I was recruited to perform with a European performance art company for a short weekend run at On the Boards. Reviews of the show can be found here and here, but the summation of the performance is this: Pop culture fanned with the fire of lights, sound, nudity and European extravagance. Ten local dancers were needed for a night club scene and for a brief energetic piece at the end; I knew this was an opportunity for me to get to know other dancers and acquaint myself with the only theater in town that produces contemporary dance on a regular basis. (Backstage pictures can be found on my flickr page).

Dubbed “Team Seattle,” before we even met the Europeans, we rehearsed the piece via video and a local choreographer for two consecutive Mondays. Despite the simplicity of the choreography, there was a lot of high kicking. For anyone who has thrust their leg high into the air in an attempt to make it look like a sideways split, you know that shit hurts. You also might know that it throws off your balance and unless you have years of cheerleading under your belt, perky dancing can be hard to master. I say this, not necessarily as an excuse, but to convey how complicated the process became. After being shepherded by Amy, we were turned over to the Europeans. It was then that they informed us our turns weren’t sharp enough, our clothes were all wrong, and the big smiles plastered on our faces were too small. During the final dress rehearsal, they put us on a huge, white, stage and drilled us. After each set they would look us over, critique, and then subsequently move us to new positions on the stage. My response to this pressure was to revert back to some sort of adolescent stage: I became awkward, gamely, and found myself struggling to ‘keep up’ despite the previous ease I’d had in the choreography. I was moved twice–ending up in the dark, upstage right, corner of the stage next to the board op. This did little for my self-esteem. (Side note to Kimberly: Remember when we were both moved to the back so many years ago during VSA? This experience was similar). That night I struggled with an unreasonable amount of devastation: they put me in the back! I must not be a dancer after all…

Luckily, this inadequate feeling was dismissed once the show began its run. The unity of Team Seattle outweighed any inadequacies I might have felt–we had all received heavy critiques during dress rehearsal. Despite our respective dance levels, the small group of ten became tightly bound. Before the audience was allowed in, we were sequestered away behind a fantastic light box, hidden until the big night club scene. With no where to go, the ten of us hunkered down as if we were at a slumber party. The Europeans came and went, changing their clothes in a hurry as we squished to make room and tried not to oggle.

All of us were a little thrown by the nudity…not just by the nakedness itself but by the sheer confidence and beauty the women possessed. I don’t have to remind you that European women are known for their stellar good looks and grace. These women were no exception: leggy, smooth, with the perkiest breasts in the room. (DAMN IT). During the night club scene we danced furtively on a platform that contained multi-colored lights shooting out in every direction. We were creating ambiance, a scene, and yet I found myself dodging the Europeans every time they tried to bump and grind with me–shyness perhaps? After the night club scene, a group of us would huddle around the viewing window in the green room, murmuring to each other: “Here comes the locker room scene,” “Wow, I can’t believe she takes it all off,” “I feel so short and stubby,” “Look at the guy sitting in the front row–he’s grabbing his ears like a bomb might go off,”

Despite earlier intimidation, the European cast was incredibly kind. I could not get over their amazing interpretation of the English language (’shit’ becomes ’sheet,’ ’so’ becomes ’sew,’ etc.). Rehearsals were directed in a mixture of English, French, and occasionally, German. Their clothes were markedly different: the women wore long and loose fabrics with pieces that they could wind around their necks like a scarf, they all wore colored sneakers, and dammit, they made me want to look at buying tapered jeans again. The guy in charge of herding us around wore low rise, flared, jeans and really great ‘American’ t-shirts (”Gas, Grass, or Ass” was my favorite). He spoke frankly with us about the piece, shouted encouragement from the sidelines, and complimented my shoe choice, “Thank you for wearing heels, all the others are so conservative; don’t they know heels make the legs so sexy?”

Gradually, the Seattle team of dancers nestled into this unique European show by feeling a little freer about our own bodies, strolling around in various stages of undress backstage, and making fun of our gravity plagued boobs. I found myself occasionally slipping into some sort of hokey European accent–the lilting sounds of foreign-tinged English infectious and enjoyable. Despite earlier clothing criticism toward my cast mates (’too many jeans and not enough skin’) the Europeans loved my sparkly stretch pants and refused to consider any other costume choices. By the end of the run we were on ‘kiss on both cheeks’ terms with everyone. When the cute German bass player of the group greeted me this way I blushed and actually said ‘thank you,’ which resulted in mild surprise from him…and inward cringing from me (duh, why would I thank him? That’s like thanking someone after they say ‘hello.’) It was everything I could do not to throw myself against their touring trunks and beg to be taken back to Europe with them. “How do we compare with other cities?” We asked, like a possessive lover over our new foreign friends. “Well, in Spain they were very, sexy, like overly sexy…in Austria they were fun, New York much like you with enthusiasm and good dancers, but Paris…it was very bad in Paris, no one knew how to dance.”

Last night several us stood outside the theater and, while inhaling what felt like an entire pack of second hand smoke, I asked one of the women what it was like to get naked every night in front of an audience. “Don’t you worry about some creepy guy watching you?” She was pointed in her response, “No, I never see the creepy guy…instead I enjoy being admired and the object of desire…it’s really nice.” She went on to say that during a Q and A in Austria, a group of lesbians accused them of being exploited onstage. “I said to them, ‘you act as if I can’t think for myself, as if I have no idea what I am doing up here…you discredit all of us and quite honestly: I enjoy it. I enjoy being the object of desire.’”

When I had initially seen the show during dress rehearsal, I found it confusing, full of style and bright lights. (Coming from a Fringe Theater background I am used to shows being self-contained with little to no technical glitz). I was distracted, bewildered, by the nudity, blinded by the subtext of social commentary and unwillingly to really listen. (Besides, is there really such a thing as cynical nudity or was it all just gratuitious?) The show grew on me each time I watched from the sidelines, overheard the dialogue from backstage, or came in contact with the cast. It took multiple viewings to really like the show. And, while this might sound silly, it was so “European” in that wonderful, unusual, big-world sort of way that I haven’t felt since my trip to Paris. Here we are on this big fat world, experiencing similar woes, pains, and emotions. We operate under duress, politics and culture weighing heavily on our minds, searching for understanding. How refreshing to be near people so very different and yet similar in their need to produce big fat art in all its naked glory.