Remember My Love for Dance

The other night a friend of mine asked me for tips on how to go about rewriting things.

I was honored that he even asked me. So, you know, I gave my advice, which wasn't a whole lot, but enough to get him started; although it was difficult to come up with advice because I'd never thought about how I rewrite- I just rewrite. Then I read his work which he graciously passed onto me. I'd read the first half, which I thoroughly enjoyed, so I was excited to read the second half. After reading it, I came up with much more advice and encouragement.

At first I simply hoped I was giving encouraging advice; he confirmed this hope by gladly and appreciatively accepting them. Yay. I can officially give good writing advice.




I took my third belly dance class tonight. I enjoy it a lot. More than I thought I would, but every time before class: I can't tell you how much I try to convince myself not to take the class; just to focus on something else. But then I take the class, anyway, because I'm like, "What the hell! It's free for me anyway, and besides, I don't want to disappoint the teacher."

During these classes, I am constantly told to "Smile!" or "Stop thinking!"

Smiling is not foreign to me. Hardly. I smile all the time.

No, not thinking is foreign to me. I don't know how not to think. In fact, when I'm told "Stop thinking!" I immediately consider, "What exactly does not thinking entail? Wait, I have to keep my pelvis in neutral position. Oh, -swear words- I'm thinking! I have to stop thinking."

I cannot stop thinking. Especially tonight when we had to freestyle.

BAH!

When I was younger I used to dance all the time. All. The. Time. To put it in perspective: I danced then as much as I think now. Dancing was my form of release- I switched it out for writing in middle school after moving to a new school. I used to love dance. I used to freestyle all the time. I don't know if I was very good at it, but my younger self didn't care.

I informed my teacher of this, and she responded: "Well, you just have to remember your love for dance!"

Too true.

Now, I don't exactly expect to be Shakira if I ever get better at this belly dance-thing, but dancing is my instructor's form of release, as much as writing is my form of release. The way she doesn't think about dancing is the very same I don't think about writing--she just dances; I just write.

So, how do I regain, or at this point, transfer my "Stop thinking!" habits of writing to dance?

Well, for one thing, I ought to be less self-conscious. How many times have you heard that, right? But honestly, of all the worries that my appearance causes me, no one else thinks a quarter of those worries: I freak myself, and no one cares, and rightly so! They either respect me enough, or ignore me enough to think I look all right.

"Oh! I'll look like a fool."

"Shut up, Justine. Kick of your Sunday shoes and go wild."

I mean, I am the person that randomly breaks out into the Macarena on a busy street in Manhattan. I already don't care when dancing the Macarena (although, that also requires absolutely no skill, only a good, steady memory of 90's music), so I need to apply that attitude to the dance studio class. Somehow.

On the surface, writing and dancing don't really have anything in common. But if I enjoy exercising my brain, ought I not also enjoy exercising my body?

And for the record, not thinking in dance class is just another way of saying, "Hey! Be who you are. Stop freaking out that you're doing it wrong, besides you're supposed to make mistakes anyway. We'll help you along."




And, if I can remember my love for dance, I'll be able to better empathize with potential students who are, or want to be, dancers. Win-win!

Cloud Study

for this blog post you should understand a few things about me. (1) i enjoy reading. (2) when i read i also get distracted because i'm so inspired by what i've read i have to get up and do something about it. (3) i appreciate art and in no way intend to be its greatest critic.




yesterday a friend and i had the pleasure of attending the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, NY. i hadn't visited the MET since last March, so you can imagine my art gauge was running on low...practically deteriorating.

YAY FOR LIVING NEAR ONE OF THE MAJOR CITIES OF THE WORLD!

anyway, upon entering the MET, i avoided the Egyptian exhibit because i've seen it ever since i was three: i've lived these twenty two, almost twenty three years in or near NYC and i've only seen about an eighth of the MET? so, onto newer parts! (newer for me, at least.)

we walked up their grand staircase and into the European Paintings (1250-1800), but my friend's greater interest in the more recently painted paintings led us to quickly move onto 19th-and-Early 20th-Century European Paintings and Sculpture, but a quick walk down the hallway.

Here I began my search of Johan Christian Dahl's "The Eruption of Mount Vesuvius" my favorite painting. (i would say 'my favorite piece of art in general', but i might speak too soon.) i despaired when it appeared in none of the rooms i was already in, when i turned and, "AH! I'll be right back. I've been looking for this!"

i found it:

and i'd wanted to just stare at it all day, but another girl in a blue dress was already standing there. it was apparent she wasn't going to leave. i made myself to stand beside her, in spite of my great desire to have a center view.

having filled my Vesuvius fix i walked on and discovered one of his cloud studies. oh! i didn't know this existed.

 

as soon as i saw that, i found another cloud study, and another, and another. i was thrilled!

in fact, when you have the time, you should visit the MET's website and type in the search bar 'cloud study'.

you may ask, "what's to study? they're just clouds."

"no," i'd respond. "it's more than just clouds. it's color, light and dark, shape (sometimes sharp, sometimes fluffed), and depth. perhaps more!- i'm not the artist! perhaps they study more than i can say; than i can tell you."

although, i will admit, i am slightly biased for the sky has always fascinated me: how solid it looks, but i know that the moment i choose to press my weight onto it, i'll only fall through, and down onto the hard earth. even with the scientific understanding we have of the sky and what's beyond me (i, personally, lack this scientific understanding) still leaves one awestruck.

i can only imagine... these are just the studies of clouds, what must have the artist really seen when he saw those clouds. perhaps even artists would admit that no picture (painted, taken, sculpted, etc.) could really ever capture nature.

nature is best experienced, not imitated...but that should never stop you from doing your best to imitate it.

unfortunately, i don't believe i'll ever get my art gauge filled to its brim; and it may never stay filled, but what's the fun in that? if its filled, i'd never have a chance to appreciate the tons and tons of art still left to be appreciated, and made.

so, i'll begin my own cloud study.

no, i won't paint them. i may not attempt to photograph them. but i will press them onto my mind, so much so, that if and when i may require a lobotomy they'll see the clouds etched in there.

that, and now i need to buy this book:

 

pictures courtesy of MetMuseum.org and ChronicleBooks.com

Effected by Immortality.

ear candy: Snow Patrol's Eyes Open

What's the difference between me as creation and what I create? That is to say, what's the difference between me as created by God, and the things created by me? How is it that I as the creation am, cannot, be greater than the creator, God; but that I must create something greater than myself in order to achieve timelessness? Why are my creations greater than me? Why can God do what he wants with me--no, wait. Let me reword that.

...did God, in some way, make his creation greater than him? And I don't mean to say that having the option to choose evil makes us greater; nor do I mean to say that choosing good makes us greater. What is 'choosing good' compared to 'being good'? There's no Amber Spyglass here.

Perhaps my creations are greater than me because they reflect (or ought to reflect) the eternal things. Like...like love, joy, contentment; peace. God is all these things, which is why L'Engle 'sees God' in every piece, not because it is godly, or because it has missionary intentions to share the gospel, but because every immortal thing will point to the Immortal. Just as every mortal thing will never be remembered--mortal things point to nothing because they've not the strength to point. Besides, God will use any manner to reveal himself to his creation. 

We will use any manner to reveal ourselves to others: words or actions; ethical or unethical.

He creates through us, in the same way we might be inspired by heroes who we hope to invoke (either literally or metaphorically) because I am never the one who truly does the work for I always have someone to thank; someone to whom I owe my allegiance, and in effect, my respect--any artist in any field will tell you that. Whatever work we think is 'as great as us' stays within our time, never to ascend with proceeding generations. But at the same time, any art that we know is beyond ourselves may not last (such is the consequence of critics or lack of funds); so, when we diminish art as cheesy, obnoxious, poor, stale...ugly, even, we have no idea what will truly last. I'm sure that there are many artists who wanted certain pieces to achieve fame only to have other pieces they think inconsequential become immortal. Mona Lisa, anyone?

Hmm. We create, hoping our creations will outlive us, not even knowing whether or not our creations want to be immortal.

God creates knowing that each of us want to be immortal, not always physically, no, but to leave enough of a mark to affect at least one person. Positively affect one person--we don't like evil, no matter how much we glamorize it. 

Perhaps God allows our creations to extend beyond us to give us a taste of what he tastes when he creates. Our creations, however, when they outrun us, aren't always Frankenstein's monster: God at least named the first man and even allowed the first man, Adam, to name the rest of creation. ...hell, we are not all Dr. Frankenstein's!- we sometimes love our creations to the point of protective insanity.

But if we as impotent artists (who do very badly want to give, or add life, but cannot do so without giving a little of ourselves) can cause the world's heart to palpitate with our voices, our discoveries, how much more should God affect the world with his potency? With his son's resurrected life?

The mortal creates immortality.

The Immortal wants us to conceive immortality, even only a slice of it, not to take immortality, but to know that it can be given.

We make things greater than ourselves to recognize the greatness that surrounds us, if only we would recognize that greatness as God. We won't be 'better' for it, if that's what you're looking for, but I guarantee you will certainly fuller. 

Any religious, irreligious, or non-religious person will tell you that from whomever or wherever our morality and desires sprout we want to be affected by the immortal. 

We want to touch the stars or topple them.

But science doesn't pick sides. Math doesn't pick sides. Philosophy doesn't pick sides. Language doesn't pick sides. History doesn't pick sides. Music doesn't pick sides. Nature doesn't pick sides. Great, immortal things don't pick sides; though they allow themselves to be twisted into 'picking' by tiny, mortal arms.

The one who speaks on his own authority seeks his own glory; but the one who seeks the glory of him who sent him is true, and in him there is no falsehood. John 7.18 (ESV)