Improvisation is a key component of Practice as Research. Improvising allows the body to explore creative habits, to discover new ones, to juggle around an idea until some understanding of it is reached within your kinaesthetic intelligence. I am totally fine with all these pieces of information.
In fact, I love improvisation! In my work with Rosemary Butcher I would improvise with deep and particular focus on a given stimulus for up to half an hour without pause, and I would be as happy as a clam. I’m a blues dancer, which is social dance form relying entirely on improvisation, and a good contact improv jam is one of the happiest places for me to put my body.
But I’m also an improvised talker, and that’s where Practice as Research begins to have a problem with me.
Vida Midgelow talks about Practice as Research as a process of liquid knowing: knowing built on a foundation of experience that runs through your whole physical system, without needing conscious cerebral processing; as if the verbal brain were a pot-holed by-road through a washed-out ex-industrial (and horribly over-hyphenated) town, which you could avoid simply by taking the physical super-highway.
I agree with her about so many, so many things! That life is a constantly improvised process! That knowledge is emergent! That immediate, instinctive knowing draws on and bounces off the world and keeps on learning as it goes – the idea is glorious! …But then she explains that “Coming to language is a significant process,” (versus the simplicity of improvised movement), and I wonder why it has to be that way.
You, and I, have a liquid brain.
That is, the knowledge we hold verbally is based on the whole-body experience of our improvised lives, and we should not under-privilege* the capabilities of that expression. A great deal of care is taken in academia to be careful with our words: to treat them as if they were all automatically conclusions, whereas in fact they are as ephemeral as dancing. In the era of technology this is doubly the case: I wrote the introduction to this article three times before I started, all of it denied to you with a swift brush of ctrl+z. Yes publication, yes transcription, yes digital archiving, but those are the outcomes, not the production of emergent linguistic knowledge.
To borrow a phrase from Candace Feck, language is “shaped at the point of utterance.” We have poetic and artistic forms dedicated to the idea that improvisation can occur at the end of a pen; and yet I feel like I struggle to find a place for that which occurs between lips and tongue in the scholarly world. To phrase this in terms of multiple intelligences, I am a discursive thinker who needs words to play in the space before I choreograph them into any kind of structure in my head.
So, practice as research, I’m totally with you on the subject on the subject of knowledge produced via improvisation… how do you feel about the knowledge that words can dance?
*It’s unusual to claim that verbal expression is in a situation of being under-privileged. Written language certainly experiences a high degree of privilege in almost any environment, but lived-experience oral histories often do not. In the current climate of dance studies, physical knowledge often also enjoys privilege over that which can be expressed verbally. My thanks to Lucas Weismann for requesting this clarification.
Your brain knows things, but ALSO your body knows things.
One kind of knowledge should not be privileged over the other, even if it is easier to express.
Working in a studio can allow your body to discover deep, enriching information, that is valuable to dance and the world.
Today I read Balanchine in the New York public library. Balanchine both personal and professional – the choreographer and dancer, the man and the lover.
Being somewhat familiar with the material (set texts for the next semester), I didn’t try to go in chronological order – I simply worked m way alphabetically down the list: from Acocella to Gottlieb, taking notes as I went. I took a break to grab a bagel. Before I knew it, hours had slipped by – I could happily have stayed for more.
I read about his material and his teaching style, recognizing fragments from my own classes. I learned that he shared tender evenings with a young Suzanne Farrell in an inn, and later a 24 hour Dunkin’ Doughnuts, only a few blocks from where I’m currently staying. I made a mental note to try and find them on my way home.
First though, the library was showing Cover Girl, a classic film from the 1940’s with Rita Hayworth and Gene Kelly. Too much to hope for, I guess, that they’d be showing one with Balanchine’s choreography, although I did note some of his collaborators in the credits. Since this was a free screening on a Sunday, the room slowly began to populate with individuals somewhat older than myself.
The first friend I spotted was, unsurprisingly, Martha Graham, white hair in a bun, perching a few rows behind me. A wispy John Cage sat at my left shoulder, telling jokes through the opening credits; Maria Tallchief made elegant gestures from the front row as she conversed with a companion whose face I couldn’t see.
Mr. B. arrived just as the film was about to start, slipping through the door and taking a seat far right, missing nothing over his hawk-like nose. Merce Cunningham was conspicuous by his absence, although perhaps he could have been in the back – I don’t suppose it would have mattered to him.
The credits rolled.
For me New York is always the home of dance. This may well be a betrayal of both my geographic and pedagogic origins, but I am long since past caring – I’m a modern baby. The inn and the Dunkin’ Doughnuts have sadly gone, but the city, especially at Christmas, still reminds me why I love what I love, and chose to do what I do.
From Broadway, Manhattan, happy 2015.