I consider every work I’ve made, every attempt, a failure. A big, fat one.
But dance making, no matter how hard it gets, at the end continues to save me.
Mostly from myself.
Whatever it is that I’m struggling with, sometimes feeling like a prisoner of my own grasping and obsessive mind, is suddenly nothing in comparison to the ocean of possibility and grace, and genuinely loving interaction with others that the sacred and ancient ritual of performance presents.
Bodies attract each other like magnets.
Human beings will touch and embrace each other again.
We are just pretending for now.
Dance knows best