I scurried quickly to my spot on stage with my seven other dancers, waiting in anticipation for the work lights to fade to black. I listened to the slow hum of the audience behind the curtain, most likely captivated by the artistry of the previous dances. A much-deserved reaction, in my humble opinion. Even though I only did a light warm-up, I could feel the sweat clinging my black leotard onto my skin as I waited for the music to start.
This performance was the final production of a project I had been working on for 11 months. The piece centered around my memories of childhood, exploring aspects of my Korean heritage I regrettably pushed away growing up. I spent countless hours in the studio by myself and with my dancers. I labored over our ivory, floor-length, custom-made skirts for each one of us for a week nonstop in the Makerspace, shedding a tiny bit of tears and blood along the way. I delved into hours of footage of Korean fan dance in order to recall memories of how I learned to do the dance form in the first place.
As the lights faded and the music started, I felt a swell of emotion fill my chest, my mind hyperfocused on my breath and my dancers around me. We synchronized together, and there was an indescribable feeling where I felt tethered to all my dancers on stage. I could feel their presence wherever they were, even if I could not see them. Through this process I learned about how important my community and dance-making are to me.
At the beginning of the process I was mostly focused on gaining a comprehensive understanding of Korean dance. I was focused on replicating the dance form, rather than thinking about where I fit into it. I know from my own experience doing this dance form, my teacher emphasized rigid repetition and practice to achieve perfection. It was common in a lot of my dance classes growing up, though it was not until Mount Holyoke I learned dance does not always have to be that way, that I can mold dance based on my own curiosities and whims, even within highly rigid dance forms like Korean fan dance. It was also a highly unrealistic expectation to put on myself to create a culturally and socially acceptable dance including full regalia and custom-made fans. As lovely as that may have been, there were also limitations on my time and resources to enact that, and my energy was better spent in other places.
It was also not in my best interest to instruct my dancers like my dance instructors did when I was younger, as that is a practice that I do not value very much and may have been an attitude that initially turned me off from going further. I wished to center the wellness of my dancers and treat them as human beings, rather than as cogs to create the exact formations I want, which I wasn’t even sure about until actually working through the formations with my dancers. Precision and rigidity were not what my work and my practice was asking for. Collaboration seemed to work the best, especially since I was only recalling the dance form through vague memories from over a decade ago, when I was just a nine year old being told exactly what to do without a second thought. Both through practice and the final product, being together and dancing together was more important than doing the ‘correct’ moves.
If it was not for my friends, my peers, my professors and my family, I would not have been able to bring this project together. My mother recording herself playing the piano in a classroom, my friend Amber singing for me in her bathroom, my friend Michelle staying up with me in the Makerspace ’til closing time working on the skirts, my dad supporting me emotionally every step of the way, my professors gently guiding me when I felt stuck, my dancers showing up to rehearsals diligently, ready to work, all mean so much to me. I am truly grateful for all the strengthened bonds and new friends I have made through undergoing this process. This performance will always be a landmark I cherish, and I am truly honored to have shared this moment with my fellow dancemakers and dancers.
– Sandra Scarlatoiu ’22