On Hesitant Bodies

I. 

I sent this line the other night in a text: “The hesitation will be awful.” It was honest, if inelegant. We were talking about isolation and social distancing and how or when we’ll start returning to public life. We were trying to anticipate what it will eventually feel like when we find ourselves emerging—when it might be safe enough to be within six feet of someone in a public space. To touch, even.

As one who’s spent my whole life in dance, I miss seeing other people in their bodies. I miss being around people conscious of their embodiment, whose very presence makes me feel more in and of and with my own body. I am devastated for the loss of our collective bodily confidence. For the loss of trust in our collective social body and in our individual bodies in partnership with one another. 

Lately it feels like I’m wearing my body inside out.

Walking down the path from my front door to my car, mask in my bag and keys in my hand, my gait is easy: arms swinging, hips shifting, head loose on my neck. The new Fiona Apple album that plays while I drive brings unexpected rhythmic breaks. I like the physical charge of it. I pull into the grocery store parking lot, no longer in my own space. Bodily uncertainty sets in. I put my mask on, take a breath to get acclimated, move my credit card from my wallet to my pocket, make sure my hand sanitizer is easily accessible in my cupholder for when I return, and open the car door.

Is this real? Is my body here? My face feels alien.

From the moment my foot hits the pavement, I’m aware. Hyper-observant. Who’s not masked? Who can’t figure out what six feet is? Who’s moving at what pace? Speaking at what volume? Between the 50-something guy wearing an N95 in the checkout lane shouting spatial directions to fellow customers while waiting his turn (yell “Ma’am!” at me one more time, I dare you…), and the elderly woman hedging with her cart as she tries to merge into a line without getting too close, it’s clear that the anxiety of the moment manifests differently for everyone. The feeling of the mask on my face makes me want to keep my head down—chin tucked, neck shortened. I’m not open. I’m held up and in. No swing to my walk, no extraneous movements. Just go. Hurry up and get outside into a space where I can find some certainty.

Those who bring too much bodily confidence to public spaces, now, seem reckless. Untrustworthy. It’s our hesitant bodies that signal to others our awareness of bodies not our own.

II.

The pas de deux in classical ballet is a traditionally gendered partnership between a man and a woman. The danseur presents the ballerina to her adoring publique, assists her en pointe, supports her pirouettes, and anchors their feats of physics and artistry. He is her gracious method of transport, concealing his effort and lifting her skyward. He is also her aesthetic collaborator, matching his lines to hers to complete a harmonious, balanced portrait. The ballerina, iconic, has long been a cultural target for feminists; her poise gives her the illusion of being passive and ornamental—easy to manipulate. Yet in the doing of the dancing, she is fierce. She asserts herself, moves with intention, and commands her space. She cues the carefully timed lifts in which he sends her airborne; the slightest hesitation can lead to disaster. They are a team, and both bear responsibility. She indicates through deliberate subtle shifts exactly how she needs him to support her or turn her or adjust her center of balance, and he interprets her body. He places his hands on her waist and when she feels that he’s there, securely, she initiates the movement. They coordinate. They read one another’s bodies through touch and perception. They work as partners—equals—and expert physical communicators. They co-author the dance.

Sitting alone as I write this, my embodied memories of past pas de deux partners make me feel supported. Grounded. In dialogue.

I observe and analyze bodies for a living. I help dancers use their bodies as vehicles for expression by way of technique. We bring characters to life; we convey meaning through postural shifts and gestural details. We work as partners in the ballet studio: an expansive yet intimate space where we develop the kind of artistic mentorship that has existed for centuries in, around, and through dancers’ bodies. There’s an exchange. I show, they do. Repeat. I illustrate a detail, and we refine until they find a similar detail in themselves. Repeat. Sometimes we talk and sometimes we don’t, but the physical discourse between us is always present. We mine our bodies for insights—we listen to and map our interiors with quiet focus. We are most attuned to our individual bodies, ironically, when we work in community. When we are together.

I used to love the feeling of being alone in a studio.

III.

As much as I’d love to pretend that we’ll have a “back to normal” feeling as we emerge from isolation, my body knows that those of us who are conscious (or afraid?) of this moment will respond to physical closeness in ways we can’t yet know. How our bodies react will depend on how we are isolating—alone or together. Was your last hug mid-March? Or has a quiet moment to yourself become a fantasy?

Dancers are confined to the small spaces of our homes now; the glorious caverns of studios and opera houses sit empty. The feeling of spatial restriction has manifested in our work; the dancing has changed. We use internal focus. We dance alone. Will we flinch when we eventually dance with another? Cry? Giggle? Will the pas de deux be a comfort to us or a violation? Will we remember how to be in physical dialogue? Will we even want to be?

The bodily hesitation we’re experiencing as we navigate social interaction now feels awful—I stand by that. The constant hedging. The uncertainty. The lack of trust. But I also wonder if it will someday offer us a new relationship to our bodies and the bodies of others. Perhaps asking for consent to touch will become a (long overdue) standard social practice, or perhaps we’ll offer greater care and sensitivity to one another with our heightened awareness of bodies in space. Perhaps we’ll learn to communicate more deliberately through our bodies, and perhaps we’ll learn to trust our bodily intuition and that of others. I hope so. From the physical traumas of COVID-19 to the effects of distancing and lengthy periods of isolation, our collective and individual bodies have become vulnerable in untold ways. Perhaps our hesitation is a necessary awful—honest, if inelegant. Our bodies tell us what we need to know, whether or not we choose to listen. Dancers have understood that all along.

 Photo credit: Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash