I have written numerous times about my late start in dance and the unusual path of my performing career. I have also written often of my nine year hiatus from dance, my slow return to taking class and my gradual cultivation of a teaching career that, quite frankly, I didn’t think could have been or ever should have been possible. Now as I stand on the precipice of a new year I am looking both backward at the evolution of my teaching career and forward towards its  future; a future that is once again fraught with uncertainty.

I started teaching, as many dance teachers do, in a neighborhood studio. Rita Hamilton ran her studio in Brooklyn with incredible integrity. She gave me my first teaching opportunity (taking a really big chance on a teacher with absolutely no experience) and guided me and mentored me for many years. I will never forget her. I will always be grateful for her guidance, love and support. And since her tragic passing, there is not a day that I do not bring her into the studio with me.

It was a chance meeting with Lisa Gajda, however, that led to the next phase of my journey. She recommended me to teach ballet at CAP21 (one of NYC’s top musical theater conservatories at that time). Having been primarily ballet trained and having had a career that lived mostly in musical theater, this seemed like an ideal fit. This opportunity lead to positions in other musical theater programs (including New York Film Academy and New York Conservatory for Dramatic Arts). Having started dancing as an adult, having trained completely in open classes and having been able to build a professional level ballet technique, I have always felt ideally suited to these musical theater programs who’s college-aged students often have no previous ballet training at all.

It was the always brilliant and always hilarious Stephanie Godino at the Joffrey Ballet School (who’s open classes I was taking) who, because of my training with and connection to the legendary Luigi, recommended me to join the faculty of that iconic institution. Joffrey welcomed me to the faculty and afforded me incredible opportunities. I first had the great good fortune to pass on the teachings of Luigi to both the Ballet Trainees and Jazz and Contemporary Trainees. Then I was offered the Dance History Classes for the Trainee programs. I was ultimately afforded the chance to teach both Luigi Technique and Classical Ballet in their open class program. And so began a new phase in my career.

A few years ago I started taking open classes at Ballet Academy East. Julia Dubno teaches an absolutely beautiful class on Monday and Wednesday mornings that fit perfectly into my crazy schedule. I am always astonished by both the beautiful elegant clarity of her class construction and her explanation and detailed teaching style. One Monday morning, during a casual chat before class, she offered me a faculty position at that esteemed institution. And so I became fully immersed in the open class fabric of New York City.

I have also had opportunities to teach at Broadway Dance Center, Hunter College, Marymount Manhattan College, The Kanyok Arts Initiative, The Manhattan Ballet School, Cora Dance and have guest taught across the country and overseas.

And everything seems great. And I know everything looks great (from the outside).

The hardest part of being a freelance dance teacher in NYC is the building of the schedule each semester. Every program in which I teach (except Joffrey’s Open Class Program) builds a new schedule each fall, spring and summer. Coordinating my availability with the needs of various programs is always extremely difficult and extremely stressful. I left a very lucrative non-dance career late in life and have many financial responsibilities. Sometimes I have more classes. Sometimes I have fewer classes. Sometimes it all fits together perfectly. Sometimes I still need to search out new places to teach.

The world is always changing. And with every passing year I grow a bit older. I now see students that I have taught go on to performing careers that are far more impressive than my own; something of which I am very proud. I have seen many of these students return to teach alongside me at the schools at which I trained them; something of which I am even more proud. But with the ever increasing importance of social media followers, the multitude of retired dancers from Broadway and MAJOR companies all seeking teaching jobs, the forging of new alliances with new programs and new institutions seems ever more daunting.

I am not, by nature, optimistic on my own behalf. I am, by nature, both patient and tenacious. And history has shown that this patience and tenacity have served me well. Scheduling has been very difficult as we start this spring semester. Once again the future seems uncertain. But despite my lack of social media videos displaying astonishing tricks, despite my lack of Broadway and major dance company credentials, I am looking to the future, through the lens of patience and tenacity, with eager anticipation, to my next dancing adventure. 

To quote Luigi: “Never Stop Moving”

From what I have read, it appears that imposter syndrome (the internal experience of doubting one’s abilities despite evidence of success) exists in just about very field. In arts education (and especially in dance education), it seems to take up a very particular residence in the hearts and minds of its sufferers. Although every well-educated member of the dance industry agrees that great dancers with great performing résumés do not necessarily make great teachers, the functioning of our industry presents quite a different picture.

Schools need students. Without students there is no need for teaching. And brilliantly famous dancers will attract students. And so dancers with with a history of fame and great careers are often given preference in hiring for both teaching and administrative jobs. These teachers are usually assigned the classes that are at the highest level with the most talented students. The image that this practice then presents to the public, and especially to the students, is that these teachers are “ the best”. And sometimes they are. And sometimes they are not.

Some years ago, while employed by a well respected conservatory, I overheard a conversation in which one administrator said to another: “Broadway credits! We need faculty with Broadway credits”. For years I taught at that school. For years I meticulously planned every lesson. For years I adjusted and refined my curriculum to suit the teenage beginners placed in my charge. And for years I got a consistent result out of them. But I was always given very few classes, and never shown any real respect, while new hires with little teaching experience (but Broadway credits) were given full class loads and “plumb classes”. And so after overhearing that conversation, I knew that despite my professional performing career, without that Broadway résumé I would never be “good enough” for this school to earn their respect. And so at the end of the semester, I quit. But years of being on the receiving end of this sort of practice, behavior and decision making, can create an endless loop of self-doubt. And when one teaches open classes in New York City the problem is compounded; there are so many classes, so many teachers, so many choices and so much competition for students that it is ever more difficult not to base your self-worth and self-esteem on the size of your class. It is incumbent upon us to not only BE an expert but to PRESENT as an expert and to be SEEN by the students as an expert. The problem is made even harder to deal with as studio directors must craft a schedule and select teachers that will fill the rooms. 

So to be clear, I am not writing this to elicit an endless stream of compliments and support. Although usually heartfelt and honest, those comments are rarely truly helpful. I am writing to present my viewpoint and experience and perhaps spur a discussion.

As most of my readers know, I was an adult beginner and trained completely in open classes (although, at the time that I trained, the open class system looked very different). My pedagogical approach is, therefore, rooted in my ability to put together all of the disparate training methods that I encountered from a multitude of teachers. I never had a conservatory education. And now, as I have become a teacher working in this very system, I continue to train, I continue to study, I continue to take classes as often as I can. For me, the continuous quest for information, the endless refinement of technique and the ongoing search for ever deeper artistry is at the very core of what I did as a dancer, and what I now bring to my students as a teacher. Among my students are retired Ballet and Broadway professionals, working Broadway ensemble dancers and choreographers, aspiring hopefuls and passionate amateurs. I owe them my very best. And my classes are full. And my students are devoted. And that nagging nay-saying voice in my head has finally quieted (for the most part).

I also endeavor to be ever supportive of my colleagues in this industry. There are so many wonderful open class teachers who helped me on the road to becoming a professional dancer and who greatly impacted my journey into teaching. If a colleague’s name comes up in a discussion with a student I try never to be negative or disparaging toward that colleague. If it is someone that I respect, I will encourage the student to take that teacher’s class. And if it is someone who I believe is qualified but of whom I am not a fan, I might say something like: “why don’t you give their class a try and see if you like it?”. Not every teacher is the right fit for every student. Everyone has their fans.

I will continue to teach and continue to search for ways to reach, help and inspire my students. I have no choice; it is simply what I do. And as my classes grow and my reach continues to widen, that pesky voice grows ever quieter.

So to all the open class teachers that guided me to the stage, to all the open class teachers who helped me transition to the studio and to all the open class teachers who help me continue to grow through their beautiful thoughtful teaching and shining example, I extend a heartfelt “thank you”. 

“Never Stop Moving”

Luigi, Gabriella Darvash, Debby Cruz (aka Diane Bryan), David Storey, David Howard, Lisa Lockwood, Richard Pierlon, Elena Kunikova, Zvi Gotheiner, Lisa Gajda, Stephanie Godino, Julia Dubno, Antoinette Peloso, Fabrice Herault, Pamela Pribisco, Noriko Hara, Linda Gelinas, Suzy Goldman, Nina Goldman, Lorna Zawacki, Heather Hawk, Ginger Thatcher, Julie Voshell, Selina Chau and my deepest thanks and sincere apologies to the beautiful teachers who have touched my life and I might have accidentally left off this list.

Artistry, Emotion, Feeling and the Importance of Technique

I vividly remember when I realized that I had to become a dancer. It was 1975. I was seated in the darkened 46th Street Theater. I was experiencing my third Broadway show: the newly opened, original production of Chicago. I was seeing, for the first time, the brilliant dancing of Gwen Verdon and Chita Rivera and the legendary choreography of the masterful Bob Fosse. That realization was confirmed in my mind and my heart, shortly thereafter, watching Donna McKechnie in her Tony winning performance in A Chorus Line and Cynthia Gregory dancing her signature role of Odette-Odile in Swan Lake. As I look back 50 years on those performances, I remember very little of what these dancers actually did. There is some video footage available of bits of these performances, and these videos are wonderful reminders. But as I search my memories, as I reflect back into the deepest corners of my recollections, I can remember very little about what they actually did. What I do remember, what is still fresh and vibrant and alive, is the remembrance of how they made me feel.

Some years later I arrived at the studio of the Jazz Master, Luigi. It was here that I would begin my adventure. I decided that it was here that I would start the long, arduous, exhausting journey to become a dancer. I knew nothing about Luigi. I knew nothing about dance training. I was 25 years old and I had been told by a friend that Luigi was good with adult beginners. And so it was here that I took my first steps.

Luigi was very famous and has been quoted many times. Two of the things that I remember hearing very early on in my training with him (and that I would hear repeatedly throughout the decades) were: “Feel from the inside; find the right feeling and the right sound inside of you.” and “To dance, put your hand on your heart and listen to the sound of your soul.”.

I had no previous dance experience. I had no other dance teachers. So I logically assumed that this was how dance was taught. For those unfamiliar with Luigi’s technique, it is the first codified technique for teaching jazz. It has a complex series of graded/leveled “technique exercises” based in the Cecchetti Ballet system. His jazz technique also includes a complete set of rules for epaulment (not unlike those for ballet) which adds a beautiful polish and finish to the work. There is also a rich and complex approach to musicality in the choreography employed in the training.

But the core of the work, the very soul of the approach, is the feeling.

Luigi taught us technique. We all took a class that he simply called “Technique” in which there was no choreography. We would spend 90 minutes, twice a week, listening to him explain the fine points of his exercises, the details of placement, turnout and alignment, the nuance of epaulment. But at the core of these technique classes was feeling: what he was feeling, both physically and emotionally when he executed these exercises.

And when we danced, what he wanted to see was what we were feeling, NOT the technique. He would say: “Don’t show me your technique, show me the emotion, show me the feeling. The emotion should COVER the technique.”. We were taught that a solid technique must be carefully and painstakingly built to support the feeling; to support the emotion. When we stepped onto the floor, onto the stage or in front of the camera he wanted us to “screw it and do it!”. We were to simply dance, to feel, to be our unique selves (not looking like a carbon copy of him or the other dancers in the room) and to trust that the technique that we lovingly and carefully built would be there as a support for what we did.

This way of working was the foundation of how I danced, and I carried these concepts into the ballet studio. This way of working formed the basis of my performing career. This way of working forms the foundation of my teaching.

But the world is constantly changing and our industry is constantly evolving. As with all physical pursuits, technique is constantly growing. Turns are more numerous and more secure. Balances are longer. Extensions are higher. And as so much of our information is coming from social media and so much of what our students see is through these platforms, we are constantly being fed a steady diet of stunningly impressive technique. But it is technique for the sake of technique.

There is a concept in ballet training that epaulment, head position, eye position nuance of port de bras all create artistry. I’m not writing this article to debate this concept but to share a different point of view. There are many ways to create a beautiful result and there is no “one right way”. Luigi often spoke of these concepts, but within the theories of HIS system, epaulment, head position, eye position nuance of port de bras are simply “more technique”. They certainly make the work more beautiful, but they are technique. When he spoke of artistry he referred to the feeling, to the emotion, to the soul of the work. This is what he wanted the audience to experience. This is what I see lacking in much (not all) of what I’m experiencing in the media and on the stage.

As dance training in NYC continues to evolve, it is moving farther and farther away from the training that I experienced. Ballet classes (with the exception of very few) are focused completely on technique. Jazz and theater dance classes (with the exception of very few) are focused completely on choreography. Everything seems to be aimed at capturing just the right moment for that little video that will garner the thousands of “likes” that hopeful future professionals feel they need to make an impact. Conservatory training is different and there are many wonderful conservatory programs with excellent teachers, but the students’ mindset seems to be focused on capturing those technical feats to gain those coveted “likes”. And along with these technical feats are manufactured facial expressions that are meant (unconvincingly) to convey some sort of emotion (that sadly doesn’t ring true).

I have spoken to many prominent open class teachers in NYC who have expressed the feeling that if they don’t “give their students what they want” their rooms will be empty. Many teachers are pressured by their schools to “fill the room”. And since most open class teachers are paid “per head”, a full studio benefits everyone.

But is it benefitting the art form? Is it benefitting the audience?

Not too long ago I witnessed a group of dancers from 14 African Nations perform Pina Bausch’s Rite of Spring. This performance will be forever seared in my mind, living alongside my memories of Gwen Verdon, Chita Rivera, Donna McKechnie and Cynthia Gregory. These dancers danced from the very depths of their beings and made me FEEL. And I know, I will never forget that feeling. This is the first performance that I have seen in many, many years that actually deserved the standing ovation that every single performance seems to receive today. But sadly, these kinds of performances are getting ever fewer.

I am extremely fortunate in that the schools at which I currently teach never attempt to micromanage what I do in the classroom. All of my directors allow me to teach the way that I teach; all of my directors respect my approach. A few years ago, one of the preprofessional programs in which I was teaching asked me to change my methods to make the students “happier and more comfortable”. I finished the semester. I quit. And shortly there after I was able to replace those classes with classes at Ballet Academy East. About a year later, that preprofessional program called me and asked me to return. Um, no.

I worry about my students. I worry about the training I am providing and my responsibility to help them move on to their careers. But I also feel a responsibility to the past. I feel a responsibility to pass on the great teaching that I was so lucky to receive. I don’t expect to change the world; I am one, tiny, quiet voice in a blaring sea of social media. But occasionally, a student shows an understanding and a desire to work in this way. Occasionally there is that one student who “gets it”. Occasionally I am entrusted with a student who shows glimmers of this way of working at the core of the work. And I have hope.

In 2020 Chasta Hamilton penned Trash The Trophies: How To Win Without Losing Your Soul. This book chronicled her dance studio’s journey out of competition dance and into a new model of successful, serious, non-competitive dance training. Many studio owners have been finding the competition arena ever more problematic. As a teacher of preprofessional and professional dancers myself, I am finding an ever growing chasm between what competition dance values/produces and what the professional dance industry actually wants. Yet the competition industry still has a tremendous hold on the dance studio industry. Ms. Hamilton’s book serves as an effective guide to transitioning away from competition dance (for those desiring the transition) while maintaining and growing a successful, prosperous dance studio.

In her wonderful new children’s book The Trophy Trap – Unleash Your Inner Winner, with simply adorable art work by Annie Wilkinson, Ms. Hamilton gently approaches the competition arena from a child’s point of view. Thoughtful, considered and sensitive, this book addresses children’s fears, concerns, worries and disappointments inherent in all competitions. The book applies not only to dance competitions but to all competitions and helps children navigate the pitfalls of competition culture. Helping children find their confidence and self-worth, helping children find value in the doing of the work, without the arbitrary reinforcement of a trophy is the aim of this book. And this book hits the bull’s eye. Through a group of delightful puppies, she shares sentiments such as “The dogs that win don’t need constant wins or praise. Instead they push through and do the work in many different ways.”. She reminds us that “… while we can’t change the trophies or results along the way, we can choose how we live our lives each and every day.”.

Sometimes we all need a little reminder, don’t we?

This book would be a sterling addition to every children’s library.

My friend and colleague, Deborah Engerman, recently made a post in social media that really resonated with me. She said (edited):

“Occasionally, I hear my students say that in their hearts, they want to be a dancer, but they aren’t going to pursue it because dancers are ‘poor’ or don’t ‘make enough money’…Why do they feel so much pressure to make a certain amount of money, even at the age of 13 or 14 years? I worry they may be pressured by family or friends to be a certain kind of person and make a certain amount of money. Or that our society doesn’t value artists enough to pay them a stable living wage. Or that this dancer is afraid to live their real passion…”

I read this and thought: “She wrote this about me”.

So this is a note to all aspiring dancers and to their parents:

I believe that I was raised by wonderful parents who did their very best to nurture me and help me grow into a successful adult. But we are all products of our time and the hallmark of good parenting in the 1960’s and 1970’s was to produce an adult who could earn a stable living. Period. The concept of “following one’s dream” was thought to be ridiculous. And that was that. And I desperately wanted to be “good”. I desperately wanted to be loved. And I never wanted to be a disappointment (although sometimes I fear, that to a certain degree, I may have been). So without asking questions, without a second thought, I went to college, graduate school, and carved out a normal career. I didn’t understand that I had a choice. I was actually terrified of even uttering the words “I want to dance” out loud. There was a boy in my high school who was a student at SAB. He would tell me about his experiences there, and I would fantasize about what it might be like. But I knew that I would never really know.

And so I had my normal career, and my normal life, and it became my own personal prison.

But at the age of 25, I took my first dance class with the legendary Luigi. And if you are reading this, you pretty much know the rest. But starting at 25, even with the best teachers, certain doors would always be closed to me; by the time I was ready for a ballet company or Broadway show, I was too old to get that job (or so I thought) so in frustration, I simply gave up.

It takes a very particular kind of person to become a dancer. It takes someone who loves dance more than anything else; and I’m not talking about loving the idea of being a dancer on the stage. I’m talking about someone who can only be truly happy when they are honing their tendu or polishing their port de bras or checking their alignment in the mirror for the 50th time that day. Someone who doesn’t really care much about a beautiful home, or car, or clothes, or vacations. It takes a person who essentially derives their happiness from the doing of the work. And THAT is who I was. THAT is who I am. And Luigi unlocked that prison cell for me and led me into a world of which I never dreamed I could be a part.

Dance is an industry that requires a young strong body (or at least the part of the industry in which I was interested). So if you are THAT person; someone who is only happy when they are dancing, then some very important decisions need to be made at a very early age. And for the most part, these decisions do not include college, in the traditional sense. Perhaps you will have a brilliant dance career. And perhaps you will not. Because in life, and especially in the arts, there are no guarantees. But college will always be there (I know someone who started dental school at 36 and I know someone who started law school at 52). And at least, for as long as you stick with it, you get to live your life as a dancer. And even if you have limited commercial success, or none at all, You know that at least for a while you got to live your dream, and you know that you tried.

My teaching career started many years later. And I have been at it for more than a decade now. I routinely walk into the studio to teach an open class and find 40 dancers warming up at the barre, waiting for me to start class. Waiting for me. 40 dancers, in a room that holds 35. And still, after 14 years, I get a little lump in my throat because I can’t believe that this is my life. And even with all of the joy and all the satisfaction that teaching brings me, I still wonder what might have been if I had started as a child and pursued my career in my youth. When I started teaching at Joffrey, one of my colleagues was watching me demonstrate. At the end of the class, she said to me “wow, if you had only started when you were nine, there is no telling what you might have achieved “. And as flattering as that was, it was like tearing off a scab.

So if you are THAT person who can only find their happiness in dance, do not allow your world to lock you away in a life that brings you no joy. Because you do have choices. And as I have said so many times before, the pain of failure and disappointment is nothing compared to the pain of wondering what might have been.

“Never stop moving”, Luigi

“They aren’t going to be professional dancers.”

In recent weeks I have read this phrase numerous times. It pops up in social media discussions often; usually to justify less than ideal teaching practices. I am aware that it is nearly impossible to find highly qualified teachers, in every discipline and genre, in every rural area of the country. I am keenly aware that I can never understand the financial intricacies of running a small neighborhood studio. I am also aware that most dancers who enter our studios are not going to be professional dancers; in fact many dancers who graduate from preprofessional programs at prestigious colleges and conservatories don’t end up becoming professional dancers. But the fact of the matter is that you just don’t know. And every student who comes to us to train is entitled to receive the very best training that we can possibly provide.

I walked into Luigi’s studio at the age of 25 to take my very first dance class. I had no idea who he was. I had no knowledge of his importance in the history of western dance or the list of Broadway luminaries who trained at his school. I was told, by a friend, that he was good with beginners. It never occurred to me that I could be a professional dancer. I never expected to take more than two classes per week. But Luigi took an interest in every student. Luigi taught every student as if the professional stage was their goal. Luigi whispered in my ear one day: “You think it’s too late; but it’s not.”. And because he never provided anything less than his best, dancers who “weren’t going to be professionals” had careers. And because of his dedication, and the dedication of my ballet and modern teachers to providing the best training possible to EVERYONE, I am still, nearly 40 years later, part of this industry.

When I began my performing career, I supplemented my income by teaching ballet at a small neighborhood studio. It was the kind of studio that is now called “recreational”, where children take one or two classes per week. The studio owner was extremely careful about who she hired; every teacher was educated at a well known and respected institution and had professional performing credentials. Every teacher gave their students the best training that they could, working within the confines of a recreational program. From this tiny “recreational” studio, students went on to programs at respected colleges, Ballet Hispanico and The School of American Ballet. This tiny recreational studio was responsible for setting just a few professionals on the path to their careers. What a tragedy it might have been for those lucky few, if the studio owner thought of her school “they aren’t going to be professional dancers”.

I have learned, both by example and experience, never to dismiss any student as not worthy of my best simply because I decided that they weren’t going to be a professional. It doesn’t happen often, but I have had students surprise me. And I love to be proven wrong. My greatest joy is when that student that I didn’t think would be a professional, books their first job. And they booked that job because I and my colleagues teach the way that we do. Please be the reason that some kid who is shy, some kid who is awkward, some kid who is dismissed as “not going to be a professional”, goes on to a career on the stage. There is no greater satisfaction.

When a class at Joffrey graduates, and students are saying goodbye, there are always those tearful “thank you’s”. And the thing I hear most often is: “Thank you for believing in me”. It is a gift and privilege to get to believe in those students; because the result brings rewards beyond measure.

I want to start this essay with a disclaimer: I do not hate dance competitions. But as I scroll through social media posts I see an endless stream of complaints about dance competitions; complaints about scoring, complaints about biased judging, complaints about behavior, hours, costs and cheating. It leads me to wonder why these teachers are entering these competitions at all. When posed with the question of why they go to competitions, the usual responses are something like: “We go to competitions to have opportunities to perform” or “We go to competitions to learn”. Well there are opportunities to perform that do not revolve around competitions. There was an excellent book written recently that explores that topic in detail. And I can tell you, from first hand experience, that I learned A LOT, REALLY A LOT, and never once danced in a competition.

There was a post that caught my eye recently regarding awards. It seems that in many cases “gold” is the lowest award, and the competitions aren’t even awarding “gold” to any of its contestants. The “lowest” award given is “high gold”. This ensures that the competitors leave happy, with a terrific sense of accomplishment and self worth; a sense of accomplishment and self worth that is completely empty. I have much experience with these kids in young adulthood who are incapable of dealing with the realities of this industry and where they fit. I have also seen posts calling for competitions dedicated to smaller studios to “level the playing field” and make it “fair”, so their students can win. I’m not trying to be a jerk here, but I really fail to see how this is, in any way, fair.

When I was a child I took music lessons. I played the piano. I took one lesson every week and I practiced daily after school. I did not have the talent, work ethic or desire to have a career in music but I played in student and amateur ensembles and I enjoyed music very much. When I was 13 my piano teacher entered me in a competition. I prepared, I practiced, I was ready. On that rainy Saturday afternoon, in a hotel ballroom in Manhattan, I performed my Clementi Sonatina (a piece typically played by beginner-ish students) in a manner in which both my teacher and I were happy. Another 13 year old competitor performed a Liszt Hungarian Rhapsody (a piece typically played by professional concert pianists) and she played it brilliantly. This student was clearly much more talented. This student was clearly taking multiple lessons per week. This student was clearly practicing 6 hours a day, 7 days a week; not unusual for a career-minded student. I didn’t win. I didn’t expect to win. I could hear the difference. I wasn’t upset. I don’t even recall being disappointed (perhaps I was; but I honestly don’t remember a sense of disappointment). But what these dance competitions do is create these levels of “beginner”, “intermediate” etc. based on hours per week in the studio and students are allegedly competing against other students with similar training regimens. (I say “allegedly” because I also constantly read about accusations of teachers lying about the hours of training a student is studying). Again, I fail to see how this is “fair”. About 30 years ago I judged a competition. The competitors were divided by age, and age only. Of course the student putting in more hours will be better. The best three dancers in each age category received ribbons that said “first place”, “second place” “third place”. Everyone else lost. And, in my opinion, that is fair. That was the nature of that competition. That is by definition, how competition works.

If you love the dance competition circuit; if you feel your students are, in some way, benefiting from the experience, then you should definitely compete. I definitely believe that there are benefits to be had. But if you find yourself constantly complaining about the experience, perhaps your gripes, combined with the empty sense of self worth that these competitions promote in your students, might lead you to explore other avenues.

When I was 34 years old, at the height of my dancing powers, I quit. I quit the one thing that I loved more than anything else. I quit the one thing to which my entire identity was tied. And I quit because of limitations that were placed on me; and not by the dance industry or society. I quit because of limitations that I placed on myself.

I was relatively successful at auditions; and I worked somewhat regularly: television commercials, music videos, small dance companies, off-Broadway musicals. And although I booked more jobs than most of my friends and colleagues, it didn’t add up to a full time career. And so I worked outside the dance industry. And like most dancers, I struggled. I really struggled.

I was short (a tiny bit over 5’5”). I was old (or so I thought); I could smell 35. I had no Broadway show or major dance company on my résumé. And I had responsibilities (or so I believed) that prevented me from leaving New York City. I saw each of these factors as a limitation that was keeping me from my dream. And as I stared into the future, all I could see was the enormous financial stress under which I was living. And I said to myself “No one will hire you because you are short. No one will hire you because you are old. No one will hire you because you have a weak résumé. No one will hire you because you can’t leave New York”. And since I trained completely in open classes and had no real mentors or guidance, I believed all of it. I simply had no hope.

Well I had gone to college and graduate school. I HAD earning abilities. I had REAL earning abilities. And since I had convinced myself that these self-imposed limitations were going to keep me from my dreams, the logical way to put an end to the crushing financial stress was to simply stop dancing and enter the regular workforce. And that’s what I did; for nearly ten years. And I had a “normal job”. And I had a “normal life”. And I had “happiness”, or so I thought.

Until one day a friend who was visiting New York convinced me to take a dance class with her. I stood in the back of Richard Pierlon’s incredible jazz class at Steps on Broadway, and I did as much as I could. I was well past forty. I hadn’t danced in a decade. I couldn’t do much; in fact I felt as if I had lost everything; well almost everything. The one element that was still very much in tact was the joy that I felt in the process of studying dance. That joy was still burning ferociously in the depths of who I am. And so when the class was over I found myself sobbing in the corner of the studio because I felt as if I had ruined my life. I would never again dance as I did when I was young.

But I could still train. I could still learn. I could still improve. And so I started taking two classes a week; just for me. That quickly grew to five classes a week. Then, one day, Richard Pierlon asked me to sub for him. And so began my teaching career. Little by little I made and cultivated connections. Little by little I got more and more teaching jobs. Little by little I found my way to my beloved Joffrey Ballet School. And I couldn’t be happier. And I can see flashes of my training in my students. And I get to share in their joyous successes as they move on to their careers. And I get to support them and guide them when they get cut at the audition time and time again (a feeling I know only too well). And I get to believe in them when they simply have no hope.

This past week my phone rang. The caller ID said “Los Angeles”. I don’t know anyone in Los Angeles so I let it go to voicemail. Later that day I listened to the message. It was from The Telsey Office (an enormously important casting agency) asking me to audition for a tiny role in a major film (they needed an older male dancer). My initial response was: “thank you so much, but no thanks. I don’t perform any more and I can’t really turn my life upside down at this point for a performing job”. But he was very persuasive. And I went through the audition process.

And now I wait.

I check my email.

And I wait.

So I am now even shorter (a tiny bit UNDER over 5’5”). I am even now older; I can smell 63. I have no Broadway show or major dance company on my résumé. And I have responsibilities that prevent me from leaving New York City. But now I have something else. Now I have hope. Because whether I book this job or not, whether I ever book another performing job or not, I know that there are possibilities, and what could be more wonderful? So I’m looking into the future with my new-found hope. And once again, I’m dancing.

I have heard recently several dance teachers complaining about competition judges who offer no praise; only corrections and criticism. These comments have gotten me thinking about self-esteem, how I was raised, how I was taught, and how I, myself, teach.

Not too long ago, I stumbled upon a video in which a young man (20-something) was explaining why, in his opinion, so many of his contemporaries were struggling with life in general. This little video was shockingly insightful. He explained that there had been research done, clearly documenting that children with good self-esteem were, in general, more successful in school, in extracurricular activities, and in life. Every parent sets out to be the best parent they can be. Every parent wants the best for their children. Every parent has as their primary goal, their children’s ultimate success. So a parenting trend developed that had as its goal, raising children with good self-esteem. Now there is more than one way that this goal can be achieved. It would seem to me, that the best way to achieve this goal, would be to instill in a child the skills, the work ethic, the discipline, the “stick to it-ness“ necessary to “achieve”. And with that achievement would come a sense of pride, reassurance in the form of praise, and subsequently the coveted “self-esteem“. This, however, is not what most parents did. Apparently, most parents skipped the “hard work” and jumped straight to the “praise”, showering their children with undeserved compliments and positive reinforcement. What they accomplished, was raising children with “good self-esteem” but this self-esteem was hollow. As these children move into adulthood with no real experience in struggling to achieve a goal or a realistic sense of their abilities, they find the challenges of adult life devastatingly difficult.

So now I sit here, reflecting back on how I was raised. More than anything else, what my parents instilled in me (like most of my contemporaries from the “baby boom”) was a strong work ethic and a sense of humility. If I did something or achieved something that was particularly well-done or noteworthy, I was praised. And, similarly, if my efforts fell short, I was told (lovingly and supportingly) that I could do better and should try harder next time. And to be completely honest, I was not the smartest kid, I was not the most talented kid, and as I have detailed in my essay on winning (https://classicalballetandallthatjazz.com/2018/07/02/winning/), I never actually won anything. I was never lavished with praise. I never heard the words “awesome“, “amazing” or “brilliant”. “Very nice”, “well done”, “good job” was what I could expect to hear for hard work that paid off, and it really MEANT SOMETHING; because I didn’t hear it all the time. Am I now a workaholic? Yes. Do I now suffer from a lack of self-esteem? Probably. I am easily intimidated by colleagues who enjoyed stellar performing careers and consequently I am often staving off imposter syndrome. No parenting style is perfect.

As I now sit back and reflect on my dance training, I realize that my two main teachers exhibited teaching styles that were reflective of the aforementioned modes of parenting. The jazz legend, Luigi, with whom I began my training, constantly praised all of his students; often telling just about everyone how beautiful, how talented, how exquisite they were. He was a brilliant teacher. I would never have had a career if it wasn’t for his teaching. Just about everything I know about pedagogy, general technique, musicality and artistry, I learned from him. But I also learned, very early on, that the compliments that he so freely doled out were empty. When I started studying with Gabriella Darvash, I was faced with a completely different teaching style. She never complimented us. Never. In fact, she often said “If I spend all of my time telling you all how beautiful you are, there is no time for teaching”. But every once in a while, you would catch her looking at you. And there would be a quiet, satisfied look behind her eyes that was cloaked in her sarcastic demeanor. And that quiet look of satisfaction meant more to me than all of the praise that any other teacher could hand out. Most of the time we only heard criticism. Most of the time she frustratingly barked endless corrections. But on the rare occasion that you got that satisfied look you, knew you were on the right track.

So what did I learn from these two different teachers? I learned that I loved to dance. I learned that I loved the process of doing the work; of doing the work, for the work’s sake. And I learned that I shouldn’t, and couldn’t, depend on the praise or the criticism of my teachers to serve as the foundation of my self-esteem.

I am constantly evaluating my own teaching. With each passing year, I am finding that students need more and more approval, praise and compliments. And with each passing year I am finding myself less likely to fulfill that need. I want desperately for their success. I want desperately for them to achieve heights that I could never achieve. I want desperately for them to have “successful” lives; whatever shape and form that success may take. And I’m trying desperately to give them the tools that they need. I often quote Madame Darvash to them; telling them that they are not to expect an endless stream of compliments. I often joke with them that I am “not interested in their feelings, only their success“.

But I’m also trying to be ever more gentle, ever more supportive, and ever more hopeful.