naked

Last night I went with my merry band of dance luvahs to Pilobolus at the Joyce theater. The last performance of the night consisted of the six dancers dancing for the most part naked (flesh-colored g-strings only). At first it was totally startling: four men and two women, all with amazingly beautiful bodies, moving with each other, rolling, tumbling and leaping. Intertwined in each other's arms, climbing each other's body, wrapped around each other's torso. And at some point soon in, i realized i'd stopped thinking about their nakedness physically and started appreciating how naked and raw their movement and expression was.

The thing i've come to adore and appreciate about dance is how it can express emotion, moments, stories, journeys without words—and since i'm a wordy-grammarian type who lives for words, there's that—yet the merest movement of a finger or wiggle of a toe, arc of an arm or angle of a hip can make me cry or laugh and totally get the story in no-seconds flat. (I also appreciate that everyone else is no doubt getting a slightly different story than i am.) I love it when it's gentle and i love it when it's a bit rough...when I swoon and when there are bruises. It's a language that relates volumes.

As I took in the naked beauty last night—and once i moved beyond my inner dialogue: check that lovely dimple in her thigh; holy torso, batman, look at the ripples of her abs; criminy, his arms are amazing; egads, his ass is unbelievable—I started to see it all as a whole. A beautiful landscape. It was as if by exposing everything and riding out the initial shock of all that, er, nakedness, nothing was scary (although a couple of times I winced thinking, Damn, that could really hurt if shifted even an inch to the right or left). It became about staying with the vulnerability and hiding nothing.


So the concept of exposure. Very often I've felt my self getting tired from holding onto the proverbial costume. Layers upon layers: a critical corset, soul-crimping crinoline, heavy drapings of brocaded self-doubt, all topped off with an ever-so-stylish veil of occlusion. But it looks fabulous on the outside...i think to myself. Though it's stiflingly hot in there. very little room for movement! It's like some kind of Victorian nightmare, when what i really want is to strip down to a little Victoria's secrets.

And that reminds me! On my birthday eve I took a class. I'd brought in my platform shoes, stockings and other drapings to prance around in. Right before going into the studio, an amazing dance friend gave me a little prezzy of a sexy burgundy, velvet, underwire bra (with a little black bow) and a matching-colored lace pantie, g-string and garter. oh-mi-gawd. Heaven. (and my song was Cheap Trick's "Heaven Tonight," a slice of my teenage confusion/sexual awakening that seemed ready built for a birthday dance). I draped on my gear, got up for my dance and promptly fell out of one of my shoes. I didn't hurt myself, but suddenly I was annoyed at wearing anything, so i pulled off the other shoe, slid off my stockings, pulled down the skirt until all i had on was the lingerie. It felt fab and i probably would have ended up in my birthday suit altogether if I hadn't kept some sense of being in a somewhat public space. Afterward the ladies laughed about how obvious it was that i wanted to rip it all off. It felt so good to feel my skin against the floor, the pole, my hands. all for me, though yes, people were watching. but they were celebrating, too.

And how I can appreciate this moment for my inner self? By continuing to move closer to exposing myself to myself without fear or judgment. just a little closer every day. My wish? To stay there a little longer each time. And be OK with whoever sees. To dance on my own stage fearlessly, tumbling and rolling and not afraid to get messy and naked with it. Victorian is good for novels, Victoria's excellent for lingerie, victorious is how i'm feeling on this journey.