A Dance Competition
July 27, 2019
I had only intended for it to be a favor; accompanying my younger sister to her dance competition was intended as a friendly show of support, although I will not deny that the added benefit of a vacation by Lake Tahoe was equally alluring. Instead, as I watched the various dancers enter and leave the stage, each one seeming to strut with pride on and off the stage, I found myself lost in thought.
To be frank, I had hardly expected to enjoy the show, and the competition had hardly attempted to counter that predisposition. There were no announcements of which dance was next, no draws of the curtain, no dimming of the lights between dances. This was a competition, and only a competition — of that, I had no doubt. Each dance seemed reduced to a number which it had been assigned. Perhaps what I observed, then, was only natural, and yet it nevertheless struck me as strange.
“Mom,” I whispered as one group of dancers exited the stage and another entered, “why do people only clap for their own dances?” That was perhaps an understatement; they hollered and cheered for dances from their studio, and especially when their favorite dancer, who was, of course, their child, or grandchild or sister or brother, appeared on stage. But they were silent when any other dance took the stage. And so, I wondered, why?
In dancing, I presume, it is necessary to appear unfazed despite all but the severest of circumstances. Indeed, as someone who has spent ten years taking piano lessons, I like to think that I know a thing or two about performance. Would I be fazed if only a tenth of the audience gave even the slightest applause? Indeed I would; but I would also know that I should not be fazed. And in the few piano competitions I have participated in, even when I had forgotten to tuck in my shirt, or had made a profusion of errors, there would always be applause, from everyone in the room, at the beginning and the end of my performance — including my competitors, and their parents, friends, and other supporters. The judges, too, would call up each contestant by name, and not by some arbitrary number.
The dancers, however, appeared to be unfazed by this lack of applause. They were all younger than me, for they must have been, as a result of the rules of the competition, around the same age as my sister, and yet they seemed to have mastered the skill of ignoring a muted reception; although muted may be the incorrect term here, for the shouts of support were certainly not muted, and yet everyone else was decidedly mute. Regardless, the salient point is that not a single dancer seemed fazed. They must be used to it, I thought.
Do the lower classes really have worse manners? For that matter, what are the lower classes but an arbitrary division of society? And what would social status have to do with manners?
The idea that etiquette comes with affluence, status, or whatever distinguishes the upper classes from the lower ones seemed both condescending and improbable. But upon further reflection, it seemed to possess a certain degree of logical sense. After all, were “proper” manners not defined by the upper class? Was chivalry not defined by noblemen, and table manners not defined by those who frequently attended banquets? And, after all, taking piano lessons seemed to be a hallmark of my upper-middle-class community, or for the children, at least.
That said, taking dance lessons also seemed to be a hallmark, for girls, at least. But it was true that while I always wore a tucked-in dress shirt at my piano studio’s annual recital, I had yet to see a dancer in a gown. True, it was probably hard to dance in a gown, but I still found that the dance costumes (apparently, that is what the dancers’ attire was called, for some costumes were not dresses at all) carried more glitter than was necessary. This was perhaps reflected in the locations of the various dance competitions my sister had participated in over the years: Las Vegas, with its famous Strip; Los Angeles, with that Hollywood sign; and Lake Tahoe, perhaps less glamorous, but still in a casino. But never in an opera house — because ballet, it seems, is an art form all but forgotten within this setting.
“Ballet is expensive,” my mom says by way of explanation. “Each pair of shoes can cost a hundred dollars, and last only half a year.” So ballet, it seems, is the quintessential dance form of the upper class. And furthermore, it seems, everything else is the quintessential dance form of the Las Vegas Strip.
“Look sexy,” my sister relates with a flourish of facial expression that I cannot help but think resembles a snarl, an unintentionally comic addition (for the curious reader, I am also omitting an expletive, but it should suffice to know that this instruction was originally accompanied by such profanity). I cannot help but wonder, What is the point of it all? The objective is surely not to seduce the audience, and yet is it really a necessary instruction for a group of children almost all under the age of thirteen?
“Is that what wins awards?” I ask. After all, for the dancers of the Las Vegas Strip, looking sexy seems to not only come naturally but also be an integral job requirement. Why not reward it then? It had already become abundantly clear from our conversation that seeking such rewards was only natural; my sister had related studios entering girls into lower age groups than they qualified for, or entering seasoned dancers to compete in the “beginner” division, all in the perpetual hunt for awards. So if looking sexy was what the Las Vegas casinos wanted, and what the competitions wanted, it could easily be what the studio directors wanted. What is the point of it all?
My sister, however, just shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, with a hint of annoyance, so I drop the subject, at least in conversation; but I do not drop it from my thoughts.
The competition ends with a big, grand show; but before it begins in earnest, the judges introduce themselves, and explain what they are looking for in a “grand champion” (which, I would think, is not very grand, as this is just one of many different national competitions with teams from five whole states). For some reason, they decide to introduce the four men on the judge’s panel first. Most of them seem quite typical — dancers who found some spare time or could use some extra money, or both, for that matter, since they would seem to be related. One, however, immediately draws my attention, for while the others are dressed in formal suits, he is dressed from head to heel in black, with a lustrous, sparkling blazer. For lack of a better analogy, his appearance is that of the stereotypical rapper. “I’m looking for these dancers to risk it all,” he says, almost rapping, “to go big or go home.” And yet, I wonder, how?
The dancers at the competition are following moves that have been carefully choreographed and rehearsed for months. There is, quite literally, no room to experiment or gamble — no room to risk anything at all. The task is to execute a series of movements, and to do so precisely, in accordance with the music, and, of course, to look sexy while doing so. To disrupt the careful work of the choreographer with no opportunity to consult him or her seemed not only rude but also reckless. It is the choreographer, not the dancer, who takes the risks and gambles.
My musings were cast aside, however, when the guest judge was introduced. “I’m looking for sass,” she announced. I was confused. Perplexed. Befuddled. Firstly, since when was impudence towards one’s audience considered a positive? And secondly, although I could fathom how such behavior could coexist with hip-hop dancing, I could not fathom how it could possibly coexist with the dances of the “lyrical” category.
I found out soon enough — nobody, it seemed, had any intention of letting the two attempt to coexist, for the music was blared out without any thought, regardless of what the dance called for, to the point where I, sitting near the back of the room, could not help but cover my ears. The efficiency of this in destroying the essence of the music was dumbfounding. Every note of delicacy, every word of heartbreak was expelled from the speakers as if the purpose of the music, and the dancing, was not to draw in the audience (in a word, to captivate) but instead to force the music and the dancing upon the audience (in a word, to impose). You must listen, it seemed to say, you must pay attention, even as we pay none to the manner in which each note is sounded or each word is sung — as if the blaring could even be described as singing.
The dancers, I realized, knew how to dance. For the most part, they could feel the music and had learned to understand the song through practice sessions where, presumably, the music was played at a reasonable volume. They executed their movements admirably, and, because nobody took risks that they shouldn’t, not even one of the eight-year-old dancers fell over. And yet, the show faltered. But how? Its centerpiece seemed to be functioning magnificently.
By the end of the show, nevertheless, as the awards were being announced, I finally came to what I believe is an answer to that question of how. It is, I believe, a combination of factors. On the surface, there was the issue of the volume or the fact that the spotlight would reliably be shone on the host, standing offstage, thirty seconds before each dance had ended; but at a deeper level, I decided, the issue was the neglect of the artist. At every turn, the artistic essence of dance had been forgotten and replaced by something which, somehow, had obtained greater value — awards, sexiness, or ostentatiousness. Thus had the parents, thinking only of their own children and the awards at stake, neglected to applaud for all but a few dances. Thus had an artistic art form been reduced to seduction. And thus had a dance competition been reduced to blaring music.
What is the point of it all?