A Critic's Manifesto

I am of a dying breed: the dance critic/journalist. Or, yes our numbers have dwindled, but it’s arguably more that our habitat has changed. Our words once thrived in mainstream magazines, together building a conversation around the art of dance and its current offerings: its news, approaches, evolutions, and more. Now those same words mostly survive on the worldwide web (on smaller publications, blogs, and social media).

Such a shift reflects that in the wider mediasphere. The change seems particularly pronounced and stark in dance criticism, however. With dance as the “weird uncle” of cultured art forms (as I once chuckled to hear it described) – always swimming against the tide of cultural interest, mores, and dualistic understanding of existence (“I think, therefore I am”...versus

I move, and I have a body, therefore I am”) – ….perhaps that is not so shocking.

This media shift was accelerating as I graduated from The George Washington University, in 2011, a wide-eyed and naive 22-year-old. I wanted to write about dance. It was my dream. When professional work in the sector seemed fairly inaccessible to me otherwise, it would be a way to stay connected to the art form that had fully absconded with my soul. Yet I received many messages, from various directions, that I couldn’t make a living from that work.

I found my way back to that dream after receiving a Masters Degree in Clinical Mental Counseling: Dance/Movement Therapy, and then realizing I did not want to be immersed in a clinical line of work (no regrets – that educational experience still confers daily gifts). I will be forever grateful to individuals at Dance Informa, a publication for which I still write. That work also led me to many other valued bylines. (And my heart glows with gratitude for every one of those opportunities, as well!)

I wasn’t wrong to believe that I couldn’t make a full living from that work; I haven’t been able to occupy one of the small number of positions in this nation from which I could, and can (maybe someday I will). I have dog-walked and sat, taught yoga and other fitness forms, done social media and copywriting work….the list goes on. My stomach has rumbled from hunger at times when it all didn’t quite add up to afford living in expensive East Coast Cities.

Still, I say, no regrets. I persist in the work. Yes, I deeply enjoy it. It is a gift to experience thoughtful, skillful, simply put beautiful dance art, and then share that experience with those who read my work. It’s gratifying and inspiring to – on the regular – speak with dance artists making moves and making change. Yet I continue because of the impact that it seems to make.

From what I can see, I make artists feel seen, their work – their vulnerable and honest sharings, into which they have poured heart and soul – recognized, valued, taken seriously for what it is. Validation, affirmation, confirmation of the work's worth are all fuel for the artist. They need such fuel if they are to keep creating. They must keep creating if art, in its various forms, is to stay a part of our society.

Some may think I’m too “nice” of a dance critic (and maybe I am…I’ve wondered that sometimes myself). Some may think I don’t ask hard-hitting enough interview questions when I’m working on interviews and feature articles (perhaps I don’t). I do provide constructive critique and an objective view, as much as possible. I’ve heard from artists that such feedback also matters; it helps them to refine their work, and – in a wider, more collective view – the dominoes then fall to strengthen the art form’s overall output.

To me, however, the art form of dance and its artists need celebration more than critique. They need the practical support of amplification and media assets (such as for grants), for their performative and community-based work to continue (and I’ve seen the latter, both directly and indirectly, make a true difference). They need more of the general public to know about what they’re doing, to inform and educate (it’s not all critique, actually; that’s only one part of it).

Being an artist is hard; it’s vulnerable, it’s relentless, it’s both emotionally and practically challenging. And artists are humans. If I can make those humans feel a bit more seen, a bit more valued, a bit more like their struggle means something, then – dare I say – I’ve done something valuable myself.

There’s also the fact of concert dance being that “weird uncle”, one that often mystifies the lay population with every “weird” costume and abstract movement. They often ask “what does it mean, though?”. My work can provide some sort of answer that I see…or not; I can also convey the message that it doesn’t have to “mean” anything, it can just be something that is, that reflects an aesthetic and an atmosphere and perhaps makes them think or feel.

In a culture still spinning around each day on a foundation of “I think, therefore I am,” my work can help propose “well, what if you moved, what would you be then?” I can challenge readers to – gasp – be a bit more comfortable in a space of uncertainty, recognizing that curiosities and questions can be just as meaningful as answers.

I come with curiosity myself, rather than judgment; I’m only one person with one perspective, and art is inherently subjective. I wonder more than I dictate. From that space of uncertainty as I experience an abstract art form, how can I rightly do otherwise?

I’m not curing cancer or feeding hungry people or protecting the rights of the marginalized; I don’t mean to paint myself as some saint (I’m truly not). I only mean to say this is why I do what I do. Whatever an artist contributes, so long as it’s presented with thoughtfulness and rigor, it matters. We can have space for many voices, and I aim to celebrate what each voice offers, as much as I can. If reality never put me under lights on grand stages or in rehearsal rooms guiding remarkable professional dancers, I can at least shine more light on those who are in those roles.

I seek to celebrate the art form that reflects one of the oldest, most fundamentally human activities: moving together. Lights go down, bodies fill a space, and I’m there to honor what then happens. You can decide how much I succeed or don’t succeed at that. Either way, I’ll be there in that dark theater, telling the stories of its artists and what they make possible.