From space to place

Me, redwoods, and space

The Journey from Space to Place
I just found out that I’m 0/7. Seven big applications, not selected for any of them. In past years, a development like this would have really got me down.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m disappointed. I’d much rather be looking forward to a check or a residency than an awkward conversation with an arts administrator about why a panelist found my work sample “uninspiring.”
But there is no despair. As of this moment, I am not attaching the value of my work as an artist to the opinions of a handful of gatekeepers and it is a big relief.

I never wanted to outsource my value, it’s been a subconscious pattern based on a series of intersecting personal identities and societal contexts, but that’s for another essay. Here I want to focus on the shift out of the convincing-other-people-of-my-worth business because it didn’t happen the way I expected.

I tried a lot of things: therapy, meditation, venting, hyping myself up, tearing myself down, trying to hype other people up and sometimes tearing other people down (not my finest moments), doing LOTS of research, pretending to be what I thought X funder or employer seemed to want – and sometimes convincing myself, and crying. Lots of crying*.
Many of those attempts were helpful in other ways, especially the therapy, but none of them made it hurt less when the rejections piled up and clearly indicated that I was THE WORST DANCER/CHOREOGRAPHER/TEACHER OF ALL TIME (yes, I am a bit hubristic in my self loathing, aren’t you?).

Finally, I stopped. In January 2023, I stepped back from all applications (grants, residencies, academic jobs, teaching gigs, you name it, I didn’t apply for it). Instead of chasing the moving vehicle of artist resources and opportunities, waving my hands in the air, shouting until I was hoarse; I let it drive on by.

​I didn’t stop dancing. I rehearsed and performed a work that challenged and fulfilled me deeply. I committed to regular solo studio time and kept that promise to myself, mostly. I began to learn Aikido. I did my second sprint triathlon. I became a volunteer counselor at the camp that changed my life as a teenager. I traveled to stand under some crazy tall trees and wade into the frigid ocean. I laid around with my cat and dog and partner and made-up songs to the tunes stuck in our heads. I got fed up with myself. Looked hard at some uncomfortable truths I’d been avoiding.

I wasn’t sure what I was doing.

I did it anyway.

Here’s what happened: I began to settle, nest, and root. My presence, previously frenetic and future-oriented, landed here, on this stolen land, at this precarious time.

In postmodern dance pedagogy we speak a lot about “space” as a collaborator, compositional tool, and perspective. I explored space as a theoretical concept in undergrad, grad school, summer programs, one-off workshops, and creative projects. What I never realized is that “space” is just a way of abstracting place. If I were explaining this to my students, I’d say that place is where space, time, and emotion overlap. Place is a space, defined by topography and architecture, etched by time spent commuting, buying pita chips, treading circles in the park with friends, running late for shows; the unpredictable balance of repetition and novelty that makes up a life.

To put it another way, I have a map in my head and can, with relative ease, point you in the cardinal directions, the loop, or the airport. But as I sit in my apartment writing this essay, I can feel the distance between myself and my childhood loft bed which is the same direction as the pool where I swim laps and a bit further than a friend’s studio where I’ve been gestating a new dance.

When I moved to Chicago after fifteen years away, my map felt empty. I remembered some street names and neighborhoods, but it was a space, not a place. It didn’t mean much to present moment me and, more importantly, I didn’t mean much to most of the people who had been living here. Yet.

When asked the most valuable act a young artist could do when trying to ‘make it’, the incomparable Lois Welk answered, “Show up.” To twenty-two-year-old me, this meant arriving with visible effort and performative presence (see: metaphorical yelling and waving my arms above). But now I think she meant something different: allow yourself to be seen doing your work, contribute to your community, engage with relevant issues and causes. Allow the place to get familiar with you.

I couldn’t do this before. Not really. Too vulnerable.

But this year, it happened anyway. By not forcing my life forward, towards the ‘right’ direction, I stumbled (over and over) into my right-this-moment existence. This place and its people accepted me into its folds. It feels a little claustrophobic sometimes, being known and recognized, but not in a bad way.

How does this relate to applications and rejection? Well, it seems that if you root down and stay put for a minute, that vehicle of arts resources will drive by again. More importantly, by softening into my environment and community, I made myself available for opportunities to come to me, something I genuinely believed only happened to “lucky” people.
Which brings me to the unbearably cheesy ending to this ramble: every one of my rejections has been another artist’s opportunity.

And those artists, many now friends and colleagues, I begrudge less and celebrate more. I see how our entire ecosystem benefits from the ways the recipients of these opportunities thoughtfully distribute and share resources. By sharing place, we are intertwined in ways we can either miss in the hustle for the-next-big-life-changing-opportunity or choose to lean into for support. I’ve spent the last two decades perfecting the art of falling on my own, it is surprising to discover how sweet it is to be caught.
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*Shoutout here to the people who held me literally or metaphorically while I wept about rejection of any kind. It’s a long list. I am grateful for every one of you.

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