts me. If we were getting into the specifics of the hold and the steps, the line of the legs, the angle of my feet when they hit the floor, that's not the same. I don't know that. But all we're learning is one, three, five, six, seven. And I don't know how to answer his question. I've taken maybe two hours of tango lessons for a PE class in college. But I've been learning choreography since I was 9, and I learned how to hold a frame when I was 23. So I look at him and say, "um, sort of?"
I have the same problem when people ask me how long I've been swing dancing. Here's the timeline:
13 years old: I learn a basic east coast, triple-step, triple-step, rock-step, as choreography only (no actual lead-follow communication). I learn a basic solo Charleston. I don't actually do anything besides learn them once.
18-21 years old: I learn some turns in east coast, with an understanding that I am following a lead, but no real understanding of frame. I go dancing once a month. I take two lessons in lindy hop while on vacation, fail miserably (no frame yet), and forget.
23-24 years old: I take real lindy hop lessons, actually learn how to hold a frame. I don't go out dancing, but I take lessons once a week for maybe 6 months, maybe a year or so. Then I mostly stop.
27 years old: I join the U Iowa swing club, and for a year I manage to go to lessons once a week. I go to a few dances during that year, probably not more than 5.
28-31 years old: My schedule gets in the way, so I quit the club. I still occasionally go to events.
I could pick any of those ages and say, without lying, that I've been dancing since then. But I'm not really telling the truth, either. Usually I give a helpless shrug and say, "I don't know."
I would have expected that any pattern that emerged would point to the students who stood out, by appearance or speech, as being "outsiders." A lone Boston accent in the Midwest. Or the safety pin punk. It turns out that her students do overwhelmingly identify a specific kind of student as "the witch," but not by appearance. It's the students who sit within the "T" in a classroom: across the front row, and down the center. Those students are the outsiders.
On my first day of ballroom dance lessons, the leads and follows arranged themselves in rows on opposite sides of the room. I chose the front row because either a) I would pretty much already know the steps, in which case I might as well be seen doing it, or b) I needed to learn the steps, in which case I wanted the best view of the instructor. There was one woman who seemed to always be a little further forward than the rest, and so I used her position as the line where the front row should start, and I assumed that the other women were just sort of lagging back a little.
I later learned that the instructor had a pair of assistants, advanced students who could model the steps for the class, so that no matter whose part the instructor was demonstrating at the time, there would be at least one person modeling each part. That girl I was standing next to wasn't the front line, she was in front of the front line. Or rather, she was supposed to be. So, rather than just showing confidence or eagerness to learn, I was apparently also announcing that I thought I was helping teach the class. Oops. I might as well have worn a black pointy hat and a sign on my back saying "burn me."
So now, I hang back a little further. But I'm still the witch. I want a good view, and I don't really care what it looks like. Or rather, I care what it looks like, I just don't care if anyone likes me. I make sure to dance with the instructor after class.
(Which is, actually, what I'd meant to talk about in the first place.)
The thing is, these ballroom dance lessons are ridiculously easy. I may have only learned how to rumba a week or two ago, but a rock-step-outside pivot turn is the same step whether it's followed by a cha-cha-cha or just a step-and-hold. It's the same step in salsa, and mambo, and rumba, and cha-cha, and nightclub 2-step, and even if I didn't already know two of those five, we learned all of them in class. So when the instructor asks, after we've done a few steps in tango, if I've done this before, I'm not sure how to answer.
I think I learned in college that a basic American tango is one two three four five six seven eight, and the basic step (for the follow) is back, back, back-side-together. I doubt I've been taught anything more than that, but all I have to do is keep that rhythm and follow where I'm lead. So I step on one three five six seven and go wherever he puts me. If we were getting into the specifics of the hold and the steps, the line of the legs, the angle of my feet when they hit the floor, that's not the same. I don't know that. But all we're learning is one, three, five, six, seven. And I don't know how to answer his question. I've taken maybe two hours of tango lessons for a PE class in college. But I've been learning choreography since I was 9, and I learned how to hold a frame when I was 23. So I look at him and say, "um, sort of?"
I have the same problem when people ask me how long I've been swing dancing. Here's the timeline:
13 years old: I learn a basic east coast, triple-step, triple-step, rock-step, as choreography only (no actual lead-follow communication). I learn a basic solo Charleston. I don't actually do anything besides learn them once.
18-21 years old: I learn some turns in east coast, with an understanding that I am following a lead, but no real understanding of frame. I go dancing once a month. I take two lessons in lindy hop while on vacation, fail miserably (no frame yet), and forget.
23-24 years old: I take real lindy hop lessons, actually learn how to hold a frame. I don't go out dancing, but I take lessons once a week for maybe 6 months, maybe a year or so. Then I mostly stop.
27 years old: I join the U Iowa swing club, and for a year I manage to go to lessons once a week. I go to a few dances during that year, probably not more than 5.
28-31 years old: My schedule gets in the way, so I quit the club. I still occasionally go to events.
I could pick any of those ages and say, without lying, that I've been dancing since then. But I'm not really telling the truth, either. Usually I give a helpless shrug and say, "I don't know."
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Outtakes
I will probably not use this. But I'd like to keep it somewhere, just in case.
You start again, even though you have a short story due in ten hours for your writing seminar, which is supposed to be your major except that you can’t seem to write anymore. You come back to the darkroom the next day, and the next. You stop falling asleep to the sound of half-formed sentences. Instead, when you close your eyes, you feel your hand rocking, gently, up and down.
You start again, even though you have a short story due in ten hours for your writing seminar, which is supposed to be your major except that you can’t seem to write anymore. You come back to the darkroom the next day, and the next. You stop falling asleep to the sound of half-formed sentences. Instead, when you close your eyes, you feel your hand rocking, gently, up and down.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Washing, drying, and caring for your photograph
Buy a binder and a few sets of (archival, acid-free) plastic sleeves. Fill up the binder. Buy another one. Buy a portfolio on sale at the campus bookstore. Start buying archival boxes. You will move ten times in the next thirteen years. Each move leaves a little bit behind, so that thirteen years later all you have left from college are a handful of books you never read, and these boxes.
Here is the edge of a creek in Yosemite.
Here is a line of columns in Vienna.
Here are the bows on Mirriam’s back, fraying strips of calico.
Here is Judith, head tossed back, laughing.
Here is your best friend Sheila, sitting cross-legged in the studio. Her face is turned so that only the smallest edge of profile shows past her hair. A shadow runs down along one arm and across her body. She is half-silhouette, half silver. In a moment, you know, she will turn to smile at you, while you change film holders and prepare for another shot. You hold the photograph in your hands, waiting, but that moment never comes.
I have a beginning and an ending. I even have a few things in between. It feels good.
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