WAYS TO DANCE

Uli Schmitz
Article written for the 1998 Internet conference on Art & Disability
Organized by the National Arts and Disability Center, UCLA

Consulting most modern dictionaries, the definition of the verb to dance appears almost surprisingly innocuous; to move the body and feet in rhythm, ordinarily to music, to move lightly and gaily, to bob up and down, or to be stirred into rapid movement, like leaves in the wind. Most of these phrases capture the innocent and essential aspect of a particular state of motion which is typically associated with a positive emotional mode and shared across the human species. However, these definitions hardly reveal the multitude of social functions associated with dance.

Even in our modern western world where dance has lost much of its ancient ritualistic power and its official status, dance is nevertheless an essential, ubiquitous part of human togetherness and thereby can be a carier of social values as well as a means to regulate social structure and hierarchy. This broad impact of dance is of course associated with the fact that dance is at once an established art-form with million dollar budgets and a very generic form of social interaction. These aspects mark the ends of the broad and amazingly colorful spectrum of dance. Despite the apparent gap between dance as social activity and as a performing art, there is ample connection and exchange and that is why the emergence of disabled dancers is an important phenomenon.

I grew up in Germany in a small rural community dominated by tradition and the catholic church. Disabled from polio in 1961, I walked with heavy leg braces and two canes, the epitome of the pitiful polio victim shown in countless TV ads for the new polio vaccine. Fortunately, I was able enough to go through the main stream school system and my parents made sure I had a place in the church related activities of the adolescent boys. Although I "had a place", I had a keen awareness what people thought about my body and ultimately, I figured, my place in the community. Back then, dance was purely communal/social, except for the rare occasions where we saw the Nutcracker at Christmas in the big town.

The highlight of our annual village fair was a big dance event held in a tent. These balls were an amazing reflection of the village's social structure and dynamics; who was there and who wasn't, who was drinking with whom, who was dancing with whom, who got to give toasts, who bought the drinks and so forth. Going to these events as a teenager was an important if not mandatory part of initiation and the pecking order among teenagers had a lot to do with how one scored on the dance floor. Not to be on the dance floor was to be out, like the old folks on the edge of the party.

It is almost surprising for me now to think back on how little room there was for adaptation: either you did what everybody else did or you did nothing at all. So, I didn't dance and learned to avoid situations that would underline that I was "unable" to do certain things. At the time, I was grateful to find a wide open disabled sports community where I met the physical challenge that adolescence demands.

Years later, while pursuing a graduate degree in science in a small college town, I saw the local ballet and some modern dance performances. Despite my fascination with physical skill and athleticism those dances did not touch me. To me, it all looked very similar, all dancers looked the same, had the same, skinny bodies. I walked heavily, was heavy and slow, and could not leave the ground. My body was the extreme other, not at the desirable end of the spectrum. I felt almost like another species.

Today, fifteen to twenty years later, I am still disabled but I found my love of dance--and I actually became a dancer in a modern dance company that involves people with and without disabilities (Axis Dance Company). In 1988 I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area for postgraduate work. Curious about American Christmas tradition, friends took me to a Nutcracker performance. They insisted on the Revolutionary Nutcracker Sweetie, an off-beat version of the battered original produced by Oakland's Dance Brigade.

Back then, I was flabbergasted by the kaleidoscope of different styles, from ballet to hip hop to native American dance. Besides showing me the link between dance as an art form and as a community celebration, I was deeply touched by the degree of inclusiveness achieved by the Nutcracker Sweetie. Beyond the display of the many facets of dance arising from the Bay Area's ethnic diversity, sign-language was naturally integrated in some dances and people in wheelchairs appeared as well, dancing with able-bodied dancers. At this event, the wheelchair dancers appeared simply as a colorful spot in the spectrum of dance, no big deal at all. The wheelchairs were no more than all the other props used in the production. To see wheelchair dancers in this context made it easy to realize and appreciate the different qualities of their movement; the fluidity, the effortlessness and the power that can be unleashed by an electric wheelchair. It became clear to me that this particular image of power, for example, becomes emotionally gripping because it contradicts the usual stereotype of the helpless disabled person.I would add to the definition of dance that it has the power to present a new angle of looking at large, convoluted issues, for decoding and challenging stereotypical notions. Another experience influenced my attitude towards dance dramatically. Despite my own joy upon arriving in the Bay Area, I could not but notice the pain and sadness that the AIDS epidemic was causing. Dancers were dying, and more dances were about loss and dying. Those dances embodied due acknowledgment and reflections of what was going on and watching them was one small avenue for me not to forget, not to ignore and to show respect despite my relative distance from the horror of HIV.

A little later, Bill T. Jones' Still/Here made the most lasting impression on me of any dance piece I have seen. He created a piece based upon the personal movement of the participants in his "survival workshops". These workshops were gracious explorations of how people dealt with illness and mortality. The humility and sincerity with which the well-trained beautiful dancers of Still/Here took on the simple, honest and at the same time flailing gestures of hope and despair showed me a whole new face of dance for me. Sometime between the Nutcracker Sweetie and Still/Here, I started working with Axis Dance Company, who I had seen perform in the Nutcracker production. Together with my able-bodied and disabled fellow dancers, I have danced on the floor, in a wheelchair, with leg braces and canes, hanging from ropes and pulleys and swinging on a trapeze. I am still at a loss for words to describe what it all means. But sometimes, after an exhausting performance, when I see parents with a disabled child among the crowd, I know that their world has become just a little bigger and slightly more promising. Even if the child never dances, she knows that she could.

There is a lot more that I want to add to the dictionary definition of dance. Dance is an amazing vehicle for exploring and processing essential, but nevertheless complex philosophical/emotional issues that often elude a more analytical approach. The universality of movement and physical expression can be a bridge between our individual worlds, and as a society, we would be silly not to use the full range of this vehicle.