Dancing in the Dark

I don't want people who want to dance, I want people who have to dance.
--George Balanchine
Dance is the hidden language of the soul, of the body
--Martha Graham

I could talk about "The Apprentice"--or about how I ate half of a broccoli roll (think rolled-up calzone) that my husband brought home Thursday night after my blog posting, despite my best intentions. But suffice it to say, I wasn't impressed with the ad campaigns that either Apprentice team came up with for a new Dove body soap (nor was Donny Deutsch, chairman/CEO of the 2.4-billion eponymous ad agency, who was asked to judge the teams' TV ads and pronounced them both "terrible"). And I wasn't impressed with my willpower--or lack of--in sticking to those federal dietary guidelines. (Did I mention I had a hot cocoa with Bailey's for "dessert"?)

But that was Thursday. And Friday was a new day and the end of a very long week at work--and I awarded myself with a long overdue night out, all dietary restrictions lifted.

My friend Laura and a friend of her's Maureen, who runs an art gallery uptown, met after work at a bar called Tom & Jerry's in Nolita for a couple rounds (we'd initially planned to start at Von on Bleecker, but it was overrun with alt-media types who'd gathered for some Gawker-sponsored drinkfest and it was nearly impossible to get a drink, so we bolted). At Tom & Jerry's, we sipped $4 glasses of pinot grigio and munched on wasabi-coated peas and slightly stale Japanese rice crackers from a bowl on the table. A little before 8 we bundled up and braved a fierce wintery wind to walk the 4 blocks to the Joyce Theater, on Mercer Street just below Houston, for the opening night of a weekend-long performance by the Rocha Dance Theater. The dance company's manager and one of its principal dancers is a woman named Christine, who dances by day and at night manages Five Front , a regular restaurant stop in Dumbo. When I was there last week for dinner with Laura and two other friends, Christine had asked if we wanted to come to the performance. It was only $15 a ticket--and that also covered wine and an array of fruit, cheese and other finger foods after the show. Not bad.

The show, "not so soft," included six pieces--two of them solos (one by Christine). The choreography reminded me a little of Mark Morris, but with a feminine touch. There were underlying themes of abuse (a solo accompanied by minimalist music interspersed with voiced over phrases like "You're my pretty baby" and "You aren't enough"), letting go of inhibitions, growing up (and apart), vanity, and isolation. The dances were beautifully choreagraphed, if a little long and occasionally repetitive (with the exception of Tiny Matters, Christine's solo which, as Laura pointed out, continued to surprise as it unfolded).

I used to be a dancer. I took ballet for 10 years and pointe for four (and have the "hammer toes" to prove it). But when it came down to the choice of spending each school day afternoon at the studio or at home (or with friends), I quit dancing. Hey, I was only a teenager. What did I know? My mother was more upset than I was, I think. She spoke of my natural dancer's arch as if it had been wasted on me (my foot naturally arches, even when it's relaxed, which, strangely enough, means I am actually more comfortable in high heels than in flats). My mother had been a serious dancer, commuting from Metuchen, N.J., into NYC for lessons. She dreamed of dancing for Balanchine but ended up choosing college instead.

So both my mom and I get a little wistful (and sometimes unduly critical) when we watch professional dancers. But I really lost myself in the dancing on Friday and tried to suspend any judgment. And I enjoyed it. After the performance, the three of us congratulated Christine, had a glass of wine and then walked over to Nolita House for dinner. Over more white wine, an orgasmic artichoke dip with warm slices of soft pita, and a warm duck salad with tomatoes and pine nuts, we debated "Sex and the City" (and concluded that Miranda was the only character who demonstrably grew over the six seasons), top Texas towns (I'm from Dallas and Maureen is from Houston, but my pick was Austin, which she dismissed as being "too hippy"), and Oscar nominees (conclusion: Don Cheadle probably deserves it most, but Leonardo DiCaprio will probably get it).

I got home after midnight. Victor was waiting up for me. He'd gone to a bar called Blue & Gold earlier to have drinks with a colleague who was moving from Esquire to Marie Claire (which is actually just 3 floors down). Our friend Marty met him there with some newly burned CDs (Jumprope and Brazillian Girls). Victor was playing the Brazillian Girls CD on my computer when I got home, and we started dancing around the room to it, twirling around in the semi-darkness (he had the overhead track lights on dim) until we both collapsed, laughing.